These Days

These days are days of electronic stores
These days are days of giant phalluses falling on the children
These days are full of Echo's soft call
These days are days where church organs are burnt for warmth
These days are days saturated with the love for airconditioning, spewing forth from office to office
These days are days of naked men hiding in cubicles
These days are days of love numbed beneath the leaves of trees
These days are full of poetry being buried beneath the tarmac
These days the mice are too tired to chew the bowstrings of the raging enemy
These days I refuse to ponder on how deep the ocean is
These days the urge to live grows heavier in my stomach
These days drastic is a word that is used less
These days are days with melodies and codas
These days there are sun showers and beach burials
And there are harmonies, there are photographs, there are memories
These days I read books, written by saints, and I wonder- I wonder
No diamond rings remain for these days
No derby days, nor days set for banquets
These days there are merely prostituted ancestors of European Kings
These days there are malls where nuns smile at children
Men measure muscles against their own
And thighs are felt with Christmas Carols being spewed from chinese speakers
These days there are naked excuses for naked art
These days there are pretty things lying about dandyism
These days there is terracotta skin and plaster hair
These days are days of pine wood houses and chip-board kitchens
These days are days of highways flying though my mind
These days are days of booklets and catalogues and old friends who ask 'But isn't this me?'
And there are ink stains from sea life, and there are golden opportunities missed
there are cults of morals and and there are fingers closing around throats and cocks
Oh sweet Querelle! we do miss you so
These days are days of allusion and mongrels
These days are days of eternity and angels who howl at the moon
These days are days of big love and tongues up the side of cheeks
These days are the days of misunderstanding mothers and salads at ten bucks a toss
These days are ditties written on toilet walls
These days are days in which we travel with windows down and radio on
These days are days in which we take cover in freedom and nudity
These days there are thoughts of flies and mountains and great burial grounds in France
These days there are clocks in everyones head- TICK TOCK TICK TOCK
These days there are mindless cocktails that we all honour and destroy
And there are neighbours who burn to death and children who cry
And there are men who want to piss on my cuffs and there are shoes that will take me to oblivion
These days are days of utter chaos and madness
And then the days is over and night begins