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| fig.12.23) concept, conceit, corner roll the fifth. |
Here's your wall text mutha fucka; the only good of you that comes is from me seeing that I'm better for not being you. You're a sanctimonious floss herder, a petulant rubber of old stumps, breather of noxious words, a stirrer of bile, born barn watcher, renowned ass holder, morbidly soft and slippery stacker of pimple piles, shoveler of deedless accomplishments, angel to none, reader of some, smeller of all things licked, ghastly and pampered callus grinder, a single malt in a two straw town, aged like beef and left to hang, doer of meaningless problems, a math dropper under a morbidly skinless peach, you're a mailer backer backwards biting boot bumper, you're the shiner of lickspittles lost spittoon, a mauler of pickles, too scared too crawling you're friendless and flawed, droop droop splash inside the autumnal box of gritty dawn, you're pantsless, a restless blank faced duck smack. You are the child of scrawled fears left homeless by a bitter and faceless committee, you're the bearer of gunfights to the people of soup on a wet and cold day without bread, You're craven and laxative faced, Your eyes reveal the stink of a broken soul that burns like a dry wind in a hot toilet, Your bilious words are tired of falling from your mouth before they're even spoke, Even your head is ashamed of its hair, You look like the neighbor you were born to hate, You were born many because you're too weak and sad and ashamed of the cut of your collective jibbery jibbery jib. You wet yourself from behind, You're a broken dribble cup and you can't spell yellow or hope or thank you, You eat the ends off kittens, You scare chickens and none of the puppies will dance with you, Without you we would still know the hate and corruption and the grinding poverty of a world that's broken but you wouldn't be here with us in it, Without you we would still have a face for villainy, we would still have a hole into which feces falls and more than enough sounds with which to make us laugh when grumbles by the bully with their bully pie. But at least you made the news today, goodbye.
"I don't know, I mean when you train your dog to shit outside do you have to beat the crap out of them? Do you really need to drag them over by the collar and rub their noses in shit and then kick them up and down? I've seen some people talk about politics like it's a beer and when it gets empty they just throw it at their dog. These fuckers are pissing themselves and they lay awake at night waiting to do it again the next day. Their shoes are still going to be wet. The dog's not getting any happier and sooner or later the beers going to be gone, so what?"
The matches on the table are folded over backwards. They're all bent and the paper is damp from beer sweat. The white table is covered with the empties left by the band. They loaded into their van about an hour ago and JD left with them. She had to get some of her things out first. She left her camera, a skateboard and a small spoon for her coke wrapped up in a newspaper. As she was leaving she tried telling me about the guy that was choking it in her bathroom at work. I listened politely but she never got to finish.
I'm still standing around, still looking at the same cold metal stonework as before. "I've been really busy today," I tell Kat. "I've been trying to get through this cartoon, StarBlazing, man! But everytime the phone rings, I'm answering the door. Then no one's writing anything down. After that, everyone comes out late to see the show. It isn't even that good. I suppose most of us are standing around in the backyard but still!"
Sometimes I think about buying a lot of Sharpies, because sometimes I want to change my name to warBONG. But first I need a good theme song and some new yellow socks. As with Son of Knife, so it goes or it all goes away. Staring red eyed with running nose into the future and waiting again for the bus all over again. This is going to be my first chance to really sit down and do some big thinking but Kat doesn't get this at all.
Write Write scribble, "we'll restructure this war and it's terrible game of perfumes." Write Write scribble some more, "so let's see, piety is the gutter tongue of malcontents. It's for dubious raconteurs and ominous capitalists. It's the blanket of broken mothers and all of their dull dad like eyes. Piety is every strained bosum and they're all lit from below. Their nipples are full of fantasies about easy access and quick judgements. The pious don't get to vote extra because they like to, it's because their data is labor and it represents other radical markets which suggest that the math that we're constantly generating is more than just personal. It's biological math with an interrelational evolutionary component. It's something that's bright as a hat and it's coded to even the dimmest stars depth. Piety is violet cold and it's full of dark entropy waiting to quit.
JD gets back kind of early and she can't find her glasses. She says she left them under the stairs beside BOMB SHOP, where the imperfect poetry of history transiting towards an undetermined mathematical fate is good enough for its day. When its a dry evening with bad grammar and the smell of old teeth is flying around and one of us is thinking of SV. Maybe we're thinking about repeating ourselves again. When we remember our arrangement around the snag of the leaf'd table. How we talked with great speed and elegance about how to manage the next segment of our soon show. How we had the paper and the time. How we had the pencils and the stack of experiences that were high enough to include the hieght of the kitchen itself. Then we think of the old man inside each of us and we'll remember stepping on our own heads and pissing in our ears. Then we'll try and remember this too, BOMB SHOP.... That will be where JD left her glasses last.
Write Write scribble, "So let's mingle radically and use all of the tape backwards. Let's lock up before he comes back and we can talk about the 4th and the 5th and the 6th all day. Let's practice our voting and draw pictures under their drawers. Let's be wild and weird and serve serve serve. Let's share something right now and be the people we are. Let's write new laws and carry our tunes across the bridge. Let's throw away the old books and look at something new. Let's make someone laugh and make sure that they don't laugh at him or her or them. Let's make something up and be kinder, more kind, and kindest of all as we do. Let's jump in a lake and be free of this river of clowns. Let's walk slowly at first and then run with a whoosh. Let's appreciate the work that Elon Musk should never have to do. Let's fly us a kite and face down our facts not once but twice. Let's float us a boat and weather a storm. Let's be in the ballon after dark. Let's falter with grace and feel as we fall. Let's fear nothing. Let's listen for that sound that someone says they hear."
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