I remember now I remained patient
in the last of the trenches,
my face paralysed,
my fingers frozen on the verge
of that isolated trigger,
but I was always thinking of you,
you were the whore in my head
while the enemy ahead
just wanted me and my comrades dead:
A spoilt bastard I used to be
and no-one intended to impersonate me,
I was the sound of every known human rage,
the fury behind every posh curtain,
all the weight of our souls locked inside an empty cage:
We called it “The Tin Noses Shop”,
mere improvisation to compensate us,
to give us a face already lost.
Masks for facial disfigurement
beyond any age of consent,
no gratitude, no smiles, just more smoke
coming from anyone else’s cigarettes.
No, it was not.
Europe wasn’t our playground anymore,
so, fuck civilization, mates,
and no matter how many flowers
this luminous hospital room may contain,
I just need my left eye back
and a couple of mirrors
to help me shave my pains away behind this mask.
No, Miss Anna Coleman, no,
my plasticine life does not begin here and now
because there is no home for me to go
and there will never be;
I am no pacifist tool for future
plastic surgeries, Madam,
for I have chosen, from now on,
to hide my bones in that opera house
and live the rest of my life
as a fucking celebrity phantom.