Hamlet Machine

I was Hamlet. I stood on the coast and spoke with the surf BLABLA at my back the ruins of Europe. The bells sounded in the state funeral, murderer and widow a pair 

 I’M GOOD HAMLET GI’ME A CAUSE FOR GRIEF 

AH THE WHOLE GLOBE FOR A REAL SORROW 

RICHARD THE THIRD I THE PRINCEKILLING KING 
LIKE A HUNCHBACK I DRAG MY OVERBRAIN

OH MY PEOPLE WHAT HAVE I DONE UNTO THEE 

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THIS AGE OF HOPE 

I want to stuff the corpse in the drainhole so the palace drowns in kingly shit. 

WASH THE MURDER FROM THY FACE MY PRINCE / AND

MAKE A CHEERFUL FACE FOR THE NEW DENMARK

now go, go to your wedding, whore, broad in the Danish sun shining on the living and the

dead.

I go onto the street,

clothed in my blood.

My drama is cancelled. Behind me the scenery is

being taken down. By people who are not interested in my drama, for people, to whom it

doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me either. I’m not playing along anymore.

I go home and kill time, at one / with my undivided self. 

How do you spell FRIENDLINESS

Laughter of dead bellies

A kingdom

for a murderer

I don’t want to eat drink breathe love a woman a man a child an animal anymore. I don’t

want to die anymore. I don’t want to kill anymore. 

I break open my sealed-off flesh. I want to live in my veins, in the marrow of my bones,

in the labyrinth of my skull. I withdraw into my intestines. I take refuge in my shit, my

blood. Somewhere bodies are being broken, so that I can live in my shit. Somewhere

bodies are being carved open, so that I can be alone with my blood. My thoughts are

wounds in my brain. My brain is a wound. I want to be a machine. Arms to grasp legs to

walk no pain no thoughts. 

HAMLET THE DANE PRINCE AND FEAST FOR WORMS STUMBLING

FROM HOLE TO HOLE TO THE LAST HOLE, LUSTERLESS

IN THE BACK THE SPECTER WHICH MADE HIM

GREEN LIKE OPHELIA’S FLESH IN CHILDBED

AND SCARCE AFORE THE THIRD COCK’S CROW TORE

A FOOL THE CLOWN-COSTUME9

 OF THE PHILOSOPHER

THEN CRAWLED A WELLKEPT BLOODHOUND INTO THE TANK

Down with the joy of oppression. Long live hate, loathing, rebellion, death. 

When she walks through your bedroom with butcher’s knives, you’ll know the truth.

Exit men. Ophelia remains on the stage, motionless in the white packaging.

Υ.Γ.: Η αλήθεια εκπονείται, γεννάται, δεν μεταφέρεται δια στόματος. Ανακαλύπτεται.