Whatever I Write is Always a Love-Song
The lovers always rise
from their anti-Christ underground.
I am listening to the razors of murder-ballads,
the evocative love songs, made of silk and sin
the Higgs Boson and No-Pussy blues;
Pain drips, paints, and consecrates.
The horror of existence, the hissing cold of
greater depths. We all are caves, filled
with icicles of our own darks.
Look straight into the eyes of your shadows,
your Stagger Lee-ed alter-egos, your will to power
to torture, sodomize and kill. You are
an illumined dark, deep down you are
the Lucifer on the loose. The archetypal
gangster in you is mean, evil and without mercy.
and the next day, you wake up
and you can do nothing, but Love. Individuation;
it is a journey, a transcendence, or a rebirth.
You have the body of bliss
but the sufferings, they still crawl on your mortal skin.
(A Tribute to Nick Cave)
Your Vice is a Locked Room and Only I Have the Key
(Il tuo vizio è una stanza chiusa e solo io ne ho la chiave)