MODERN INTRIGUES  

 
Its star is a deprived orphan, a sneaky light in the treacherous night. One by one, the many stolen stars, the world-creating moon-shell should be put back - I admit: There is no need for the new, postmodern, and perhaps there can be no need for it. I cannot be needed with my selfish, stubborn pessimism, my praiseworthy, prophetic judgements - the silly hissy fit of popular, dumbed-down dissonances, of self-serving, self-promoting whoremongers and fifties will do just fine.

For it does not offer a reckoning-thought to the shabby present, nor does it ask questions with stoic solitude towards the future. Even the despairing, shipwrecked soothsaying of the Soul is understood by few on purpose. Now the trend is dictated by fake, hypocritical witnesses and bribable schemers, and if public life and the media need giggling idiots and wild-eyed idiots, they will get them. All these old-fashioned creeds about prosperity are just pity nursemaids. I'm not interested in the flirting adventures of creeps.

The dreams of survival are gradually being destroyed. There are also ivory towers of solidified cultures on a crumbling surface; reality, ugly and mixed with fear, can only cling and coil like a pink-syrupy mass of acidified chewing gum. The media's mouthpiece constantly trumpets: 'We will live better! We will live better with all those miserable intentions!" - Nobody cares anymore, wondering when?! - No one should be turning back now.

No one can understand my poetic language, except myself. The only proud hero of our time is still the social media, threatening to be a mind-boggling brain-suck. Those who truly know what the sole purpose of Existence is, no longer seek to infiltrate, but to escape. Automata-people are stretched and go on the rampage for fist-powered chip-schup transactions. Sermons are soon born from soulless rants, and the private lives of famous people are the subject of primitive conversations. The imagination also voluntarily retires to an asylum!