The permanence of cruelty
is almost as real
as me here
staring at the great white walls,
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.