Lead us beyond frightened gardeners, boot-steps deep to real; Judges; Land Lords; “those who would be taken,” suckered, ushered. Love’s squalor and ideal betrayed by arbitrary fruit, pink-slip codicils to freedom (as possibility): as if: “my kingdom, my kingdom for” a hearse, or Paradise for obscene visions, barren cities, sealed deposit boxes for the coming centuries of stealthy footsteps – echo-clap of sandal-slap — down long corridors of shadow. No vocabulary to describe. The. The idiocy, the paper.
For instance: They can count you on their fingers, but won’t bother, though this is the digital epoch of systemic spiders, fingers, creepy crawlers. Watch them crawl the creepy creep across the kitchen floor. Ten ten ten ten ten over and over. Your head is meaningless.
They won’t hear you; they won’t see you; they’re autistic, and they’re in control. It’s maddening, I know, but it’s the way of things. And they’re our all.
My what big guns you have. Is that battalion REALLY yours? They won’t answer. They won’t bother.
All the money in the world, to them, is merely all the money in the world.
Enough to drive a thinking feeling breathing one insane, but see what good that does. They’ll walk through you, look through you, without knowing feeling smelling hearing sensing you, not you, in any way.
They won’t hear you; they won’t see you; they’re autistic, and they’re in control. It’s maddening, I know, but it’s the way of things. And they’re our all.
They don’t know who they are themselves, why bother counting you?
“Everybody knows” a finger is a finger and a rock a human tree. Aliens in plastic planes light up the sky with rocket blood, bark “Mac-attack!” at skyscrapers and genuflect to Baal – so what? That toenail you won at the Fair and flushed days later cause he ate too much — you fed him bread. Alligators in the sewer and the Dodgers ate the New York Mets. The artichoke-banana-fig band played its “Crony Island of the mine.”
They won’t see you; they won’t hear you; they’re autistic, and they’re in control. It’s maddening, I know, but it’s the way of things. And they’re our all.
You can’t leave, you know. “Away” is gone forever. Blood bombardment is the only game in town. They own the team, residual rights to recollection. They remember every game you’ve ever seen (I hope you saved your ticket stubs; come tax time you’ll need proof).
You’re thinking, “I can reason.” You’re hoping maybe, to appease? It’s like that “Twilight Zone” when Li’l Opie wrecked the planet with his bad-seed mind. Wished to “the corn field” guts that disagreed with peanut butter hamburgers and ice-cream. What’s in the cornfield, you ask? You don’t want to know.
They can’t see you; they won’t hear you; they’re autistic, and they’re in control. It’s maddening I know, but it’s the way of things, and they’re our all.
You don’t want to think about anything because they know when you’re not thinking their thoughts. They know – and they don’t like it. If you’re not thinking their thoughts, whose thoughts are you thinking? More importantly, “Why?” If you’re not thinking their thoughts, maybe you HATE them; maybe you want them GONE; maybe you don’t want them back again EVER NEVER EVER. This upsets them. Though they won’t see or hear or count you, they want you to love them always — or be dead. Love them like you’ve never loved anyone, ever, or be dead.
They won’t see you; they won’t hear you; they’re autistic, and they’re in control. It’s maddening, I know, but it’s the way of things, and they’re our all.
The only thing of which we can be certain.