.
...Then the Buddha of love was substituted with the Love: man in the prowl, I am.
The ochre and saturated pastel colours of an afternoon in Shanghai, the fotos from Cantón, the fish soup of the mountains: show me your damned individuality: where is it?
Who, who are you..?
We have been constructing this wall since always, it’s ours, and we are its: the popular republic is our god, and we honour him with fat drops of sweat falling from our loins anyday.
Man in the prowl, am I? I’m not even human:
I am Chinese: you couldn’t guess the variety of plastic my entrails are built in.
The world cannot understand: we follow
what we follow? Who wants to know.
The world cannot understand; we turned the doctrine into our own flesh, and now the last vestige of humanity has flown away, from our open mouths.
The world wouldn’t understand: Marx was only a white westerner; or maybe Jew. And we are not that, we had to go beyond: we’re the perfectors of Marx. And the angels of Engels: walk away from here, nobody will talk to you; get out.
There is no place where the Monster cannot see us: He’s got one too many heads, and on each head, thousands of electric eyes: He’s our nuclear Buddha of Love.
I don’t know how to grow, where to go, or what to think anymore.
I am just another gear of this huge, celestial cemetery-state.
And some days; just some
I’d like to be crucified, like that Nazarene of Palestine.
II)
What are you doing here? You’re entering into the worst place of the world: shout; ‘I don’t wanna be exploited!’ shout.
The Buddha of silence will suffocate your echoing insanity with his goodness in the smile, nobody will hear: here the cities, they are too distant each other...
...Now the paper houses fall irremissibly on their knees under the appalling monsoon:
we don’t only eat rice and sweet pork: we eat corruption: shout; ‘I wanna be treated like a man, not like an animal!’ shout.
The Buddha of compassion will shout with you, echoing in dementia and a smile.
A wide Chinese smile: the ministers will come and will break your knees in pieces, for you to fall irremissibly, under the appalling monsoon; for all to see: now get buried with (in) your dreams, or go away.
Because they’re so-called angels of the shadows.
Don’t touch me: I’m the holy man of the misery’s temple: I’m Chinese.
Don’t touch! I’m the insane hermit on the hill of Erysichton: I’m the man who devours himself.
The Saint in His Holy Stone Capsule; my temple of time...
So the time goes by in this interminably extensive temple with no roof
And there will be an end to know?
Apocalypse, infernal dream: who did await for the arriving of Him, whom was going to save us?
He’ll have the power in the mind and jackal eyes
No, no (like an insane I’m talking only lies)
Black sign: to feel oneself the owner of his self-destruction
Buddha, eternal, of the eternal construction
Damned.
"...But now please show us...show us how these things will be and what we got to see yet. Yet, under this Empire of horror..."
Man in the prowl. I am:
who are you?
.
