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