MOTHER OF ALL GODS
Tomorrow in Jerusalem! Insha’Allah! Maybe there is a purpose to all.
We’ll meet in Sueño when the bay dries up. It’s killing time, angel dust sentiment. Backtrack, backlog. Fences thrown overboard. Listening to the truth of others and making it the own. Ego building, fucking over the rest. Stone cold execution, doing nobody no good. A place to meet old friends. A graveyard loved by everybody. Take hostages whenever you can, brutalize. Deliver me a hijack, cheered by, applauded by world class hypocrisy. My heaven, my turf, my homeland.
Have you ever been surrounded by moral deafness, media segregation and lowlife supremacy? Hurricane blues out of your ears. Stranded poetry, drowned poetry. Rotten eggs mixed within. I loathe, I despise. I long for jazz up in the attic, the hangman’s beam to suffocate. A steel face crushed and expired. Try that once in a while!
It’s D-Day terror and colonial warfare. Mutual captivity. A barrage of multitudes in unison. Air raids on gutter wings bringing cultivated murder. It’s all a desperate art attempt. Because greatness can’t be measured, and greatness does never prevail. The voice of freedom, well not mine. I don’t hope so and I sure don’t fucking approve. Take me, take me, take me!
07.21.10MA BU
Adagio. Well informed, holding no clue. There’s intellect missing. They sing a lot but miss the point. A furnished pedestal with clipped wings. What’s freedom without the drive to take any chances? This old man travels. Travels deep, far and off the cliff sometimes. I’m not looking for gain in their sense. It’s denigrating.
Fireworks and floppy disks. Pissing in your pants. Pissing in the fridge drunk not being able to find the bathroom. A morning hard-on filled to the edge. Bladder loaded. Out of order for ejaculation. Pointing it downward with force and aiming it very uncomfortably into the pot. An awkward bend over position. Having the control and restrain to stop in the middle before turning soft. An art in itself. Piss tube painting.
No more stories. No, no more stories. Not even news. Green custom skirts with slender tan legs. Pretty ladies wearing pretty smiles. Details, the details. Reality is made out of details that are more important than the overall picture. To see these buildings erupt and construct. Death toll, death toll. The freeway ain’t free, it’s a fucking lie.
07.12.10SOUTH POLE RISE
To arouse this resenting body into state of the art mayhem, thunderstorm and arctic freeze. A hunt for pain in the flesh, shock therapy and ice age written in red. I’m all out of poetry. It bores the shit out of me. I prefer decapitating my fingers by digging waterholes underneath northern glaciers, performing my nihilistic skills.
Dignity. Yes. Where is it? No, not honor. Just straight down to earth, basic dignity. I’ll have breakfast with enemies tomorrow you know, pretending to have a stone washed brain. Sanctified, petrified for a deal. In a nice suit and an impeccable posture. A natural fraud from the heart. Entertaining.
I’m carnage inspired and having a guillotine cold. Body temperature. It’s hard keeping pace, especially when not getting any and the fan club’s only pushing. Tenants, rushers and takers, wrecking my nerves, disturbing my flow. Get a fucking life. Leave me the fuck alone. My mind should shut up also.
From a small airplane window I view ice shelves floating, melting. Moles doing their job. A glacier’s halo rises to 30.000 feet. I’m tired, I believe it all. There’s stratosphere concrete. No more going in, no more going out. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes. I descend into this comfortable velvet mode carrying me away, and start to think of only one thing: Miss Universe blow me, down the hatch. Stimulate my pulse, throbbing. Take me down South.
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