Cripple Bastards – “Almost Human”
release date:
2001
LINE-UP:
too many to be listed here, check the “additional artworks/inserts” section for more details.
Label: Obscene Productions
> Released in 2001, OBP 039, 3000 (or more?) copies made
> Comes with a 24 page booklet including lyrics, EP covers, infos and a huge gallery of gig-flyers
Includes stuff recorded from 1997 to 2000. The CD has been mastered at Acqualuce Studios, Alpignano/Torino, by Marco Milanesio
The facts: Cripple Bastards have been disallowed to play at ABC No Rio in NYC due to this CD cover… CB have been often labelled as an ignorant, sexist outfit and banned from tons of places, boycotted and stabbed in the back by the whole @punk community… Viewing things from a distance, today we can simply say that the “Almost human” CD has been a good idiocy-detector. It has also been banned in Australia. Same story happened with a South American label… the boss of the printing factory used this CD as an example of obscene artwork that should be avoided forever. If you own a copy, be aware that maybe in 5-10 years, there will be no chance anymore to get such a thing manufactured anywhere.
TRACKLIST:
a border of impotence has forever estranged his face from many others /
prime motive – a heart caged in a vitreous cell /
an inexistent life gnawed by fevers and lymphatic decay /
Feelings whitering >> health violently decaying /
”he’s somebody who imputes to the society he lives in the causes of his failures” /
Redemption:
young charming whores burst with love and happiness /
like flowers in heavenly meadows /
…where no foot dares to trample / and no drought can fade their beauty… /
…so light-hearted, ignorant. /
Pete’s daughter rots in a cheerless hole – no way out from the hospital bed /
granuloma increases merciless / eyes constrained to see the sand-glass /
…running up to death… / agony is inhuman, as pus flows through her veins. /
Pete stares at a wall – sometimes he feels like dying /
desperation is so revolting…
>> a taste of salt tears flowing down to the stomach /
worse than the smell of still piss in the filthiest central station’s W.C. /
sometimes he drops in a sea of darkness /
and the wall blackens, soiled with the ink of remorse. /
Water or crude oil … silence or animated void … /
nerves like a crowd of whispering masks /
corrupting the distance between man and knife. /
Pete stares at a wall – sometimes he feels like “creating” /
he paints scenes of murder, bloodshed and fury /
he makes up situations, developes a perfect screenplay /
QUARTERED CORPSES, RAZOR BLADES OPENING GUTS,
THROATS CUT SPINE-DEEP,
ALL IMAGINABLE VARIATIONS OF TORTURES,
NIPPLES SLICED-OFF WITH SHARP-EDGED GLASS,
VAGINAL IMPALATIONS, FACIAL GRAFFITI
CARVED WITH HORRIBLE INSTRUMENTS,
TENDER GIRLS RIPPED, DISMEMBERED AND HACKED TO PIECES…
FEMALE BODIES STABBED AND GUTTED
LIKE WARE ON A FISHMONGER’S SLAB,
OTHERS STRANGLED WITH CORDS,
SEVERED HEADS SMASHED WITH HAMMERS,
NEEDLES DRIVEN……………………………………..
Words translated from Lucio Fulci’s “The NY ripper”
and from other italian movies + personal statements added:
Society = complicity between people
whose most precious patrimony is other’s freedom.
“In this city, if you don’t shine in something,
even if you’re the best, the most beautiful,
even if you’re perfect, intelligent…
you’re excluded, they won’t let you live.”
He has very refined taste, will, spirit.
He finds the true essence of things in the nuances.
“You have no imagination,
you reason by stereotypes… like a cop”
Regress, an illness that spares noone.
He sacrificed young beatiful women
to his daughter who would never become either.
“Too beautiful, I had to kill her…
but you can’t understand, you’re too dumb,
you’ll never understand.”
He loves competing and like a good chess player
never improvises, he plans every move.
“Make he suffer, make her scream”.
You leave doors half-open, you never conclude
because, basically, you’re good for nothing.
A metaphore taken to the extreme of perversion and cruelty,
that “someone who dies in a hospital bed” is the part of us that’s tied to,
trapped in distressing, nerve-wracking human relationships,
rotten with hypocrisy and impossible to avoid.
“Society is the Nr.1 executioner,
our feelings, our expectations – on the gallows”
The shard of a bottle stuck between your legs,
pulled up slowly, opens you zip-like.
Blood drips, red tears to warm my hate.
Pete the ripper is just like me,
a coincidence of stories ended badly.
A dark shape in the shadows, sharpening a knife,
contemplating the victim- waiting for the right moment… to begin.
Redeem the lack of oxygen snuffing out life,
painting on another’s skin the injustice of being born.
“NEW YORK RIPPER” (Lucio Fulci):
Misogynistic film about a duck-voiced killer who carves up women in N.Y.
Armed with a knife, broken bottle or a razor, he slits his terrified subjects
from abdomen to throat or just toys with them cutting into eyes or breasts.
Banned in many countries as a video nasty.
The largest room placed in my brain,
the absolute file – negativity.
Everything I do, everything I see
turned into hate to feed my own way to live.
NEGATIVITY TO SCAN YOUR MIND,
TO PLAY ON YOUR FEARS, THROW DOUBT UPON LIFE
..everything I do, everything I see
filtered through black spores of misanthropy.
(repeated several times)
Commentary:
If you think about it, you’re born dead, a certainty with no solution.
The insignificant effort of she who conceives a new number to add to the
human slaughterhouse, a starting point… a whim closed in a moment.
Coming from a fragment of sexual ethics of the integrated population,
a surrounding necessity, a step ahead
in the reinforcement of a social worm’s personality.
Sadness forever is the shadow you hide, it means “realizing”,
feeling useless is an unquestioned detail…..
yesterday, today, tomorrow…
behind every thought that bitterly humiliating beginning,
the first page says that you’re a cancer removed
from the belly of a beast that screams and suffers… “to give you joy”.
The chance to live, breathe, the colours which stand out
gradually on your horizon, feel the time as it passes by,
to love… someone – something,
to pass the cancer through bodies which incubate…
The illusion must be complete,
because it’s useless being perfect if a the end there’s no objective.
Me – accused in the centre of a room, pointed looks, deformed by prejudice,
voices echoing shrilly, noisy…
too confused to be perceived one by one and faced.
The accusation is generic, human and because of this destructive.
Walking with death on my face, depression is being forced to exist.
Thinking >> hurting yourself.
They laugh about everything, but I can’t laugh about them.
