In and out the thrashcan blues

I’m doing fine

on cloud nine
the seventh heaven
the welfare line,
brand controlled in a traffic jam
lost in rules and taxes
with an infinite hole as a bank account
I’m throwing thrash on this virginity,
the red constructions
of the burning ground.

Walking the dog completely naked
in the raging fragile rain.
Sweet inspiration
breathing in and out, so fine
this eloquent celebration
against all odds.

Elemental kicking against the pricks
stirring up the farm yard again,
there is no borderline
I’m doing fine
playing with those ancient licks
wide open is the heart
it's all in the mix.
Mashed up creation,
sampled blood of realisation
from the global memory,
this sins will not be forgotten
while I'm
embracing Johnny Rotten.

Cowgirl in the sand

The elements are changing into the blue.

Deaf, dumb and blind

I am that, you are that, it is,

being here and now,

always, an infinite evolution
to come back home where the heart is,
the open source, awareness,
I am that I am.
Inspiration has something to do with breathing,
the factory is strangling the Goddess
to a certain death,
Little boys and girls are dreaming
in a plastic king-sized bed,
the frequency is screaming like heaven and hell,
pointing fingers to keep the contradiction
for the invisible towers and the broken bell.
Short-term investments are going up and down
in the greedy hands of burned out players,
the sword underneath their manufactured
garments of electromagnetic light.
Circles of pain counting the stains of blood money
while penetrating a stoned virgin high
in a bed of roses late at night.
The saviours eating some manipulated bad fruits
and injected the illusion of anxiety
with a cocktail of bliss
their words still too strange to be understood
in the year of the defragmentated fish.
(struggling with a moonbeam
 and a movement of splinters)

Illuminated, hysterical naked

Hysterical naked

in the machinery of the night

illuminated fractals, the terror of the walls,
the ball is over and about to begin
the sins of the father
the sins of the mother
on colourful credit-cards.
Going to the pawnshop
to build me a dream,
vanishing into nowhere
on a Zen mountain,
saint john still on the cross but already smiling,
the mother weeps in the soft wind,
jumping of the roof in a limousine sleep,
the intoxicated screams of abuse
beating on drunken virgins in diamond chains,
the realms of love became echoes of dust
on the broken shelves of the library.
The jumping became flying
in borderless infinity complaining about the valley of tears.
Is it so difficult to choose between your grandchildren
and conflicting interests in oil?

Hope you will already know how to play the harp

The same old songs
controlled by managing our senses
to find our way in the marketplace,
the one-liners will hit you hard
in the centre of your emotions,
deformed by repetition.


Faithful on the barricade.
The utopian knowledge of speculation,
the Gardens created from our history.
Always hoping
that it will get you through the night
the brain overwhelmed by contradiction.


Playing three notes on an old guitar
with smoking fingers beside the moon.

No borderlines in the heart

The camels are smiling to seek you

sweet Love,

be welcome, always,
they are waiting.
Respect is seldom heard
in this immanent infinity.


Brand controlled children
are wandering through
the digital factory,
free market desire
to keep the flock in place,
empty puppets dangling
from their greedy claws.

The shareholders manipulation
to keep property in obscurity.
The horns are whispering,
there are no walls.