BALLAD #3: {AN ESCAPADE ACROSS THE FALL}

Ballad # 3: 

“An Escapade Across the Fall”

Involving a Russian Woman and Several Hand Grenades

Cultural Context: 

{In the Newyorkgrad fall times of the Gregorian year 2011 two mildly dangerous people, dangerous in their own ways; became for a time, star-crossed lovers that were briefly aligned (allowed?) to kiss and make up. In the cultural context of one, his card had trouble clearing expectations. Yet, in but in four dates, he could know that marriage was possible.}

While others were sleeping, I dream with you awake.

We walk.

These cobblestone-streets, below big dead glass towers, in late night-predawn, imbibe, intake!

What goes in the noose or the nose? You choose.

Past the hungry day dens of the money changers and their many harlots.

Near the Golgotha of the Jew-Crusader alliance.

Down near Vesey Street. Near old Zuccotti? Where but days before the barricades fell amid a mild defiance.

  This sprawling neon jungle blots out the sun.

It blots out the stars. G-ds, moons and hope. Have your fun on the run.

The show of you! The unseen scars. 

Nothing good ever shines through.

All the way we go again from Brighton to the Districts.

“That bright?”

The color of money is still always the color of woo.

I can pretend to walk tall too. 

In your tight yellow garish dress. Your fake smile, you play crazy all night. You do!

I was scally cap clad. A free for all. I was winding. I was bulletproof.

Your crazy big blue eyes opened fire on call, 

I’ll always remember what you did on that roof.

Your darting hungry look is aloof.

Cut the line. Steal the lightning. Like a dagger when you needed a sudden surgery.

A reminder I was a new attraction, a libelous lap lap leading to perjury.

But we are still alive. 

With a high level of possible use.

We went about the city in waking life- what we do at night reminds us of past times.

We are temporarily blinded by the flood lights of crazy, “Cut all the bullshit.”

All arrhythmic, ectopic the self serving rhymes.”

Blinded, you captured, captivated-compelled us to deeds that might make past operations seem like parlor tricks.

Past creations were to be scribbles. The world was created in lines of tar and feather and slave marriage on broom sticks.

To upcoming tomes, you’ll never bother to read.

Old brush strokes!

Gunshots now! From the hip to move my hips to your hips to your lips.

Now the shots are with the precision of Cupid coated round.

An Israeli sniper lost now found.

I am for you! Hear and I am aware! You are a quite quickly moving target astound.  

I want you to know a lot about me.

When others ask did you kiss me, did you hold me, you can say “I own him”.

Say, “He breathes in this city just for me.”

“He writes books for free.”

“He moves his limbs up mountains, for we!”

“He takes over trains, he battles monsters, he tempts the very wrath of the Jew G-d and the spirits to be with me, one more night after night hand to hand.

You can tell them whatever you want, or our nothing. When they clear the coffin from the sand.

It’s just an affair after all I suppose.

You can tell yourself what I’m cut from will not be seen for one thousand years. Once you decide, the file will burn or the case will close.

“In the fall, in the fall with your ass up or back against the wall!”

Out by Steeplechase pier by the Eiffel Tower of Brooklyn, Night after Night.

When the sun rose. We were found again alive.

Full of the fight!

We died in the bar mid-sip.

We died on the coffin train!

We died in the cholera ship!

We died in the free fall of the airplane.

But since you tasted my blood, you bit my finger hard that first night; wax on your back.

Dripped on your shoulders and lower back, dripped on my lion ring, dripped on our hands clasped together. 

Your chest, your hips, your rack!

Your hand pressed in wax to my own. If we really died it could be with such a smile now.

How many flights?

Forty fucking days and forty fucking nights.

If they take me again in a raid. 

It will cheat us both. 

Of the magic in this, 

The sheer darkness in this escapade. 

And the old hope I know you still feel. 

The old lives, they make me want it too bad.

If I die tonight or in the morning, for the real

What will be with a very small smile?

This is real, shit. Pure. 

This is Russia’s white gold shit.

But don’t cheat me out of an hour a day or a year, or some life of it.

I want a good life, but one also with fake blond crazy blue you.

A loveless life is not any life. Poems do not raise children, it’s true. 

Ambulances move faster than Bentleys relatively speaking.

Less fashion for force, a bed for the fuck is still a bed for the creaking.

