Tú empuñas el cetro,

tú te pones el vestido—

desde la cumbre… a lo más profundo…

-El Fantasma

Trataste de fallar y fallaste,

dijo el espejola en la ventana empapado de la lluvia, negra como petrol.

Good job.

¿Y ahora crees que puedes tener mí néctar meloso?

¿Crees que puedes compartir mí manta cálida,

tú y tus manchas tan sucias?

No debiste ponértelas en primer lugar,

o, mejor dicho, debiste crecer la voluntad limpiarlas.

Pero, no lo hacía;

y es por eso que sabes que eres una socialista mágica.

Así dicen en El Economicon:

„Sie können nicht Ihr DNA widerstehen.“

The sole bride
in this setting life:
moon-reigned nights.

The pills don’t chill

the fever that doesn’t cool,

won’t come to my clasp,

won’t catch the cold

in fevers so ol’,

but still mo’ severe

than the nearest lossage

‘fore my thought drops.

¿Por qué sonríes?

Me dijiste que tienes depresión.

Pero personas con depresión no sonríen.

Ahora que, ¿por qué frunces el ceño?

¿Por qué tienes demasiada depresión?

No me encanta…

y no me encanta que no me encanta.

Was du brauchst, mein Sohn…

was du brauchst, mein Sohn…

Wo Menschen in schwarz kleiden…

Wo dein Gefühle dich ein Ungeheuer gemachen…

Pero, no los diré a ellos—

no los diré nada.

Los secretos de las estrellas brumosas

se guardarán en mi propriedad privada

y desteñirán con mi desaparición,

como no hubieran existido nunca—

como no habían existido…

因此再见…

¡E poi colpisce lampi!

—¿Wen bist du?

Ich kenn nicht.

—¿Wen bist du?

Ich kann mich nicht erinnern…

—Ich sagte, ¿Wen bist du?

¡Ich bin nichts!

—¿Was war das?

Ich sagte, ¡Ich bin nichts!

—Stimmt.

—Du bist nichts.

—Du bist nichts aber der Nichtsmensch.

—Erinnere dich daran.

E poi disperde pioggia…

I’m not having fun

when time flies,

so clip the wings to the stub

& dump my clock in the Rhine.

Right all.

I’m sorry this poem sucked, by the way.

Lies in wait—
bacon cheese sandwich,
growing cold.

Its owner,
hungry, only sleeps.

Yes, I have the sadness,

‘side my flavorless tea & headache cheese crackers;

but it’s not the sadness I had before,

& that’s what most matters.

That was left on the gray beaches o’ summer chills,

wandering & pretending I was knowing & did science,

when nobody invited me to be taught to grow gills.

I’m still waiting for die Tagssonne

to stretch my seed’s boughs.

& this time the point won’t miss its rows.

Just look @ where the sluggish storms sleep now:

when life gifts you oranges,

Mike’s soft bottles don’t e’en crack skulls beyond sore fringes.

Leave me in stitches—p l e a s e.

but I saw
you, flesh-shelled crab… Please.
Keep scuttling.

Not e’en spring—
a thousand parked cars;
lonely nights.

…it’s the work I put into it.

…it’s the money I get for it.

…it’s the money I pay for it.

…it’s all ’bout the results.

…it’s the thought that counts.

…it can’t just come from nothing.

…it’s all within me.

…it’s what I don’t already have.

…it comes from mass production.

…it 1 o’ a kind.

…it’s decided by the buyer.

…it’s decided by the seller.

…it’s decided by everyone.

…it’s decided by no one.

…it’s what I say.

…it’s what the market says.

…it’s what the law says.

…it’s what the public says.

…it’s what the experts say.

…it’s subjective,

but can be objectively measured by math & stats.

…it’s independent o’ labor,

but if we don’t reward those who work to make it,

we won’t have ‘nough;

& we don’t know who works to make it,

’cause we haven’t found out what it is.

…it’s everything,

& is nothing.

A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar,

& after chugging 20 KG o’ ale,

the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour.

‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine

& says to the Marxist,

“I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee.

Since it clearly has labor,

you must be willing to offer a price for it.”

Unperturbed by this fellow’s strawman argument,

the Marxist replies stoically,

“$5.”

The Austrian-schooler can only wince & take a few subtle steps backward.

“W-what? Why would you want my pee?”

The Marxist straightens himself.

“Why are you so nosy into my subjective wants?

Have I not a right as any other to buy whatever I want with my own money?”

So the Marxist bought the pee & huffed it late @ home;

& he proved to the Austrian-schooler

that in a world wherein feces splattered on canvasses are considered high art,

all work, no matter how insipid, can hold value.

Thus, this proves that not only will capitalism inevitably fall,

but that it’s already fallen,

& has simply been replaced by dapitalism,

which is its cousin,

distinguished only by its bowler & handlebar moustache.

That is the only god.

Accept no substitutes.

Also, mud pies are quite useful, you fools:

I eat them all o’ the time.

They are the tastiest o’ chocolate pies.

People who do not enjoy the scrumptiousness o’ chocolate pies

must be eliminated.

Thus decree the scrolls o’ the Engelsist Order o’ the Red Star.