There’s no nobility, no style for anybody.
Hysterical moans becoming part of normality, a jet launched in boredom,
satisfy him or her, copulsion and paranoias twisting in the psyche.
Yet another time… this is the starting point.
Commentary – Part One:
90% of those you call “people” are nothing more that a mixture of non-classified humanoids, slow brains, way back in the evolution of things. Limneo and Darwin have fucked things up, they didn’t recognise that among the human race a further species of anthropomorphic monkey has developed… a social animal, an embezzler – but still very retarded. This is why we get the impression of being surrounded by masses of lobotomy-patients 24 hours a day; aggressive and thickheads, they invade for convenience, they follow rules, laws and traditions, consume ferociously and devastate in the name of greed. Think of the living dead in G.A. Romero’s films, then look around you… where’s the difference? The mass trams uniformally on, hungry for material things, fresh meat to tear up. The steps echo hollowly in the emptiness of a billion eyes.
Commentary – Part Two:
You who dig tranches even to safeguard your dogs kennel, then come and speak to me of solidarity, bringing down the borders… stratification in classes, the underpaid workforce, strikes, government ploys… words getting lost, absorbed in the inertia of non-changing times. You who are the anti-racist but can’t stand people who are different to you out of choice… you look me up and down like the bouncer of a highclass hotel, drugged on contradictions you call moral principles. Everyone needs their own fucking slice of power, well defined territory where they can dismember others, exercise supremacy, psychoses and existential malaise.
Cannibal after cannibal, today – everywhere. They illude and rob you.. black tunics caked in soot, centuries of burnt corpses in the shadow of crosses, cathedrals, juries and courts, ghettoes, outskirts, factories… execution lagers. The history’s carnages, not the ones they talk about at school. Today like yesterday, shops lit up with inexhaustable quantities of decomposed carcasses in the windows.
They empty you out and absorb you, they exploit you and devour you.
————————————————————————————————————–
Don’t sit for long at table with cannibals.
You might see yourself in one of the dishes.
Introduction:
GOR(E)MLESS (taken from ACTIVE MINDS’ “I’m not a tourist..” EP)
“Desensitised by record sleeves – pictures of blood and gore. Severed heads, disemboweled bodies – you’ve seen it all before, so when you confront it in real life you won’t feel sick inside. It’s easier to mask the vulnerability that you try so hard to hide. Bands try to outdo each other by finding the most gory scenes – no real comprehension of what pain and suffering means. They say they’re trying to shock, but that’s just a convenient excuse for having absolutely nothing to say that’s of any use”
———————————————————————————————————-
I remember how revolted I was when the first Carcass album was released. I thought that the idea of showing mutilated human bodies on a record sleeve simply as a form of decoration, and not to make any sort of political statement, was absolutely sickening. I was in a record shop one day, and I saw a group of kids looking at the record. There was a bunch of guys with their girlfriends – the men were all laughing at the pictures, whilst their girlfriends were obviously quite disturbed by them. It made me so angry that scenes of real human suffering were being seen as some sort of entertainment, or that they were being used by immature, adolescent males as some sort of innitiation cerimony into their macho club of guys who could look at such pictures without showing up any sort of “sissy” emotion. Carcass went on to spawn hundreds of imitation “gore” bands, with utterly ridiculous and sensationalist lyrics, who use pictures of mutilated and disfigured people to build up their own image of being aggressive and tough. It comes as no surprise to me to find that sexist and homophobic bullshit is often the next stage of “progression” in the lyrical content of some of these numbskulls. If challenged about it, some of these bands try to make out that there is some sort of point to all this violent posturing, but, in truth, there isn’t any. They just use such images to cover up the fact that they can’t think of anything else to say.
C.B.’s commentary:
Preachy. Sanctimonious like the most inhibited, bigot censurers. And this is taken from a Hardcore record, not from a parochial pamphlet of those I find from time to time in my letter-box, thrown in by some moralistic religious fanatics. But all in all, the essence is the same. I’m rather bored with the way some bands take a stand in the current HC scene, showing up like the jury of an incontestably supreme court, a holy inquistion against those who stand out of the filanthropic, politically correct standards. Here in Italy it often happens that good bands that are somehow distant from the anarco/P.C. attitude are completely cut off from the scene, and it gets really hard for them to have their records distributed through D.I.Y. labels and have shows organized in certain places… OK, this is a different argument, but I think that it’s worth being mentioned because it’s somehow connected to what I was saying before. Personally, I am more and more persuaded that those ultra-nihlist, politically rotten PunkRock bands that made history in the ’77 era were much more genuine and creative than these boring theorists of today. You might say that all that wave of Punk ended in fashion, commercialism and junk, but isn’t this “being P.C. and clean at any cost” another trend bringing mediocrity and lack of individuality?? Will all this change something or will it only fall into dust like a pile of philosophy books in a forgotten library? Gore/Grind bands to me, are not too far from those rude, careless human rejects of the ’70s, even if most of them are coming from an extreme branch of metal and have not too much to do with Punk. But “Punk” to me is also the filth itself, so even the morbid intent of a mind that takes photos from a surgery manual or a symposium about infectious sicknesses just for fun or for decorating the cover of a record-sleeve is something filthy, sickening for those who love to be sickened. And anyway, why bothering? Where is our freedom of expression if bands attack each other for matters like this, everyone should be free to follow his own attitude and intentions, even if what they want to express is morbidity and gore. Is it so fucking obligatory to release a record only for spreading a specific political statement through it? In this way all the HC records would be more or less the same and we would hear the same old routinary slogans thousands of times. A uniformed mass for what? And besides, gore is a very original form of expression and not a “can’t think of anything else to say”. My country had a very big and interesting culture connected to horror, gore and fiction on death and murders, and I have always been very attracted and fascinated by that. It doesn’t have too much to do with bands and music, but I feel that the ideas/spirit behind Gore/Grind are very close and related to what I’m talking about. I like to be shocked to the core by things I haven’t seen before, and that’s the genuine feeling I had when I saw certain record-sleeves of the early Gore bands, when I enjoyed the sickening brutality of CARCASS and REGURGITATE or when I watched for the first times certain films focusing on truly horrorific, gross gore and sleazy expoitation subjects. I always thought that this was somehow an alternative form of expression and art, and all those who’ll think that I’m just a perverted, degenerate mind are the real “numbskulls”. As an english film-reviewer said: “I’m prepared to stand up and be counted for my taste – or lack of it – and I don’t care what anybody thinks. I never did. I want to be offended by the non politically correct. I want to see blood flow in ever more ingenious ways. I want to see new methods of murder and torture on screen. Horror is one of mankind’s greatest defences. It’s important for us all to focus on what frightens and cope with it. Watching horror and gore does not make us do horrific things. It does not affect behaviour. If that were the case I would already be a serial killer by now after the thousands of films I’ve watched. People who hide behind that argument are the intellectually and psychologically suspect ones. What they’re really out to do is squash art. They want to ban films that vent and talk about things we all hide beneath the surface – particularly the sort of inhibited and suppressed people the censors always are. None of us should forget that it was Hitler who forbade art because it was obscene and began burning books just before the began burning humans”. That’s a fucking great statement, and I think that it fits also talking of Gore bands. It’s not a matter of vulnerability to hide or of being desensitised… it’s just a different form of expression and art, related to a different mentality. And a sentence like “not to make any sort of political statement” is so bigot and arrogant… it sounds like all what’s out of the political and socially aware range it’s somehow inferior and less important. “Those who care” are the real favourite children of the scene, and they should be free to judge and spit shit on all the others, “those who differ”. And anyway, instead of wasting paper attacking bands that don’t conform to the politically correct standards, A.M. could use that space for writing something more useful, in order to save the Earth and educate the scene… this according to their mentality and spirit.
