Alright
It's like this. I've been a'workin like a dawg, and now m' at home, and high on wine like the last of the last of all God's sacred and beloved and profane motherfuckers of sweet doom and salvation, skirling and twisting, and howling into the forever of tomorrow's and yesterday's sacerd fucking night, and it appears, yay say I, appears, I've something or t'oyher to say.
Primus says, "My name is mud", but don't y'all go `leivin that thar shit for a New York second. Naaaaaaaaw. Fuck that for now, for I might - just might - have somethin t'other to say.
And what might the fuck have (I to say? Fuck you. Well, na' that. But, see, things is as follows - what don;t I have to say? What do you do when the heart of all things within the heart of all things kicks in the door of your soul and sits at the kitchen table of your heart and demands a quart a' rot-gut likker?
And what as a result do you end up doin', but start thinkin' of that day in 1984 when you were hanging of the navy gun they took off Esquimault, and that they mounted in front of the Royal Canadian Legion Branch where you first learned to drink, and you can not only feel your young and inexperienced thighs as they held you upside down, hanging off that there instrument of death and mercy and alcoholism, but you also remember the clouds iron greay and pure as mercy, and the smell of rain in the air, and the greenest green of grass you'd ever seen in your life? Ther you were, the hearts of all the dead sons of the Korean war, and all the yet unborn sons and daughters of...what? Heaven revealing itself through the medium of space and time, the potential so much of everything as to make ye weep, all in nothig but the msell of rain, past th church, bloen in from the auld Beothuck taiga. Never you fucking mind now. I'm not trying to be eloquent, and it obviously shows. If I but sat with this all night I could write a novel, but that's not to be the point, y'know. you don't deserve it and, truth to tell, neither do I. More often than not it's all naught but masturbation - jerkin off and blowin an 80,000m word load and getting a prize for the money shot. Stop for s second for the love of Christ and THINK, bitches. Feel something. Or other. Even if it's even but nothing but the lack of feeling.
What do you do when you remember the friends you ahd and the way you were, and look at how they are now, and realize that a human being is nothing but a projection screen for a myriad of a million million souls, projected across a life at thirty souls per second?
Phagh and be damned, with all God's mercy. Walk through the valley, the written word is a lie! HA! Can ye hear it? `tis ecstacy that talks. Not me. I always was too small for the truth I've been chosen to midwife, but that's of no consequence, thankfully.
A muslim once asked me when I was young and stupid what I wanted most from life. With the clueless hubris of the young I looked him dorectly in the eye and told him I but naught wanted but to fly up and touch the face of God. Jaysus, but I couldn;t scream with lafffffter on that one, lemme tell ye, ye bunch of haunted and wounded ingrates, ye unknowable refugees, ye lost sons and saughters of K-Mart bankruptcy.
Goddamn thunder. Hard and metallic and angry. Or maybe it's the trains mating. Can't tell, don't give as much as a flying arse's fuck, regardless.
So. Apparrently some ass-wad started this with the idea he had something to say. What a lamer. Another of the legion's multitudes is in charge now, and this monster-flesh-begotten son of Judah and Cork, he has but nothing to give, and everything to take. So I'll be off then, to do just that.
Kiss the fucking sky, the hand of your liver, the dogshit on th bottom of your boot. I'll be seeing you.
Primus says, "My name is mud", but don't y'all go `leivin that thar shit for a New York second. Naaaaaaaaw. Fuck that for now, for I might - just might - have somethin t'other to say.
And what might the fuck have (I to say? Fuck you. Well, na' that. But, see, things is as follows - what don;t I have to say? What do you do when the heart of all things within the heart of all things kicks in the door of your soul and sits at the kitchen table of your heart and demands a quart a' rot-gut likker?
And what as a result do you end up doin', but start thinkin' of that day in 1984 when you were hanging of the navy gun they took off Esquimault, and that they mounted in front of the Royal Canadian Legion Branch where you first learned to drink, and you can not only feel your young and inexperienced thighs as they held you upside down, hanging off that there instrument of death and mercy and alcoholism, but you also remember the clouds iron greay and pure as mercy, and the smell of rain in the air, and the greenest green of grass you'd ever seen in your life? Ther you were, the hearts of all the dead sons of the Korean war, and all the yet unborn sons and daughters of...what? Heaven revealing itself through the medium of space and time, the potential so much of everything as to make ye weep, all in nothig but the msell of rain, past th church, bloen in from the auld Beothuck taiga. Never you fucking mind now. I'm not trying to be eloquent, and it obviously shows. If I but sat with this all night I could write a novel, but that's not to be the point, y'know. you don't deserve it and, truth to tell, neither do I. More often than not it's all naught but masturbation - jerkin off and blowin an 80,000m word load and getting a prize for the money shot. Stop for s second for the love of Christ and THINK, bitches. Feel something. Or other. Even if it's even but nothing but the lack of feeling.
What do you do when you remember the friends you ahd and the way you were, and look at how they are now, and realize that a human being is nothing but a projection screen for a myriad of a million million souls, projected across a life at thirty souls per second?
Phagh and be damned, with all God's mercy. Walk through the valley, the written word is a lie! HA! Can ye hear it? `tis ecstacy that talks. Not me. I always was too small for the truth I've been chosen to midwife, but that's of no consequence, thankfully.
A muslim once asked me when I was young and stupid what I wanted most from life. With the clueless hubris of the young I looked him dorectly in the eye and told him I but naught wanted but to fly up and touch the face of God. Jaysus, but I couldn;t scream with lafffffter on that one, lemme tell ye, ye bunch of haunted and wounded ingrates, ye unknowable refugees, ye lost sons and saughters of K-Mart bankruptcy.
Goddamn thunder. Hard and metallic and angry. Or maybe it's the trains mating. Can't tell, don't give as much as a flying arse's fuck, regardless.
So. Apparrently some ass-wad started this with the idea he had something to say. What a lamer. Another of the legion's multitudes is in charge now, and this monster-flesh-begotten son of Judah and Cork, he has but nothing to give, and everything to take. So I'll be off then, to do just that.
Kiss the fucking sky, the hand of your liver, the dogshit on th bottom of your boot. I'll be seeing you.