And tigers leap on moon
On whatever’s left, a nation,
Cocaine-kid, whores devoid of cordiality,
Mozart devoid of enchantment moving down a little gray tune
down the ninth lane of forever, skies have spilled over
all that’s unimbibable and beat. The clock shall get us all
Miles away, burning badlands grin at
What we have made of ourselves.
I hear my lady friends talking to their lady friends
on men they scalped
and left out cold because they needed them like they need
their mothers. The whole concept is sickening. And then
i hear from my male friends fiddling with drugs and the
notion of suicide because my lady friends or their friends
have scalped them and left them out cold because
they needed them like they needed their mothers.
I’ve been through this whole deal and it does feel
like shit. Apparently, needing your women like you need
your mom is a bad thing. And most of these women
end up with rich round men who need them like they needed
their toys and not like they needed their moms.
There are so many stupid people in the world
that i never feel bad when i’m lonely.
And what’s worse, these are cowards who
shall never have the guts to go all the way
for what they want; they choose to moan
and wail and cry and believe in the magic cure instead
I’d rather be alone and drink alone
That way i can laugh with the gods and the furniture,
set nights on fire and walk through it
and drink wars and
famines down and make life and death
tremble at me without having to give a shit.
There are times when it seems like all
the damnation of the world has been heaped on you
even stars start resembling starfishes
and everything that moves look like terrible monsters
sticking their heads up from the cesspool of nightmares
stuck in doom, bells of doom tolling
one big madhouse that the world is
going to the nasty dogs. It’s easy for
the believers of God who writes all
prescriptions for the soul in stone
and for the worshippers of placid sanity to find a way out.
And then there are the ones who finds
salvation in flesh. It’s not that tough for them either.
That leaves us with you and me
And now that we’ve established our cluelessness
Let’s just drink to our doom and stop looking for clues
or for light. They’ll come if they are to.
Well, at least the world’s not running out of booze.
There’s something sinister following me
There’s something fucked-up hollowing me out
It’s written in the doors in the roofs and floors
It’s tattooed on the tits of thick meaty whores
But whenever i try to read it goes poof!
My life’s going to the dogs and the dogs say woof!
There’s nothing i can do but resign to fate
So I eat drink sleep and masturbate.
The unlearning of the soul
Senses and cognition winding up and coiling back
Like a foul slippery mass gripped by rave
Strange shapes and dimensions beyond
What you’ve been taught to identify
It’s a happy world
Rain on arid lands after a thousand years of thirst
Hills and valleys crawling out of the brain
Storms howl through decimated cities
Your defeat belongs to all now
You are godless in heat now
And nothing matters
Lost sailors make compass out of rainbow of dreams
Clowns scare little girls to oblivion
Reptiles shake off slumber
New bride engulfed in smoke
Bridges shooting off guts of another demon
Another verse of dreams
Heroes sweating behind venetian blinds
This world has been shattered by earthquakes and madness
This world is sinking in pits of reckless pink ennui.
Pack up, fast
It’s time to run beyond this
And into the heart of Empires of gold
It’ll be a long smooth drive through moonlight.
Watermelon of lawless life big round and red
Outside, there’s pure madness
Days and nights on fire
People busy fighting and dying
People busy knifing and gunning and flowers busy
blooming against the sun. In hills and forests
men women and kids spread out, settle
conquer, build, fuck, kill, and do loads of shit
to stick around between borning and dying.
Watermelon of life, i press its tender flesh
with my tongue and teeth and i squeeze and suck
the juice into my system to derive nourishment
i spit the seeds out.
This horror-show of commercial compunctions
That show us the dreams and not nightmares
This great veneration of sugary lies and betrayal
That makes toothless tigers and paper-dragons out of us
Is good because without it being here
I won’t have much to fight against.
Do you think i’m enjoying this having-to-fight?
I’d rather do nothing and drink and fuck
With my cock inside the juiciest of all pussies
Or else with a cockroach fluttering inside my mouth.
Sad heart like sad cherry ripped in cruel cold
Sad like dead elephants on red mountains
The unbearable pain of profanity dripping from
Snot-rugs and red puke in bathroom beating dawn
Rain beating windshields howling one true world
That rings in Utopia and Dystopia of deadland dead mayhem
Our movements recall earnest thoughts
Our wants recall earliest needs the contact with
The self, the repairing of television, noses
Broken by angry fists angry gods lashing out
At the protagonist of this play as i
Count stars and try to remember their names
All education and therapy and zen and yoga
And selling of lingerie and polka-dot romance
By moonlight sunlight candlelight all light dims
As singsong policemen beat tired madmen
off the sidewalks this stupidity of people
breeding more stupid people and not
thinking of volcanoes, solitude, Rembrandt
is getting to the depth of perception and
eating it out like slow maggots in terrific action
like happenings in theatres of the absurd
where no one has any clue and all nods
and claps. All art is horseshit. I’d rather fuck and booze and dope.
Only the burning and the truly burnt
Keeps silent about the great sadness of the world
While the others speak of it.
because they’re living through what the others
can only imagine.
This profound profanity of the masses
Feeble in love and bitter in hatred
Can destroy all and create none except more chaos
And inane devastation.
And the intellect is even weaker
The only solution it can draw is
through absolute obliteration. It’s a game
of stupid chances being played over and over again
And no one seems to be getting bored of it.
Pugmarks of affliction for women
Draws me closer
Teethmarks on their shoulderblades
I wouldn’t have been bothered by mortality
had there not been other men alive
A storyboard for the rose:
And lives another life
As a cannonball
Wrapped in dragonskin
Waiting to get even
with the sun.
A storyboard for the puppets:
Puppet clown dies
Puppet-house on fire
A storyboard for subtle movements:
Tenderly, breeze rolls through
Fingers clear dust from window panes
And then the rain.