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lauantai 2. marraskuuta 2013

Homeward Bound

A boy, lost to the world
under his thick clothes only a malnourished fear
freedom-of-speech ornaments on the wrong side of town
the breadline moves slow and shoegazing
it lowers the selling prices of these properties
do-gooders and saints have no place here!

The yellowed promises of magazines
dry on the lips of ad execs (miten lausutaan?)
the holiday spirit
is within your grasp
those new sweatshop-sneakers
are within your grasp
inequity and exploitation
are in your grasp
and the revolution won't even be televized
but even that is within your grasp
as you strangle a last gasp from your fellow man
and in the middle of a deserted park I realize
how easy it is to be a good person.

A mail-ordered wifey
a Johnnie Walker Facebook-stalker
a redneck internet preacher descending (miten lausutaan?) the steps of Parliament
his speeches are filled with staring fractures
lips glared dry
fair, refreshing waters by the river's edge
and their dark swirling curls
ten little niggers high on LSD
bling-around-the-rosie (mitä tarkoittaa?)
teenagers these days are all strung out and nosy
gathered round a laptop drooling over sites about war
but there's no babushka inside their own grandma
but ears gone deaf, memories whistling past,
teeth made of plastic, hips made of metal
a satellite dance on the edge of town
photocopied sculptures snuck in between the lines
interest-free futures and no atomic war.

What we need are some kickass powerpoints!!!
poindexter populists hung dry from their ties
rune-singers from garbage yards and junk piles
folk wisdom clichés tangled together in snowdrifts
tales from the deep wells of experience under bridges
greasy John Does staggering up to vote
clung to editorials written to a bloated rote saying
c'mon let's play nice and say YAY to the Helsinki Guggenheim
or else we'll all be hayseeds and rubes and yokels
and christ!! not to mention these gypsies
well I guess they're ok sometimes
when you're returning home from somewhere or leaving forever
when they play those warzone ballads at the station
it's like a field trip to the boondock straits
with a false prophet, a True Finn as your guide.

To have a whole mint-condish disc of Zoloft
a backpack full of feelings you haven't dealt with yet
and jesus, seriously, how easy it is to be a good person
the Truth slurped from the mouth of a bottle in a paper bag
cup by cup, the huge buzz that rises from under moustaches
the nuzzling buddies and late-night liars
storytellers if it kills them
whispers captured on photographs
love's sweet song without pubic hairs
oh the shame! the pleasure!
unsanctioned submarines navigating the depths of the fatherland
let's put our backs to the wheel for the good of Us All
magic tricks on the office couch
and for a solitary moment
there exists a place or a world
that nobody can even imagine
as of yet

Translation: Kasper Salonen

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