THE BLUE ANGEL

Marlene Dietrich is singing a lament
for mechanical love.
She leans against a mortarboard tree
on a plateau by the seashore.

She’s a life-sized toy,
the doll of eternity;
her hair is shaped like an abstract hat
made out of white steel.

Her face is powdered, whitewashed and
immobile like a robot.
Jutting out of her temple, by an eye,
is a little white key.

She gazes through dull blue pupils
set in the whites of her eyes.
She closes them, and the key
turns by itself.

She opens her eyes, and they’re blank
like a statue’s in a museum.
Her machine begins to move, the key turns
again, her eyes change, she sings.

—you’d think I would have thought a plan
to end the inner grind,
but not till I have found a man
to occupy my mind.

  — Allen Ginsberg (1926 - 1997), American poet

DOA - THE PRISONER

Apartment walls, halls are small
Government building
site much too small
These tiny boxes won’t let me out
These tiny boxes are too remote
It’s a screaming mess
Television city dream
Your robot’s eyes gleam
In my future dream
Yeah hey!

It’s not fate or chance
It’s the money in the bank
Burn their timber and
gather their bricks
Drive’em into the fire,
the bloody dicks
It’s a screaming mess
And I am the prisoner
The prisoner, the prisoner
Go!

It’s not fate or chance
Kick somebody in the face
Burn their timber and
gather their bricks
Drive’em into the fire,
the bloody dicks
It’s a screaming mess
Television city dream
Your robot’s eyes gleam
In my future dream
And I am the prisoner
The prisoner, the prisoner
Well I am the prisoner
The prisoner, the prisoner
The prisoner!