When cages are unlocked tangled hordes of urban creatures fill the cavernous concrete mecca. E pluribus unum, shore birds of an accidental kind, amorphous structures, whiskey citizenry. Down the street Bruce made famous but Jose and Kareem endure. In a resurrected city made of crooked dealings. Where the unseen shift from homogeneous whiteness towards Camden yards and Brooklyn streets takes a strong hold. Towards kisses of a different kind. Soft lips on soft lips. Moistness you could only dream of. This sipping, spinning, singing, tattooed sub culture of sub prime, no khaki apparel, not the idealized peptides with blue eyes and big tits. The grungy slop at the bottom of the sink where everything is broken down and from where everything grows, the gritty loam, the bird droppings, playing a b-flat. Smoking like addicts under street lights and stars burning effortlessly illuminated through the darkening cold cosmos. Each sip alleviates, unlocks the cage a little more, pushes the door slightly more ajar, up-hikes her dress ever so slightly, crushed between two bodies, feeling the lifegasim.
All the while there is a broken structure inside the soul made of rotting wood and crooked steel. Hope torched and dragged through the mud. Some open wound unseen by the multitude bleeding you to death. The billy-goat castrated and sent back out to pasture with nothing left to look forward to but grass and death. The shattered mirrors stupefy. Broken images unable to differentiate between reality and perception. A Huxleyian concept brought to life without psychedelic aid. Through the water bloated fissures, stuck amongst the hydrogen-less atom, the momentary instability of existence resting on an electron spinning one moment inside the meaty universe located in the skull then exploding deep in the combustion furnace of Jupiter. Leaving a blinking light where a steady stream should be.
On trips to the bathroom there is piss on the floor. American Standard, 1 gallon per, and still piss on the ground, humanity is a stupid animal. The loneliness is nearly palpable. The desperate disconnection of misunderstanding. The empty hands wishing to be filled. The broken hearts wishing to be mended. Coral estuaries smothered in toxic waste for the sake of industrial progress leading only to a worker revolt. Broken down machines. Piss on the floor. The irony of course is that sobriety would lead to avoidance of the whole embattled process. Leaving you stone cold sober to stare into that mirror no longer broken, that cage closed tight, the lifegasm hard and embarrassing on your sheet. While you stare into that watery oculus from which your meat universe constructs every image you have ever seen you see a stranger staring back at you. That is when the cold fear slips in like an intruder rummaging through your drawers while you sleep only a foot away.
This is the eternal struggle of the modern citizen. We are crossbred between puppets, cows, and gods. The systematic butchering of our own sanctity has left us to struggle as gilded calfs.
“If men cease to believe that they will one day become gods then they will surely become worms.”
Worms we are. With Wi-Fi and acrylic condoms. Skin still sooty from the old blast furnaces no longer burning. Finger prints more pronounced in our soft skin. Losing the pinky toe and elongating out tailbones, slowly transforming into sheep. A revolution could never take hold in America. The comfort of the oppressed is too thick. Heroin strength. The power of the powerful is to massive. A revolution would sputter and die faster than a Kennedy. That is why we must revolt continually, it is in our blood as Americans. We dismantle the cosmos in the morning only to put it back together at night. Slightly crooked and changed, but always of the same picture. American can never be burned out of existence. We are the modern Visigoths, the Jews, the Phoenicians. We are the resurrected Minoan culture set to explode and reabsorbed into the vertebra of human existence.
The cold Atlantic wind jet-streams over embattled sodium shores through crumbling asphalt streets unto meat universe driven gilded calf skin. Youth is a form of comatose. Sound of mottled inebriated verbiage penetrate the wingless aviaries scratching themselves softly wondering about crabs. Born into chaos so rich it takes the mind years to catch up. Hope still clinging to life like a cancer patient in living limbo. To often are we snuffed out before we reach what can be considered alive. A black spring encompasses the muted generation striving for variation while unknowingly filling an ancient mould. Death will find us all. But not all of us will ever find life.