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Toronto
THE MECHANICAL HEAD, a poem

 

New York is the city of the Chess Freedom,

Good and Evil are clearly divided,

the sky is a vinyl and God is a DJ.

Who is moving us and Where?

 

The Mechanical Head starts to howl.

This is the Spirit of our Time.

Nevermore. Nevermore. Nevermore.

The wind-up Raven.

 

The children of the city paint the concrete walls

in graffitti and transform the streets into museums,

the King a dead pedophile, they say, the Queen on CD,

in studio 54, they say, they died at 27 or at 33,

the Black Prince snorts white, takes off his head,

Coca Cola cleans blood well, they say, and also there are

churches transformed into pizzerias and the spirit of an

infant with the name of a River and a Phoenix still

watches and wanders, watches and wanders.

 

The Mechanical Head starts to howl.

This is the Spirit of our Time.

Sick flowers. Hangover ships.

The City of Earthly Delights.

 

The nameless pawns: black and white, straight and gay,

whores and madonnas, immortal and beheaded,

Who is moving them and Where?

 

The Mechanical Head starts to howl

This is the Spirit of our Time.

The disassembled moon. The Eight Day of Creation.

The Vertical Premonition that the last floor will be the first.

 

On the streets, quite imperceptibly, invisible to anyone,

some huge creature opens its 666 eyes

in the city that never sleeps. 

Posted by Yassen Vassilev on 3/18/13 | tags: poetry







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