The Double Service

 

Speaking to you partly underwater,

virtually empty,

bubbles would appear to be 

on the move, 

the shaky syntax of disaster 

divulged once again

for no particular reason.

Oh and how the little pockets fill,

answers provided 

for the lack of questions. 

Waiting for life to return,

the fatally surrealist data fall

backward up the flow.

*

 

Reality keeps on manifesting itself,

but who’s got their ears open? 

Plate tectonics and the inner heat

shall do the bubbling, but 

where’s that good old German punk rock? 

For the end of the word.

 

Stars cold, 

new buildings collapsing, 

we spit, we rub. 

The hair stays up all  night,

no matter how hard we 

drill the concrete. 

Stylist ground shakes,

beauty earth quakes, 

yet no time soon 

sure will sprout 

from the holes it makes.

 

* 

In the face of certain demise,

impatient corpses lying untended,

we might as well keep the bar open,

singing utilitarian songs, 

the keeping of going the biggest of all 

among pitch-dark prostitutions, 

shameless perversions, 

so dreadfully funny in fact, 

as in fiction, 

that they will be,

will be repeated 

as long as 

there’s providing 

the double service of

being there and doing evil.