24 Sep 2007

killer

It's sad that a shaved head is so cliche.
In fact, so cliche is so cliche.
It's my superpower these days
seeing tiredness, where no one else can.
It'll be the reserve currency, the gold standard
when the oil runs out
cause bliss is inexcusable
except when insulated with wealth.
Then you can blissly see disaster, dispassionately
write about it, blog about it, not with urgency
but with the leisurely distance of the third martini
at the garden party, the cocktail party, pre
apocalypse.
Maybe I am chronically insulated though.
Maybe my bubble is large enough to protect me
for the rest of my unnatural life.
I'm such a standard sell-out, I'll say yes
mediocrity in favour of catastrophe
cause I don't want to live in heroic times.

A sufficiently punishing crash
will drive market forces
to stash the fentanyl vault.
It'll be the welfare cosmos, jumping the gun and
splurging the anesthesia reserves, the poppy dust
laid out in a field.

When you want to pull down death's hood
he'll be waiting
and the market will be your chauffeur.
You can write about it now
leisurely
and fraidy cats will tell you
"don't whistle for the wind unless you want it to blow".
For the record, I don't
but I'm not jinxing anything.

My superpower is a superweakness. Higher consciousness
and higher despair.
Maudlin glam serio-comic psychewank.
Yeah.

Cause bliss is inexcusable
except in the bubble
except in the bubble that I can't call "narcotic"
when I'm making half-hearted efforts to purge drug associations
even as I swim in the chemical soup, crumbling all kinds of crazy
crackers into congealed currents of neurotransmitting molecules.

Art is still there sometimes.
And I'm worse than mediocre
I'm self-indulgently maudlin, and arrogant about it
except right just this second, living in the present
the present shameful situation
prostrate before the ideal of failure.
I'm worse than you, I'm sure.
I don't buy your charming false modesty.
You would understand if you were this much of nothing.

Poppies are renewable
and bliss is inexcusable
and talking of suicide
a glam, flashy suicide
is a coping mechanism, a therapy, a remedy
for the unpleasant feelings
when considering the ramifications of mass scale slow suicide
that might necessitate a fast suicide at some point
or maybe it's not mass scale, maybe it's small scale
self scale.
Maybe it's spiritual, a give up.
I gave up trying to wrap my head around
what chemicals are doing what to my head
what head?
It's just the same sane-drain blame game.
That's an assonant justification for applying
for my cosmic welfare cheque. Usually a month's supply
is all you need. It's a thirty step program. Give or take a few steps.
A few stumbles. Some people run. Some people crawl.
It all leads to the same place. Some people talk about white light.
Some people talk about a black curtain.

Fentanyl is serious medicine. Even though it doesn't have an x or z in the name. It's not your father's heroin. I'm applying for a research grant. If my application is accepted by the politburo of the cosmos, I will be paid in fentanyl. One installment. If I survive the first month, I make it to the inner circle. That extra week makes all the difference. Hi-five! That's when it turns into De-Loused in the Comatorium. It's always nice to lose the lice.

Google and the DEA have become very effective at annoying users. They make us do shady things. Well, we can't have our actions appear dignified. Not mine, anyway, I don't know about yours. Your actions are probably okay, maybe even state-sanctioned, even if you are a mess of crazy ideas, damaging neuroses, paranoid reactions, inabilities to cope, but you hold onto that rope, and you cope. Me, however, I apply for fentanyl grants, under the guise of research. There's even a database somewhere that has me in it, as a purchaser of synthetic tryptamines. It's not a stonecutter conspiracy. I never tried to change things. I never cared enough to. Why would anyone come after me? I just wanted to tweak a few things and see what happened. I saw a few things. There was no gateway. It just was.

Maybe if you feed me enough ephedra, I'll become an activist and make trouble for the government. Any government. I'll start a mercenary firm that only takes anti-authoritarian missions. Cause I'll have energy, man. I couldn't get through Gore Vidal's essay on McVeigh. I don't really care about Waco. I weild what apathetic power I can, from a distance, the power of apathy, the dignified apathy. Whatever. My mantra. Indulgence in the occasional paranoid fantasy of guerella warfare in the kootenays, sniping americans from my sacred tree. Minus the glamatics, riddled with bullets from automatics, eaten by a bear. But before that, consuming my emergency invasion package, my pinko birthrite, the handout from my true homeland, the republic of planet earth, the mama matrix most mysterious, gaia's medicine, fairy dust. Cause we saw what happened to Iraq, and we think fairy dust is the only thing that will protect us. And maybe some native indian inflected remix album. They're feeding the generals prozac. It seems to work okay. I don't usually think about nukes, do you? They're too abstract.

1 comment:

Matthew Rounsville said...

riff:
shaving my head into a cliche
dropping a thousand cliches on the floor
only my blue toenail is real

I wear my cape slung over my chest
use it as a blanket
cat hairs cover my emblem
but it's dark, anyway
and this way nobody knows who I am

I dream that the quarters in my pocket
have turned into gelatinous blobs
of crude
that burn my skin
and peasant dolphins sneeze
each time they approach me
and all my neighbors can do
is tell them to buy some teeth whitener
and look at me
like I'm a half-unwrapped candy bar
lying on the sidewalk
melted so bad
my nuts are getting a tan
and with my eyes rolling down the hill
I yell, "SO."

and somewhere in a big basement bunker
the kind of place Hitler would shoot himself in
grabbing one last titty
before he goes
the world's elites
are trading baseball cards
the kind without the gum
because gum leaves residue
pink as the dream I was told to have
so we've got to do the chewing
and the blowing
and the bubble
looks like a fly's eye
or a folk song in spandex
and the bubble is a no name bubble
doesn't even have a upc
the bubble is a dictionary
and a theremin
the cure for the common cold
an easier way to suffocate
without being touched

outside people scream that it's raining
mecha clouds scribbled on the porous scalp
that was shiny yesterday
before everybody copped a feel
and had their way with it
and I'm just rolling
after my eyes
and right now
because the sidewalk ended
I realize
that my cape is a bib

and all the xray vision in the world
will only get me branded a pervert
so everybody grabs their shred
of the torn black curtain
of death/night/ignorance
and the fibers they forget
germinate
into flowers ass-up to the sky