Friday, January 19, 2007

Thirteenth Night. A poem.

I'm not going to make the list. I mean, when the earth is up, over and out and we're all sweating about it, watching the news twenty four seven and there's no Smallville, no Cricket, no Wassup Australia in the mornings, just words silently drifting right to left calling the names of the Chosen Few and that dead pan delivery as the Anchorman becomes fucking St.Peter himself, ticking the list of those allowed through the pearly steel gates and up, up, up into the clouds and beyond. I'm not going to make the list. Of those, allowed into "heaven". Funny huh, in the end, even Heaven will be sold to those who can pay the price, and the Meek, yep, they'll inherit the Earth alright. Bye bye meek, heaven awaits. And it'll all break down, the system will shut down, without those bastards and their money and their wars, they'll take it all with them on their shiny fucking Ark and they'll never look back, they'll study long and hard, immortality in a far flung galaxy, the best of the best, the richest of the rich, survival of the fittest, fastest, foxiest. HA! But the fucking joke my friend, oh the fucking joke just SLAYS me. The joke isn't that in the end their hatred consumes them, it's not that they take their pain with them, that war breaks out amongst them and they never find Heaven...the joke is this: After they have gone we the meek shed tears of grief loss anger and we fuck fuck fuck rotten and desperate like scared animals grasping tight our final fear moments and living our last hours and we drink DRINK YOU FUCKERS THERE'S NO TOMORROW so we drown in drink and dribble until we are no longer afraid we are open we are raw we are doomed doomed doomed HA! finally we are doomed and that is our reward don't you see, We The Doomed, left on a dying planet by the filthy rich and catflap cunts. The meek shall inherit the earth shall inherit the meek. And baby / kids / countymen / PLANETmen / while we sleep and dream our doomed infantile visions our tears shall envelope this dying earth and bring life to deserts, and they shall swallow the skeletons of the poisonous regimes the cold iron stacks and acid stench swamps and baby, you'd never fucking dream it you'd never fucking dream it, except I did, I dreamed it...I dreamed that this this is the salvation of the meek and fucking loser lost. Abandoned, ridiculed, all doors closed upon them, left behind. That's when it all comes clear. Once the fucker arseholes have left, once they're looking into cold empty space and their hearts have frozen cold thoughts and ruthlessness and what's done is done...our joke is final, that's when we're allowed to grow. Allowed to heal, ourselves and the Earth we're left with.

And it's imperative, that we fuck like mad.


  1. you've got to buck the fuck up, sweetie.

  2. Hehe, I'm all good. It was just a literary vomit.


  3. i'm glad. it kind of stunk but i still liked it in a weird kind of way. the vomit that is. writing as beautiful as ever.