Let me disappear, withdrawn in a world
where “values” like charm and seduction don’t mean a fucken shit,
once you claimed for sexual equality,
now you’re the Nr.1 barrier opposed to prejudice-free mentality
YOU CAN’T FUCKIN’ HURT ME RINGING THE CURTAIN DOWN
LIFE WON’T REALLY DEPRESS ME WITHOUT CUNTS LIKE YOU AROUND
Backward feminist you are the exploiter,
piles of slogans stuck in your brain
out of date – dust from a castrating culture,
woman reduced to a myth, equality distorted to hysteria
worse than that macho-fascist supremacy you see everywhere
YOU CAN’T FUCKIN’ HURT ME RINGING THE CURTAIN DOWN
LIFE WON’T REALLY DEPRESS ME WITHOUT CUNTS LIKE YOU AROUND
Backward feminist still pointing the finger,
an essence of plastic, boredom and dumbness,
I’ll never fall on your knees to prove I’m a man.
Tell me – who’s the object, who crossed the limit…
Society is the door, you hold the key,
tits, butts and moans. Smell of pussy to inebriate the assholes,
a mass of cunt-addicted pigs waiting in line.
YOU CAN’T FUCKIN’ HURT ME RINGING THE CURTAIN DOWN
SEX IS DAILY DEPRESSION, YOUR RULES A COMPLETE YAWN
(originally written by BRIGADA DO ODIO from Brazil,
find the lyrics on their split LP/CD with OLHO SECO)
So far as CB have been sued twice due to personal offences expressed via their lyrics/statements, we prefer not to publish the words of this song (which was a direct attack against Dario Adamic from Croatia – editor of a ‘zine called Zips&Chains), in order to avoid this kinda bullshit consequences. GTB hated him to the bone becoz of an old story related to a CB vinyl sent to be reviewed on Z&C.
Il sentimento non è amore,
è solo guadagno di sicurezze.
..perso nell’ombra di una convinzione
pietrificata negli anni da parole,
impressioni, voci dipinte sulle tenebre.
Il sentimento non è amore
pretendo qualcosa in più.
Il sentimento non è amore
pretendo qualcosa in più.
…il tuo vivere bene si sdoppia a coltellate,
rassegnato ad animale di gruppo – diventi pietoso.
…il vostro vivere insieme è una malattia forzata,
tolte le abitudini crollano le soddisfazioni.
Il sentimento non è amore,
è stare in gabbia con un altro. Morto.
Il sentimento non è amore,
ma uno scambio di paure.
…avvinghiato ad un’ombra
per assicurarti che sei normale.
…chiuso fuori da te stesso
per condividere la gioia di vivere il vuoto nel marcio.
Contemplarla.
Il mio sentimento non è amore,
va molto più in là.
Cambia ogni istante,
non abbraccia nessuno.
An overdose of dirt, every heartbeat a stab
wicked caffeine thrill, no quiet for my nerves
Wide-eyed I crunch teeth my mind’s on speed
chromosome of revenge won’t fall asleep (x 2)
Words re-emerge on my screen… your lack of respect
coldblooded urge to expose this malignity I feel
Tonight I crunch teeth my mind’s on speed
chromosome of revenge deep red the intent (x 2)
PS: “crime is often nothing but a distorted form of human effort”
(closing quote on the film “Murderock” by Lucio Fulci)
La nausea di vivere con quella massa di coglioni /
uscire ogni volta per accumulare delusioni /
Lo sbocco quando sale… il marcio a pezzettoni /
rigurgitare il blocco e far finta di esser buoni.
In una società in cui esprimersi é sbagliato /
senza regole – niente lavoro /
sono uno zero, uno squilibrato /
Non voglio più pensarci ma non posso lasciar stare /
ti vomito tutto addosso, mi devo liberare /
I look in her eyes, I see the walls of this city – I HATE HER
socially dominant, a female corpse kept alive by rules – I HATE HER
avid, spoilt, majesty in a little puddle of piss – I HATE HER
blocks our freedom with asphalt, infects our blood with morals – I HATE HER
She went to the butcher’s
and bought 2 Kg of blood-stenching meat
I HATE HER
She attended mass
and bought God’s mercy: “charity & love”
I HATE HER
She voted for a moralist dick,
“to suffocate all immigrants in their own pitful shit”
I HATE HER
She came back home
and taught her sons to abhor those like me
I HATE HER
Consume your shameful dinner,
then drug your brain with TV-fix – I HATE HER
do the slut with your husband,
somebody said “frequent sex = rejuvenate” – I HATE HER
take the children to school,
be sure to grow them strong, proud and blind as shit – I HATE HER
support ghettoisation…
your race’s “sense of property” to banish minorities – I HATE HER
P.S.: “I condemn this crowd of she-normals. They limitate my freedom”
Don’t reach an understanding
… their shit-smelling words,
bare your teeth, push the right way
GET OUT AND BITE THEM (x2)
I won’t submissively care,
no need to reinstate myself
no chance to lock up my nerves
GET OUT AND BITE THEM (x2)
I won’t submissively care,
people – their habits, their shame…
“Can’t stay inside their laws”
GET OUT AND BITE THEM (x3)
My eyes – burn with revenge
COMMENTARY:
Ready-made world /
flashy colours suiting your scent of well-bred type,
exhibition object in a kaleidoscopic outlook /
ready-made in a drama school promising
“certain, full resolution of your problems related
to shyness and insecurity, with undisputed advantage
in public relations” / advantage, advantage over the others,
more cunts to fuck – more fools to rob. /
Drug me with your amusing talks,
sodomize me with attractive smiles /
Here’s the easy prey – a wretch left out of the feast. /
Ready-made world, ready-made world
all over things we can’t afford… we can’t afford. /
– we can’t afford to be happy, to trust, share, tolerate /
– we can’t afford to be fair… money prevents, money determines /
– we can’t afford not to grow up frustrated…
just think about medias, “education”…
multitude of brains infatuated with lies /
– we can’t afford to be ourselves,
desperately insensitive (1)
spontaneity died away (3)
tastes became insipid (2) /
Ready-made world – invisible needles pierced into optic nerves.
