Pumpkin-shaped orange lying uneaten on the floor,

seventies songs that slip into an odd sullen, and father

nagging about his

son in law that never sits with him and have some

coffee talking about what’s going on in life as two or three cigarettes are burnt to



Maybe I’m the same criminal.


As the album says, “Who’s Next”, I think of

the flute, an imaginary stranger named Khamrilla who enjoys stale tequila,


and hostages crying out for a release

while those souls in the hexagram already got what

they didn’t want to get: being martyrs. Though it’s not about it,

and in some other places

some look-i’m-a-hipster kids dunked into

the pool of cryptic domination and the others say: “school sucks and then

you forget algebra”.


Monsieur, roll up my sleeves ‘cause I’d

love to hand-roll those tobaccos!





Thing we should beg for.


In order to save the generation from demolition we see the guards handing

out their guns

alternating between “lachrymator will show them” and offering

lethal candies, and the sawyers shrug off as they

react our guardians’ sweat into other weapons, and

the windy mouths

distracting us from wondering fuss: “you can’t do that,

you do this”

as we continue to

make the same fuss. Attacking with the same arrogance.


We pull the trigger.

Maybe we have our own.


And maybe we’re the same villains.





Oh, I thought it was you.


…The Light of Jehovah.




What do I know

I got my warm red blanket I got my favourite music I

got my cheeks kissed by my sweet niece I got things.

And brothers and sisters in the East

got the same blessing.


Either I just can’t laugh easily these days

or how senseless

the joke you cheer on is.

It will be funny no more as you take

those socks off.


But maybe I’m just the same kid.


I just can’t claim.

And today I got pissed.