"Lost afternoon"
Posted: February 27th, 2006, 1:12 pm
Where did I go wrong? Okay, back up. Take it in chronological order. I woke today, filled with lame platitudes and skilled doom, like a vodka martini. Now I can't be trusted, under any circumstance, to keep time. So let's get to the bottom of it, like my ass. I love my ass-- something like a well-rounded earthquake. Enough, I say! What is this fixation with time I have (not to mention my ass)? Shout it from the hilltops! My immortal pain! You can't blame the military; they were here first, and for a damn good reason. Blame naked hubris; don't look at me.
Is there such a thing as "innocent"? Profiteers throw that word around as if it were made of rubber, but I'm getting beside my own point (I'm rubbery, like that). Did you perchance notice the atrocity of several billion dollars? Sleuth truth on the money trail. It gets even sketchier, like a hand-wash. Pilate taught me the value of a good hand-wash-- how it's ever more critical to mental health. I believe it. It's good to believe again, after my naive love mumbles. I should check my monstrous peace at the door. I used to hate corporations. Who doesn't? But everything I touch was made by a goddamned corporation. Rage against the machine, then ask it for a date. It boils down to lust vs. love, and I ain't saying which side I'm on, only that lust knows what makes me tick. Praise God and pass the ammo. I stole that one. Methinks I need a lawyer. I love "methinks".
Anyway, regarding the calculus of my lost-ness, the gray, gray way of today: I'm crushed under tons of rhetoric, peeking out, hungrily. What can I make of such verbosity? I can't eat it for lunch. Problem is, everyone is invading everybody, and I scarcely know where to begin. So what. Grab the remote. We don't have to watch the war; there must be something else on. It's merely a space-time wart, anyway. Einstein solved those equations years ago. It's about time.
But there's more to it. For example, religion is a monster, like my holy-rollin' ass. Praise Jesus! Yeah, that's right, I said it. Let the sax solo roll. Can you sense the utter frustration of a million generations? Well good, Sherlock. Enjoy the toxic flow, 'coz I have work to do. I love the skin I'm in, and I hope it catches on. I must fight the powers that be-- my inappropriate smile, for starters. It's about pain. Pain gets it done. Pain gets a beer. Pain pays the rent. Four out of five dentists surveyed confirmed this: pain. But pain isn't such a bad thing. Oh wait, yes it is. Sorry. So back up, way the hell up, 'coz I will not be denied! I swear.
Incidently, barbarism originated with Nixon. On a Tuesday. Go figure. And figure the curvature of my ass, while you're down there. The equation is roughed out: unholy carnage for holy ends. Why fight it? We're all mad as hell, or at least in range. But I still extend my hand, like a filthy socialist-- a quiet sort of desperation. To every soldier: I could have been you, but for a coin flip. Hell, I am you; inches from disaster at all times. I wish you well, but the road to hell is paved with that sort of thing. Y'know, for all its bad press, hatred has a good work ethic; it punches the clock like everyone else. Get over your decency and contribute to the economy for a change.
So it's come to this: parody the world, to save it. The time is at hand! I shall smugly waste the American dream in my ramshackle fortress, because I can. Let's work on a blaze of glory, kiss the world like an M-16. Schism, anyone? Warriors are people too; it's France I'm not so sure about (love its toast, however). East and West stayed up way too late; they could use a nap. And you'll have to pry my free will from my cold, dead hands. I hear Dakota is lovely this time of year, like freezer burn. Oh, and one more thing: beer and a sandwich. Okay, that's two things.
Is there such a thing as "innocent"? Profiteers throw that word around as if it were made of rubber, but I'm getting beside my own point (I'm rubbery, like that). Did you perchance notice the atrocity of several billion dollars? Sleuth truth on the money trail. It gets even sketchier, like a hand-wash. Pilate taught me the value of a good hand-wash-- how it's ever more critical to mental health. I believe it. It's good to believe again, after my naive love mumbles. I should check my monstrous peace at the door. I used to hate corporations. Who doesn't? But everything I touch was made by a goddamned corporation. Rage against the machine, then ask it for a date. It boils down to lust vs. love, and I ain't saying which side I'm on, only that lust knows what makes me tick. Praise God and pass the ammo. I stole that one. Methinks I need a lawyer. I love "methinks".
Anyway, regarding the calculus of my lost-ness, the gray, gray way of today: I'm crushed under tons of rhetoric, peeking out, hungrily. What can I make of such verbosity? I can't eat it for lunch. Problem is, everyone is invading everybody, and I scarcely know where to begin. So what. Grab the remote. We don't have to watch the war; there must be something else on. It's merely a space-time wart, anyway. Einstein solved those equations years ago. It's about time.
But there's more to it. For example, religion is a monster, like my holy-rollin' ass. Praise Jesus! Yeah, that's right, I said it. Let the sax solo roll. Can you sense the utter frustration of a million generations? Well good, Sherlock. Enjoy the toxic flow, 'coz I have work to do. I love the skin I'm in, and I hope it catches on. I must fight the powers that be-- my inappropriate smile, for starters. It's about pain. Pain gets it done. Pain gets a beer. Pain pays the rent. Four out of five dentists surveyed confirmed this: pain. But pain isn't such a bad thing. Oh wait, yes it is. Sorry. So back up, way the hell up, 'coz I will not be denied! I swear.
Incidently, barbarism originated with Nixon. On a Tuesday. Go figure. And figure the curvature of my ass, while you're down there. The equation is roughed out: unholy carnage for holy ends. Why fight it? We're all mad as hell, or at least in range. But I still extend my hand, like a filthy socialist-- a quiet sort of desperation. To every soldier: I could have been you, but for a coin flip. Hell, I am you; inches from disaster at all times. I wish you well, but the road to hell is paved with that sort of thing. Y'know, for all its bad press, hatred has a good work ethic; it punches the clock like everyone else. Get over your decency and contribute to the economy for a change.
So it's come to this: parody the world, to save it. The time is at hand! I shall smugly waste the American dream in my ramshackle fortress, because I can. Let's work on a blaze of glory, kiss the world like an M-16. Schism, anyone? Warriors are people too; it's France I'm not so sure about (love its toast, however). East and West stayed up way too late; they could use a nap. And you'll have to pry my free will from my cold, dead hands. I hear Dakota is lovely this time of year, like freezer burn. Oh, and one more thing: beer and a sandwich. Okay, that's two things.