Monday, November 28, 2011

page 22

consumer highway up all night watching television stoned and forgotten eating another tv dinner hopeless arguing against the honking horns of capitalism get out of the way it is the invisible hand human seraphim opening up second hand stores along the interstate blasts of propaganda of mind control ass fucking firecrackers and barefoot cunts colossal bloody stream the blues of lady gaga she sings the verse and you sing the chorus  a hung jury ping pong games dancing in the basement with your sister she is singing in my ear Crowley’s telephone call he is inventing angels guardian or otherwise soup kitchen safe house they are lined up the stairs Crowley is painting the Madonna he is giving her cat whiskers more balls to play with the kitty is amused cement brains sobbing and screaming the fires of Moloch incomprehensible machine mad solitude floating down the river we are going to Saint Louis to gamble our life way to drink and be drunk forever Crowley is madder than I he is the insane one the crazy one he sees dead people the dogs of the senses barking in our ears the breasts of the saints bodies of pilgrims candy store doctors resurrected human stanza Crowley coughs all night I think he will die real soon we should call a doctor water coma roaring airplanes he crawled in through the window and stole the captain’s son it was in all the papers the shock of eternal war Crowley is playing with his toy soldiers busted rusted iron pole the red sky clanking greasy dead passing into the past spider web Oh my sunflower darkened railroad the house would shake when you passed by tongues and cunts an innocent curse a once powerful specter dusty vision looking at the full moon possessing everything I lost my friends in the wilderness the city of angels going to be the star of the tall book coming on a horse I could not stop I went to the pizza man I want to tell the pizza man joining the world the circus joining the circus for the love setting me out taking me out in an instant I can build it up three stories call me Ishmael put me on hold I am listening to your music the voice of a gecko I sought a witchdoctor for my vanishing the truth is a feeling that goes away I am removing myself the future is me the past is me I am current flowing through your veins I am primary a basic palette of colors a rubber fish she wants me she wants me to put her in my mouth she loves me I open my mouth and suck we are building guns building bombs and a wall for you to hide behind I build so that you can destroy a condemned criminal destined to die to rot on the vine looking at me sharp walked off muddy boots hands in pockets faces down to the earth no words of resistance no brave new world when everything jumped full of mad schemes an unlocked door owes me a few things off in the dark they saw it in our eyes the way we looked at the world a hand no more burning the plastic off of the wires her hair looks like something from the sixties the fact that I had a gun what a heart the guy had elegant and polite tones fighting in the backroom busted lip broken nose bruised ribs and knuckles such are the gifts of life opening my eyes and really looking at myself for the first time recognizing in me the freedom to dream a working class punk practicing eight hours a day building his chops I was lightning and thunder the gods out of the sky there was a parade in front of my house every day the synthetic voice gun metal hands bones them bones this is the way of the world I make your nose bleed

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