Om… Om… Om, motherf*ckers… Om!!
(Jeg vil bruke! Jeg vil bruke! Hjelp meg! Jeg vil virkelig bruke!)
I can hear you not dictating to me.
I can hear the alcohol and the religion, and the politics, policies,
And the excess of politeness. (They are delicate, some times delirious.)
Gloriosissimus dux: lying in luxury; being cursed with no money;
Running from the death bed that is just a bed– Lusitania!
Living and mourning. Living and mourning.
There is something more powerful than all my addictions combined:
My will and want to be beautiful. My quiet hand reaching for the loudly sun.
My command on my impolite limb– not god, but a haze– my miraculous mirage.
I rest my shoulder by the prow: a headless beast and its camouflaged chest.
I look at them: around the cornfield where corn never should have grown;
The lot of the looming, booming empire, mutated.
I look at him: the bizarre child, the uncrumpling paper.
Faultless. Faultless. Faultless.
I thrive. I thrive. I thrive.
Even though I am tired, I thrive.
And I whisper to myself,
The self outside the fever:
AHIMSA, AHIMSA, AHIMSA.
Ahimsa until insanity. AHIMSA.