I looked. Oh, yes, I did. It wasn’t that I was *supposed* to, but, ya know, it had to be.
I wasn’t impressed.
I was a little saddened by it, actually.
It’s okay, because the bass just came in and I decided to turn it up. Funny how a song, like a scent, can trigger spurious memories. Flooding. Inundating. Deftones’ “Opus 11” triggers in me a drive from Everett, WA all the way around that fucking Sound across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge to PSNS, with Terry and some other dickweed I don’t even remember, in his POS Dodge Neon, driving at 75 mph on the highway listening to the Deftones blast away, unbeknownst to them, but knownst to me (Hi! Mel Brooks!), what was happening, that life was happening, happening, happening, sweetly, quietly, more quietly than the time I had the chance to see the Deftones in downtown Seattle but I didn’t go because I had to make that drive on which I liked to listen, listen, dream, perchance. The air coming in through the window, blew through like a freezing torrent in the back seat. I loved it because it was real. Grand. So real. So terrible. so real. Jingle. Jangle. Real. Terry was smoking, and so was I, and all was right with a world that was so wrong.
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.
Hike up your skirt a little more, show your world to me. Because, damn, girl, I love pussy.Yours. Dude, some fags have hit on me in the past, but that doesn’t interest me because, shiiiiit, I LOVES pussy. Sorry, but I do. No, don’t apologize. Is it the whiskey talkin’? So what. Go away if you don’t like it. THIS IS ME, he screams. And before I met her I knew she was the one for me. I had to be crazy. I had to be. I had to rest. Canteen. Green. Sweat dripping. Heat. Too much heat. Black flag days. I was only waiting for this moment to arrive.
Behold, a white horse. A pale horse. And his name that said on him was Death. And Hell followed with him.
The virgins are all trimming their wigs. Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet.
Did you ever have a flood of regrets wash back on you? I have. But it’s not real. The only thing that’s real is NOW. This. Me. You. This. Now. Be. Be. Be. be. be be be be. Now. I told him so and he lived it. Good for him. Good for him, really, that he fucked her in the washroom. Good for him.
That story on NPR. Man, I almost cried when that girl with progeria came on. No parent should have to bury their child. That’s fucked up. If there’s ever an argument that there is no god, it’s progeria. If there is a god, then fuck you, you sick bastard. Fuck you in your tight little cunny hole. (it’s okay, folks, it’s not real)
‘Til Armageddon, no shalom, no shalom.
I tried, I thought. I tried. I tried. I wanted it to be there. I wanted it to come to fruition. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still.
No, that brunette is a dream. She can’t possibly. Is that her hand on mine? Here? In the middle of nowhere? It’s not right but I like it. I LIKE it. That old man, he’s not me. That old man, he has a long thumbnail. That old man, he’s dead to me. That old man, he has cigarette breath and a thousand nails in his coffin. 1000. Nails. Somewhere. Somehow. Somebody must have kicked you around some. It don’t really matter, matter to me.
“Dada, your grandma and grandpa are dead.”
“Yeah, Bubba, they are, and I miss them terribly.”
“Dada, General Grievous isn’t real. Star Wars is not real.”
“I know, bubba.” Take him with the floods. Down by the water. She’ll never know.
Write, write, must write. Must write. Because that’s what I do. That’s what comes out. That’s what comes out and I don’t even see myself typing. Nick Cave sings the song and I read his book and I kissed away a thousand tears…d d d do you love me? Superjoint. Super me. Super. Me. Me. Me. Me. me. me.
me. me. me. me. me.
(yes, that’s a “me” penis”)
Don’t fear it. Don’t. La la la la la. Don’t ffearrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
la la la la la
we can be like they are.