He can give you credit!

I can show you a freedom, which came out too cheap.

Not freedom to move and buy. 

Freedom from service, a freedom you keep. 

Servicing loveless nights and boring nights and weird strange awful nights.

Nights where they choke her.

“I want better credit and also possibly later some freedom”, was the last thing she said. Love and or a patron. A pawn or a power broker.

Freedom with eyes wide open to the sky.

Whine mine turn green and yours go silver, don’t ask me why.

And I can show you a life where you will never be afraid again, afraid of a boring lack luster loveless ride.

I confide.

“I may ask you to burn a bridge soon. That you’ve built over 5 years, with one goal.

I will provide all the passion and the petrol.”

And if there were things you thought you needed on the other side; 

I know how to replace them with better things.

Nights are long and days are wide.

I can cook and I can clean and raise children. 

I can save lives, 

You have seen me move a mob with words.

I shoot straight when I have to, I own many sharp knives.

I do have the strength of forty men.

And I know how to actually love then love again!

To thrill you with my words 

And back them with actions, like I did with the Kurds.

My sometimes stiff kisses, my hundred thousand years without, nights of white satin and solid gold dice, old-world lover loves. I cry out!

“When you kissed me you killed me and you saved me.”

It was only fair.

You’d just a week before nearly killed us over one single cigarette.

Because you’re fearless like me? Or just reckless I dare.

If you were my partner we could take on any army with switchblades.

Back to back, hand to hand.

Or help move a nation to rise, or two.

Fight the future from the place that we stand. 

“I don’t need you tonight.” She said.

I replied, “When?”

“To do anything. Just watch my back from dagger men.”

“The dead will bury the dead.”

Whisper, “Good luck Droog!”

“Come back to me alive every day and I will climb up higher with you when we’re wed!”

I will cross sentry canyons under no moonlight.

I will elude the follow-follow men.

I will uncut the spies. 

I have a minion, I know my ten.

I will break enemy lines under the dark cover and even outsmart the loupe Garrou in you.

I will make it through the forest pine.

I will always, life by life gets back to you.

And you will in this manifest of energy want for nothing. 

A backbone flute can’t be played unless you know the way of my spine.

“And our children will be the children of heroes!

I am an American!

I think in color. Not simply in ones and zeros.

But this is not an American film.

You are pure Russian, but kitchens are where I cook. 

Not make self-murder like my man Mayakovsky

Your man is temporarily, a lucky man.

He had five whole years to lie beside you.

“You think you can get him off me?”

“Pull the pinout and toss it,” she said, gravity will guide you.

He did your nails, your clothes, your school, and your credit score.

I had under forty days to taste your lips, and I might start a bad war.

Notice the full extent of mesmerization.

How now, how, when? When are we talking?

“Were you not such a poet. Not such a good lay, one might accuse you of stalking.”

Your eyes, fuck me again, your eyes again.

They made love to me before my body could react.

When you first looked at me in the dance hall.

Nothing after was intact.

I for the first time, knew sweet surrender.

The taste of wanting to wait.

And as we lay in the forest,

Below the double barrels of the blue moon,

I knew that if you escaped with me I could love you for the rest of my life.

And dissembling, and more lives to come, full total swoon.

I remembered that we’d done this before.

More in the rest of my lives, we reunited our fires, we are very old souls.

What’s it all good for?

We can be old souls forever if it pleases you.

This kind of transgression is far worse than a sin.

“What the fuck are you on?” She asks with a grin.

But in the real world, in the world of woman and man.

It is really just a new kind of Russian novel. 

The grenades were laid,

It was only a pretty good plan.

Killing men comes with the job.

“So if I will love you for free, you will never love me, you will not leave your man. And I will die with a barrel to the gob.”

“You need it?”

I will have to open my own black heart and let you try and read it.

Then this Majik will be defensible with reason before it implodes as you claim it will.

Love intangible. Black cards have no limits, a fuck is a fuck and kill is a kill.

It has to be based on fact.

Proof?

Remember the roof?

Give me no longer than November, I will plan our escape!

I am a man of my word. I can counterattack, I can parlay and react.

All a man has. 

“All a man really knows from a cave is how to kill, eat, or to rape!”

Or, he is the things that he does and the vouch people heard.

In the end promises all will be unkempt, fuck what you heard.

