An anti-western documentary, allegedly leaked to a South Korean tourist by agents of the North posing as defectors has emerged and been translated to English. And god is it scary just how right they have all of it, down to the letter.
Every morning I lug my old, saggy ass off this mattress. When I wake up, I’m actually surprised. I never expected me to get this far. Everything hurts. My teeth hurt, my piss hurts. The jackhammer that’s going in my chest is an unfriendly fuck. When she left me, I thought I’d of been pimp of the world. Take a few of the neighborhood gals out, and show em’ a good time, you know south side Casanova. The big cheese, the millionaire man type shit, but nope. I’ve been sitting here, rotting away with my nudie books and cheap beer for over a decade.
Sure, a few times a slag or two has came calling with their wine breath and broken smiles, but for what? I’m just a used car salesman or a road hard jockey with no future.
She went and married that doctor. That high brow, no stain in his drawers jerk off with the nice hair. And me? I’m still surviving, but I’m not the hero of the play these days.
The neighborhood, the one she left, it’s not what it was. Too many punks roam the streets and no one stops by for a drink anymore. I’m still here as long as the radio plays my songs. I’m a fighter, the street lights come on and I remember a time with good songs on the radio and beer that was strong and mean, just like I used to be.
I’m left to wonder where I’ll be in a few more years, but till then, I’ll sit here and watch the world forget about me, one day at a time.
Maniac, I tell ya.
Burn like a tiny Sahara under your fingernails. Seethe like a woman scorned after a bar fight. Watch the world die every moment under the setting sun. Reinforce the walls of your soul with hard glass from spent bottles, and glue from the hooves of the dead horses than roamed by the firelight inside your mind. In the fields of rarified acumen our worlds are smashed into ashtrays with a millimeter of spilled drink.
Prowl like a pervert and observe the life of the muted hands of the butchers as their knuckles are covered in the blood of the animals we once were just hours ago. We peer over nudie books and blame the churches and the politicians for the shit that’s clogging our lungs. Truth is, we’ve always been the product of pork shaving knife blades, but we didn’t have the information as we do now.
Silently, I watch you like an X Ray machine and I wonder what your beautiful insides look like while considering the skeleton beneath the skin. My eyes are like daggers and this is my crime scene. Move with me, and thrust against me, but when you do so, please scream.
Coffins of tomorrow.
I’ll never be a Hemingway or a Burroughs. I’ll never know that salty-sweet scent of death laced at the end of a pen. The scribbles of a mad genius, high on the fumes of violent writing binge. The keys, and the stories inside haunted them, as they do me. But, I was too late, came out of the ass instead of the pussy.
The way those brutes bled on the paper and their souls took off with the words, that’s why we pray to them. The cowboys of yesterday are gone. All we’re left with is safety and quiet nights. We allow the children to push buttons on blinking screens while their humanity is compromised with the gods of technology while the gods of dire consequence survive in unread books in sections labeled for the bastards of the party. I’ll never be able to pay my rent on the backs of my words; I have to work in places I hate with faces I hate. While the stories I loathe climb the charts, and the songs of the fathers they never knew call out to anyone who’ll listen with a beat that’ll break the will of a sucker for a sniff of cheap perfume.
The newspaper men are paper tigers, and the writers of today aren’t willing to die for their words, they’re willing to cash in on the backs of children’s stories.
I see eyes at the end of life’s dark hallway and hear the screams of the alphabet as the writer becomes a thing of little use. If it’s not exploding with a big dick on fire, we’re paying top dollar to eat it with a label that says “green” – the world today – we’re run by idiots, and the books still sit unread and unloved while the body grows cold.
Where is the gospel of Bukowski and the empty bottles that litter the floor? Why do we swallow the status quo like a fat cock in cheap skate thrill porn?
Scholars line the walls in the unemployment offices of the world, while the counters to buy a dollar cheeseburger are well stocked with bodies for the mental fire. We ask the men we look up to why can’t they hit more homeruns or make our cars go faster? We can’t pay our cops or teachers but, we’re willing to let a shadowy man in a suit in from of a podium condemn us to a slow, stupid death.
Lies the world told me.
When I was a kid I thought I’d have it figured out by now. I thought I’d be living a top the tallest trees, and sipping the world’s greatest. I thought life followed a plan. Kids sit on top of their street beaten skateboards and stare out into the passing world, one minivan at a time, and think the person inside has it all locked down.
As an adult you’re met with constant let downs, back stabbing, and courses off the map and somewhere out into the ocean.
We used to sit and drink cheap beer as teenagers and talk big about the houses we’d buy or the fictional women we’d marry. What we got was far different than we planned those summers ago.
We settle, and we compromise.
We cheat ourselves into false security. We stink like regret and confusion, by calling us adults we’re just passing the buck on one another.
Wino’s and addicts are adults just as are pee pee touchers and glue sniffers. Feebs and idiots pay taxes. I watched dreams die like bullet ridden soldiers. For the price of a house, you too can watch hope fade off into the sunset and into the arms of death.
And they wonder why so many men choose to drink?
A fireball from the heavens has nothing on the way the heart moves. The fireball screaming toward a blue, twinkling sky spins and catches a greater fire. Millions of alien eyes stare into the shadowy abyss searching for the answers, as the fireball rockets and shakes into the atmosphere.
This fireball grows hot as the miles drag it like a child’s plaything across the floor, god’s plaything. The heart watching the sonic boom longs for cold nights wrapped in a cheap blanket, letting the heat of the soul flicker like a flame between two bodies.
The coals in the fire at the hearth burn, but not with the intensity of the fireball, the gift from the other end of the universe, a letter signifying that we aren’t alone, we’re just too caught up in our own fantasies of self worth to see the language the interstellar use to communicate with.
We reason against our own will, and sacrifice our own heroes to lay on swords of guilt when the cross is just the same to saviors since the dawn of reason.
Men pound fists into one another, will mothers let their sons since their radiance and understand their glow. It’s in this we unlock the secret message hidden within the hear of the fireball, but will never comprehend the message locked in the human heart.
In the United States, particularly in the Southern United States, and in Hungary as well, a sunshower is said to show that “the devil is beating his wife” because he is angry God created a beautiful day. The rain is said to be his wife’s tears.
Every day I thank White Jesus I wasn’t raised in Mississippi
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