No doubt on what to choose, everything fits your taste… /
Tourists channeled through clean shiny avenues, expecting to see the best,
to waste money and life leaving piles of shit on their backs /
..and when everything fits, cash flows – hectic. /
The impeccable efficiency of a civilised nation
seasoning millions of dishes with cancer,
exploiting those you’ll never know,
concealing misery like dust under a carpet,
banishing anything a “normal” may rate ugly or unpleasant. /
Outside the toyland winter is perpetual,
children’s lips freeze in depression and solitude. /
Ancient tears run down through wrinkles of apathy,
then soak into deserted quarters ..to reflect cathodic plagues. /
Melody is wiped out by cacophonous screeches,
blowing like a sick wind – unnaturally loud. /
Detachment increases, compassion rots away in perdition.
Exasperated… urge to find an unconscious prey.
THIS REALITY – parade of degradation
THIS SOCIETY – endless procession of abortions
& other arguments for violence
We’ve listened to you, you gave us your views /
we’ve heard every word that you said /
we’ve had it with you, and when we are through /
you’ll wish we where better off dead /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
You’ve fucked us around, you’ve let us right down /
sold us out to our enemy /
we’re taking control, we’re smashing this hole /
we’ll do anything to be free /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
Won’t negotiate, but will desecrate /
everything the state calls holy /
we’ll smash it all in, we want to kick in /
all that the bastards degree /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
Always unsatisfied,
left empty handed, we can’t close the cycle
the crowd went away – they need no answers anymore
impassive like the pain which starved our most basic goals
the only thing we care about is not to trust anyone.
WE’RE ALWAYS UNSATISFIED – WE DON’T GIVE A FUCK
ALL PEOPLE AROUND US ARE POTENTIAL ENEMIES
THERE’S NO PRIDE TO DEFEND … NOTHING TO LOSE
Sensations turned into far cold memories,
all the enthusiasm drifted out to your “social nowhere”
UNSATISFIED
UNREQUITED
UNGRATIFIED
BUT STILL UNRESIGNED
Level a gun at my eyes,
smash this hopeless face,
rigorism and shame must grow
burying an outdated race…
We are discarded meal, we are sinners,
we corrupt and taint,
every word we left hides germs,
morally we’re worse than criminals,
no conscience can deviate our merciless aims,
we split families – we obstruct progress,
our depravity harms good people’s faiths,
(2) Jesus for president, always in the right:
“social laws are immaculate”,
(1) survival and salvation =
privileges for those who work and prey.
COMMENTARY:
Like a slap, contempt bends my eyes to the ground
obtrusion…
I can’t tolerate life if the compromise is “love thy neighbour..”
and my place is a flat holed up in this grave you called town.
social integration…
isn’t it like being cattle in the slaughterhouse
factories, banks, supermarkets,
“thy neighbour” infects the oxigene I breathe
churches, schools, car-parks,
what I see, hear and feel is always the opposite of what I need.
P.S.:
“Choose mediocrity be happy.
Choose happiness, be mediocre”
Sex is your key to open new doors,
the depth of your hidden degradation.
One of the few natural properties
you had left at your disposal,
and you made use of it in a so miserable way.
Sex is your passport for being considered “experienced”
deactivate the bomb – don’t let your naturalness mature.
Fuck and accept to be fucked, your limits are defined.
SEXUAL HYSTERIA – SOCIAL AFFLUENCE
SEXUAL HYSTERIA – SOCIAL AFFLUENCE
Every sub-citizen’s social obligation
is to fall in a meaningless breach,
then drag cross & nails in front of the jury,
be condemned and pay,
spit bowels till the last coin,
the last millilitre of blood. JURISDICTIONS
Available for being the exploitable…
we work to give back the mere shit that we’ve earned.
Registered at their court, a signature to a file,
we increase civil power
and demote basic rights. JURISDICTIONS
P.S.:
“money from social zeros like me and you”
the definite aim their justice stands for.
Stifling enthusiasm you dominate through TV-lies,
stealing fancy and hopes you support suicide.
INDIVIDUAL:
This morning I woke up so restless, coldly dumb,
recalling the night I knocked at your door
and heard a voice answering “nobody’s in”
the feeling – a tangle of hands covering my head
I wished I had turned your light down
and tasted the pleasure of opening wounds,
cummed rage and freedom until you died.
“The ways I could kill you” is my favourite dream
“The ways I could kill you” is my favourite wish
swallow fragments of blades – melt in boiled oil,
the more you scream and suffer the more my eyes cry for joy.
UNIVERSAL:
This morning I woke up so different, tense,
wondering why my choice has always been convenience,
how could solitude be more oppressive
than cohabiting with a mass of goats;
the only frequency modulated for my brain is horror, 24 h. a day,
black labyrinths of sadism, malevolence and pain.
Human extinction is my highest hope,
a clean world for plants and animals,
a never-ending circle of cruelties for you,
and for all those who renounced freedom for this social shit.
COMMENTARY:
Fuck your illusive charity… “philanthropy”
clean the Earth with your own blood,
give place to nature and oxigene,
terminate the human race.
Ecology must be the only conscience driving us to………….
Originally written by HÜSKER DÜ,
lyrics featured on their “Everything falls apart” CD.
Originally written by HÜSKER DÜ,
lyrics featured on their “New Day Rising” LP.
STREJT EDŽ
(originally written by TRI DEBELA PRASETA, a Demo-band of the late ‘80s from Belgrade / Serbia, where a close friend of GTB used to sing. Since there’s no chance you can find their lyrics around, here they are)
Misliš da si dobar – moralno si prav
glava je tvoj problem jer ti nisi zdrav
Tražiš sada novi život pa neka ti bude
ali svoje komplekse leci negde drugde.
