(no subject)
PULP
I am the suffering artist, but in this divine moment, soaked to the skin with rain and sweating inspiration, I am not suffering.
I am a work in progress, and in this outlandish moment, I am progressing.
I am idea, and animate;
I am object, and I have a soul, and I think symbolically, and I am self aware,
I am an object--
I am the object--
The object of your affection, of your brother's dismay, father's horror; I am the muse; I am my own muse,
I am my own music;
And I belong to an art that I just can't seem to grow out of.
The face looks youthful, the sensibilities are as sensitive as a child's,
But there is a hard shell, a barrier, a fresh piece of leather between the skin and the pulp...
And the pulp is old; the pulp is ancient.
My core was made in the time of Abraham, and while he bowed to God, I got my kicks at the bar, sharing a drink with some future Jew.
My pulp survived the time of Christ, before it was shipped off the Europe, years later, and eventually dispersed in the "New" world. Where it didn't feel so new.
I was crucified beside Christ, and was equally as imaginary...
I rode the train to hell with Jesus and begged him to stay for a drink. "No," He told me, "I can't. My dad will kill me." And with a quick upward glance, he was gone.
I conquered the new world and dispersed its native peace in Jesus' name--
(Yes, even after he refused to drink with me.)
I was the conquered, the love child of culture clash, the hate child of the ludicrous belief in "inferior" races--
The white man thrives, but he does not want to share his grain--
His cattle are better fed than his brothers.
Why? Because he wouldn't eat his brother. Would he?
He would not hunt his brother. He would not bite into his brother's neck, and tear at the fresh kill in order to sustain himself; he would not feed on his fresh brother--
But he would pay pennies to a hunter for his brother's hide, a butcher for his brother's meat, a cook to prepare it, a maid to set the table.
Upon reception of the main course, he questions, "What is this? This is delicious!"
"Ton Frere," the chef tells him, through chain of command. The diner nods as he chews, and spits out the words "Tun frayer. Hm. Sounds kind of exotic."
"Delicious." "Superb."
And not even the chef realizes what he's done.
"I'd eat tun frayer every day."
And he does.
The world of humans is filled with toil, with or without the machine--
But death by the machine seems somehow more horrifying.
The hunter has become soulless, the hunter has become an unknowing cog in the machine;
The hunt has become numbers and illusions, words, symbols,
This hunt will reap the meats of greed for something far more sinister than sustenance. Man will bite into his brother's spirit, and gnaw at his neck--but only in his dreams, for his dead days are much more mechanical...
"Fire me."
Don't fire me--
Set me on fire.
Train me. And put me on your train. I hear it stops in hell.
To be honest, I was waiting for a phone call from God's son--
He said he'd meet me at the downtown bar.
I am the suffering artist, but in this divine moment, soaked to the skin with rain and sweating inspiration, I am not suffering.
I am a work in progress, and in this outlandish moment, I am progressing.
I am idea, and animate;
I am object, and I have a soul, and I think symbolically, and I am self aware,
I am an object--
I am the object--
The object of your affection, of your brother's dismay, father's horror; I am the muse; I am my own muse,
I am my own music;
And I belong to an art that I just can't seem to grow out of.
The face looks youthful, the sensibilities are as sensitive as a child's,
But there is a hard shell, a barrier, a fresh piece of leather between the skin and the pulp...
And the pulp is old; the pulp is ancient.
My core was made in the time of Abraham, and while he bowed to God, I got my kicks at the bar, sharing a drink with some future Jew.
My pulp survived the time of Christ, before it was shipped off the Europe, years later, and eventually dispersed in the "New" world. Where it didn't feel so new.
I was crucified beside Christ, and was equally as imaginary...
I rode the train to hell with Jesus and begged him to stay for a drink. "No," He told me, "I can't. My dad will kill me." And with a quick upward glance, he was gone.
I conquered the new world and dispersed its native peace in Jesus' name--
(Yes, even after he refused to drink with me.)
I was the conquered, the love child of culture clash, the hate child of the ludicrous belief in "inferior" races--
The white man thrives, but he does not want to share his grain--
His cattle are better fed than his brothers.
Why? Because he wouldn't eat his brother. Would he?
He would not hunt his brother. He would not bite into his brother's neck, and tear at the fresh kill in order to sustain himself; he would not feed on his fresh brother--
But he would pay pennies to a hunter for his brother's hide, a butcher for his brother's meat, a cook to prepare it, a maid to set the table.
Upon reception of the main course, he questions, "What is this? This is delicious!"
"Ton Frere," the chef tells him, through chain of command. The diner nods as he chews, and spits out the words "Tun frayer. Hm. Sounds kind of exotic."
"Delicious." "Superb."
And not even the chef realizes what he's done.
"I'd eat tun frayer every day."
And he does.
The world of humans is filled with toil, with or without the machine--
But death by the machine seems somehow more horrifying.
The hunter has become soulless, the hunter has become an unknowing cog in the machine;
The hunt has become numbers and illusions, words, symbols,
This hunt will reap the meats of greed for something far more sinister than sustenance. Man will bite into his brother's spirit, and gnaw at his neck--but only in his dreams, for his dead days are much more mechanical...
"Fire me."
Don't fire me--
Set me on fire.
Train me. And put me on your train. I hear it stops in hell.
To be honest, I was waiting for a phone call from God's son--
He said he'd meet me at the downtown bar.