No Razzmatazz from this Potion (Just some Repeated Bourbon)
Her winter skirt resembled a Matisse paint-by-number.
She met me just to deny me:
Her skin shivered and I handed her my jacket.
Looking at her I was joyfully beholden,
like praise be,
to the knowledge that I didn’t have to compete with Lorca anymore.
Having nothing complete
I find yet another hobby
to take my mind off her lesson plan.
Another failed academic finding solace in little words
hands that lilt
and wilting institutions
poised for failure by steamy devolution.
Longing is over
like another casual affair
and she conjures up an ultimatum
from the lines she knows:
“finish the book before we meet for coffee,
“and if I like what I read…”
There will always be a bill for services rendered
and a rebellious strut for wasted dreamers.
Shave your head and get ready for oblivion
Because the air will continue getting thin
Until she’s reimagined and just lonely enough.
Hang from the dream like a razor strop
Waiting to be utilized in some jumbled verses
that are born from corroding anamnesis:
the booze has worn away the past
to make it fit for lyrics.
All of my favorite artists offended the median social sensibilities of their contemporaries. This made them interesting; they were innately fascinating by their unique interpretation of the world. So, who closed the many mouths of our generation? What was the causation of this current cultural quagmire? The right is crawling further into the puritanical asshole; the left is measuring each utterance by the politically-correct barometer to ensure that no one can be even slightly perturbed by that which was said, written or illustrated – no matter the underlying satirical or subversive intent. Now, if you’ve ever been offended by anything I’ve ever written to the point where you believe it should no longer be considered, I would like this time to say to you: you can legitimately fuck off, get sodomized in a confessional (immaterial whether it’s in a church or the Real World house with cameras rolling), choke om an olive pit from your martini, die gasping for the breath you’re living to oppress. Because the only reason for breath is to express yourself; in order to communicate your individuality, but also to personally understand what that individuality entails. To those still contributing to new ideas, and new ways of expressing them – this next drink is dedicated to you: “may our deaths come quick and bloody!”
P.S. Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of blogs that cater to the hipster-DIY project aficionados. My proposal for one: a step by step guide on how one can create an exact replica of a Roman masturbatorium. That’s an instructional that I would definitely read.