All Dressed UpÖ
Since I am still the star
Of a movie that no one is really watching.
They play me for background noise.
Something to fall asleep or fuck to.
So I borrow scrapped backgrounds
from James Bond films
and colorful backdrops from Ernest movies.
I woke up masturbating in the opening credits.
It was some kind of subconscious morning directive.
Driven to squelch and relinquish the instinctual
temptation to oogle and drool over every ass I see swaying
on the stage of the earth.
I work today.
WHO THE HELL
HOW THE HELL
WHY THE HELL
Slaves for trade.
Magnificent features in the hysterical parade
You picked up a copy of me and read the back.
ďI need to escape this retail hell,
and retreat to a developing country so I can starve myself to death.
After all, happiness arrests no merit in terms of relativityís spectrum of lifeís
Prude yet crude sexual positions.Ē
Those around me are lazy, hypocritical mockeries of one another.
Communication holds far too much complexity.
Youíre lying to me.
Oh Iím lying to you?
I donít know what Iím talking about?
Well you donít know what youíre listening to!
Headache. Shit taken, not stirred.
So I drift off, waiting for a bowel movement or a phone call.
The shopping malls reek of youth.
Look at these bastards on wheel boards rolling around pointlessly.
Children should be named after the drug picked out by their failed parents.
Oh, youíre still watching.
In this next scene, I venture to the other side of the counter.
Into the public.
Into consumer opportunity.
I suppose I could fancy myself on a crumpet run tonight.
And go muff diving two brothels away from a local glory hole.
Hell, its my movie, right?
So what if my dick dies in its own piss water?
Hope floats like a shoe to the groin.
Self-certainty withers like conjured reveries beneath budget hotel sheets.
But I donít think a sex scene would fit here.
Answers were Jack Kerouacís road kill.
All dressed up and no place to find.
Importance gives birth to triviality
through crotch-less panties
And you of all people..
Youíre still with me.
What do you think I should do for the end?
Maybe Iíll rent a tuxedo for my own funeral.
A perfect flick off fuck you finale.
Will anyone listen to a closing narrative monologue?
The protagonist exists pointlessly.
Like a no vacancy sign that is jammed in my ass.
And no one cares about
Or my truth.
As long as I pay my taxes.
So I must forget my punchbowl parables
And party hat parodies.
I must sit here and wait for that charred thumbs up
To emerge from the thick smoke screen.
Right on time,
Here comes the aftermath.
It came to snap my whole grain noodle spine in half.
Enjoy your popcorn
What lies inside
Of these answers weíre trying to find?
Why does suffering feel so necessary?
What kinds of cracks must we crawl through
To love this world for the hell it is?
Weíre all dressed up,
and it never really matters where or whether
we stay or we go.
Did that not do it for you?