marboblue:
I will be the brightest star in the Skyy Vodka
amongst these lesser sorts fighting for prestige
The trick is a cultivated contempt for propriety
with the knowledge that in victory
the Ways and Means can always be tided up.
My eyes twinkle
my soul trickles
and merrily
merrily
I float face down up the stream
Bar types and stool folk were never really my friends.
The proof was in the bottle.
Having burnt the most worthwhile bridges our gallantries subsist
on a diet of nostalgia and fabricated tales of heroism
or was it hedonism?
who can tell the difference anymore?
My last chance for nepotistic hope was aborted
in a dark alley behind the dive
where I first acquired my taste for self destruction.
So now I am the minotaur: beast in the head
When I of Dream of Genius, it is Kafka
and the metamorphosis is seen through.
But the shame can be shaved clean away with Occam’s Razor
and I name the resulting scars after my favorite constellations
For all the splendors made unobtainable by our worldly departures
life has quite the obligation to entrain us in absentia
Yet remnant factions of progressives
take up gossip as a cure for usefulness.
Here’s to praying that our inadequacies
can serve a higher purpose with just the right spin
Lobbyist control fucking everything
parliament of whores
residual parasites with little to profess
and absolutely nothing to lose
who clamor to be counted amongst the Movers and Shakers
in the absence of original sin.
Through their falsehoods I have heard the lamentations
of forgoing a chance to be something more
than a rotting corpse on the eve of the last sunny day
Earth 2012
It is a song set to closet misogyny
not generally intended for the casual Citizen Kane
The chorus is mass marketed Karaoke style
adorned with coke rails and hooker tabs
for the benefit of the semi living wunderkind
so that they- and indeed all- might
reclaim common sense in light of deplorable decadence
Clandestine arias of transcendental didactic syntax
serenade predominating bedfellows
exhausted from daily mindless assertion
so that they- and indeed all- might
never have to wake up and face themselves
Do you really want a reason to Danse Macabre?
Is it not enough that we suffer already?
My sense of optimism has been forever beseeched
with morbid connotations that belie a great haven for bad vibes;
it has never been conducive for motivational posters or greeting cards,
but Hallmark can still engineer a holiday in my honor commemorating
the advent of their eventual hubris.
Do you really want a reason to Danse Macabre?
It’s hard to foxtrot sobbing prostrate before mortality
To those just turning in,
we ask all audience members
to please refrain from any forays into excessive altruism
as it tends to interfere
with the spirit of our broadcast.
(On a more personal note, if you had wanted god to love you,
you could have adopted a more hip sense of style
Guardian angels
and ancestral ghosts
are being arrested at this very moment for blatant voyeurism
but your square ugly ass
never had a chance of being saved by the limelight)
Allow me some latitude in emulating Marmeladov with all my dogs
living like dogs
in the face of prosperity too foreign to bear.
I gave up on the human race when I learned
we use defoliants on human beings.
Treat me like a leaf and I’ll see to it that you are the one that burns
on crisp Autumn afternoons
when the smoke smells like a goddamn clichéd memory.
I met Lady Madona on the road to catharsis
seeking to escape the woebegone colloquial rantings
of bittersweet bygone days.
Logic, as it were, could be put on hold while subjective martyrs
of impressive sounding bloodlines vomit insecurity
into various holy vassals in spite of not having
a routine by which to manufacture acceptable excuses.
Life is only significant at odds with the routine.
No mercy for troubles, no villain by way of apathy. It
sets the stage and feeds us blood lust patriotic lines.
To be fair, every alternative venue reeked poverty
and all the wretch that that stench entails.
Shattered dreams and stunted glory
are offensive to the nose and unholy to behold
and I hardly have the time to spit shine their faded significance
back to a less shit-stained state of being.
Utopia remains a constant on the tips of tongues
if for no other reason than it is a pleasurable word to say out loud
Morose
would have been a more apt description when the cheque comes
but that was hardly a consideration worth noting
new Babylonian walls are perpetually being erected over expired shrines
shadows are being cast that blur our ability to read between the lines
our way of becoming free at last, free at last are rampantly obscured by
the artificial awe of grandiose spectacles.
The difference between a peace sign and flipping the bird
is simply one finger and a slight wrist turn
and a thousand connotations
that can make the difference
between life
and
death
Living is a reward, not a right
Wishful thinking and bad lies have origin in intolerable truth.
We have forgotten all the ways to get away with anything