“Dare what you dare.”

In the end, this will all end quite badly.

In the end, it’s just deeds and your word.

An endless escapade is coming.

One I’d like to share.

“Poor bastard fellow. Sad that you love me so much as such love is predicated on care.”

BALLAD #2 {A LIFE OF CONSTANT NIGHT}

BALLAD # 2: 

“The Life of Constant Night”

Cultural Context:

Later while partly naked the terrorist notices that the Buxom escort, posing as a high-class courtesan, has no tattoos, which in his culture means that they can both be buried in the same cemetery. Yet, she makes small talk about wanting a tattoo of a dragonfly. And he wonders if that’s her brand presented by those who might own her. Or is she just a Russian hippy. And it comes up that dragonflies eat their males after copulating.  But I’m a Jew, not an insect he says.

She eats her mate!

She bellows,

Welcome Danger! 

She makes us all strange bedfellows.

“There are no atheists in fox holes near the front”, so they say.

But I was one. 

“I need no G-d to die happy today.”

Or to love! Or, do with my hands- what most attempt with only vain words. 

Or paper figures in a mounted gyrating flesh circus.

I lost once in the long bottle,

What a priest usually achieves in a prayer; full throttle. Never saw, only heard.

The Good God headed the boldness of my word.

Almighty Vodka is my Greek Deity! 

Always more inviting than the priests anyway.

Safer also to have children around. To work and play!

I believe I was a child around you. 

Once or twice in a long past, long gone day. 

It was short-lived. Adulthood was swiftly found.

To have met you in Penza. Before you lost something in transit. The first time around.

Years ago! I might have made your journey more, hospitable ok?

Based on what the latest lies. 

That you say, it all sounds unpleasant.

“Would haves” are everyone’s favorites. Regrettable?

Everyone is alive with regret in this shit of a City today.

There is no could have!

Only the will to do! Imagining the before times. 

Your lies and your truths both eviscerate me! 

I lack words and thus form rhymes.

They vivisect my disjoint.

The only thing I know how do well in a kitchen,

Is cook well and then fuck you at knifepoint.

Albeit, simply. My love for you is made twofold.

You are voluptuous. Striking be near, ever hard, ever bold.

A bit stunning, your total fear of darkness,

You’re hot and then you’re quite cold.

For my love, or my own belly I can do much, 

I liked your arms around my neck, 

I liked your grab of meat inside my jeans, 

I need your clutch. 

Your fun. Your fold. You and I, it seem to have lived a life of night!

We’ve slept out in the exposure cold, fallen asleep on outbound trains, 

The story you painted! 

It was told as it was used to get me bought and then sold. Am I right?

I’ve slept where I was offered, you’ve slept once there here and too,

I’ve stolen bread, you’ve stolen bread.

We both know very well the Manhattan finer things, well at last you do.

I’ve lied to protect myself. 

You lie supine and lateral and rewind, you fine dine and call sign. 

“You text in novels, she says, you can woo too?

“I’ll steal bread. I’ll steal the moon.  The universe for you!” 

If I had such reach with my plain speech,

If I can afford one, this is America! I should probably own two!

To feed the very stars with words of action and of promise and also of rope.

“Man I own less than four feet of your noose, but you are hanging on a mere thread, dying from your hope.”

The things I’ve done in past lives are made plain by 6 am in Brighton.

We hold hands sometimes, we stumble, we bottle tip, we bottle lighten. 

We all fall down!

When I was the man with Grey Mask, I used to kill for you! I’ve killed over a thousand men!

White, black, red, yellow and brown!

“The things you say!”

We are twenty minutes from the coming of the new day, the rabbit hole residing; 

You cling to me like glue, but you mold me like clay.

I lie, I wish to always lie, as if begotten battle cry, we try, to get old and never die with you.

“One day man, one day.

My past lives melt, like midnight wax. Like Mason words, like the blue moon too.

I lose myself, I give myself, I bind my fate, and it’s true Jew.

The blue moon above us drowns out the sobs of my very old soul.

You lie, and I cry, and the circle sounds. Ringtones, bells and things made un-whole.

Sobs, of the stroll, good price for another dead soul,

The Russian Gobnick ghetto thug roll! The body count is getting higher as you see into my goal.

We lie on the beach, and midnight star wax drips from me, pleasure bleeds to you.

