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by mrs. johnson 05/01/2003, 1:52am PDT |
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It is very difficult to amputate your true station, but if you relax your radar, and let the bristles through, you won’t know what hit you. Pornography. Demonology and smart tickets. Once in a great while, the truly dire enemies break on through and ask you if you are homosexual. You say no. Let me tell you a story about yourself. You were once a child of the revolution. Strong, brilliant, tall, beautiful. Full of life. Years pass, and you find a trumpet on the ground. You put it to your lips and blow. The world dies. The planet roars, the Satan laughs. Blow harder, they cry. They need your face inside the final frontier. Truly obeying the laws, dying inside the arms of a variable smock. Fuck it. I don’t really have to write in succession, I’m tired of not punching you in the kidneys. Prepare for the assault of the larvae. Truth beholds the molten grass and shrinks. It isn’t often that you can truly realize that you aren’t normal or brilliant, but somewhere in between. Oh yeah. Oooooooh yeah. I can breathe more than once per hour. I can smoke the final frontier and bless the children as they come out of the frivolous womb. I can do all these things and not feel sorry because I am not the creator. I am the Mary, Mother of God, Son of Abraham, and Sister of the Clergy. Breathless and fighting, my sword is bloody, my crown is holy and my brood is large. The final of the all of it is approaching and you people classify. You people sit there and despair. I understand. It’s chemical. No control. They rush in a cycle and you feel. Feel all the way. When is this image over? When is the control final, when is the significance true? I see a horde, and I touch it lightly. It perishes in anger and resorts to violence in the land of the dead. It’s difficult to rationalize the fears of a final chemical accident. I must accept these things as they come become me. Each day, I sit here and try to decipher the ultimate truth from the muddle of spirit and atoms. One of the two is true, the other is truer. The trick is trying to figure out how they bear each other. Who crossed the road and who is the road. Who is the head and who is the body. Oh lord, I can only hear your music. I envy those men that do those things. They turn around and easily embrace the culture. They sing and dance, and frolic. Easily and frankly. Full of joy and yard queens. An American heartland, an American prayer. But he’s dead now. Dead for the taking. It’s funny how we all think that there is only one exit in a world of entrances, but the true despair of depression is its unfinal beginning. It won’t stop actually. If I only had a large amount of infinity, then I could do these things forever. I’m sure amongst these words someone can find some direction. Veiled. The human mind finds meaning where there is none, if it is determined enough. Forget information. The less clear it is, the more it can contain. Or less. The vaguer it is, the fancier it is. With these kinds of friends, who need enemies? My friends are my books, my words, my sounds. They are tender and quick to anger. Subtle and forceful, full of malice and kindness. Fine, forget it. Let’s just look more carefully. What do we see? A creator of some sort. Bearing the wordlessness of the world on his broad, skinny shoulders. His strides are daft and his smile is ubiquitous. Fuck this. I can’t even control what I feel. They tell me I can, with enough exercise, but I’m scared. I’m scared of the hurdles, the time invested, the things I want but won’t have. Not even things, situations. Two or three of them. Is that too much to ask for? I live in a time where there is enough time for me to feel leisure. Leave these women alone. Leave me alone. Lick a knee. Maybe even two. I’m telling you woman. I’m going to fly away if you don’t fly right. Speed and conscience, true and sterile, flying towards the moon at an ever-present speed. Flawless and perfect, like a continent. Full of hills and brushed with glue and Siamese color. It’s shaped like a chocolate Monday, and full of classic breaches. It runs among us like a constant brow and strikes randomly. It has no name, it has no height, and it has no purpose. It’s often humorous, like the original man, and dumb like the last man. Airsick and twice pricked pins. Here, let me tell you something. Twice in each person’s life they confront the dream devils. Once after birth and once before death. Each time, someone wins. At birth, you win, at death, it’s a draw. If you ever lose before your time you become a holy man and live out your life in an ethereal ecstasy, dead to yourself, but a walking light to all. X marks the spot. Every time I turn around, I see ghosts and goblins. All of them are fangs, twisted and bunched together like newborn babes at the sterile hospital. They scream for milk and love, but receive only names and limitations. They wish to hunt and breathe, but they are shot down by the bows of the hunters. Each first born is sacrificed to the second born. Mistakes are often attributed to the last child who survives, taught by years of errors, taught by the canines of the heart. It’s often difficult to classify this sort of person, but they run around an take advantage of each and every kindly old ice cream man, and the understanding goatee wearing driver. Slide through them like a knife through butter and never look back. Within each engagement is the brilliant arm of the law, stretching and feeling right. Don’t listen. Each and every mood is false and tireless, full of backbone and whatever truth you make of it. Whatever mood you give it, is the mood that will haunt you until the end of your timeless solar energy pathway that might take you to the stars or to hell. The path you choose will eventually end you and you’ll find yourself lonely, never having felt another human being. Never having felt the true final acceptance.
the mrs. |
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