Any of you dreary and predictably irascible asshats want to help cordon off a special little piece of activated resistance? even if it’s practically a bust or a bust of us, endless lovemaking and base subsistence, lying on a cot that is all I got whilst airforce communards drop their loads on the ill-prepared retards whom we shan’t ever hold in high regard, even if we are that, soothsaying cat, so somebody better show up and show humility unless they want a whole new disability. Even in the worst of times the man who looks like Simón Bolívar won’t lower himself so lower depths as to get in my car when we need to make our escape immediately and head straight west into the tsunami my lady love thoughtfully preordered for me. Is that a gargantuan train wreck or just a crick in one guy’s neck? I’m feeling thick upstairs but mighty limp in my underwear beneath this infernal sun that won’t play fair. Another day, another duty paid at customs, hirsute bear-men for rent that come with their own natty silver buttons. I’ve seen thieves sneak into jewelry stores through the sewers and been upbraided by management for failing to get my prunes properly stewed at Mount Galatea, Spray Lakes Valley, the Kananaskis. Do I know how to make your woman squirt? Go ahead and ask her if you think you won’t get your feelings hurt, forever inert and on alert, the elastic and forever placating Papa No-Person, the grubby nobody equipped only for handing out allowance money. And if I retain, O Lord, a bit of the pitiful reek of a Norman Bates, that don’t necessarily mean that a man’s mother isn’t his best friend. In the end I’ll take what I can get because the going has got stuck and I’m so easily dropped or blocked-off by the blockbusters and their ballbuster underlings. Norman, did you kill your mother? In a manner of speaking, yes, in the sense that I killed her, but at the same time I was sure I was her so the case really isn’t all that clear, my dear, and even as Anthony Perkins was demonstrably queer, not that anybody ought to jeer, I could just as easily be the Honeysuckle Rose fastened to your rear or the earwig set on spelunking way down into your ear. How many hundreds of clams will it take until we finally uncover the greater sham? Sam-I-Am is siamese if you please, people-pleasing Aesop-on-the-rocks jock-of-all-cops queasily awaiting this dinner of multicoloured cocks. Bear-up, child, and rub this nauseating unguent on your chest in preparation for the great e’er-foretold unrest, the tugging at the apron strings of polite society who tries her best to be dainty but cosigns unspeakable cruelty mainly. This is the place I leave all who followed me, hounded me consistently, or weren’t even decent enough people to earn so much as a dollop of my symphony's available sympathy, “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” playing on repeat accompanied by sweet meats and pigs’ feet, gemstone bedecked glitterati hot tub party and sanguine reading of the minutes, Club Officials doing their unseemly business directly adjacent to the tar pits, unthinkable and ruinous extortion at the hands of would-be Martian culprits, I’ll break in and despoil any place as long as it remains under control of the indefensible human race, the rate race, whatever the fuck, the rat being the patron saint of infrastructure, porousness and coarse odour of piss that is infrastructure, asparagus, Latinate declensions from forbidden sub-dimensions make good order and governance a 360 degree rotating food-fighting irrelevance like the famous seven irrelevant rearmost elephants. Please turn things over and set them afire all Looney Tunes. They say there’s a lady down the way who thinks I look good but is concerned I might be gay. I’m gonna invite her to the riots later today and we’ll see if she can throw a brick well enough to carry my bairn.
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