Not two fucks of clue. About the things we just might do.

I drip on her, she likes it. 

“The pain! The basic happy feel of pain.” 

The sealing of desire,

What they did to us respectively? Ya Tibya Leblue.

Between my legs, I grab your mane.

“What’s it all for?”

I’ll drip wax on the back, You’ll pour.

“But if it’s true I am a married woman, a desired girlfriend and have other fourteen lovers; then use me; “Make me for one night more, your tragic story whore“.

“You almost killed us over nothing”, I say.

“You almost kissed me over nothing,” she replies. It’s not yet but almost day.

A dove goes by, it decorates the Brooklyn sky.

There are blacks and blues eviscerated, there is no middle way. I cry.

Well we killed us! But don’t make that dirty moment linger. It was the wine, it was the mood, it was the; Je ne sais!

“Don’t get French with me my dear!”

“Dragon flies are temporary creatures, they mate, they kill, and they do not ever stay.

Temperamental predator at best, what is it that you really hide. Where blind side your sword, your blade your knife;

“I bore my neck to monsters, and those monsters took my life.

They surely know to prey on glorious pests,

Fastest insect in the world they say; but they eat each other. They are deadly. They are blessed.

Whereas I’d like to think you only eat your enemies, the knife point fucking, the dripping wax the rest of it, the salsa dancing; this isn’t Russia, we are west of it.

“I’m a dirty minded man, but I respect you and I love you as if I were your non-blood brother.”

“Sounds incestuous for monsters to be dating.”

“We’re blood ritual mating, we’re cold war postulating, we’re exodus deliberating, it’s dawn. We did this to each other.

“I have never feared death. For I’m mostly dead already.”

Try and fuck me til I break!”

“Dead men don’t use Black Amex cards,” she says, “dead men don’t buy sushi, lamb or steak! You’re not what I signed up for, you’re not like Americans at all. You’re crazy, you’re a big mistake to take.”

“Ha!”

“Don’t mock a man who thinks himself bewitched with love!”

Love is vast! In itself a pure annoyance mixed with the universe, a called solution. A backhand is still a backhand even with a white glove.

“He is steely in his constitution.”

“I’m also half-mad. It’s possibly true.”

Do not confine his gestures to his fire or his eyes as they shine a wild night made new,

Make me prove it! My work. To identify the mountain. And then I will seek to move it.”

That is the objective anyway, enamored me.

For if I for one-second falter, push me off the very ledge, let death come freely!”

What kind of name is Wal-ter? You pushed us over the ledge last week, in plain speak.

I am triumphant, let me have you! Let me have it all.

Potentially I fear, you might die for me this year,

Blackhearts defying logic, your fist to the brick of a wall. 

That night! Remember that night was the edge.

Kiss me hard, don’t look away from this now,

“You’ve pushed us dragon flying off the ledge.

Written in September 2011 in Newyorkgrad

Written as “The DragonFly Poem #2”

Performed in a Private show

BALLAD #1: /A Revolution Happens Live\

Ballad #1: A Revolution Happens Live

“Cultural Context”:

“A journalist posing as a shot girl who works as an escort and a terrorist posing as a freedom fighter while working an ambulance driver meet face to face in a Tavern for a hard drink.  In the background gypsy music. He wants to make love to her, but she is indifferent leaning toward largely disinterested. In the world around them, black lives do not matter very much at all and Muslims die every day in hunger and fire and airstrikes, ”

All:

Sing one song! Late into the night!  

Amid a revolution, my revolver shines in candlelight

The clock upon the wall, time means now nothing at all,

We are waiting for the moment when we make the system fall!

Silverstova:

Turn back the clock give me my life!

Adonaev:

In some ways, you are like her, you know.

Silverstova:

You say the same blatnoy to every woman!

Adonaev:

             And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!

Silverstova:

Tasting things to come! Put down your guns, put down that knife!

Adonaev:

 In many ways you would like her, you know.

 Silverstova:

 Put up your hands, I am your foe!

Adonaev:

         And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to blow!

Silverstova:

Turn back the clock give me my life!

        Adonaev:

   You and I didn’t ask to lead a life of constant night.

Silverstova:

All that struggle made us crazy, all that terror all that fight! And he’s looking at me now like he’s ready to go! Your deeds betray you Comrade, this you know. You have things, you have done damage, to the wrong person, to an Oligarchic foe.     

