20 Aug 2005

Twist dance

There is a scene. A SineQuoNon from a rap battle. What does it mean to the plebeian groundlings? Is it a prop for a blond-haired braided valley clown? It means an aching stream of purple and purposeless prose, the baseline that could be better. My nirvana subcontracted your enlightenment – filtered through vacuum tubes.

The good woman slept beside the good man. A give and take overflow. Scrutinized for literary purposes and lowered on a reichstag flag, rationalizations for Hiroshima.

After the rumours that he would shoot up the school were forgotten except in hazy episodes of drunkcapitulation, he discovered he could trust. He found someone to trust. They went too far together, smashed into the omega, got smashed, crashed.

Meaning flickered – Socrates shouted from the ruins of Athens: “The unexamined life isn’t worth living” – but meaning felt like torture – any meaning, all meaning, pain syllogism, a unique sort of hell. Machiavelli morphed into mythology, worked on his power project.

If nothing else it was a lesson – a lesson in moderation. Memory wiping agents weren’t on the market yet. Carlos was slaving away on virtual reality, techies were trying to fix Y3K bugs. Tommy again tried to hermeticize himself. He still paid a tax for his bleeding heart. He wouldn’t work for Injustice Corp. Groovy wasn’t gravy. He boogied a bit in Funkestan, then emptied a box full of suckers onto somebody’s table for some reason and split for pastures of sanatics and their lifestyles.

Hector needs an impossible Escherian enema, clean feels filthy. The nameless imperative rings in grungy tones. He could notate his way through the salsa. He’s no Hunter S. but he remembers there was a time when describing Razberry’s painting of Thompson was ecstatic. He can’t find the right cord to yank out, his girlfriend managed to shut her mind off.

Razberrychaos came again to the Nelson Nexus and there was a new round of clarity. We both had to forgive, we both had to work, we thought it was worth working for. We crossed boundaries, lived in tents.

We fell in love again, and we fought, we clawed, we bitched. We’re rubbing our eyes, trying to rub out the imposing imprint of the omega, trying to cultivate cynicism in this white light of saccharine immensity.

Telepathic portals are working on generating the next generation of vocabulary.

How can I cultivate the harsh edge I need to smash this dayglo nightmare? Do I have the heart?

I can be who I should be. Maybe.

But I can’t come to terms with myself. I’m alright when Razberry pouts and I know the way to set things right. The cracks are deep though. I’m making another pledge to abandon the drugs. She calls my name. 

2 comments:

razberrychaos said...

yes, it was a very too real coming downtime. i'm glad you were there to bitch to - who else would think i look cute after I punch ya in the meta-schnoze? heh, i can takes 'em too, knows you. gimmie a fat lip - it looks good on a pout. although i'd dare say meatwad has a cuter pout than me. damn little ball of meat. the razberry concubine had something to crow about this time, lemme tell you...i'm still reveling in the undrugged, undredged-thru-the-shambhala-mud extacy. The real kind that always gets tagged onto Agony, except without god pointing a finger at anybody.

yep, it's me.... said...

can be who you should be?
no, be who you want to be