|
FIREPLACE
HORROR |
|
Take socialism. A social reform.
Are you feeling the shock of being embedded in a dream,
a high-pitched scream? Rescue missions everywhere, but no
one has money to spare. And mermaids flicker scales of jewels
measured by colour on the West Coast, it's all a hoax, hallucination,
and I don't feel the death. And I don't feel destruction
in this land of nomadic escape, wide open rape. I read the
New Testament and gave it up for Lent, all the things I
never did just to pay my rent. Socialism. My yoga master
smoked crack before teaching today. I ignored it, I had
to ignore it, couldn't help but ignore it,
even though her hair was falling out in clumps. Well I do
not weave escape with toxic waste, my body is pure from
a ritualistic sweat, and I can smell the hell on everyone
else. Brain aneurism, blurry nightime vision. Diagnose me
– is it extreme organization, or anxiety disorder?
Am I living in the past, present, or future? Or is the top
of my head
being lifted by the Most High, divine inspiration, 3rd eye
flow-squad.
See, I’ve often felt like a Girl Jesus, except 2 times
I’ve been beaten and strung. It’s the politicians
in suits who keep killing my Indian blood – they string
me up by my hands and give me stigmata on National holidays.
Socialism.
|