black magick hustla
23rd March 2008, 22:43
Maria stood bewildered as everything they used to believe in went down, through the gutter. Everything that used to be holy became either burnt carbon dust, or turned into blasphemies and screams against the Gods. She ran through the streets, but instead of seeing Corona and Coca Cola signs, there was graffiti summoning heretical poetry of unspeakable, violent cherubs seduced by the sweetness of coca-ine and alcohol. Instead of the industrial odor of cars speeding through and fro, there was the smell of burnt bibles and constitutions creeping out from the kitchens of of what used to be happy happy suburbanites' homes....
The executioners violently drag me through the corridors. Am I going to die?
She was alone. She used to be part of the mob that came bulldozing this civilization at Match three, but she couldn't keep up with the rhythm. They were too alive, workers in an eternal strike drunken with so much happiness, repressed moms throwing away their former role of glorified kitchens, lustful teenagers burning down catholic schools [sometimes with the principal inside them]...they´re going to fast, burning too much shit, smelling too much like Mephistopheles. she couldn't just keep up with them. Too much violence, too much destruction. She just wanted to catch her breath, sit on the sidewalk, and stare at the blank face of stars and black infinity. “I'll catch up with you people later”, she told her boyfriend John as he walked away with the mob.
She sat on the sidewalk and turned on a cigarette. Smoky things came out of her fag, writing silly whispers in cursive. The deformed urban landscape was such a mess that it merged with the purple sky.
“Why is everything like this?”, she thought , trying to read those little strings of cancer floating in the air.
Maria looked up, and stared at one of the street lights' poles. The area smelled a lot like calavera because there was a chap hanging from the pole, loose, dead—hanging like a beautiful fruit in Spring. Poor guy, he probably was one of those god-suckers, Democrats, or filthy capitalists. She was almost certain of what happened, a bunch of crazy hoodlums, full of revolutionary fervor, punched his lights out, sang mary has a little lamb, and pulled of the rope with the poor fucker on the other side, with his neck in the noose. It was like the third or fourth beautiful fruit that Maria had seen today; the kids today were too enthusiastic with their gardening.
Maria didn't like death but she was either too confused or too used to it. First there were the blitzes of the Great War, with their smell of roses and proletarian intestines. Missiles making gravity´s rainbows, chunks of flesh full of lead, and yet, everyone chanting“Hurrah, hurrah for death!”....or at least everyone she was supposed to listen to. She could vaguely remember good looking eunuchs regurgitating about freedom, democracy, and patriotism but everything was too hazy, at least hazy enough to be confused with a Soccer Match.
She pulled another cigarette and burnt the tip. In front of her, there where a few kids playing soccer. Kicking the ball, saying a lot of chingadas, and smelling too much like human. “At least they smelled like like living things,” she thought.
Death became more confusing after the Great War. Everyone was getting pissed off about the patriotic eunuchs, the fake roses, and the proletarian intestines decorating the streets. First came the mutinies, the fraggings, bye bye lieutenants and kabooms, then the general strikes, then came the World Revolution. There where whole commandos of school children, Ninten, ,Boney the dog, moms, and fathers, all carrying semi-automatics, looking for reactionary meat. The patriotic eunuchs suddenly stopped singing about death because they would find themselves dead. Boom boom, uniformed corpses full of lead and holes piled behind the school and offices. Revolutionaries felt alive through murder.
And this were the post-revolutionary days.
The ball, full of dirt and sweat, came rolling towards Maria. She caught a glimpse of the kids, they were weary, but still full of life and joy, eager to play more. “Hey miss, can you pass us the ball?” one of them waved and cried. Maria stood up, gave a sloppy kick, and the ball came shooting in a sluggish parabola.
Damn, She was terrible at soccer.
Maria stood up, walked, and tried to reach for John and the gang of Maldorors. The boulevard was full of cracks, demolished buildings, debris, and annihilation, thanks to the pummels of the Great War, combined with the new wave of revolutionary violence. The new revolutionary violentites were a bunch of amateurs, who played with their new toys, Soviet Tanks, Luftwaffe airplanes, and would gleefully blow up offices and buildings just for the kicks. The gang of new joker-boys, with their militia rags, made everything look like a big, bowl of corn soup. Its important to understand why this new ragtag militias, made by a bunch of players, who waved their guns shooting amateurish parabolas, were a complete break with the old type of killers. Before there where the gallant samurai, with their erect postures, leather armors, trained to kill, to sing songs. The templars, killing the way God would have killed...the jaguar knights and their sun-gods! Then came the soldiers, all uniformed, with their bosses and generals making lots of sound and fury about Nations and Patriots, but only sound-waves that signified nothing. Then came the jokers, the maldorors, the hoodlooms, the satanic armies, all making up for their lack of training with an excess of play, an enthusiasm for the kicks, for the giggles, for the death of the Enemy.
