EVERY MUSCLE
CHATTERS DEAD
CHATTERS DEAD
Europe again has blinders on while militants roam
o'er the sea. The towers of Tours, Pisa and Eiffel,
even those, are thinking about crumbling. To nothing.
And away. There wouldn't be a crack left of memory
if we didn't make an effort. All those beautiful French
girls, with their hairy armpits yet shaved pudenda.
What are we to do? And why? These are what
pass for mysteries today? Questions of the moment
and the hour. Our philosophy itself has now been
shaved - no longer any quest for Beauty or Truth.
There's a small place in Belgium called Monto Pitay,
where they serve cold blood mixed in wine. Red wine,
of course. Yet I wonder too why. All those saleints
from WWI, are we meant to drink their reminders?
I shudder to think, while every muscle chatters dead.
While every muscle chatters dead and the whole,
wide, crazy world roams.
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