DOSTA, DOSTA
DOSTA STREJT EDŽA!!
=====================
STANDING STRONG
Affliction and flesh,
cold hearts sticked to our faces,
me – handful of black sand,
so uniform…
anger is the painted of every single fleck.
I’ll stand strong but I’ll never look in your eyes,
unquietness recognizes infected selves,
introversion is the way I despise assholes
SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO DIE AWAY!!
NO WAY
(only few words from this text is what GTB actually sings)
An oppressive useless life…
opium penetrates as I slowly die /
processions of hooded shapes
showing me the only direction /
I’ve seen the roof collapsing over my head /
tears and bitterness behind a mosaic of glass /
colours expanding sensations / and it’s so warm inside /
they’ll always force me to stay out – envy the privileged /
… money, comforts, protection … /
watch and never get it / WHY??
There’s no way in and no way out /
I’ve never been a man – never completed the stage /
My fate was to remain here and cry /
viciously drugged by obsessions
yet miles away from compromise /
“always no reply” has become the meaning of my life /
no way in no way out /
passing through existence, existence WHY?
IL TUO AMICO MORTO
Sentore di sangue alzato dall’aria sfiora i miei sensi
la testa sfondata, si vede la carne che libera pensieri
“scritto nel destino” – luogo comune, attenuante sconfitta
io guardo il tuo amico, ex-vivo ordinario, e mi sento appagato
TU SAI BENE CHE IN FONDO HAI UN PO’ DI COLPA (x …)
puoi nasconderlo agli altri, ma non a te stesso, alla coscienza che giudica,
puoi calare le tende, riabbracciare le giornate, sopravvivere ipocrita,
il tuo volto oscurato è un cane pestato che ringhia vendetta,
soffri per trattenerlo, ti neghi ai suoi occhi, ti neghi al rimorso.
Cammino verso il corpo, ne apprezzo il chiarore, l’espressione deformata
immagino il tempo – il cuore che cede… mi esalto in silenzio
vorrei averlo filmato per riguardarmelo da solo centinaia di volte
il tuo amico cadavere giustifica il peggio, è liberazione
TU SEI VIVO E QUESTO È IL TUO SUPPLIZIO (x …)
la partita è già chiusa, non puoi sfidarmi… ti fraacasso la testa,
dentro le mie spire esplode il dolore, si annulla il contrasto,
una valle di pietre soccombe su fiori tormentati dal fumo,
abbraccio la morte, le stringo una mano, per giocare la sua carta.
ALLUCINATO VIAVAI DI COMPROMESSI
UN TUNNEL SENZA SPECCHI DAVANTI A CUI SVENARTI
(this is the remake of an old CB track, GTB lost the lyrics somewhere.
We can’t find them – find out what he’s singin’ or invent your own version of it)
NO ALLA SOLUZIONE QUANDO TU SEI IL PROBLEMA
NO ALLA SOLUZIONE QUANDO TU SEI IL PROBLEMA
NO ALLA SOLUZIONE QUANDO TU SEI IL PROBLEMA…
TU SEI IL PROBLEMA… TU SEI IL PROBLEMA……
… per una notte lasciarti pensare
riattaccare la corrente nel tuo cervello andato a male
pulire via il sedativo che hai scelto per poterti alienare
… per una notte offrirti un varco per riflettere
fuori dalla paranoia del tuo ciclo di consumo
aiutarti a fare luce nella fogna in cui sei affondato
per poi lasciarti li a crepare, solo – davanti al tuo errore.
Gli occhi lo sanno,
non hai mai avuto qualcosa di meglio da fare.
Gli occhi lo ammettono,
non hai mai voluto qualcosa di meglio da fare.
La carta vincente di chi sfrutta la mancanza di stimoli,
il trucco di chi svuota dentro per poter eliminare.
Piattola sociale sempre tra i piedi per scroccare
Non ti devo proprio un cazzo, solo l’augurio di schiattare.
Uomo-foglia, ogni giorno sempre più in basso,
sempre in fila per obliterarti la vita
non sai muoverti, non riesci a cambiare
stessa merda all’infinito… le tue vene – la tua clessidra.
TU HAI IL DOPPIO DEL MIO TEMPO
MA NEANCHE UN QUARTO DELLA MIA VITA
TU HAI IL DOPPIO DEL MIO TEMPO
MA NEANCHE UN QUARTO DELLA MIA VITA
TU HAI IL DOPPIO DEL MIO TEMPO
MA NEANCHE UN QUARTO DELLA MIA VITA
…DELLA MIA VITA …DELLA MIA VITA …DELLA MIA VITA…..
…per una notte schiodarti a calci in culo
svegliarti dal letargo a cui ti sei abbandonato
Tu davanti a una finestra, tu davanti a una siringa
adesso a mente fredda, fammi vedere cosa sai fare.
Quei giorni… non credevo mai che saremmo arrivati a questo
1998… noi, corpi sfatti e assuefatti per la mediocrità.
Popolazione cancerogena,
non so se guarderete indietro anche voi……………
IL GRANDE SILENZIO
che avvolge le mie mani, e domina i miei occhi
oscurando ciò che penso.
IL CICLO DEL DISSENSO
perseguita la mia pace, fomenta il mio disprezzo
per poi implorar vendetta.
..e intanto la stanza é piccola e la gente sta aumentando
ogni gesto, ogni abitudine ormai é fastidio che va in crescendo
non mi sento così egoista nel rivendicare l’aria che stai infettando
l’equilibrio che hai distrutto apparteneva anche a me!
IL GRANDE SILENZIO
un mitra nelle mani, un progetto nella mente,
l’urgenza di farmi spazio.
NERVOSO COME IL VENTO
espando il gusto del nero, condanno ogni parola
mi butto nel massacro.
Tua moglie in giro gonfia per un altro colpo andato a centro
È sfoggio di virilità e la tua stirpe sta incalzando
Ho bruciato anni su anni a detestarti, coetaneo spento
E i surrogati che oggi educhi chissà che merde diventeranno…
É sesso represso il movente della tua lotta
Un frutto maturato-esposto-marcito
orgoglio sbandierato su macerie di slogan
isolato nel tuo ghetto di autocommiserazione
Solo più ipocrisia la tua ideologia
Uguaglianza sconfinata in supremazia
tu non vuoi confronto, ma netta separazione
e l’uomo-carnefice non ti prende in considerazione
GUARDA COSA FAI
DIMMI PERCHÉ LO FAI
OGGI DOVE STAI?
