In the Beginning was the Word, you dig?- toilet stall wall Toledo, no "Nietzsche is Peachy" found
I.
Am I thinkin the same thing I'm thinkin?
I'll ask myself one day and maybe soon
when I'm beside myself: bus stop: blue moon,
waiting to leave the town of Rinky Dinkin
where puppets of the regime caterwaul
and bark like animal crackers, honkey clowns
with shape-shift frowns high on sniffing gluons,
do the White Man Stomp through DreamTime afterfall.
In this land of tea kettle tempests, small
abridgements of reality required,
minotaurs with mind control have been hired
to maim HaveYouOn faces in the mall.
Their bonny flag features the Union Jack
but has features of ISIS, fade to black.
II.
In the mean time, in a season without hope,
when time has lost its character and bleeds
away like Dali songs to chronoscope
the wretched waste of "souls" turned to sour weeds,
we lift new epiphanies and paradigms,
and pray to the Sun for a solar flare
that drives us from the hive with sad droned rhymes,
a harmony not our own that we share.
When I went fur burger on Sally Mae
to make her forgive my student debt loan,
it was with catches and, to my dismay,
required she reach a lost chord degree moan.
I owe so much, there's oh so much to pay!
My tongue's become a mattress, where I bay.
III.
I had a bowl of fresh flowers in bloom --
sprays like dilettantes across my table,
naked cheribimbos to mark our fall,
to mock our knowledge and taunt us, and call
after us about Satan's Cain, Abel
had it coming! and deserved his bop doom.
Course, being Satan's, Cain was a psychopath,
a dark Aries who killed a blonde Libra,
a tale that went on to inspire Wagner,
Dark Ages followed and then the Magna,
but you can't change the stripes of a zebra
and Cain took over. Now, you do the math.
Every time I whiff those cherry bimbos
I swoon into a multiverse of limbos.
'Which drag do you like? Either way, John Travolta's hair is fake.'
(Image by feastoffun.com) Details DMCA
IV.
Batter and ravish my heart three-pronged God
and I'll beat the living sh*t out of you.
This ain't no fuckin Kenmore Square disco
where you act like a Travolta gig'lo
steal her, leave me all love's labors lost -- Oooo!
And shitfaced, nothing to show, faith a fraud.
To be honest with you, Sir, I'm lost, lapsed,
and don't need more dark negativities.
Elvis died, then You, dogmatists took over,
and now, I dunno, we seem to hover
between strange, fucked up relativities.
Ich will nicht mehr, was Du fur mich hast.
There were times when I worshipped sorrow's gaze
upward into a holy sunlit haze.
V.
I have some kind of cancer and will die
alone and unshriven, but still I laugh
at the unfurled features of my sorrow,
the unspent tears that others want to borrow
like a cup of sugar too bitter to quaff:
I no longer even look at the sky.
If you could see what I've seen of shadows
behind the Plato's Caves of sleeping eyes,
too locked in lucid dreams to wonder why
the Real and the True have passed them all by,
then you would know an emptiness surprise
burrowed in the smile of Rachel Maddows.
I want off this blue thing, I am black
metastasized and won't be coming back.
VI.
O Father why have you forsaken me?
Why have you left me among such angeles
of depravity and arbitrary
power, such token local Mengeles,
choirs of vacant monotones who drone
their celebration of lifeless forces,
viral parasites who think that they own
bird song and quavering human voices?
Like Mary in Change of Habit, I tried,
I tried, but Elvis got in my way, too --
the pelvis, allure of tossed dainties -- I cried
slipping from venial to mortal. What's new?
Yeah, now I'm all forsaken; Godless, too,
stuck in a mind menagerie, or zoo.
