Thursday, April 24, 2008

In the name of the Dagmar

What ever happened to all the fun in the world? John Maynard annexed it from our souls. I am now an a-person, living fruitlessly among the a-people, the unadorned frontispiece of normality wasting my soul like The Leeches of the Angels.

Let’s talk about leather. As a lad, I felt a natural zeal about leather. I liked the way men looked in it, and naturally, wanted to be a biker. All of the other children wanted to be doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and I wanted to be a biker. Jesus loved the little children, and he was destined to adore this little leatherbound lad. Translated into adult life – crap. I was forced to wear a leather jacket by someone significant the other day, and it was not, as they say, agreeable. Pores, dripping with the sweat of a thousand days and nights of the Proletariat. Goodness me.

Forgive my rhetoric, as it has been a long night. I spent some time messing about with my crew, namely, Bozzio, Dagmar, Ko-Ko and Sir Richard Pump-a-Loaf. Cucumber pud annexed into a fine whole-wheat. Traversing the eclipse. Tall, tall trees. What has it all become?

To the point. Jackassery is tolerated but intolerable. A buck four-fifteen and a-counting. The flexible meese mess my myriad mind. Go homeward, young, inexorable, intertwining man…go, get your paychecks and go home, go the beasts of the land, and the air, and the sea, go and lay sucking the bosoms of your mothers and go, be the one who dignifies the indignance of the sheep, the trolls, the earth, the sights and sounds of life, death, antiquity, and understanding… go listen to the voices that tell you to do, and see, and say, and be, and act upon the whims of all who have done, and seen, and said, and been, and turned words into lore and lore into myths and myths into legends and legends into oblivion and oblivion into that which we now understand as something that was, is, and ever shall be…and the dirge of the egress echoes.

I am not Jewish, but I can commiserate with a lifetime of harrying. Persecution’s perfume perfunctorily permeates persons. As they say, indeed. What passes for discourse is nothing but strings of inanities punctuated by the stolid catchphrases created in a GE laboratory by PepsiCola’s Columbian Deathsquad Division. Nasty princesses.

Time is of the essence. Time is on my side. Time is a conception of the lying sacks of shit who tell us what to eat, why poison is badness, why badness is poison, why the world works on one level, why the fire is extensive, where my mind may or may not even fucking fathom to-go. Bah, Arlen Specter.

I sly. I fly sly, I cry sly, I try sly, in the sly sty, in the sly sky.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Sorry guys.

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