It’s not the river you’re thinking of right now
It’s live-action infanticide
Everything must be sharp
So, what if your hands are
heavier than your guilt?
Yes. You stand
Someday, I’ll see through the skulls….
So once upon a time there lived a moon with golden teeth
Old, soiled, pervert in the breeze
The moon. The agon.
To visit the place where Persian knights were buried
Square forts, things that can be referred to,
Cross-cited pigeon-coops, minarettes
and those twenty eight Buddhas, each representing
one last night cigarette stub multiplied by fifteen trillion cold orgasms and
crossroads for champions and heroes
Hey, I’m a hero too!
We’re all heroes, stuck inside the armpits of other heroes
Who, again, are stuck inside some piss-rattled Valhalla
and so on
We were born long before death was invented
And then, we created god and god created worship and worship created the tiger and the tiger procreated and thereby hangs a tail
Open your doors slowly, let’s not do away with mystery altogether
Let’s not stay inside our computers forever
Come out, I say, Om and come out, if you have the courage!
If I have it, I will sell it to the mirrors
Or maybe I don’t like this place at all
Once I lived in a small house, now I live in a bigger one
So, what’s the point? And what’s the point pointing at?
Where will I go?
aah, how the poor boy hated his father when he was falling!
Gravity! Free fall in my head, and other craploads of craploads.
The sparrow and the skeleton, well,
they got back to their respective mothers’ wombs and they lived happily ever after.
Save your eyes, you, umm, what’s your name again? Yeah, Pythia!
Too much substance abuse, I say. Pythia, save your eyes and save your womb.
Sell your brains and kidneys, but the eyes and the womb are important for the system to survive,
so save them, for the system’s sake
The simple truth being that the system should survive!
But hey, why does the word ‘system’ remind me of machine guns?
Is it pure magic, or that correlative conjunction of one and the other,
together and against?
Never mind. I’m as hideous as you are. So let’s get married,
And I’ll show you the three fangsquadroned faces of Nzame,
Mebere and Nkwa, all morphed into one wildened wilderness gasp-grasped,
flamedrilled, in the ancient pastures of our forefathers smirking at those three intellectuals debating about whether “our” JFK was really assassinated by Fidel Castro or by the corporate-cooled rulers of your plastic-platonic coffee mug
We all need to take our own shots.
It doesn’t make us bad people
It makes us people.
Insanely human, and just that (Perhaps with bullet-holed wings)
But these roots,
They still need the primal blood. Yes, they do.
And thus, I justify war. Our wars. Their wars. Your wars. My wars. Blah, blah and one more blah to kiss Nietzsche’s muscular posterior and to stuff it with fart-dampened dynamites.
Never mind. Those old corpuscular venoms and images. Fatal.
The Goddess that resides in my temporal lobe.
Flowing all blood and electric neurotransmitter receptors and convoluted signals
I don’t believe in you, you stone-peppered rainbowed yankyanked grapevine!
These are mine
The rest can screw themselves, or others, whichever however and whomever they may prefer; guilt, Armageddon and Wikipedia included.
Friends, be happy.
Oh, and I almost forgot: all these words are lies
so suit yourselves