On Urges, Pangs and Massacre by Moonlight

The permanence of cruelty

is almost as real

as me here

staring at the great white walls,

chugging beer

from cylindrical cans

and enduring this shit.

i’m twenty four and i’m bloating every day

but beer makes me durable.

it makes up for all the fragility that come

from this fondness of the tender heart.

Now there are boils all over my body

emerging

from the skin-pores

like flowers that rage against the brutal sun.

When i am sober

i itch them and i press them flat with my thumb

and a bit of juice oozes out

but when i’ve filled myself with beer

i don’t mind them much

except for that occasional scratch or two.

I think god is a bit like this:

he presses our guts and bellies flat

with the weight of the world

when he’s sober

and all the juice from our guts get squeezed out

within one ill-spent lifetime.

But when he’s drunk

he stops caring

and then we can see pixies and snowflakes

and roses and rainbows and minarets and minstrels and those nice warm bright lights

that make us happy.

once again,

when i’m not drunk

i despise people because they try too much

but twelve large swigs from the cans of pure love

and all hatred turns into pity.

Same applies for god.

I’m sure he’s a bigger beermonger than me

And he drinks from a mug that’s bigger than my heart.

We wouldn’t have survived living and living wouldn’t have survived us

and the world would have been a much more fucked up place than what it is now

had god not had beer once in a while.

I wonder where he gets all his frothy nectar from.

Ants crawl across the floor

I pour beer over them

to make them happy

as they drown in beer

and die the death of dreams

which is better than dreaming the dream of deaths.

by now i’m sure

that beer is a man’s best friend.

i don’t know much about women

though they stun me with all their beauty.

Women sure are beautiful creatures –

way more beautiful than men

and they don’t need beer to pass through this devastation:

all they need are men and mirrors

and at times, especially when it rains,

 they don’t even need men.

Sadly, men need women as much as they need beer.

So drinking, staring at the walls

And drinking more

And more

Makes me stop worrying of the void

Or trying to gauge it or to fight against

this eternal damnation of the soul

It’s like a prisoner feeling free within the four walls of doom.

And of course when i’m bored of the walls i can always go out to the balcony

And stare at

the whores the cars and the whole damn gutted city in rain

And then god comes down

and eats me up.

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My reply to anyone who asks me why i write:

 ‘it’s none of your fucking business and neither is it mine

And whenever i get pissed or bored or mad

I feel like spraying all the shit my bowels have ever stored

all over the jerks out there. By the way, you are very ugly

but your wife, with her monstrous boobs, is one splendid lady.

may i have her tonight? I’m sure that unlike you i can give her the screw of her life

because, unlike you, i don’t go around asking people who write

why they write. i have better things to do, things such as drinking

and raving at the stars and pissing at the sun to put it out and appreciating horses and shutter-downed shops and stoic tramcars and staircases that lead to friendless houses in moonlight.

I’m hitting out at the tremendous machine-rage of the world with my own rage which stands on its own and which is big bad and ugly. Way uglier than your face.

There’s a vapid boredom in your ugliness. There’s none in mine. That’s where i trump you. and my farts smell worse than yours’

And this be my reply to all accusations of bullshitting:  

‘I’ve written loads of shit about all the shit that surrounds us

And this is one more pile

I’m not tired of this and i’ll never be

And

You can’t beat me

So try and kill me if you dare to.’

Okay enough replies for one night. Now fuck off,

I’ve got better things to do than this.

   

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