Saturday, November 26, 2011

The Hermit Crabs of Leviathan.

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

May your noses always be cold and wet.

Today is the yearly high mass, the holiest day of the year, in which they celebrate everything that is wrong with everything. Today they celebrate the cause and effect of the thing that hasn't swallowed us yet. Today they tramp through the glitter pool swamps. The shining confetti of shredded dreams, swirls in the air like the trembling invisible wake of departing ghosts. The tattered wraiths are blown back and forth over the display cases and into the food courts by the winds of a fierce hunger, to own and possess glimmering, airbrushed shit, the metaphorical fired bricks that wall us into the darkness with our cask of Amontillado. Drunk on the wine of folly and ignorance we will see the light no more. We did not see the light to begin with.

Tractor trailer, sloth junkies are motoring down the wide lanes of stuffed animals and transformer gods in search of Meagan Fox's sex appeal; whoops, she called Michael Bay, Hitler. She'll have to move on to another kind of hard faced porn, pole dancing like Demi Moore back to the future, chased down the endless narrow corridors by the lines on her face, like the character in the Edvard Munch painting. The manikins are weeping tears as if they were plaster saints in a Central American cathedral. You should only look that good and that's the point. The forever Botoxed icons which never age; a single expression of timeless indifference on their faces. You know you want to take her home with you and you don't mind buying the outfit she's wearing if that's the cost of the affair. Later you can cross dress to your hearts content and satisfy yourself with the mail order implement, looking for the signs of life and arousal in the sightless eyes. You know she's in there. You know he's in there and you know you're definitely in there somewhere.

Huge and heavy bodied bankers hang like massive anchors and millstones around your neck. These are the hermit crabs of Leviathan. These are the carpet bagging, vampires booked through to Brazil. They'll be dancing in Rio this winter but for now you're inflamed with manikin love. Two very different things will put the roses in your cheeks. It's one thing for you and another for the bankers. T.S. Eliot was a banker, lest we lose perspective on the mysterious origins of art.

Modern life has been mined with glue boards. Marley's chains are rattling down the boulevard. The heat is rising from the press of bodies and spontaneous combustion is a real concern. The regulating thermostat is broken and the material fire cannot be contained. It's like time pressed together by fantastic force; flames and smoke and it's all a joke.

Black Friday is here. The slow and weak are trampled into a Starbucks confection beneath the feet of dangerous and deranged shoppers, all Hell has broken loose. You want to be wider than a wide screen at Best Buy. You want to be heavier than a piano as you part the crowds like a Spanish galleon. It's Totie Fields as the figurehead on the prow of the ship and you're plugged in to her Twitter feed. You've got everything you need. The bankers and the merchants and the media of greed have gathered in the vestibule with cattle prods and guns.You're tin ducks in the carnival... clink clink... clink clink, clink clink. You can't pronounce phrontistery, you've forgotten how to think.

Wide jaws baby, wide jaws for the monsters of appetite. Open up and swallow your face. Did the manikin just blink? It's going to get ugly pretty soon and beautiful, in strange remote places, where they don't put umbrellas in your drink. It's a mathematical certainty. These are the simple laws of physics that are now as mysterious as a Geisha's eyes. It's what happens when you can't tell Aristotle from Johnny Walker on a bottle. They're both philosophers after all. What difference does it make? That's the mantra of the age; 'what difference does it make' and 'it don't matter to me'. Somehow you got the idea that if it is there it must be authentic and real. All these cities and lights are too powerful to deny. That's real concrete under your feet. People in uniforms are directing traffic. The check out girl is wearing a name tag. The contracts are filled with official terms. Why would anyone lie? They're wearing suits for Christ's sake. They got expensive furniture. Look at that potted plant. It's real. Nothing beats the convincing truth of a corner office and wall to wall windows. If you're buying, I'm selling. We're all alchemists here. I can turn the ink of a Mount Blanc pen into blood on the floor of The Congo. I can make a phone call and kill ten thousand people, halfway around the world ...and still be home in time for dinner.

