Those who carry nothing within
are forced
to decorate the outside.

And since no thought
drips from them,
they exhibit their skin—

for skin
is the last temple
of the empty.

Ah—
these preachers
of the ring-light and lens,

how desperate they are
to be seen—

for they do not
see themselves.

They do not live—
they lodge
inside moments,

and each of their smiles
is like a notice
of…

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Here—
each one shouts
to have his existence heard,

and the more he speaks,
the less he is.

Ah—these virtual arenas
of self-display,

where silence is disgrace,
and emptiness
is posted.

Once, man worshipped gods—

now, mirrors.

And the more one manufactures
his own image,

the less of himself
remains.

Social networks—
O marketplace
of modern slavery,

where each one names
his c…

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Prescription—
not for the cure it brings,
but for the pleasure it stirs—
that is why
it is desired.

Sermon—
not as an iron nail
driven into the stone
of frozen minds,
but from the urge
to blend,
to dissolve into the herd
of the unknowing—
that is how
it leads.

Do not think
the pulpit
belongs only
to the mourner
or the priest.

Have you not seen
the modern pulpits?

Those
who te…

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Tourist—
O creature of two lives:

one moment
on the dry land
of boredom,

the next
in the swamp
of reels.

Now on Instagram,
now beneath X.

You flee
your pitiful emptiness—

yet in your suitcase
you carry nothing
but it—piece by piece

In your selfies
the only symmetry
is

the graveyard
of history
behind you,

and the face
of an ape.

You do not taste culture—
you lick its image.

You…

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Ah, godless saviors!

They have sold the soul
and now prescribe salvation.

Whoever does not know
what he himself wants
now dares
to guide another.

They speak of suffering—
yet their suffering
is the loss
of clients.

They preach self-knowledge
without ever
having smelled
their own depths.

Ah—
what a carnival
they have built
out of human anxiety
and meaninglessness.

They manu…

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You—
the last refuge of man,

you—
the final provision
for the journey
of nihilism1—

you dragged
art
into vulgarity.

O servants
of cancerous masses,

O slaves
to herds
of likes
and scrolls,

like sheep
whose heads,
instead of green pasture,
are buried
in a black mirror2,

their mouths
ruminating
the word
more3.

Art,
seen too often,
turns whorish.

And what does a whore care
for being pawe…

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Confession—

that is the only word
that comes to mind
when I hear
the word therapist.

No—wait.

A dark little chamber appears as well:
a priest
and a groaning child.

O spiritual father
in the robes of pseudo-science!

You are not the Christ
of Christ Recrucified1.

You are the cross itself—
to which
the hands of life
are nailed.

You—
remnant of Freud’s complexes2,
beneath the f…

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with all your sermons
you will never persuade religion
to turn away
from suicide.

You stroked
the cold corpse of God1,

hoping
the vanished spirit
might return.

But the corpse
did not move.

You blew your prayers
like spells
into the birth-blind eyes
of these people2.

And the people—
still blind—
ran after you
like a herd.

O savior of religion,

in hope of …

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The difference between Clown and Crown
is only that r—
erect—
become l.

O old clown,

you who, without Viagra,
cannot even stiffen
your own spine!

A royal crown
belongs only
to madness.

You are deaf.
You are blind.
You are thirsty.

But you are not mad.

With that drug of power,
that magical Viagra,
you even erected
lies.

You made religion
a ladder,

and climbed
its rotten steps
…

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Nietzsche and Heidegger—

not by fame,
not by any measure of greatness,
are they overmen while I remain an ape,

but because, in reading their works,
I am seized
by a biting sensation
called humiliation.

O modern ape of the city,

you are not even the copycat
of those fearless sages.

From fear
you piss where you stand.

From rage
you merely repeat.

Like a ship without anc…

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