Dread. Dread. Dread.
It's the seller.
and,
if you're in the business, it's all about the 'fluffer...
and,
if there is to be a script,
write there to be a troglodyte..
a pulsating ogre with one eye on the prize..
A well-marketed beast that knows the numbers are well within range,
and cares not for the recession.
I'd write small vignettes with Popsicle queens,
'fluffing dreams that weren't mine..
'fluffing danglies' and twigs
with their Nihilistic smiles wrapped around the Star's Koch..
Not Nihilistic in the aspect of believing in the Supreme Nothingness..
The all non-existent train,
that has derailed..
to be willed that way and so and not..
But Nihilistic in the plan to destroy everything one holds up as reality..
to thoroughly take apart the works and cogs
of the living, breathing engine..
The Steam.
My God, The Steam between you and I..
The Character that is Creation..
For to believe in anything, is to create..
if only for yourself..
and Pop
would live on in the camera.
Pop would be complete in the following scene:
Money shots, cream pies, gang-bangs, foot fetishes..
real wholesale value, where the body is based on retail.
And Nietzsche has been paid in full.
There.
The check is secured.
and the change is coming in droves over the dead line.
...
Dear Nietzsche,
You spark all existence with Spiritus Sancti,
with your dead illustration of the term God..
How sanctimonious of you?
I shall write it a letter..to ask for aid in this..
that you have made.
...
Dear America,
There's a cyst in the system of you and I.
We should reconcile for good health.
...
And the response is:
Mutual
...
And for 17 years I will be asleep..
17 years I will listen to the stomping of Doc's
I will be a Punk with the X and the Martens..
and it will speak muddle-wop French:
Oui RimFuckinBaud?
Je m'appell Renaissance
and I'm dying of the prick cancer..
So what of it?
...
I'll say:
We're all living for those Rock ‘n' Roll nights in the city.
The whiskey marquee a' go go's...
and we're all tied up in this big rolling ball of fire.
Setting the alleys ablaze, with
a dead religion..
a cancerous revolution..
a miscarried rebirth..
a prolonged surreal state of self-destruction..
and we care not for the waking of *the Bells..
*"The Bells" is a heavily onomatopoeic poem by Edgar Allan Poe which was not published until after his death in 1849. It is perhaps best known for the diacopic repetition of the word "bells." The poem has four parts to it; each part becomes darker and darker as the poem progresses from "the jingling and the tinkling" of the bells in part 1 to the "moaning and the groaning" of the bells in part 4. -Wikipedia 2010-
Correspondence would continue as scheduled:
Dear America,
I never want to wake from the dream that is you.
I'm so close to the vision..
and I don't want the chase to stop.
...
And the response is:
Mutual
...
I'm va fumer une cigarette.
Tell me a story while I burn away.
...
"Once upon a time,
Tommy was a chemist who loved poison..
He loved needles for their sharp wit..
He loved fish tanks and small sea castles with blue marble stones and
NO FISH.
Just rubber sea horses and miniature mermaids.
He pretended to be the stingray..
and the tank held room for the urchins he would collect and kill someday.
He always wanted to own a large white clam..
to hold his last white pearl..
But where would he find a tank big enough?
'One problem at a time Tommy..he thought.
One problem at a time..'
He went to the Pets R Us and purchased his first underwater soul today.
HALF PRICE.
A horde of geckos from the marshlands..
No water needed. No water warranted. No water given.
But there were plenty of needles.
There was plenty of genetic makeup to spread around.
'I can make green jelly of you all.'..he thought..
as he inserted the needles into the spine of each tiny reptile.
The sea horse turned his wire-thin neck.
The mermaid's eyes glassed over at the horror of wriggling geckos, scurrying for exits about the glass room.
The fish never came.
and Tommy, gleamed with excitement, over the next unsuspecting victims of nature.
'Turtles. Yes! That's the ticket. Small unsuspecting turtles.'
He plunged a needle into the back of one of the escapees climbing the GLASS WALL."
...
I would discard the cigarette. discard the Nihilism..discard the American Dream and the mutilation of the innocent. But there it would be. A huge green-jellied stain on the tracks of this blue-collar tortuous tale..a cream-filled revelation left from the grim of it all. It has swept o'er me here..at the end.
...
'The business of selling dreams results in the manifestation of the void around us. The huge geranium of plastic toys and mythical onlookers. They are undersea hordes of souls. Treasure seekers, who stare only at a man's back, and ponders the effort that would be exuded in placing the needle..near the spine. The knife, into the back..and we breathe
from large wounds...
from bleeding gills..
from manipulated glory holes...'
Dread. Dread. Dread.
It would be a pacifying screenplay.
And
there to be trapped,
to be murdered from the visual effects..
to be moldy greenbacks and loose change..
There is where we shall find deliverance
from the lie of existence..
And the response:
is Nietzsche's tribute to God's creation..
Frankie Metro is a writer primarily from Clearwater, Florida, Campbellsville, Kentucky, Masonville, Iowa, Jacksonville... Gainesville... if it ends in 'ville chances are he's been there at some point. He's a huge Henry Miller and Arthur Rimbaud fanatic. Frankie co-edits an online zine at methlab1234.blogspot.com with Newamba Flamingo and enjoys copious amounts of surrealism and the obscene. He used to frequent strip clubs a lot, but found that the empty pockets were too much to bare. He enjoys long walks on the beach that are not oil infested [fuck you BP]. Frankie hosts BlogTalkRadio shows with the rest of the HIGHdra Syndicate.
Comments (closed)
Sigerson
2011-01-15 10:47:19
The erudite Mr. Metro sips the pure stuff from the Pierian Spring.
Frankie Metro
2011-01-15 17:48:59
lol..yes!! thank you sigerson