COSA TI PRECLUDERAI?
FEMMINISTA DI MERDA!!
Porte in faccia 7 giorni alla settimana,
andare avanti con niente in mano
sapendo di esser soli nel mirino di tutti,
un giorno volevo bene almeno a me stesso,
ma la mia vita é diventata un cesso.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
Davanti – la forza di consumarmi oltre ogni limite,
anfetamina per massacrarvi di odio,
dietro – la società del compromesso,
programmata fino all’ultimo pezzo di vomito.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
Un numero, una divisa, un qualsiasi lavoro di merda
a voi va bene quello perché siete solo quello.
Uomini… vermi… non vedo differenza…
o come in quei vecchi libri di fantascienza:
due braccia, due gambe, un televisore conficcato al posto della testa.
PA-TE-TI-CI
Porte in faccia 7 giorni alla settimana,
andare avanti con niente in mano
sapendo di esser soli nel mirino di tutti,
un giorno volevo bene almeno a me stesso,
ma la mia vita é diventata un cesso.
Davanti – la forza di consumarmi oltre ogni limite,
anfetamina per massacrarvi di odio,
dietro – la società del compromesso,
programmata fino all’ultimo pezzo di vomito.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
QUESTA É UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO,
LA GENTE MI FA SCHIFO
LASCIO TUTTI ALLE SPALLE, TIRO DRITTO FINO ALL’ULTIMO.
… E TUTTO IL TUO LAVORO FINIRÀ NEL NULLA!
Rabbia e senso di ossessione
scoglio angusto, esasperazione
penso e cresce, dormo e muore
fango sparso sul loro amore
Aule sature di inquisizione
digrigna ossa nella tensione
penso e cresce, urlo e muore
sono l’ombra che dilata il tuo terrore
É DA ANNI CHE NON CI SEI
GIOCHI USATI – RIPETI E FAI
RASSEGNATO AL “TI ABITUERAI”
Corpi si sbattono ingordi di attenzione
nel mio nome la loro conclusione
penso e cresce, esco e muore
una morsa secca che scortica il cuore.
Peggio che vivere, tu vuoi transitare
chi mi osserva lo dovrà scontare.
CONCLUSIONE – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
CONCLUSO – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
P.S.:
Peggio che vivere, tu vuoi transitare:
mi fa schifo la gente che guarda, tace, seleziona da dentro,
conserva riflessioni per imminenti dibattiti
con una cerchia chiusa di prescelti…
..tutti surrogati da torturare e eliminare.
Il mio nome é la tua conclusione:
siamo su frequenze diverse,
il riflesso dei miei occhi su un bancone di metallo,
la disposizione degli strumenti da taglio,
ogni gesto intriso di morte, i dettagli del tuo tormento,
dalle grida più lancinanti ai più flebili sospiri.
Rivoli di sangue e secrezione si incanalano nel bordo concavo,
penso alla rivincita della creatività in un’epoca dormitorio
adagiata sulle abitudini e sulla tendenza alla rassegnazione…
Non ho coscienza, non do più importanza ai valori
su cui é fondato questo aggregato di passività e oblio,
me ne fotto dei tuoi diritti di essere-cosmopolìta,
voglio stare dalla parte del ragno che attende intrepido le sue vittime,
assaporare il gusto della paura più cieca
– pupille esplodono dall’esasperazione
– cellule impazziscono per lo sbalzo di situazione
vederti tremare, rantolare, soccombere.
Dentro a ogni boia c’é un frammento di me:
(…) costruisco nella mente i gironi del mio inferno privato…
.. tutti quelli che ci finirebbero dentro, la camera di smistamento,
il clima di angoscia e degrado in cui sarebbe immerso.
IO, carnefice multiforme, sovrano di ogni supplizio,
ideatore delle nefandezze più estreme (…)
Porte in faccia 7 giorni alla settimana,
andare avanti con niente in mano
sapendo di esser soli nel mirino di tutti,
un giorno volevo bene almeno a me stesso,
ma la mia vita é diventata un cesso.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
Davanti – la forza di consumarmi oltre ogni limite,
anfetamina per massacrarvi di odio,
dietro – la società del compromesso,
programmata fino all’ultimo pezzo di vomito.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
Un numero, una divisa, un qualsiasi lavoro di merda
a voi va bene quello perché siete solo quello.
Uomini… vermi… non vedo differenza…
o come in quei vecchi libri di fantascienza:
due braccia, due gambe, un televisore conficcato al posto della testa.
PA-TE-TI-CI
Porte in faccia 7 giorni alla settimana,
andare avanti con niente in mano
sapendo di esser soli nel mirino di tutti,
un giorno volevo bene almeno a me stesso,
ma la mia vita é diventata un cesso.
Davanti – la forza di consumarmi oltre ogni limite,
anfetamina per massacrarvi di odio,
dietro – la società del compromesso,
programmata fino all’ultimo pezzo di vomito.
QUESTA È UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO
QUESTA É UNA STRADA A SENSO UNICO,
LA GENTE MI FA SCHIFO
LASCIO TUTTI ALLE SPALLE, TIRO DRITTO FINO ALL’ULTIMO.
I look in her eyes, I see the walls of this city – I HATE HER
socially dominant, a female corpse kept alive by rules – I HATE HER
avid, spoilt, majesty in a little puddle of piss – I HATE HER
blocks our freedom with asphalt, infects our blood with morals – I HATE HER
She went to the butcher’s
and bought 2 Kg of blood-stenching meat
I HATE HER
She attended mass
and bought God’s mercy: “charity & love”
I HATE HER
She voted for a moralist dick,
“to suffocate all immigrants in their own pitful shit”
I HATE HER
She came back home
and taught her sons to abhor those like me
I HATE HER
Consume your shameful dinner,
then drug your brain with TV-fix – I HATE HER
do the slut with your husband,
somebody said “frequent sex = rejuvenate” – I HATE HER
take the children to school,
be sure to grow them strong, proud and blind as shit – I HATE HER
support ghettoisation…
your race’s “sense of property” to banish minorities – I HATE HER
P.S.: “I condemn this crowd of she-normals. They limitate my freedom”
Half-sleep, staring at an impending fatal widow
the mask of my downfall shining in this night of ordinary quiet.
CHOOSE____ : chained to insecuty / forsaken by purity /
another game of jealousy we won’t get rid of. /
Invisible glue quick-setting hopes, temper, resolution.
