The Dirt, The Earth, The Past, The Future

I am going to write now, because finally, I feel that I have a pen nice enough to use for writing, just writing. The king of pen that makes a shopping list seem loke a priceless piece of pop art. That makes every word hang on the page, like some pristine Dylan lyric or some such selfish nonsense.

Fuck Bob Dylan and fuck your relentless worship of him. All he does for 30 plus years is act like a holier-than-thou asshole and pile giant piles of money around himself and for some reason we've determined that this kind of childish behavior warrants being labeled some sort of spirit of an age, well maybe he is now that I think about it, what else were the 1960s really about, if not making money?

I keep getting drawn back to money. For a long time I thought that everything was about sex, and to a certain extent, I still do. Of course, this isn't my idea, but it's one of those things, like those 3-2 magic eye books and posters that used to be so goddamn popular at malls and as presents for other kids you didn't really know that well, once you see the hidden, magic, 3-D image, whenever you looked back at that fuzzy red picture you automatically saw that dolphin leaping over the wave or the happy clown, it's like that, it's like once you start to think about every aspect of your day, life as being entirely motivated by base sexual urges and desires, well, then, that's it, that becomes all you can see, sometimes to a plus, as when you correctly pick up on the drunk chubby girl's subtle flirtations and score yourself a blow job in a bathroom at 3 a.m. and all you have to do is finger her a little bit, she's so drunk that she's imaging the best fingerbang she's ever had in her life, meanwhile your drunkenly just barely finding the clit, but sometimes this heightened sense of sexual awareness can ultimately be detrimental to your life, cause and beliefs, such as in the inevitable family function, where you are forced to view with unblinking horror what Jack and Bill would describe as "naked lunch", the act of realizing what's on the end of your fork, you, your family, the act of realizing that it's sexual, all of it, you exist because your mom and your dad got all breathy and lusty and he forgot to pull out, or she lied and said she was on the pill or they tried after drinks, dancing and other stupid cheeseball lame shit like that to actually create you out of misplaced religious duty and confused feelings of fear at the possibility of disappointing parents and the almost constant overwhelming desire to be accepted, to be looked at as a fellow, normal, just like you person, friend neighbor, just like you.

Your dad probably fingered your mom, to get her wet, to get her ready for the fucking. Are you thinking of your parents as you read this? Am I thinking of mine as I write this?

I'm not. I don't have parents. I don't believe in them. It might sound childish but that may be because the sentiment is so simple, I didn't ask to be born. If you bring me naked and screaming into this disintegrating world of terror and hate do not expect me to pucker up and love you for it.

Parents are arbitrary. You want to put all your stock in theories about kids with shitty homelives who grow up to be kiddy fuckers or wife beaters because of it go ahead, I say bullshit, I say those fucking assholes were always kiddy fuckers, they were always wife beaters, life just handed them a beautifully simple excuse and they chose to hang on to that excuse like a badge of pride.

I've seen kids who came to school with shiners instead of little brown lunch bags with notes of love and reminders of soccer practice tucked inside, grow up to be loving husbands and fathers and I've seen little spoiled pieces of shit, waited on hand and foot by doting rich parents ( or representatives thereof, a nanny or butler for example ) grow up to be serial raping, junkie scum fucks who you'd actually pay good money to kick in the face, to see those hateful little eyes swell up with blood and see the blood drip to the floor, that's the bad leaking out, if it's in you, you can get it out, you can bleed it out, it's what I've been saying, it doesn't matter if your parents are crack heads or doctors, there is something inside everybody that is different, just a thing, a way of viewing the world, a way of taking in information, everyone is given a threshold of how much they can take, we don't know, it's not our fault and it is our fault, is it just faulty wiring that makes us skin some one alive, hanging on their every scream like an apostle with ear bents towards Christ on the cross waiting for an utterance, a message, a punchline, something, is it a chemical imbalance or is it something deeper, more elusive than the genome, something written on our souls, something no amount of medication or therapy can ever put right, something that can only be cured by the swift expulsion of an awful lot of blood, into a bath tub, preferably, if you don't want to make the mess anymore difficult for that poor neighbor/lover/friend/parent/pet that finds you.

So it is your fault. You know the only cure for your evil fucking urges is a straight razor down your wrists, down the street, not across the road, you don't want them to talk shit about you as you hover over your body like all those cliche television specials, floating in the o.r., if your bad it is your fault that your alive you can end it and should but won't and that's ok.

if all the bad people cured themselves of their evil there would be big traffic jams, we'd all be waiting while bulldozers pushed the piles of bodies to and fro waiting for the funeral fires to get this batch and the sky is black for years it's soot and ask and skin and it wouldn't happen like this, evil isn't real and if it was, it's self realization of it's own nature and subsequent "curing" of would have to be taken as a good action, thus the evil has been revealed as secret good, not evil at all, if evil were real it would say that it was good, not evil and it most certainly would not commit suicide an inherently good act, it would linger, not be lifeless, be active and forever and if evil were real it wouldn't be real and neither would good be which brings us back to now to the point.

I saw sex in everything. Now I see money in everything. Sex and money are the only real things. Good and Evil are bullshit, silly, meaningless distractions, the stuff your late night television programs cum over, lofty concepts that help people feel bigger than they are, feel like, there is good worth fighting for, evil worth defeating, meanwhile, in actuality, there is sex worth having and money worth making, it's all there is and all there was and get down on your knees, moan softly while twenties are shoved into your thong and tilt your head back and take it and love it and worship it and never question it, tears are streaming down your face as the future chokes you with it's cock, one hand on your throat, the other on the back of your head, not releasing until your lifeless mouth falls to the ground, with the semen of lost dreams crawling slowly past cracked lips and mingling with the dirt, the earth, the past, the future.