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a blue neon cross on the tower |
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is shining over manila's streets |
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where they are standing and selling |
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their breakable dolls bodies |
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she said she is twelve years old |
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and her name is arlene |
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on her left forarm |
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are some small scares to see |
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beutiful faces and the call of the flash |
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40 dolars for a life without choice |
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when the trip is abating |
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and a sober coldness through her body creeps |
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she has the feeling to set her body |
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from that crawling skin free |
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so arlene cuts at her arms |
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a fast cut with the razor blade |
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empty eyes look tired and depressed |
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unnamed glow in the eyes of nameless |
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but ghostly white faces are still waiting |
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blow up forever the fat old folks |
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I wish to hear a voice that shouts |
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they should be sent into hell |
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they should be sent to the sword |
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oh arlene don't cut yourself |
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no more cuts |
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no danger to death no |
|
no more cuts |