“John!”, Maria kept shouting, but still she couldn't find them. Ugh, more Spring fruits blossoming from ther lamp-posts. These kids eat too much sugar!
A lot of noise was coming from some restaurant nearby. “Maybe, John and all the others are there,” she wondered. The restaurant smelled like moors and asiatic deserts, with its huge golden Dome, wiggly characters, and the half crescent moon erecting from the top. Old wisdoms were accumulated there, she could hear the whispers of the men of the seventh century, with their city-states, their new god...It wasn't a restaurant until recently, before it was something too boring to be remembered.
On the door, there was a sign saying Sallam Allekum. She opened the door, being blasted by the mariachi music fluxing from the inside. There where a lot of drunken people inside, eating lots of pork, drinking too many Coronas. Some buster-brown tried to party-boy her, but she completely refused. The Mariachis were playing Mujeres Divinas, which she absolutely loved.
She finally found John. He was making out with Lauren, that ditsy blond that was part of the Militia.. .Maria didn't care, and sat in another table with a bunch of strangers.
The strangers stared at her for a brief moment, that pretty girl, that petit body, that little cute thing that looked so shy, so enticing. “Hello,” one of them said, raising his beer.
Red Rosa suddenly spaced-in. She had for a moment, an odd vision, bumping inside, causing her to feel entropic. The future, the past, just a dream...she will never know. The vision made her happy for some reason, but a little disgusted at the same time. The Freikorp scum were still dragging her broken body, but her will still shone, and it will shine forever.
All her Spartakusbund comrades were probably dead by now, tortured, humiliated, having gotten good ol' Prussian treatment.
The corridors were stopping at an end. Uniformed men, carrying rifles, trained to kill and to sing Anthems, waited for her. They were in a line, preparing their rods of death.
Rosa was placed against wall. She knew that she was about to die, that there was no God, and that this is the real End. The dancing organic matter doesn't transcends beyond this sky. It didn't bother her though, she felt confident of the future. Mankind was made from the same substance as the stars. Mephistopheles was waiting for her, with open arms.
“Long live the World Revolution!” she cried as she was shot down by lead.
The executioners violently drag me through the corridors. Am I going to die?
She was alone. She used to be part of the mob that came bulldozing this civilization at Match three, but she couldn't keep up with the rhythm. They were too alive, workers in an eternal strike drunken with so much happiness, repressed moms throwing away their former role of glorified kitchens, lustful teenagers burning down catholic schools [sometimes with the principal inside them]...they´re going to fast, burning too much shit, smelling too much like Mephistopheles. she couldn't just keep up with them. Too much violence, too much destruction. She just wanted to catch her breath, sit on the sidewalk, and stare at the blank face of stars and black infinity. “I'll catch up with you people later”, she told her boyfriend John as he walked away with the mob.
She sat on the sidewalk and turned on a cigarette. Smoky things came out of her fag, writing silly whispers in cursive. The deformed urban landscape was such a mess that it merged with the purple sky.
“Why is everything like this?”, she thought , trying to read those little strings of cancer floating in the air.
Maria looked up, and stared at one of the street lights' poles. The area smelled a lot like calavera because there was a chap hanging from the pole, loose, dead—hanging like a beautiful fruit in Spring. Poor guy, he probably was one of those god-suckers, Democrats, or filthy capitalists. She was almost certain of what happened, a bunch of crazy hoodlums, full of revolutionary fervor, punched his lights out, sang mary has a little lamb, and pulled of the rope with the poor fucker on the other side, with his neck in the noose. It was like the third or fourth beautiful fruit that Maria had seen today; the kids today were too enthusiastic with their gardening.
Maria didn't like death but she was either too confused or too used to it. First there were the blitzes of the Great War, with their smell of roses and proletarian intestines. Missiles making gravity´s rainbows, chunks of flesh full of lead, and yet, everyone chanting“Hurrah, hurrah for death!”....or at least everyone she was supposed to listen to. She could vaguely remember good looking eunuchs regurgitating about freedom, democracy, and patriotism but everything was too hazy, at least hazy enough to be confused with a Soccer Match.