Cornered by a puzzle-shaped situation no move could float to the top.
Entering an era of psychotropics, sadness, asocialism
then violence echoing like a whale goin’ adrift to its death.
CHOOSE____ : greet this phase of slavery / sink into a rien-ne-va-plus of empathy /
weak human psychology every sentence a stab.
Abuse me, slander my dignity,
give me scars, humiliations, more piss to swallow,
slice through the flesh >> let blood spatter until I faint
divulge my defects then burst into laughter,
trample on the thin shore I still dare to call “LIFE”…
have fun as long as it comes my turn.
ME & HER LOST TO NOWHERE
PINCHING THE PSYCHE, A PARANOID BRAIN FOLDER.
Anni di tristezza, cazzate in televisione
Divertimenti imposti… discoteca e stadio
Il tuo misero sfogo nella totale sottomissione.
Italia di merda (x3)
L’Italia del perbenismo, l’Italia dei leccaculo
é la patria dei coglioni che non usano il cervello
han bisogno di qualcuno che li anneghi nello schifo.
Italia di merda (x3)
Muoio nel mio disgusto, sommerso dal vostro marciume.
Soffoco in una strada affollata di apatia,
intossicato dalla merda che ingoiate tutti i giorni.
Italia di merda (x3)
Il sentimento non è amore,
è solo guadagno di sicurezze.
..perso nell’ombra di una convinzione
pietrificata negli anni da parole,
impressioni, voci dipinte sulle tenebre.
Il sentimento non è amore
pretendo qualcosa in più.
Il sentimento non è amore
pretendo qualcosa in più.
…il tuo vivere bene si sdoppia a coltellate,
rassegnato ad animale di gruppo – diventi pietoso.
…il vostro vivere insieme è una malattia forzata,
tolte le abitudini crollano le soddisfazioni.
Il sentimento non è amore,
è stare in gabbia con un altro. Morto.
Il sentimento non è amore,
ma uno scambio di paure.
…avvinghiato ad un’ombra
per assicurarti che sei normale.
…chiuso fuori da te stesso
per condividere la gioia di vivere il vuoto nel marcio.
Contemplarla.
Il mio sentimento non è amore,
va molto più in là.
Cambia ogni istante,
non abbraccia nessuno.
(this text has been removed from various CB records
due to the endless diatribes that took place as soon as
somebody from the SHARP scene heard about it.
….at least we tried to say what we think, unlike the majority of
cowards in the scene of today. GTB anyway wants to apologize for
the somehow generic expression used, which may offend people
who’s been kind and honest to us for ages and not just those we refer to.
Be yourself – not part of a category, call yourself a man,
not a skin, a punk or whatever. This means being the “original”)
COMMENTARY:
Idiots think slower,
pigs shouting “OI!-OI!” when some other shaved puppet goes up on stage,
always the same hits – unchangeable juke boxes, beer after beer.
Idiots think slower but kick harder,
sticked to old fashioned crap, all in Fred Perry’s, all in the same boots
THE KIDS ARE UNITED – THE KIDS ARE UNIFORMED
..they’ll tell they’re true rebels and you won’t contradict
rebels conformed to a stereotype, even street life can be a model.
Idiots think slower, idiots need their icons.
Idiots think slower but beat faster,
and fast they can be in screwing up a life
attacking 10 against 1, breaking bottles on your face.
Lonsdale = corporate / Fred Perry = corporate
Dr.Martens = corporate / Recycled trends = corporate
IN-CORPORATED / CORPORATE.
IN-CORPORATED / CORPORATE.
This mass of SHARP scumbags pretends to be antiracist
but acts just the same like Mussolini’s vigilantes.
S.H.A.R.P. to stand vs something that is not so dissimilar from them
the only thing that differs lies in a political excuse.
PS: graffiti seen a while back in Belgrade / Serbia…:
BETTER DEAD THAN SKINHEAD
“All my life you’ve told me nothing but lies!”
18th… September… 1993… 18th… September… 1993…
18th… September… 1993… 18th… September… 1993…
WHO’S GOT THE 50 DM ON CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR?? (x4)
(Then no lyrics, just vocalized hatred and insults)
[COMMENTARY]:
Your nervous eyes in search of love –
always discontented, melancholic, bewildered.
Few minutes of pleasure and then… goodbye.
Your compensation is narrow, the effort inevitably pathetic.
September, 18th 1993. The visionary freedom of a filthy stupid bitch.
Today charismatic heroine, tomorrow unwanted trash.
Tu, porco egoista
incastrato nella noia dei tuoi piccoli valori,
ingrassato dal privilegio di essere schiavo,
preferisci esser scannato piuttosto che reagire.
E non pensi che qualcuno abbia diritto a vivere,
lontano dagli sporchi pregiudizi
di un infimo “proletario” merdoso come te.
Come lo vedi il tuo futuro??
Come lo vedi il tuo futuro??
É sempre rose e fiori per un inutile codardo
marcire dietro il ciclo sistematico
di una catena di montaggio?
Vivi per difendere un massacratissimo stipendio.
Muori con alle spalle il vuoto più completo.
I cross the mountains, I plane
I let myself glide over the breeze
slowly, grazing the woods – and you’ll let me go
I jump down the stairwell, but the fall is soft
then I run away, free, untouchable
protected by spores.
Back to the parallel floor I’m a psychosomatic prey
the more I think negative the more my life fades
here on the shittiest train or queued up in some gloomy office
drugged by sex or TV serials –
bored by the umpteenth useless chat
just to see her once more under my balls.
Watch me as I suffocate in these old trivial thoughts
subjected to human heaviness, absorbed by this halo of social failure.
Drowning among the crowd I feel an impulse of death
though sadly aware that it’s me the one getting progressively fucked.
Another bolivian guerrilla
piling up corpses of rich drug-dealers’ wives
reduced to pieces by my unstoppable machete
– a private apocalypse of rapes and blood
then serbian freedom-fighter torturing a yankee pilot
fallen with his “invisible” bomber right on my Orthodox Church
Back to the parallel floor I’m a psychosomatic prey
as paranoias increase the spores die away
here on the shittiest train or queued up in some gloomy office
drugged by sex or TV serials –
bored by the umpteenth useless chat
just to see her once more under my balls.
Watch me as I suffocate in these old trivial thoughts
subjected to human heaviness, absorbed by this halo of social failure.
Drowning among the crowd I feel an impulse of death
though sadly aware that it’s me the one getting progressively fucked.
