kagablog

Act 2

VAMPIRES OF THE WILL
(first night out)

The springtime of my life was by far
the happiest of any century.
As I started generating glimpses of my potentials –
all of a frightning beauty,
fragments of a structure assembled
like soldiers assemble for a parade.
And in the distance sounded
a quiet and sleepy prophecy of a long hot day.

As the sun rose,
waking the brain,
warming the skin,
caressing the hair,
and walking through a garden of dreams
I grew into adolecense,
faint and melancholy music filled the air –
like the smell of the wind,
caressing all but touching none.

A free spirit not yet summoned by its destiny,
and thus full of lust,
full of convidence, life and timelessness.
Powerfull in the now.
A meaningless force aroused by:

- skins untouched,
- lips wet and young,
- legs eager to spread,
- nipples longing to stiffen,
- limbs ready to shiver,

all for the cause of celebrating,

and then,
all of a sudden,
sadness enters the room.

ANIMALS & ANGELS

The angels were with us.
Silent as a shadow,
with listening eyes,
whispering ears,
and their feet just…
Ah!… just a little bit above the ground.

And the animals were with us.
Writing their profound warnings
in a language mistaken for instinct
and thus neglected.

The animals -
some enslaved and domesticated,
many living on other planets
on this planet,
microscopic lightyears away,
planets never to be concured,
species never to be enslaved,

The animals tried to warn us,
directing the clouds into signals,
winds into and audiable alarm
and shaking the earth with their little feet.

But.
We were brain.
Yes.
That is correct.
We were brain.
The walking brain.
Just as they were the walking food,
our cuddly sentiment,
our friends from a long gone past.
The animals were with us.
Trying to adopt their insticts to the walking brain,
as we introduced them step by step
to the mysteries of time.

INVINCIBLE

How could we loose with such allies?
How could we win from such foes?

And therefore,
the outcome of those battles already fixed
and uninviting,
we hit upon ourselves.
Hard.
Hard upon ourselves,
and became victorious.
Victorious in our love,
celebrating the New rizing up
from under the destructed past.

Sucking all the life out of
our surroundings,
we became vampires of the will.

And on top of histories’ largest wasteland,
we built our Utopias,
untill, ultimately,
Utopia itsself was wasted.
Wasted by itsself, for no society generates
so much shit,
as the good clean maiden of Utopia.

Tempted we were,
to confuse the barren gangraped land
with the pristine valleys
of a just only half-awoken paradise.
Tempted we were,
and rewarded for this temptation.
For such are the rules and regulations of Utopia.

Painting it in watercolors,
and molesting it with steel.
On ourselves now - on our first night out.
Fist Night Out.

Hormones translated into babble,
leaving the brain,
entering the mouth,
leaving the mouth and entering the brain.
Turning smalltalk into slogans, hormones do.
And slogans into ideals.
Ideals into meaning.
Meaning into action.
Action into… well… sex in the first place.

THE GOOD CLEAN MAIDEN OF UTOPIA

So, there SHE was.
Dressed in skintight elegance.
The attitude of a girl,
the routine of a whore.
And we all fucked her.
This good clean maiden of Utopia,
we fucked her all.
In Vienna, St. Peterburg and Berlin.
Couldn’t take our eyes of of her.
At night on the Sjanghai docklands,
In good old stubborn Madrid, in London
and the remote and transparent nothingness
of the Africa’s and Asia’s.
Her youth and beauty being irresistable,
we ALL fucked her.
“I’ve had them all,” Bettina a nineteen year old
Viennese protitute claimed.
“Der Adolf, und der Jozef Stalin und der Ivan Oeljitsch.”
Spreading her legs and with that gesture, spreading the syphyllus that could be traced back to the testicals
of a certain German Philosopher,
like a good girl.
Spreading her legs.

ELDORADO

And so, the first day had passed,
and the second day had passed
and we celebrated the birth of our own history.

Still a very comprehendable history
compared with the overwhelming Istobe
of time to come
and time to be conquered.
This Istobe,
posing in a mirror of expectations,
as an El Dorado of muscle and thought.

But, sleep now.
Sleep, and dream of histories to come.