THE LONG WAR

WHO will win the long war. every day armed peace corps fight conscientious supporters and moderates acquiesce to all. the ration cookies and manure cake are baked on old radiators. gerbils power helicopters propelled by twirling bananas, fall crashing upside down to the sky. turd grenades rain from automatic toilets. fat men belly flop bungee into atheist foxholes with lipo-suction tubes in the asshole. the superiors are all on acid and sit atop podiums of giant mushrooms. they must be.

KABOOM. shopping cart explosions. tanks made of aluminum cans blow like tumbleweed in the wind. the rockets look like vaginas and they fizzle under heavy fire from the enemy's ballistic scrotums. it's a clusterfuck and it is apparent to all who is getting fucked, although we do not know WHO or WHAT is doing the fucking.

all the while in another corner of the universe where the letters WELCOME HOME are stitched on the mat the indifferent populace laughs, plays, forgets. the children frolick. the adults masturbate. skaters ride giant dildos and ollie the sun. in a yard behind a white picket fence and roads with 25 mph speed limits, a big candy stick swings for the fences as unsuspecting ants fight for real estate on breast shaped pinatas.

the stink of fast food and TV dinners hovers the trash lit atmosphere. a machine is built, a garbage conditioner that hurls trash like baseballs out of sight out of mind. the blue sky is stained bluer with special dyes made by shiny new bottles and thin air. a proud father puts his hand on his idiot son and resisting the urge to cop a feel says SEE SON, THAT'S WHY THE SKY IS BLUE.

every day is a fortunate nightmare, THANK GOD for this sycophantic bitch and her blow jobs, i am living the dream here in my castle cooking fresh assholes not in my backyard brother i can't deal with the smell. it goes without saying and i dare not say it but i can afford it all i can afford to be capricious and no motherfucker i won't be going to hell. because today we do good, today WE CHANGE THE WORLD, tomorrow who gives a shit, i mean really what can one man do, anyway.

THE FINE PRINT

the choice is yours.

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but what choice do we have.

THE LAST OF THE SO-CALLED PRETENTIOUS POETS

who gives A RAT'S FUCK about the poet. he speaks in code, speaks in gibberish, with dilated mouth and tongue flapping in the wind of rancid plaque and old mouthwash. it searches for gold, every world SOLID GOLD but goddamn it if ain't shit and tartar. tearing at the enamel. tearing away at what's real.

does he speak to anyone does he speak to me does he speak to himself. does it burn from too much sun. too much hot air. is nothing left for the poet. does anyone hear the words through the chatter of false teeth. does anyone at all.

THE END OF SPARK

prey to pork. DO NOT break the mold. watch it crust in the corner of your eye and earwax poetic to your aural. that is the message which will be conveyed to you every hour on the hour while you learn through sublimation. SUBMIT. kneel until every spark in your body no longer has the voltage to power a toaster. and while you may shit and vomit and graze among the living - know that you have been murdered.

"was it suicide?"
"assisted. he gave in. got fucked in the ass. but not before fighting the good fight."
"you don't say."
"yeah. this sumbitch held out much longer than a lot of other assholes. but in the end it wasn't enough. not against the system and their army of spiked dildos."

the human spirit turned to pulp. it is nothing. but muck and putty molded into yet another productive member of pseudo-society.

?

at times i wonder if i was baptized in urine. born from the wet asshole of demonic conception. and that i will perish and return to the lifestream, to be remembered only in the insectian reflection of broken glass. it mirrors my own dischordant memories in colorless silent film. dissecting. WATCHING. but it does not see.

is the mind its own - or is it plagiarizing the recorded thoughts and microbes that not even are own bodies recognize as foreign or cancerous. they multiply and devour the subconscious until there is nothing left but touch up paint masking the NICKS and SCRAPES - which once stood as the only proof that we were ever alive.

that assholes were ever born.

CUT AND RUN

COME ON HOME. if there is anything left of you to come.

for inside this body is nothing more than mangled entrails, coasting on the inoperative beats of an out of step heart. the brain has become a tapestry of urban warfare, drowning in a fog of choking gunsmoke. KAPOW. the bullets shred the neurons until they no longer trigger - leaving in its wake the remains of clandestine nightmares and crippled souls.

they sit on the corner of hell and indifference begging for loose change. and not one will stop to smell the stink. the smell of victory.

it rots the idealism.

OEDIPUS EX

what light without mysticism. i read the iron sphinx and it answers with a riddle filled with loaded dice. SNAKE EYES. cheat. fraud. leading the anglo-saxons and honky tonk bitches fatuously infactually through the outerstate highway of autobiographical fiction. leading by word. leading by force. gunboat diplomacy. I TOLD YOU WOMAN. DON'T GET FRESH. fresh as maguro. jibun de kitta. uh-huh. whatever you say doc. BANZAI.

i am SICK TO DEATH of maudlin japes and behind the back stabs. even the panglossian paints a bleak picture of what is a parasitic friendship. he paints with tin brush and lead paint and a model who looks too much like a bouquet of flowers. a carnation deflowered. raped in the ass. cunt #2. it produces no bud but it bleeds all the same.

i tire of the blood but more precisely the mechanism that births it. tire of the obsequious, the sycophants and suck-ups that pass sugared anthrax to the ears of bitter minors. so i tell the sphinx to fuck itself, that morning, afternoon, and night are matters left to those who operate on solar power. and then i take my leave - seeing that's all i have.

MACHINE HEAD

it's time. time to tool up. get up. get lifted. get stoopid. get while the gettin's good. get what's got. what's forgotten. got owned. got wet. got wax in those ears. got what's coming to ya.

got what we no longer have. got it in the machine. got it stored. refrigerated. got it for when i need it. it's here. it's there. it's in your head. it's in your heart. TICKING. tocking.

got bad circuits. ones the repairman can't fix. been meanin' to get new parts. to get 'em while they're hot. get 'em before it's over. before time runs out.

got a long line and a short fuse. it reads 10 til. til sunset. til the train comes. got me a ticket.

got it on the cheap.