TUESDAYS

art ain’t what it used to be

Let us think now of creation.  Think of it rolling down itself like a snowball, rolling up like a sunset.  There we are.  Here.  In the lap of the machine, our mother.  Reading ones and zeros like a baby train.  The moment is now, you may have heard.  And i say the moment is now but i say the moment is then and a belch.  I say the moment is that stock broker cracked out on himself and the wall being broken and no one knowing the difference for that is the nature of the moment and who are you to say anything else.  The moment is the machine.  Let us pray and ask for grace to continue praying until we bleed flowers.  Who are you anyway to think of tomorrow.  That maestro of indifference.  Tomorrow is the absurdum ad reductio of absurdity, the dog of gods.  Where is spirit? where is potency? where is animation? where is virility? where is the transcendence of gender and war and despair and greed?  In strategic plans and retirement plans?  In pissy plans and coital plans?  In plans?  Yo Yo.  In the noon of now and the eye of cow and a trip of pigs and an I of you, woof woof.  Think now of creation.  Purple underbelly of sodomy on a Sunday afternoon.  Slinking down your panties like a song.  Oooooh.  Like a slug in your throat and a song in your ass.  You want peace?  You want love?  You want that desecration called money?  You want an automobile?  You want the apocalypse and you want it on this date and you want it in your bank account in neon?  Let me tell you, that weasly little imposter tolle and all his whoring siblings should have kept their mouths shut not because they were wrong but because they were wrong.  And if you don’t get that just go to jail and wait there with your cheap bourbon while everyone passes GO a thousand trillion times until even your boogies take on eternal significance and that is that, so there, buy Toyota, it’s American, and fuck your hamster until it bleeds.  Be nice.  Think now of creation.  That magenta haze of branded bliss.  That drunken taxi ride down Fifth when she was sprawled like a kangaroo and the clouds were raining testaments of truth, gutters sucking greedily, tongues like the Mariana Trench.   Who said Kathmandu didn’t have something to say after midnight?  Build a blossom to the sky.  Smother the Internet with tits.  You never were what you claimed to be.  As some evangelist spoke in the urban desert as the moon went black and limbs nailed themselves to the pretty windows of Costco.  Not much, she said, as she dropped her little black dress and poured another martini in the geraniums.  Not much for a Tuesday.  Let us think now of creation, which must have happened on a Tuesday if you think about it which i hardly recommend not simply because i hardly recommend anything but because Tuesdays are for drunks and pedophiles.  Where’s the light?  Where’s the light in the anus of rhyme?  Pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse.  So there’s this Tuesday, see ... this Tuesday walking down the street in his stockings with a little cash, this Tuesday on which nothing’s happening but TV, which isn’t much, and Greta Garbo’s strutting down a rainbow into Ireland and someone says, Hey Greta, what the fuck you two-faced fulda, and not much happens after that.  I saw the clouds on a Tuesday, quoting Donne or Sappho.  That turned me off Tuesdays.  Let us think now of ... dark pit of whatever, shark shit of Flight 447 ... here it comes ... that song you love, that law that protects you, that heat in your hardness, your murders in bed.  Let us think now of creation.  Creation, at 40,000 feet combusting.  In the drawers of your mother and the lap of incest.  In the god of mediocrity and the injustice of justice.  Let us think now.  Now.  Of creation.  It happened on Tuesday.

And if you doubt that, you’re a fink.