08-01-2014, 12:22 PM
Another Across the Great Divide Moment
Pick-up over pepperoni pizza:
a pitcher of darkish beer—
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing,
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home,
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born!
She’s standing on the dock of the bay
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing—
every time she opines her mouth
as though she’s heading south,
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year—
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.
Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona!
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray…
“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!”
…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:
talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture…
Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest,
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:
–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…
…because
“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”
But in the…
“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”.
Today, today, today:
you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex
as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.
“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”
“Yeah man, do your own thing!”
“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”
“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”
“Well I don’t know about groovy?
But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”
“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”
“You’re kind of weird, you know?”
“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”
“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”
“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!
–Erthona
©2000-2011
Pick-up over pepperoni pizza:
a pitcher of darkish beer—
half pack of reds—
at the local pizza place.
Across the booth —waiting— to follow me down
is a little mousy, hip-hugging, bell bottom wearing,
hairy underarms, limp-chest, dirty dishwater
pseudo blonde feminist easy to bed hippy-chick.
Moderately warm,
Moderately stoned,
Moderately lost—not looking for home,
Moderately ill-informed,
Moderately born!
She’s standing on the dock of the bay
—an idiot wind that is blowing as the times they are a changing—
every time she opines her mouth
as though she’s heading south,
or somewhere, down there, or there somewhere ‘round about.
Pretending she’s pretending to be on the bus;
afraid to take the acid test, needing more time to study first,
but that kind of knowledge just brings a cool-aid thirst,
never getting better, only getting worse.
You know the rules: you can’t stay on,
unless you turn on, tune in…
drop and give me fifty you shaved long haired dope head.
Don’t matter though, you’ll most likely be dead
—in a year—
if not they’ll get you when you get back.
Utilizing the correct attack plan of the man,
to kill those vampire Vets from Vee-eet-nam;
—get ‘em—
right through the heart with mis-in-formed
acid hate—toxic sharpened—Fonda stakes.
Right there, In the darkness, on the edge of town,
everybody’s getting funky, getting dead or getting down.
Everyone, daughter and son, is turning Japanese,
or whatever for the moment passes as commercial sleeve,
while falling in a lust-love scented breeze with my Sharona!
She’s getting big and round, a big round drown,
as Billy Joe goes face down
into the river without a sound, in my little town.
Till the factory shuts down, and moves outta town
leaving us with debts no honest man could slay,
and still trying, trying, trying, to do as we please:
trying to run while standing on our knees!
We’re looking out for number one,
cause girl’s just wanna have fun,
by putting things on the Great America lay
away to get a foot in and a hand from
the looking for Mr. Goodbar disillusionment plan,
so that whatever anyone did we’d have our say,
like political statements by King Kong and Faye Wray…
“Mikhail, play ball!
Tear down this god-damned wall!”
…and let the terrorist fall
wherever it is that they may.
It’s a fiber bran, brand new day
coming, then going, but never slowing;
and you can see it if you try,
and if your Dendrites aren’t acid fried,
with a slice of RK or colored contacts:
talking ‘bout peace—talking ‘bout love,
talking ‘bout…Haute Couture…
Talking about needing a bigger closet
for all this stuff just purchased @ 19.36%
per centrist rate of compounding disinterest,
to keep the ‘merican, I have a dream-sickle cell bohemian
alive or at least a reasonable “just the-facts-simile”
or metaphor, if you’ve been there once, but not before,
the names have been changed to protect the insouciant
font of Courier & I’ve fallen down, and I can’t get passed,
these de-partied desktop icons of dead iconoclasts;
Flash in the pannus Janis Jimmy nonaspirate, and Jim more or less,
never mastered, who were cut and plastered,
In this cut and dried, paste and past, “two score years ago-go,
we really had no desire and we didn’t start the fire;
regardless we’re now depending on “Dobie the UN
House Elf,” or anyone but whythefuckus to put it out.
Cause we don’t want to get our paltrier hands dirty,
because there are just some things that:
–Dawn can’t take grease out of
–Mr. Whipple can’t stack
–Madge can’t soften…
and Mrs. Butterworth can’t sweet–
sixteen anymore the way it use to be…
…because
“Things today are really serious man!
Two score and two years ago
we only had nuclear annihilation,
and mass human extinction
to–why me–worry about.”
But in the…
“I survived the Y2K” millennium,
you’ve got big–ass–shit–stuff:
the—red/blue, thesis/antithesis split
the—you can’t call Muslim-terrorist, terrorist
the—war we’re mired in as quagmire—
as our life blood slowly ebbs away,
while we’re only half a percentage point away
from being owned by the “Paper Tiger”.
Today, today, today:
you can—be dying for sex
you can—be dying to have sex
you can—be dying from having had sex
as Gabriel’s trumpet is pealing,
for lack of Gaye sexual healing.
“I don’t want to die, but…I really want to
do I want to really do, to do what I want to do.”
“Yeah man, do your own thing!”
“I want to do what I want, when I want and as I want,
and be given approval and praise as well!”
“Far out man, power to the people—totally groovy”
“Well I don’t know about groovy?
But!
I know what I want,
and I should be able to have it,
because it’s my right,
and I have a right to what I want,
because it says so in the con-stay-two-shun.”
“Right on Brother! Totally disestablishmentarianism.”
“You’re kind of weird, you know?”
“I’m your brother, man, and you are mine! I’m in you and you’re in me, I am the Walrus, coo-coo-ahchoo”
“Yeah… uh, sure man, whateveryousay. Guess I’ll
see you at the next peace march! Seeyoulaterthen”
“Own word to the dog! Amoeba! Turn off, tune up…aw Man, damn short term Kool-Aid acid memory test loss!
–Erthona
©2000-2011
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.