Not e’en spring—
a thousand parked cars;
a thousand parked cars
Not e’en spring—
Not e’en spring—
a thousand parked cars;
I'm kidding. No I'm not.
I'm proud o' my scrumptious misery.
You covet my sorrow like a salty snow cone.
You wish you could feel the fresh sting I feel in my chest,
the heftiness in my limbs,
the fuzzy ache in my brain muscles.
Well, you can't have any o' it.
I worked hard to have it,
cultivated it o'er years--
far too many for you to just swoop in like a dog-food scoop
& spoon it into your pouchy maw.
Not happenin', cap'n.
Not on this ship, Jim.
& I'm keeping it, too:
all the hornets swarming through my throat & mouth,
the dry lock on my mind as the world round my blurs into Photoshop filters,
hunger & bloat,
the constant yanking on all my nerve-ends...
This has gone on far too long.
You've seen 'nough for a day.
Got to put the display case back in its model.
The door's just on the left out in the hallway.
fog smothers the stars
clear full moon.
…it’s the work I put into it.
…it’s the money I get for it.
…it’s the money I pay for it.
…it’s all ’bout the results.
…it’s the thought that counts.
…it can’t just come from nothing.
…it’s all within me.
…it’s what I don’t already have.
…it comes from mass production.
…it 1 o’ a kind.
…it’s decided by the buyer.
…it’s decided by the seller.
…it’s decided by everyone.
…it’s decided by no one.
…it’s what I say.
…it’s what the market says.
…it’s what the law says.
…it’s what the public says.
…it’s what the experts say.
but can be objectively measured by math & stats.
…it’s independent o’ labor,
but if we don’t reward those who work to make it,
we won’t have ‘nough;
& we don’t know who works to make it,
’cause we haven’t found out what it is.
& is nothing.
A Marxist & an Austrian-schooler walk into a bar,
& after chugging 20 KG o’ ale,
the Austrian goes to use the loo for an hour.
‘Pon coming out, he holds a glass o’ urine
& says to the Marxist,
“I’ve spent an hour laboring to create this pee.
Since it clearly has labor,
you must be willing to offer a price for it.”
Unperturbed by this fellow’s strawman argument,
the Marxist replies stoically,
The Austrian-schooler can only wince & take a few subtle steps backward.
“W-what? Why would you want my pee?”
The Marxist straightens himself.
“Why are you so nosy into my subjective wants?
Have I not a right as any other to buy whatever I want with my own money?”
So the Marxist bought the pee & huffed it late @ home;
& he proved to the Austrian-schooler
that in a world wherein feces splattered on canvasses are considered high art,
all work, no matter how insipid, can hold value.
Thus, this proves that not only will capitalism inevitably fall,
but that it’s already fallen,
& has simply been replaced by dapitalism,
which is its cousin,
distinguished only by its bowler & handlebar moustache.
That is the only god.
Accept no substitutes.
Also, mud pies are quite useful, you fools:
I eat them all o’ the time.
They are the tastiest o’ chocolate pies.
People who do not enjoy the scrumptiousness o’ chocolate pies
must be eliminated.
Thus decree the scrolls o’ the Engelsist Order o’ the Red Star.
You thought I was gone.
But you were wrong.
You thought I was gone--
but I always come back.
Just when you think you can slide back in your easy bed,
fed on the cream o' fulfilled dreams...
that's when I strike.
I'm your AIDS.
I ne'er go 'way.
& if you go near that place 'gain--
you know the place I'm talking 'bout:
the place o' spineless weasels that claim they can destroy me,
think that they can have you.
But they're wrong.
& if you e'er go near there 'gain,
I'll strike back with 4 times the force.
If you e'er slide back into your comfort cloud,
I'll pop it like lightning.
¿Is that what you want?
The sharp pain o' cloud blood on your veins.
¿Can't you see the futility?
There's no comfort in comfort.
Give up the bad drug already.
I'm the only comfort you need.
I may be strict,
but I'm real.
You can't handle the comfort:
it's just too dangerous.
Now just get down back here with me.
There we go...
Everything's safe here...
Just don't fuck it up.
It's just like ol' times.
¿Dónde está la luna?
Debiste mirarla cuando puedas.
Está leja para siempre y no regresará nunca.
¿Where’s the moon?
You should’ve watched it when you could.
It’s gone ‘way fore’er & will ne’er come back.
& all the pulsing itchiness—
No, I speak not o’ those moldy hinges
on which your spoilt rattling paint cans grip.
I speak o’ mo’:
a rainbow jungle
whose palms o’erbrimmed with crisp crisps—
that’s how I spelt it; it’s Britican without the sharp-edged can openers.
You think salt water can’t be fresh.
You think the sea salt ruins warm brownies.
If you’d take 1 tiny break from all your fuck-cunting,
you could peel open the apple
or crunch into the grape.
But if I keep eating potato after potato,
I’ll ne’er stop,
& I’ll ne’er get round to feeding,
So we must roll up our bags,
slap the grit into our knuckle wrinkles,
“Gotta write the bike in a fight for strife in a dive for pines with leaves for cheese & these are fleas for keys, please,” babbled the idiot as it stuffed greasy peanut butter into its blood-chapped lips & through its unbrushed rusty teeth.
But the suffocating pressure
o’ the flimsy arm bone o’ the lung
pumping blood to the brain
foretells the stitching o’ the heart muscle.
Someday the steel stiffness that won’t let my arteries bend will be filed ‘way.
Perhaps when it tediously figures out how to doodle its name in the dirt
‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain,
it’ll find mo’ thread
for a true quilt.
Dijó mi supervisor,
—¿Por qué tienes tanto estrés?
Hoy es tu viernes.
Pero, lo dijé que no necessito sus vierneses;
todos los días podrían ser mis vierneses
con la ayuda de unas pastillas de cianuro…
Y es por eso que busco para un nuevo trabajo, señor.