Thanks fucking giving has turned into thanks fucking buying of crap with no value for people with no taste. Life is a Coca Cola enema and now you've got a carbonated erection with no time delay, in a free fall, time lapse world. Time to go and hump something till it screams out your name. Real passion is top dog power and kitten submission in a death tango. If you can't master yourself, you can definitely do the next best thing and master someone else. You can set the traps for terminal seduction and jackhammer the bitch into giving up her secrets and then, yeah, then you can build that shining city on the hill, surrounded by an endless landfill of all the junk you bought on Black Friday that wound up there on forgotten Monday.

The hermit crabs of Leviathan are closing in. Their mandibles are clicking, while your kids are tricking for Jerry Sandusky and Jeffrey Epstein. The latter is home free and the former looks like toast, maybe it has something to do with genetics and certain bloodlines with the right hocus pocus. Here at home base central, all we want to do is piss off the language police and the brute force mathematicians, who can expand will o' the wisp numbers, while reducing them on the entrance signs to sardonic theme parks and populate the world, with endless ranks of survivors, from bloody cluster fucks that they authored so that they can stand there with their hands out, while guilt tripping people so incredibly stupid that they can hardly manage to go to the bathroom without an attendant. All this gets accomplished, while the population figures show an increase over the questionable time period. I think it's about time for me to start doing infomercials. I deserve a condo on the beach, just for having escaped the iron maiden of self deception as a defense against my own survival; while you are dead on arrival.

Later on next month when you are laid back in your lounging chair, with those dreams of sugar plums and your Kim Kardashian blow up doll nestled in the hollow of your arm, you can reflect on how life is good and 'it doesn't get any better than this'. Never mind the cold winds of January that herald the approach of inescapable doom. Come February you'll be out on an empty sidewalk, pimping the Kim doll for a McDonald's breakfast with a 'will fuck for food' sign around her neck, like something out of “The Search for One-Eye Jimmy”. Of course you're hungry. You're eating for two.

Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber; the even more watered down versions of Brittany Spears and Justin Timberlake are what you get, along with Lil' Kim and P. Diddy. They are the official Olympic recording artists for your apocalyptic shuffle into an unmarked grave. Lady Gaga is Mother Mary transformed into The Whore of Babylon with crotchless panties. Not only can you bang the mother of god but she swallows too. She's going to swallow the whole world through her gaping maw. You get what you turned it into. You get what you turned it into. You get what you turned it into. If you turn a house cat into a man eating tiger, or a plowshare into a Glock 9 then you know what's on the menu come feeding time. That's okay, real men don't care and real women are already with someone else.

Tell me people, what does it look like? What does this world you manifested out of low end desires look like? Speculate with me where you think something like this ends up. Where do cheap toys go? What happens in places where life is cheap? You want mass destruction? I can get it for you wholesale; cheaper than stolen. They're wearing that t-shirt that says “Trust me” on the front and “hasta la vista” on the back. But you're down with that.

Of course you need Prozac and liquor in an industrial drum. Of course you need deodorants and perfumes. Your diet sees to that. It's a tragic irony that in the time where you most need to wake up, you most want to go to sleep, so you don't have to see any more. That's not a blind man (speaking of irony) tapping his stick. That's Mr. Apocalypse and he's putting on the Ritz, with the Wakey, Wakey Truth Machine. That's the unfortunate thing about the truth. It will wake you up, as all of us have seen at one time or another. You can lie to others but it is imperative that you are honest with yourself. The relative degree of potential harm between the two is substantial.

It doesn't matter what others do. It does matter what you do, in terms of the result. It doesn't matter what others think. It does matter what you think. It doesn't matter what others say but it does matter what you say because you are the only one walking in your shoes and your shoes are magnetized by your thoughts and words and deeds. They take you from one train to another. Some people reverse their directions after a long way down the wrong road. It happens. Transformation can come in the blink of an eye, once the eye has opened and can actually see.

Some windy mindless night
the splintered streetlamps glow
will shine and light our faces in some
very awkward places
...if I were free to action
and you were free to stay
we'd climb some lofty mountain
and blow the world away.

End Transmission.......

By the way, "The Search for One Eye Jimmy" is a classic of cinema verite.

No comments:

Post a Comment