a passive poem.
want to watch me die on tv? want to watch?
there’s a rumor that i began
about my dry sense of humor.
a mute with no fingers
can’t say fuck you
unless they piss on you.
suffer from a disposition
that prevents me from participating,
from talking to angels or laughing
at our limitations.
still awaiting a transmission from my planet’s space station.
i only like the songs of suicide,
lonely liberty lives lost like a slave
to the notion of ideas.
who needs action, who? anyone but me?
lack the energy to laugh at the absurdity,
want to watch me die on tv?
not an angel anymore. wings were washed away.
where are all my happy songs,
locked up in a forgotten dream?
not really comfortable being so dependent on everyone.
please, give me some space and a few minutes to travel through time.
songs of suicide, murdered on reality tv to watch someone die,
to watch, watching to watch-
everyone as spectator.