Now my turn

by practicalspactical

Three dead poems, great and wondrous, their apprehension beyond my reach, but ne’ertheless, they are dead poems, their bones long since picked clean, wormfood — from the days before Clean White B.N.W. Cremation, Inc. — let nothing touch my body (sterilize it, cellophanewrapped food, but still — hospitals smell like –)

I, Ai, Eyely, trying to learn poetic form and meter, in this age of Broken Form, Revanchism, Unending Historical Nightmares, Cannot Wake; But be ironical about it, it is not so tragical, life is magical, trip the light fantastic, Holly, Go Holly Go Lightly, dance back and forth, shake that thing, that beautiful bulb that moves me so —

Smutpeddlers, Broken America, postracial, miscegenation, love, and free love, and love that isn’t free, and sex without love, hot wriggling on rayon sheets, fetishization of our culture of commodity, true information age, everything wrapped in invisible leylines of data, information, tying us all together in tighter and closer meshes.

Neo-Luddites fear for privacy, but blind the Panopticon with mirrors and light and you can hide here too, in the Great Zoo Menagerie, depends on how Eso Teric, Intramural, Youza care to be’a.

Thieves Cant, Griot, Creole, big bad Project Finance goes to trace out Fairytales in Deserts, then nine months tear it down, digitize it, ship it by truck or satellite to two thousand ten thousand fifty thousand darkrooms, where popcornedpreterite can watch the brennschluss and inevitable descent —

Listen to the breakbeat — most sampled, most played, what’s it called, the Amen Break, omphalos of dance music, and stare at our alienpipescar, our matrixpiece, we are all starchildren, uniqueus, ubiquitous, wonderboys and wondergirls, popping and laughing and joying and sicking and dying, others taking our place in the Great Circle Game — at the end of time, when all breaks down, the Young will Eat Their Parents — The World is getting crowded, People are meaner, but we kill less and less —

After the Great War Sequel (Return of the Son of the Great War, Part II, Godzilla vs. Megatron the Rematch) Governators steal the people’s guns in dead of night (like a thief I come) to preserve the monopoly of violence. But opensource beats closed universe, and the AK47 spreads like deathflowers, like the pop’pea fields, redblood, before the Emerald City — if I only had a brain, our Scarecrow President thinks, four miles from me in Barney’s White Castle — why are the burgers so small?

— Apocalyptic meme, darkdream, running strong these days, appearing in many different manifestations — Fall of Towers in Towered Manhattan, Prez’Go’Bushki dreams of tall bearded arabs, pulling down his pants and making him a woman, Prezgobushki wakes in night, Lady Laura sucking on his ding dong, he pushes her away, slaps the bitch, goes and grabs a secretdrink, and declares war on all the desertdwellers

Let God sort them out, he says dismissing reports of collateral damages — madness madness tapping at the window — I must go, says Madness, but try to clean up before Ma and Pa get home. Okay Madness, says I the Child, Thing One and Thing Two did this but I’ll clean it up. I’LL CLEAN IT UP. Dingdong. Dingdong. Dingdong.

Almost over now.

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