THOSE GOLDEN SCRUBBY YEARS

Twas in the days of the dishwasher.  When they were high and lifted up and mighty as a wigwam.  In the days of the dishwasher.  Full of cockatoos and syllables of the gloaming.  Oh, in the days when seraphim sodomized god and Isaiah wrote his euphemisms on his chariot of clouds.  Things were scrubby then, and golden, in the days.

I entered the cathedral of wishy-washy song, without entrance ticket, mapless, hov’ring on myself, not inattuned to the squeaks and wooshes of the pot and pan.  (Pan’s pot. Good stuff. Organic shit. The original.)  Awed by the organ of knives and spooning, quivered by the crypt of thighs to come, recurring dust and slaughter, suds & laughter, little jetsams of our days.

It was then i saw the onset of the words, those circly things, replete with themselves, and dirty, dirty as disease.  I saw the futility of the window-cleaner, muttering his mutters in the horny heavens, firmament of muhammad and the condos (good band name), his bud lite mane whipping in the wind, eyes free and barred from all that petty privilege, 57^th floor and nowhere, like an amulet dangling from god’s ass.  The trees are grand, i’ve been told, and been there too, once upon a time.

Words are filthy monads, scrubbing, scrubbing, all that other filth.  (Like billiard balls sortof.)  What are we to do, i asked a word (which i had spent a lot for); it bit my nose & burst.  I was once a window-washer, wiping off the tears of god from human souls which we know are made of glass.  Inside—when i could see (rarely, blindly:  god’s tears are thick, relentless, my vision’s rather faulty)—i saw (i thought i saw) undressing, stretching, dissolving, copulating, semantic orgies undoing all and us for we are a bit of the all though all we mostly see is us as all or worse this me as all and that is that but not this and once upon an aum.

The dishwasher now of course is just another utility.  Like hydro or eco dry cleaning or the worldwideinterweb.  What the fuck.  Get a dishwasher.  Get 3 or 4.  4 for 3 or 3 for 4.  Give em away, like usbkeys.  To your mama, your girlorboyfriend, your bossywossy (though heorshe already has 2 or 3).  Stick your pansies in them.  And your cat.  And your girlorboyfriend, bossywossy, yourselfwhileyoureatit, and the amazonwhynot.  The world’s a dishwasher and all its minions dishes, we are being scrubbed my friends my friends, like itunes and iching and tickytocks ticyfocks talkytics falkytucks &

twas in the days of the dishwasher that i saw the dishwasher, it defeating words and everything not dirty but scrubbyclean scrubbyclean scrubbyclean again and time made new, the songs and the cathedrals having fallen down to dust and the windowwasher gone home to his little flat and his tv and his onanisms and himself or selves and that is time and that is time and that is time and this