Sometimes everything in the world becomes a caricature of itself.... like an acid trip where the safeway employees really stand out in the fluorescent lights as being who they really are... often good people.... and the deserted streets look particularly deserted. Where else can we go from the sheer absurdity of it all? Okay, so the republicans are conniving ways to fuck you blind while you aren't looking, and the oil will spill onto your graveyards.... and in the meantime eclipses and meteor showers will dazzle us, fireworks shows for our amusement..... popular musical acts will perform their numbers in front of crowds in the thousands.... the latest motion pictures will be released to critical acclaim before fading into obscurity. The throes of exhaustion will release you into oblivion. When I see you by the wall, I would like to keep you there, forever and ever. Stick you in a vase, and be sure to give you lots of water. Bloom for me my pretty flower, within the hour, before the hourglass covers you in grains of sand. We can ride into the sunset, we can ride into the sunrise.
Although I shall never know you beyond the stuff of dreams and of nightmares, I shall still think of you as being more than the femme fatale muse of insufferable evenings. No matter how much time is spent in eachother's conversational company, you'll remain an enigma. For the sake of our children's children, let us make sure we poison ourselves nice and slow, so as to entropy in peace amongst the dirt and the leaves. With sweet silent abandon, let us give into the impulses of body language and tongue language, and articulate our thoughts without a moment's hesitation. In hours soon to be forgotten, let us rejoice there in the tickled fancies of our personal Armageddons. Tense moments where we can't release because of taboos we'd accumulated along the ways, like thorns in our shoes that we must pluck out individually.
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"How does it feel to be such a freak?" ~ Robert Zimmerman
There's nothing quite like smoking some weed and drinking half a box of wine, all in the pursuit of truth. The carnival is coming to town... stirring in the hearts of high school girls the desire to run away with a carney... that'd show their parents. Some ill shaven, skinny meat grinder of a degenerate who represents some kind of slumming it phase of dirty dirty freedom to her. The punk just cranks some gears, loads up oversized teddy bears and inflatable ducks and moves from town to town. It's a living that suits him fine. Life to him is a fucking dirty carnival of dirty tricks and games, and so he may as well lean into the curve and work at an actual carnival. Get's to travel... gather's no moss. And maybe gets to fuck some lost small town girls once in a while, spreading his carney seed across the seedy towns of America, conceived in empty semi trucks, behind dumpsters full of deep fried novelty foods and cheap plastic crap. Who knows how many illegitimate children raised across america are the spawns of carneys... perhaps told as they grew up that their fathers were heroes of famous battles, and that is true in a sense.... the carneys are soldiers in the war of the western dream, immersed in the epitome of capitalism, twisted rides, crooked games, empty calories, flashy lights.... all very theatrical like a church service or a rock concert. Gimmicks all designed to draw you in, like the reflective shimmering of a $10 fishing lure. But of course the pretty girls just walk by, blasé attitude, sipping their soda smiling at the depraved fantasy of running away with the carney who would be half cute if he made half an effort to clean up. She imagines his oily working hands tough with the life of a thousand tiny cuts running up her leg. She snaps out of the fantasy and keeps walking to the bumper cars with her friends. Flirts with a guy on the high school baseball team by crashing into his car. He barely notices. Middle aged ladies are really good at making seashell earrings and bring in a few hundred dollars a year after expenses from craft fairs, treating themselves with the money with more supplies to make more earrings, a hobby they enjoy doing while watching cable news or singing competitions on television. Lost balloons fall up into the power lines, falling into the sky. They'll pop from the sun and land in nature streams, end up in birds nest. The poor and the rich, the dirty poor and the dirty rich, they gather on gravel parking lots, hungry for tickets, for release, for change, for the mild danger a carnival represents. The sun beats down on them, they spend hard earned money on iced down lemonade pink from who knows what, laced with sugar processed who knows what.... made from a just add water powder made who knows where... made by who knows who. Take the plastic cup up to the rodeo, where dusty cowboys take off their 10 gallon hats for the national anthem and cut the heads off of rattlesnakes and drink their blood and laugh with bloody teeth glistening in the sun as 2 ton bull buck off young bronze stud boys with fake southern accents listening to country music sung with a similar phony affectation, tough buzzards who think cow shit smells like home and drink whiskey and want a girl who isn't afraid to get her hands dirty, just like we all want in one way or another... just dirty snake blood drinking cowboys who not only drink the blood but mainline the venom later on while leaning against the horse trailer. Getting an orgasmic sense of pride from feeling tough, dirty, brave. Ain't scared of no rattler nor no two ton bull who's been bullied by cowboys and is furious like a freak, bouncing in a metal cage, about to be mounted by denim crotch of cowboy cowgirl, with blood made from cows milk, with muscle made of cows meat, with lymph fluid made of corn syrup, with love made of burrs stuck in spurs. The sun beats down on the downhome cowshit, but begins to set below the cliff... scattered pines and furs dotting the horizon... about time to load up and head home, head full of cotton candy and head full of ideas... fantasies of cowboys, carnies, and other dirty people whose lives are more exciting than the average bobby and sally. But there's nothing like that hot shower to wash that all away. That dirty orgasm having been reached, that fantasy fulfilled vicariously if only for another year. |
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