An Ode to the Mystifying Beauty of the Human Condition

And so the hairy fat ape raped the 

puppet slut-whore hybrid til it fell

limp down the stairs of its

sullen gaze amidst the crowing shit-bird

winding a tourniquet casually about it's wing,

facing the corner,

and letting the misery flow until the 


sets in. 

And he waits.

And as blood drips through the infinitessimal cracks and splinters winding in no particular direction

through the 



and as he falls, he sees Alice on the way down,

who disappears into a faded pair of breasts

and how queer is it to-day

to have seen breasts without a face

a mess he's sure will splay

The fall ends and he comes to in the factory drudgery letting the dirty condom suffocate the balance

between man and mouse

and so the forclosed house in a barren wasteland of a mindless disarray of mottled thoughts

fettered to the grim door which closes off the rich from the poor

poor from the rich

the smile from the cat

and the face from the breast

and it marches slowly to and fro

swaying side to side

unsure of what the cackling crow 

is really trying to find.


The ton of marbles falls onto the head of Johnny Poi

And so he dips his fingers in his loving father's joy...

The lovely crevice 

now filled with love

he nurses with a shiver

and the splendor of it all 

makes the Queen of England quiver.


The royal subjects know not their fate

but do not hesitate to participate

in the burning of the grass that threatens to 

open up the eyes

of what the mill will not compromsie

and so the flour is milled and ground

bleached in love and knowledge

enriched by all the commonalities

so we can go to college

but what the fat cats only know

not all of them for sure

is what we need to truly grow

and stomp upon the sperm.


So spin the record backwards

and listen to the words

they are the truth 

what they don't want

the grass they try to burn.


Listen to the meanings of the whacked conspiracies.

They're not as bogus as you think

more fact than make-believe.


And as the shit-bird takes the needle

and drops it to the ground

will the cry of one lone truth told


care to make a sound?


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