13/06/2001
art mécanik
hurle
motels murder
xia

 

Goods carrier
Flying ship, Hit and run

L'Inde est un moteur deux temps, un piston dans le Gange, l'autre sur Marine Drive. Un piston dans la tête de Shiva, un dans les essais nucléaires du Rajastan. La marche du sel, le sucre brun dans la cuillère, Bollywood and Varanasi gaths, la bouche pleine de bétel, les yeux fanés et le cœur confisqué. Leurs dieux sont acrobates au Cirque Pauvre, leurs enfants homemade cripple ont les jeux des prisonniers. La violence tombe comme la mousson, la pauvreté découvre de nouveaux horizons qui vous tranchent la gorge, la mort est anodine, paradée. Ils ont la fertilité des animaux et la profondeur des 7 océans. La bouche rouge bétel, le front rouge bendi, les yeux rouge sang. India is a two stroke rickshaw. Kum Kum powder, Goods Carrier, Press the button on that symbol, Horn OK please, Blow horn. India is great. Pan nuts and riot squad, fire cracker and kite riders, Ganga river drinker, death swimmers, no photograph, find me a home away from home, underage prostitute, movie stars and serial killer, sad elephants, monkey laughing, cow doesn't know pain let me explain. One billion gods, body infected, blood boosted, kiss my third eye goodbye. Smog and hijras, salt march and Falkland road, fan and A / C, pure vegetarian astrologer, street wrestlers, veg non-veg restaurants, chaï, Coca-Cola and opium, gold teeth beggars and the one who really begs, the homemade cripple guild, and the real polio child.
India is tomorrow's laboratory.
Mutant worshipers, everybody has three eyes, blood immune, save the cows. Betel mouth, kohl eye, henna beard, Kum Kum powder, ash skin, I walk on the Ganga, I eat cows raw, I know tomorrow, where man adapts, and adapts, and adapts to dead clouds, dead water, dead river no trees, man adapts to hell's banquet where they eat us. I adapt. Everybody dies. Even Brahmans, even hijras, even zanadas, High school prostitute spreads AIDS, third generation beggars spread anger, plastic silk saree sellers spreads lies.
Make my heart beat to the puja bells, make my wife a Brahman, make my son a god and sell him to the rich, to the Katakali troupes, give my last child to the circus, make me laugh, make me high, make me fly free to the other side. On the other side of the highway, 1 000 000 000 gods wait to die, they want another life, they want a new car and a plastic lady, they have three eyes, six arms, supernatural blood and long nails. They smile while they wait for the next life. They know tomorrow, they’ll be king, they will survive.
In India everything is possible.

Blow OK Horn

 



motelmurders