i see
drunk angels
dragging severed wings
burning
and
dropping to the astray like kneaded
cigarette butts
playing broken records at midnight
and throwing up
leftovers
needle marks and razor brands on their arms
rotten teeth and bitten
nails
reading the last news on the paper
and i hear them say:
please don't call me
cause i can't fly
i want a drunk sleep on the beach
to kill me
every sleepless night
cause the city is a desert that lies on advertising
billboards and
political propaganda
the junkyard of industrial churches
that dump dark smoke in our heads
and promise us salvation
without listening or care
while the bums rot alone
in the bars and streets
and squares
while your mothers and sisters are raped
and your husbands get shot in their backs
and there's no beer
there's no cigarettes
there's no jazz
and no one's still alive
cause they pointed me the wrong way
(is this what you call
Paradise?)
the only thing left for me to do is sing
though no one will ever listen to:
- Jesus died for somebody's sins
but not mine.