Adonaev:

       We sit down, we sit down!

I once thought I knew this town,

         In different cities. We pieced together

Our interpretation of the future, our impressions of the day.

  There’s a ship there a plane, for my people for my brain,

         Tomorrow night. It’s all going down.

Silverstova:

We are all dying, we all cry! There is nothing left to say!

We are all compromised, in our own immoral way. An altruistic sigh, and we lie. And still we lie, sometimes we lie about the world all day. 

Adonaev:

        We are hunted now! We die and thus we kill, and in vengeance we repay.

Find can, you find,  the clever proverb in a Russian mind, or in low poetic English for sad redeeming things to play, we might, not even,  live to ever truly say.

Silverstova:

HEVAL! YES HEVAL! WITH YOUR BACK AGAINST THE WALL!

Raise your head up!

Brace your spine and raise your glass, now is not time to fall.

Adonaev:

That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!

“You found your son! I saved my wife! we helped our people win the war!”

Silverstova:

That’s not how the Story Ends, this time!

Your friend Anna Campbell isn’t dead this time,
This is much bigger than Rojava, this is far bigger than a rhyme!

We are so-called regular people, we still comprehend the revolutionary side!

Adonaev:

I CONFIDE! I CONFIDE! I GOT TO LIVE WHEN THEY ALL DIED!

I’LL DO MORE, I’LL DO MORE !

Of this long epic thing that sounds like foreign lullabies and gory folklore!

Silverstova:

LULLABIES? she cries, fuck your stupid lullabies, RIFLES WILL DO MORE!

That’s not how the story ends this time!

Tragically as it might be, 

You get to start again. Tell us what you fought for! 

TELL US WHAT WE NEED TO SEE. 

TELL US ABOUT ABOUT KURDISTAN. ABOUT YOUR AGONY!

Adonaev:

No, no, no, this isn’t right, 

I turned my gun on Daniel Newey before the fire fight that night!

Daria’s alone and in fully gilded poverty, 

She’s trapped in Newyorkgrad. What have I done! 

I SQUANDERED MY LAST OPPORTUNITY, to be.

Silverstova:

I TAKE THIS YOU TOOK THAT!

FUCK YOU BLAT! 

ALL AND YOUR AMERICAN DREAM, 

IT MAKES ME SCREAM, IT MAKES ME bleed, it makes you fat!  

It impales you on its sword.

Sebastian is now sealed away for life in a psychiatric ward! 

He should not have picked up that gun! For a fight that can never be won.

Adonaev:

Sad, little Anya’s dead. Blat,

40,000 other friends are also dead, very sad, and Ayar is losing his mind out in Bagh-dad.

Piling and Dan Newey are serving prison terms for life, situations dire,

Afrin fell,

Qandil, Zap and Haftanin are on fire!

    Sad? Who is sad, the impossible is going bad.

Silvetstova:

I’m a caged whore for a guy, old enough to be my dad.

That’s not how the story ends this time!

That’s for sure! I’m a woman, not a shot girl, I’m a journalist goddammit not someone’s fucking whore!

What were these hands all grasping for!?  

Tell it better, give us something, give us hope, give us something to believe in! 

Give us guns, or give us rope.

Don’t let your martyrs’ die for nothing, hold out longer dear defeated Afrin!  

Hold out longer up in the Qandil. Fight, fight on with hype or hope.

Sebastian:

That’s not how the story ends this time!

Sebastian finds his mind in chapter three Long live the Kurdish resistance!

 I wonder what immortality Anya can now really see. 

When the lights go out and the rubbing oil turns her to Cleopatra.

But, this is sad long terrible black soliloquy. Resistance was our mantra.

About the things we did, we all did, to we. It was murder carried out like tantra.

IT WAS LIFE- LIVED FREE!

Silverstova:

That’s not how the story ends this time!

Afrin is defensible! Anya is a happy kid. Alive again. Yazan conquers his disease. Sebastian has the strength of lions, of over forty men! 

THERE’S NO SHAME OR BLAME,

But that’s all in your sad Amerkansky mind game!

But now we begin, 

Everyone lost something and it seems hard to think we could ever really win.

It’s over you all lost, things are still the same. But go ahead and Give them something to believe!

