With eyes shut tight,
wounds open wide,
The souls forced naked in scorching light.
I've slain your hopes,
I've brought you faith,
Gave you one more state-owned wraith.
Don't try to hide alien gold
In filthy shrines of rotting self.
We'll kick the weak,
we'll beat the bold,
We'll burn your books right on the shelf.
A suicide pact
of losers' sect,
of office protoplasm.
Joint breath. Joint death.
Of dollars let me weave your wreath.
No use to stab or burn or slash
This nerveless mass of morbid flesh.
You'll stay with them and drown in trash
Or make the sun go down and crash!
Their stillborn fate,
my heated hate,
was not worth a dime.
Beyond the entropy's dark gate
The world declines to foul grey slime.
(c) Ирина Бабанина
The whole poem is inspired by harsh electronic music.