People’s extinction comes true only in a non-synchronized planet
that roams in the universe,
the universe behind my eyes.
(originally written by NEGATIVE-FX from Boston..
go and ask them for the lyrics!)
Per quello che valgono le vostre azioni…
cicatrici sul cranio – ossa spezzate.
Non posso contare sulla vostra “difesa”
perché solo violenza é ciò che create.
Polizia, polizia…
razza da estinguere, razza da estinguere!!
COMMENTARY:
(only few words from this text is what GTB actually sings)
welcome a new target, a band promoting rape and sexual obsessions
Fair Yankee decency meeting a subliminal threat to women’s safety,
Preventing stay-clean kids from a world of disturbed, discriminating perverts.
Minimize, point the finger. “just a shocking idea that fits their nihilism”.
We simply chose our own style of expression
for those able to scan the subtleness of details
a multishaped provocation can hide.
Are you on the right or simply falling in a trap devised
to prove who’s the fool and who has class?
I’m sorry we can’t help fools to get smarter,
for you I’ll always be a rough expression of misogyny,
sexism and male superiority.
segregated for years
cut out from yer fake scene for no concrete reason
suppressing a mentality you disapprove or envy
mouths kept shut under the axe of prejudice and PC elitarism
isolation of the different – makes me feel like censored
wasn’t that something you were supposed to oppose?
Never thought that somebody could wish to defend individuality
from a reality of polished mediocrity, pseudo fights for the abused
lesbian pride, rrriot sluts, idealistic preachers,
intellectual fags pointing the finger,
anti-homophobic sermons… your paranoias, your wasted time.
a smell of frustration … as you’re always viciously
sticked to the smallest problem
aware of the fact that you’ve no balls enough to face the real ones
that’s why you ban us, that’s why you take up the stand
of those that can judge,
you feel right when you accuse me –
as I’m the kind of problem you’ve been looking for
as we inspire antipathy in our being ourselves,
living the HC thing in a personal way,
not givin’ a shit about your militant political slime.
PS: “shall we burn’em down in their rich kids squats
where their bitches are having home births
because the 90’s children must be taught
to kill at will and fuck peace on earth” (RUPTURE)
South Leads Us To Shit.
(Then no words, just vocalized hatred)
& other arguments for violence
We’ve listened to you, you gave us your views /
we’ve heard every word that you said /
we’ve had it with you, and when we are through /
you’ll wish we where better off dead /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
You’ve fucked us around, you’ve let us right down /
sold us out to our enemy /
we’re taking control, we’re smashing this hole /
we’ll do anything to be free /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
Won’t negotiate, but will desecrate /
everything the state calls holy /
we’ll smash it all in, we want to kick in /
all that the bastards degree /
HIT US HARD WHEN THEY DECLARED CLASS WAR /
PEOPLE PUSHED AROUND WON’T HOLD BACK ANYMORE /
ALL YOUR RHETORIC WON’T KEEP US QUIET /
FUCK YOUR POLITICS, WE WANT A RIOT!! /
(originally written by KOLLETTIVO, since there’s no chance you can find their lyrics, here they are!)
Il tuo governo, la tua opposizione
la nazione che gioca (x 2)
LOTTA PER IL POTERE, DIRIGERE E COMANDARE
Borghesia e proletariato
ve li potete tenere (x 2)
LOTTA PER IL POTERE, DIRIGERE E COMANDARE
Terroristi, logge segrete
il tuo ultimo valzer (x 2)
LOTTA PER IL POTERE, DIRIGERE E COMANDARE
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
Every sub-citizen’s social obligation
is to fall in a meaningless breach,
then drag cross & nails in front of the jury,
be condemned and pay,
spit bowels till the last coin,
the last millilitre of blood. jurisdictions
Available for being the exploitable…
we work to give back the mere shit that we’ve earned.
Registered at their court, a signature to a file,
we increase civil power and demote basic rights.
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
jurisdictions. jurisdictions. jurisdictions.
INTRODUCING THE PERFECT HANDBOOK TO SELF-DEFAMATION
Inside out of your corpse
emotions won’t change
another dull rose wastes its thorns
let me ill-treat my casual vehicle of lust
young dead meat here to regenerate cum.
Queues of dazed slaves claim their weekly dose
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
Who ends to lead the game / who does the supine whore today
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
We made it a convenience, grew & spread a psychosis
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
Anesthetic has been injected / beasts look resigned and emptied
– INSIDE OUT
Inside out of your corpse
no-one can show us what’s better or worse
compassion and dignity, shall I give a shit
or just train my metabolism to this steroid-fueled society
Buxxx in advance / make room to the next cock
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
you’re a mouth to be shut, never worth of being heard
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
me. on the route to erase feelings that no longer fit
– INSIDE OUT , INSIDE OUT
you. just bend your head, turn my savings into white hot drops
– INSIDE OUT
P.S.: 27 YEAR OLD. ADDICTED TO PROSTITUTION
A DOUBLE EDGED FALL INTO ETHICAL PERDITION
Can’t you see, I have yer cunt printed on my face.
I’m fucked and gone / lost like the shittiest junkie
in his suicide mission to Planet Dope.
If you want something to meditate about,
wonder how and why did I come to all this.
Like sperm under water when it curdles,
in cholesterol-clots runs this magic virus of frustration
I feel it inside my veins: think of blood slowing down
to a jam-like consistency. Heavier.
Can’t you see… in this squallid micro-infinite paradise of opportunism
where all humans are motive of disillusion,
you women play the unlucky role of…
*** cash converters ***
Any complaints? Kick my face and let’s see who’s fucking who.
Considerando di strapparti le braccia.
Who has decided this way?
I can’t scream ..>>.. stuck-throat.
A natural image – a stabbing pain in my sad soul.
Two separated warm hands, then a look behind a pane,
then a wet presence on my face,
then the silence of my narcotic world …
Who has decided this way?
I can’t sleep … I’m so alone.
I visualize your face – and I think that my life’s gone.
Firstly I see your tearful eyes then the barred doors of a train
I don’t think about suicide – ‘coz I know, we’ll meet again.
IN THIS WORLD CAN’T EXIST A GOD.
SPIRITUAL MASOCHISM SLIT THIS THROAT.
IT’S A SORT OF SELF-EXCITEMENT …
A MACABRE REPERTORY UNDER MY MODEST CLOTHES.
I think about all those days
brushing against my old cicatrixes
I try to go back … to conventionality.
But I think it’s so unfair … I can’t give a fuck.
A bitter shit to swallow, living in costant hate.