She pulled another cigarette and burnt the tip. In front of her, there where a few kids playing soccer. Kicking the ball, saying a lot of chingadas, and smelling too much like human. “At least they smelled like like living things,” she thought.
Death became more confusing after the Great War. Everyone was getting pissed off about the patriotic eunuchs, the fake roses, and the proletarian intestines decorating the streets. First came the mutinies, the fraggings, bye bye lieutenants and kabooms, then the general strikes, then came the World Revolution. There where whole commandos of school children, Ninten, ,Boney the dog, moms, and fathers, all carrying semi-automatics, looking for reactionary meat. The patriotic eunuchs suddenly stopped singing about death because they would find themselves dead. Boom boom, uniformed corpses full of lead and holes piled behind the school and offices. Revolutionaries felt alive through murder.
And this were the post-revolutionary days.
The ball, full of dirt and sweat, came rolling towards Maria. She caught a glimpse of the kids, they were weary, but still full of life and joy, eager to play more. “Hey miss, can you pass us the ball?” one of them waved and cried. Maria stood up, gave a sloppy kick, and the ball came shooting in a sluggish parabola.
Damn, She was terrible at soccer.
Maria stood up, walked, and tried to reach for John and the gang of Maldorors. The boulevard was full of cracks, demolished buildings, debris, and annihilation, thanks to the pummels of the Great War, combined with the new wave of revolutionary violence. The new revolutionary violentites were a bunch of amateurs, who played with their new toys, Soviet Tanks, Luftwaffe airplanes, and would gleefully blow up offices and buildings just for the kicks. The gang of new joker-boys, with their militia rags, made everything look like a big, bowl of corn soup. Its important to understand why this new ragtag militias, made by a bunch of players, who waved their guns shooting amateurish parabolas, were a complete break with the old type of killers. Before there where the gallant samurai, with their erect postures, leather armors, trained to kill, to sing songs. The templars, killing the way God would have killed...the jaguar knights and their sun-gods! Then came the soldiers, all uniformed, with their bosses and generals making lots of sound and fury about Nations and Patriots, but only sound-waves that signified nothing. Then came the jokers, the maldorors, the hoodlooms, the satanic armies, all making up for their lack of training with an excess of play, an enthusiasm for the kicks, for the giggles, for the death of the Enemy.
“John!”, Maria kept shouting, but still she couldn't find them. Ugh, more Spring fruits blossoming from ther lamp-posts. These kids eat too much sugar!
A lot of noise was coming from some restaurant nearby. “Maybe, John and all the others are there,” she wondered. The restaurant smelled like moors and asiatic deserts, with its huge golden Dome, wiggly characters, and the half crescent moon erecting from the top. Old wisdoms were accumulated there, she could hear the whispers of the men of the seventh century, with their city-states, their new god...It wasn't a restaurant until recently, before it was something too boring to be remembered.
On the door, there was a sign saying Sallam Allekum. She opened the door, being blasted by the mariachi music fluxing from the inside. There where a lot of drunken people inside, eating lots of pork, drinking too many Coronas. Some buster-brown tried to party-boy her, but she completely refused. The Mariachis were playing Mujeres Divinas, which she absolutely loved.
She finally found John. He was making out with Lauren, that ditsy blond that was part of the Militia.. .Maria didn't care, and sat in another table with a bunch of strangers.
The strangers stared at her for a brief moment, that pretty girl, that petit body, that little cute thing that looked so shy, so enticing. “Hello,” one of them said, raising his beer.
Red Rosa suddenly spaced-in. She had for a moment, an odd vision, bumping inside, causing her to feel entropic. The future, the past, just a dream...she will never know. The vision made her happy for some reason, but a little disgusted at the same time. The Freikorp scum were still dragging her broken body, but her will still shone, and it will shine forever.
All her Spartakusbund comrades were probably dead by now, tortured, humiliated, having gotten good ol' Prussian treatment.
The corridors were stopping at an end. Uniformed men, carrying rifles, trained to kill and to sing Anthems, waited for her. They were in a line, preparing their rods of death.
Rosa was placed against wall. She knew that she was about to die, that there was no God, and that this is the real End. The dancing organic matter doesn't transcends beyond this sky. It didn't bother her though, she felt confident of the future. Mankind was made from the same substance as the stars. Mephistopheles was waiting for her, with open arms.
“Long live the World Revolution!” she cried as she was shot down by lead.