Archive for the ‘America’ Category

An Ode To Amerika

March 13, 2007

Greed, Groucho:40, 6006 YD

“The human body is not a thing, or a substance, given, but a continuous creation . . . an energy system . . . which is never a complete structure; never static; is in perpetual inner self-construction and self-destruction; we destroy in order to make it new.”
-Norman O. Brown

thinking: daytime hookers are the the worst of all. not a stitch of makeup: no teeth: dazed look in the face: like even they don’t remember who they are.

Amerika, will you remember me when i’m dead? will you feel for me – even for a second? after all we’ve been through together… how many of your babies are dragged to the gutter every day without you even noticing? just let one of the zillions of light bulbs you employ go dark for me: that’s all i ask. also: turn around the magazine covers in demented homage to one who was a whore for too long. good ole Amerikans, look at those covers thinking about mannequins and blow up fuck-me dolls… magazines purchased in your stores, Amerika, and the stores are run by the little japs you still don’t quite trust, do you? what is inside those tiny music players, anyway?

you suckle on the tit of north amerika; once proud, and now schizophrenic, but you still think you’re on the ball, don’t you Amerika? you still think you know it all. all those idiots pour into your armpit, Times Square, each and every year just to watch a ball drop, and you try to clean yourself up like those daytime hookers on welfare check day. i wince, and try to look away so you don’t have to pretend to be embarrassed. revolutionary tactics have never worked on you, have they Amerika? Your mindset is Berlin in the 30’s… just slowly enjoying the degeneration: hold on, don’t think about any of it too much, or you’ll become guilty: just smile.

you and i are a lot alike, Amerika, believe it or not: its just about esthetics with the two of us. and while I don’t look like someone who should be on the cover of a Wheaties box anymore, you should see yourself, Amerika. we’re both in decline, and trying to hide it. the funny part is we both secretly know we’re enjoying it, and just don’t want to admit it. the problem is, Amerika, i haven’t got any kids to worry about. take that.

why are your skies never black, Amerika? is the rest of the world the same, or is it just you? denying the dark?

your sewers reek of foul BO, Amerika, don’t ever forget it. shh. shhh. i know i’m cruel, but i only say it because i love you. yeah, yeah i did say that, but don’t spread it around: i have a reputation to keep. if you’re going to mention it, give it another name, like when you renamed SARS as “influenza 3”: it’ll just be between the two of us.

kiss me, you beautiful bitch. and you are a bitch, aren’t you, Amerika? despite your penchant for drag, there’s no bastard or son-of-a-bitch there, just old world goddess of smut. i bow to you and your wretchedness, O Amerika. i’ll remember your insane sunsets until i’m ripped apart atom by atom by entropy, Amerika: like the breasts of hell swooning in the sky. kiss me, Amerika, but no tongue, i know your habits: just hold me as we watch your muchroom cloud tangerine sunset and touch my moist thighs, you slut and wonder if its from sweat or is it that revolver you’re hiding in your pocket?

how many revolvers do you own, Amerika? freedom is now a four letter word, when did that happen? the people here love you, Amerika, that must count for something. they wear blinking lights in their shoes in homage to you, my dear: they’d wear blinking lights from head to toe, if they could. i hope they get to some day, it will make them all so happy: and that’s what progress is really about, isn’t it Amerika? making the small people’s lives happy with small things.

goddess bless you, Amerika: i hope you sleep well tonight, so close to your enemy: the rest of the world. really, Amerika, i’m only cruel because i love you. you always hurt the ones you love the most, because despite your foul breath, gaudy jewelry, and prostitutes smeared from head to foot with aquamarine eyeshadow i love you still. in my own fucked up way.

by: Tabula Rasa, KSC
El Kabong Kabal

Advertisements

The Dead Revolution

December 15, 2006

Gluttony, Chico:25, 6006 YD

by: vexati0n

Face it, America. It’s time to give up the charade. It’s 230 years overdue, anyway. We had a good run of it, and around the end of the 19th Century, it even looked promising. But let’s stop deluding ourselves already. Let’s put away the Norman Rockwells, hang up the cell phone for a minute, and give the Republic five seconds of eulogy time.

We never really wanted this Noble Experiment. There are a few of us, now relegated to lurking in the shadows, only brave enough to show half our faces, and only in the daylight when there’s at least enough of us to overpower the riot police, who are going to miss the trip we started out on 200 years ago. But we’re a minority, and we’re going to be silenced, and nobody is listening anyway.

All I’ll ask from anybody today is to just come out and say it. We all know it anyway, so there’s no point in pretending, America. Just say you’re done with freedom, and liberty. Just say it. You don’t want the freedom to be different. You don’t want freedom of speech, freedom of the press, or freedom of religion. You don’t want the right to a fair trial. You don’t want the writ of Habeas Corpus, or solid education, or protection from unlawful search and seizure.

You want the freedom to agree. You want “Safe Streets” and you want “Guaranteed Futures” and you want everybody to slow down so you’re kid won’t be Left Behind. You want somebody to protect you from the Real World. And to shut anyone up who reminds you about just how bad it can be… Out There. You don’t want to live with danger, you don’t want to live with uncertainty, and you’re scared to death of living with you don’t understand. But life IS danger, uncertainty, and it’s filled with the unknown. So, just face it. You don’t want to live at all.

But, see, you’ve taken your security blanket, and you’ve strangled the Revolution with it. You’ve smothered the life from liberty with your down-filled extra-stuffed pillows. You’d call the Sons of Liberty a “Terrorist Organization” if they were around today. You’d run screaming into the arms of the RedCoats, rather than face an uncertain future with nothing to guide you but a few lofty dreams. You’d prefer death at the hands of a tyrant to the prospect of building a life where you have to make room for somebody else to build theirs. Getting to know your neighbors. Getting to know yourself scares you.

You’re not the America that stood up 230 years ago to shake off its chains and claim Independance and Liberty for itself. You’re not the America that fought with itself to rid its institutions of deeply-seated injustice and slavery. That America is dead. It’s caved in, rotted, and given way completely to the America that expanded westward over the corpses of defenseless women and children; the America that now pukes out empty rhetoric where action should go; the America that entombs itself with meaningless wars of choice. You are patriots of that America; I am a patriot of the Dead Revolution: the America that exists now only as the sweet-smelling perfume dumped over the poisonous lies you gorge yourself with.