Sunday, January 27, 2013

This Blueberry Bulwark, That Romalpa Clause

there's more rebellion and revolution in a sunflower standing naked in sunlight than in the entire history of the world

and then there's this revelry.
Fun is essential. It strengthens soul and purifies art.
It’s not about feeling happy or sad or fucked or wretched or angry.
What matters is how much fun you are having.  

it's all fucked anyway, 
and there's not much healing process involved except when you know that you will die if stuff doesn't heave and leap out of you like a mad wolf in perfect fury. 

the city dies a bit every day, we all do, in this clamour for rain and love and other shit
and then we live too soon, or too late
and then we die too soon, or too late
this cockandcunt story shall get to the whole bunch of us someday, if it hasn't already. 

of course there's this smooth highway, the easy gliding through moonlight and nightingales and the sad sonata and the happy sonata and the sonata that's neither sad nor happy but something that's so sharply distant and that squeezes the core so fucking tight that Nietzsche  gets looney and Shelley and Crane dives down to the blues and Camus screws his mom the strong Marquis screws his goats and other strongment such as Buk and Billy Faulkner and the Ravenous one drowns in honey and Billy the Sunflowerman hikes along the jagged bumpy road that leads to the palace of wisdom and Missy V Lucas peeps into hot hell and Ernest the boxer gets tired of the ring and starts cleaning his rifles for Rimbaud to smuggle them into the hearts of darkness and even the Hunter gets hunted and Pushkin and the Mooney Balladeer and that clouded guy in suave trousers of strong anger get their beats snuffed out cold and even the oldies get blind writing epics or get deafened by the music and things are really fucked out there i tell you but that's about it. there's a roadblocks ahead and then there are these guys in funny pants trying to push the blade in deeper. How does it matter? Are you crossing the river? Am I crossing the eyes out? Are we carrying the same fucked crosses? Have you ever seen a happy scarecrow? Have you ever seen a sad scarecrow? What does penchant mean? Why are my lips parched? Are you dying? Are you horny? Am I a procedure? Are you a synopsis? Is the matchbox an orgy? Have the Titans been butchered? Did Cinderella wink? Where's the infection? Where's the inflection? Mom I'm thirsty. 

the only thing that's worse than being forced to be bound by choices is being forced to gut the child that rages against the tides out. and that's there too and that's shit.  
besides, i didn't know that i was being born when i was being born. 

For more information, mail me your CV
or file a petition
or shoot a pigeon
or jerk off to Venus of Urbino
or take the next bus
or live
or die
and so on. 

The world may sink or burst.
The skies may burn or rot. 
We may get fucked or get fixed.
This terrific waste
This beastly damnation
And this sad little girl that mostly stays inside me but gets out during sullen sundowns to stare at monstrous forms of solitude as moments move in still patterns of sonority: 
make the world go round in ghastly shapes of lucid, abject reckoning. 

and now, trams roll past in dusty laze
stuff piles up to a huge formless mass
and eats my fingers
and leaps at my throat
and stabs at my core
and climbs the walls
and sits heavy on the bollocks of cognition and those of being here, now and being there, then.

this slow, cold burning inches close from across mirrors and galaxies and laundry tickets and pyramids and this whole damned carnival-decadence and that whole damn trombone-crazed haze of chances and fetish until it's all over us and we're all over it and there isn't much left after that except deep dark holes and abysses and frightful, lurid tunnels that run in relentless loops through the tombs that lie below those holes and abysses.
This finality
is maddening.  

Mother, Mother,
I got fucked

Long ago.  

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