We are all in the hive
industrious or not
all flashing something
like it was an exchange of some sort,
a communion for profit,
you buying?
So, having numbered that
we move on without a purpose
like sails dead without wind
like slow motifs that give off
a frustrated and furious chant
that makes it real, just like you want it.
Life as we want it,
we are connected,
but hardly to each other.
Switch, jerk off, switch
easy money, like porn
and pedling questionable favors,
you buying?
Like God I've got it,
whatever you want,
I am selling you all I am, man,
living on it
and not just sitting on bedsores,
besides you have to somehow pay for that bed anyway.
And that's that too, then,
I'd rather sit on an ice raft
pushed out to the sea when dementia comes,
the way of the elders,
Mocking and blaspheming,
spitting, farting,
crazy and deranged.
The lot's never vacant anymore,
so if we accept human rights,
we have to expect casualties.
Better not you align with the enemy,
give flesh to the target, man the dichotomy,
nor afford sadness or grief,
lest they leave you volatile
and too smart for it,
You better be,
that's how you don't need a pimp.
And I've just found someone new
to talk about my terminal solitude
raking the falling words
like dead leaves.
Or do you believe
we can make a difference
– although not amends, of course.
It's all a big mess anyway,
so who could make the difference,
see them from each other,
unfolding, becoming.
Surely ripe enough
to appreciate dying in the end,
so that we don't need to plead
from fate.
We have conned the money for the ferry
and will all make it across the river
as if already there,
but here, and heretofore
we shant forget
that we must demand
to be thus included
brothers and sisters of living tissue
we will have to insist, even if disputed
and especially then, lest we choose to disappear alltogether.
But meanwhile
as I have my way with you
you have your way with me
the way of blood and disappointment.
And there's oh so much in the blood,
it'll make you squirm at times.
So you wont be standing straight – how could you?
You sometimes occupy a mere crawlspace,
having crashed from such high altitudes
to sit at the john
as the bowels jerk you
just as them appendixes,
hands and cocks,
crevices burnig with yearning
scream you to sleep
acting out on desires
that make you want and need
as if you could be satisfied
when even your modesty can't
nor can you function
on plain description,
admit to total death.
Thus thou art compelled
to forfit the human perspective
and let you run on all fours
hind mocking the sordid face.
The reptilian innocence
insulted by income taxes
rebel lion roaring
in the empty streets
mourning the solitude of the ferocious.
Maybe you sigh,
and turn to your dreams,
mostly oulawed for being so unproductive
better you just dream
in the house all the daddies and mommies
of the world have built
if they let you in
to wait on your legacy,
hoping they would never leave you
and make you fully responsible
like the poor and the orphaned
who never had anything
unless they just took it
and ran away with it.
There's something fishy about it,
to suggest such questioning of property rights,
like those left wing exorcists prowling on your inheritance.
That's it! They've got it all wrong,
they should have earned it,
like you did when you was borned.
All this shit distracting your high end brooding,
void of values imposed by petty squalls
for food and freedom.
No, there's nothing post-modern in hunger
and there's nothing post-mortem in ownership.
That's metabiosis, man.
You need no license to practice,
strictly all in,
no hogging the bottle,
you filthy degenerate,
I'm surprised you can even stand
and mind you, if you fall first,
I'll eat you, only fair.
Just standing in awe
of fucking money,
of course,
wouldn't you,
like the dog quivering in reverence
because of the unrefutable logic of it,
that coital currency
it is the only tangible and quantitative
value system around
as if God materialized on the palm of your hand
twenty fold, you know what it feels like
for you have prostituted
to make it real
worshipped with state of the art rituals
with good faith and due cynicism.
Yes, money let's you bow to other idols,
it's majesty abates such jealousy.
You can have other gods,
just acknowledge that such petty fools
have no say when it comes to fucking money.
How much?
To buy the infectuous stigma of poverty off of you,
wash it away with luxury,
and let them smell expensive on you,
feeling the rush of ultimate power,
wouldn't you?
Can't help it,
it does always feel like blasphemy
when someone questions
such a feeling, and the omnipotence
of your fucking money.
