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Friends of
The Brain |
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yawning insect, tumbling 6/26/01
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microscopic apocalypse cataracted across the abyss
of the five senses. swinging like tarzan on
bacchic vines, tendrils of god reaching out to you
with intoxicating pleasures that will not osmose,
you're besmeared with pleasures you cannot assimilate,
slippery orgasms through you fingers. oops.
it's a conanation, a personal invitation to all,
don't forget your body, don't forget the blackboxXXXyour
body's blackbox found by farmers in 4th millenium
fields of glory, bodies involuted in mental boxes.
much to their consternation, they don't find yours.
what was this mind for, the archeologists ask at
conferences in pine cones, mouths of light spitting
rainbows in brilliant dispute. silent gurus
perched on oaks in rapture, for years. what
more is there to know? now is to forget.
science puts us into a perfect box, so we can step
out of it --splattered across the windscreen universe
by mack trucks of love, en route to a bigger universe.
have a puff? so glad they came, the alien
beings with truth sandwiches and sublime gadgets.
you exclaim. no, he says, the universe is
too small, you can take it anywhere, pick up the
ball on your chain. and run, baby!!
boy that was good, but then there was nowhere to
go. rather, you saw that you had broken your
chain. but when you walked away you came back
to the chain. you're walking on the ball.
chain's broken now, but no getting away from it.
so you hold it in your hand. after a while
you put it back on. something to do.
you take it off. after several million years
you just put the goddamn thing back on and start
howling again, madly. you cry out in a voice
of honest indignation and you teach yourself to
forget. what did they expect, for fuck's sake,
you cry.
if you could move through time at high speed, trees
would spit out seeds at you, die and spring up again,
defiant, the forest cough up its last leaf, skeletal,
buried, then shoot out tendrils at you, of flower
and bush. but you can't.
like an inchworm through an apple you'll go.
a mealy soap opera with always the same plot, tedious
circumstances repeating ad nauseum, acted by banal
sickly-familiar characters. to say that you're
bored would be an understatement of microscopic
proportions, so small it becomes quantum.
action at a distance, unknowable cats, radioactive
waste. quantum ennui erects glistening superstructures
of torture, infernal machines. acts of filth
perpetrated upon your person. are you a travelling
ego-petting zoo? a beautiful tree pulverised
for bog roll? hello, i love you, suck my filth.
now go. bad asshole, you, with your pretenses
to lovability. your doe-eyed exuberance leads
you to impossible investments of desire. you're
going bust. bankrupt. used up and tossed
out. you're an asshole, and out of your mouth
comes only crap. fuck you. asshole.
maniac dork.
enduring like sisyphus, tender balls rolling down
endless hills, blue and broken. boing. boing.
boing. scampering behind them. chasing
them about you are. just when you think you've
got them in hand, fate drives them hard into leftfield
with clubs of frustration. aw crap.
you can forget. you got that going for you
when in pain. yes yes, you can and you will
forget. everything. but it takes too
long and it's always too soon. well you think
it will be too soon, but you'll forget about that.
oblivion welcomes you, slackjawed.
ALWAYS: yell at elmo: elmo@redbrain.com
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