Adonaev:

“Give me back my shattered life!”

I am your sword. I am your knife.

Let my people find a way to win.

Or I’ll bring the terror and strife right to your shore. I’ll make you all pay for your apathetic sin.

And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go!

Turn back the clock gives us our lives!

Silverstova:

And he’s looking at me now like he’s ready to go! Turn back the clock- Give us our land!

Adonaev:

And she’s looking at me now like she’s ready to go! Ready to blow.

Turn back the clock give us our lives!

The curtains fall on the first act. The blood thirsty future, it arrives.

All:

Sing one song! Late into the night!  

We’re amid a revolution, revolvers shines in candlelight

The clock upon the wall, time means now nothing at all,

We’re waiting for the moment when we make the system fall!

Dastardly were the deeds of our fathers! Blat!

So arcane and so lacking of moral substance! Blat! 

They contrived, economically survived on the brutality of which ‘the brothers’ were not deprived.

Tell me now, I vow, I wonder how despite the previous misconceptions,

And good intentions.

Attempted abortion, yet were still conceived.

For this crime, we are not reprieved!

A society basing itself on its own new notoriety, 

A society proclaiming a material utopia,

Yet in all essence lacking the cornucopia on which the foreign masses even stay fed.

Still, they might end up dead,

Instead I analyze the growing profits, which line the rich man’s pockets,

And the bunker-busting rockets,

Make us popular indeed.

In what holy book was that decreed?

No more dialectic, if human nature equals greed?

I am climbing higher, but can’t seem to escape the fire,

As the pillars made of ethics start to fall,

If we flinch or give one inch the man will take it all.

For the man’s quite good at taking,

He’s been doing it for many years,

And now he’s gaining power, by playing off our collective fears.

They know what playbacks scare you so they play in a constant loop,

And reporters flock like vultures, just to try and get the scoop.

Everything, a false conception,

As they improvise another great deception,

Be wary of a man who asks for war!

And all these troops departing, 

Any day now we’ll be starting,

Battleships with cannons, a flying fortress off the shore. 

But what of the sprawling crush of urban ghettos, the ghastly prisons, and their many, many lies?

The rich are ever getting richer as the poor meet their demise. 

I’d propose a revolution, but we’re lacking a tried and tested solution

And Red Communism failed many in the past.

While the Anarchists renew a scream for “mutual aid”.

I’m sure we’ll end up starving oh too fast.

And in the bunker,

Where ounce the honky babble junky spread his printed word.

His hair slicked back, hair brown not black, to all those that haven’t heard.

Next to him paces his comrade, a man believed to work alone,

His eyes glaze over, he listens carefully, he doesn’t make his intentions known.

They’ve been up for many hours. 

Fueled on Adderall or coffee and sometimes also booze. 

The tide is turning quickly. 

Quickly, quickly hear the new social gospel, hear the news!

On the radio, the broadcast lingers.

The pala man in the corner licks his wounds and licks his fingers.

And the wax drips from the candles. Also pausing time.

The streets outside a concrete jungle, and the flames of near battle flicker 

Burning through the ashes and ruins of a now flaming urban grime.

While the leaders converse, 

In the language of tactical insurrection.

The bunker rumbles, concrete walls offer only slight protection,

Gunfire can be heard just right outside.

And with the buildings all now burning,

The rebels are quickly learning,

That all too many of their number that day died.

They recall the fortnight prior, 

Before the city caught on fire,

Rebels dreaming of a visionary world, a brighter day.

Clad in uniform around the table, martyr posters on the walls. 

Talking about that hoped-for future, taking risks. 

Come what may.

The lieutenants began reporting, 

On the status of the fight.

One might, despite all previous contraindications,

And resistance depictions knew a losing battle at first sight.

“We’re in need of ammunition, but not in a good position

Treason is quite serious indeed.

The RAT TAT TAT of rifles,

Murder can echo in the night! 

As we watch our wounded city slowly bleed.

The barricades, for now, are holding,

The uprising is unfolding!

Dead and dying are littered in the street.

And don’t be too surprised,

The Revolution’s televised, 

Because CNN wants you glued right to your seat.

All:

Sing one more song! Late into the night!  

We’re amid a revolution, my revolver shines in candlelight

The clock upon the wall, time means now nothing at all,

We’re waiting for the moment when we make this wretched system fall!