Mice Metropolis

The devastating hollowness yawns in the faceless sterility of the minimalist space-shuttle architecture of misplacement, in the warehouse cold emptiness of the open whale mouths swallowing us into the huge commotion of machinery of nothingness, in supermarkets, post offices, banks, hospitals, airports, waxen clerks, cameras pointed like guns, detectors flashing, elevators, metal, glass, motionless security guards, between the mass produced human pieces placed on the escalators as factory lines, the prisoners of a plastic bag society of trash

Тhe noise, the frequency of violence, that serial killer noise, tears flesh to pieces. The customs of this doomed place will chew one's bones until the mental death of this comatose nation is fully established, at the thirteen hour zero zero minutes. This tribe of screaming demons will drain your brain, the vocal teeth of their machines and the chainsaw slaughter altars trance symphonies of their mass murder gatherings stub and cut , compress until all suffocates in the sound holocaust.

Despite the strong gravity of the sophisticated mechanism of treachery, fragile fractals of luxury intelligence in rapturous rarity of the genuine, enveloped by the black velvet of obscure oblivion, dominate the axis mundi silence simply casting majestic glitter of clarity over the vile ...

Draft in the city of mime masters. Phantom fractions linger through the abandoned factories, on the edges of the old tower, in the basements, above the roofs, all that was fire swirls, bounces of the high walls and security doors, moving the rusted anchor, as furious the mechanical mother squeaks in the wind. Let down by parental negligence, searching for fear instead comfort, the lost children sway away.

Hegemony of a bad girl in lace stockings and smoke, a noir cabaret dominatrix… ah perhaps. "I despise intellectuals", says she.

Anxiety before the morning. You make love, love against the entire world…there on the breaking point behind the dead lake of the sleeping warriors’ fine skulls falling in serene apprehension before the silver-haired singing archangel puling out swords from their throats. The bodies, last bastions of the non-sleeping, non-humiliated step over the boundaries.

Your land is a woman, soaked in autumn rain deep in your old navy coat. Your woman, your Empire. You will be late, but you will never grow old. We won't lie down and die, not under this sky, not today.

In the faces of the dealers offering to buy off this restlessness, we spit and run. Having enough courage for one more charger we walk among the ruins, the broken pillars of a fallen civilization scrape the sky. Fortresses tumble down.

You've grown in me. You know what that means. I will die for you, but try to catch me and you’ll never understand the dark bleeding core. The man I adore, within you, makes me wet. Let him out. Our breathing disturbs the night. Go there, let go, that’s right, drink it, the poison off the lips. Fall into my deep dark secret.

We were quite young and beautiful and we didn’t know it. We smelled of baby soap, we were naïve and skinny, wearing men's clothes, in love with gay icons, kissing with our chapped lips in all the wrong places where people stared at us. We had no scruples before we knew too much. We were rough around the edges, soft in the middle, making love in parked cars. We didn’t know they were educating us for a work camp. We would have stayed in our beds that young and that beautiful. It’s so good to be that young, wanting life that much, loving hard, you know break down the door, tear up the panties, wake up the neighbors hard. It’s so good to be young and lured by the smell of the open road in your nostrils. It’s so good to be young, excited, pink-pussy-juicy- young …

Streets remember lovers in dark corners, kids licking guns and wounds, echoes in the gutters, "What a Lions you’ve betrayed, micе!"

This city bites your cheeks and grabs you by the hair, roaring and polluted. Between the well dressed and the hungry, this city lays ragged monsters of humiliation to sleep. This city is rape. Truth, the ugly scarecrow lurking in the dark, is never pretty. You can always smell it, yet you never find it. It sneaks up on you. It is something you can’t swallow. It scars. Truth harbors fear. Truth is betrayal. You don’t want truth, a loaded gun in your lungs ready to blow anytime. Every time they pretend to tell you the truth, you know they want to kill you. So pull up your stockings, inhale deep the deceit, crush truth under your heels, smile with ruby red lipstick of treachery and walk out. Walk till the streets move in the rhythm of your arrhythmic heartbeat, your poetic tachycardia, move your hips through the concrete asylum to the melody of your blood rushing to your brain. Walk beautifully till it’s only you left

Self portrait