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I love you Robynn

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Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!

Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!

Where she’s a poet, he’s a poet, but he’s a businessman

And they all wear black ties to the grand ball carrying uninterested women in fake plastic glass slippers on their arms.

Ah! Plastics make it all possible!

From the incubator to the day when the thug from the 3rd, over 4th down street breaks into your home for your fake leather wallet and your inflated cash prizes to realize jealousy and to use plastic wrap to cover your always gaping mouth from gasping any further air.

Yes! Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!

A new millennium of déjà vu and alcoholics, where he’s depressive, she’s on Prozac but I am dating Mary Jane.

All to justify fake sufferings and pity, all to stumble upon blindly, a smelly age-old shuttle bus, where the seated man behind you is the seated woman in front of you because

Plastics make it all possible!

Welcome to the century of crazed weight-loss where weight is spelled w-a-i-t and loss is time lost spent glazing your eyes over magazines such as People or Stars or the Enquirer, with the enquired person pregnant three days by an ET producer whose father came from Mars and whose nephew is half cat.

An age of Viagra, of old geezers getting it on with women who can’t afford birth control but are covered under biased insurance policies for abortion.

An age of make-up magicians who are paid by the pound to accentuate features by smattering thickly every inch in goo those same unhideable features, to form a new, renewed, you.

An age of plaster-faced women without wrinkles or spots, strutting around in 11 inch heels on the backs of eager future wannabe’s who aspire to their height but can only wear 5 inch imposter stilettos which were purchased for $40 at the Payless near you,

Which where made by starving children in China or Indonesia at 2 cents an hour, melting down chemicals to mold into shoes, why?

Because Plastics make it all possible!

Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st century!

A timeless moment, where his child only knows MasterCard, hers is starved for vegetables, and the adorable doe-eyed girl from down the block is diluted on Riddilin.  In sequence with all of her friends in Kindergarten. Whose teacher helps distribute pills while taking one of her own, to calm her nerves, to avoid the truth that she can’t handle this job.  She’d rather be in the Bahamas where she’d wear imitation 5 inch heels and cat-walk down the runway for flashing photographers and eager artists whose clothes hang on her like last seasons’ ripped shards.  While puckering her lips which are fuller from the ass-fat pumped into them and pouting at the ceiling for the world, eager to flaunt what they have created, a monster in the closet, a subtle reminder of who we all terrifyingly might become.

Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!

And she knows this, as she prances off stage to shoot up on heroine to achieve that wonderful, doe-eyed, red-rimmed look in her eye, because She can’t handle this job.

The job of being a dream, an aspiration, a lofty goal, the opportune picture craved for by men and killed for by women.  The job the makes doctors into artistic miracle-workers, a job dependent on the very same plastics that have made so many other lives possible.  Plastics that finance the world, from the cheap shoes to the $2000 hipbone replacement that allowed your great aunt to walk again, Why?

Because Plastics make it ALL possible!

These same plastics that financed the hip to the shoes have financed the rich suit he wore when he sued McDonald’s for his obesity, the enlarged suit for him made from a knock-off of Donald Trump’s collection in the purest silks and kerchiefs paid for in cash,

That could have been spent on a decent hairpiece. 

Suits of diamond cuff links, so eloquent! 

So fancy! 

So original! 

A sea of slightly darker navy blues in selected grey cuts, distinguished against the slightly lighter navy blues in selected softer grey cuts.  With a briefcase at his side filled with charts upon charts of the next stock explosion, the next Black Tuesday, the next Martha Stewart scandal!

All to fantasize about get-rich quick schemes so that you can afford more then he or she ever had in the rat race of the century, the rat race of our lives.  To chase after that Benjamin Franklin shaped cheese so that we can all look like each other, so that we may one day win

This unending,

Popularity contest of the 21st Century!

Elephant Hide.

There are brittle nerves in the hallway

Anxious eyes and eyebrows quiver and stutter “hello”

I am left to mine self

Unearth the precious minerals of confidence and belief

Then discard them once the voices begin

All that I am has become too much for the public to witness

They prefer me silent

Kempt

And adultered

The rain pours down in December

Scream

Tremble

Articulate

Please forgive me

I am sorry

I lost my mind

Again

Let me explain

I am not a rogue elephant against the tides of my herd

I am the sage in your rolled cigarette

Cleansing and intoxicating

While all the time being the irritant in your eye.

Damnit.

I am so high

On My Own Bullshit

I should choke

Cough

Stutter

Then sing

Hoping to lure you into my bedroom

Come for me wolf

Comfort me wolf

Like the reptile I have shed so many skins

Passing through the eye of the needle

In ignorance

Then awareness

Then ignorance

Then humility

And if there were something deeper to say

Than “I am sorry”

I would scream it to the heavens

In desperation that you would hear me

But I am left with only words

And hope

That I will be with you once again

But the hope is worthless

And the love is dying

As I long to die

But have not the balls

Play not that card

Bury me in your backyard

Like a favored bone

The doghouse is the only home I have ever known

With you.

Damnit.

And She Was True of Heart When I Was Not.

The gravestones line the yard    corpses hidden from the public’s eyes.

One man is dust in the lid, gravel in the eye, hidden from greedy fingers and I wait

I cannot contain this feeling any longer

The tears do not fall but there is no anger only regret

Regret is the remittance of the few   who lick their wounds   in payment for their actions

And I admit I lick

waiting

For the door to open upon my own fate

Damn it all to heaven’s gate

Go go regret before it’s too late

And the crows scream murder

Murder.  I cannot comprehend

She was so young

This is death  I knew it not until this moment

I have forgotten the punch line in this sea of my own shame

Ignore once ignore twice forget the thought

How I had forgotten her love in hatred and anger

Please withhold the casket so I cannot throw my body in

This is the beginning of good bye

And I pity myself but not her

For I long for death

But have not the strength to take my own life

Upon reflection

I realize I am nothing more than these words

And in that realization realize I have nothing

Because I know not what I write

Regret I regret bereft of the definition

Depth without recognition

Is no depth at all

She was always true to herself

While I placate and lick

My own wounds  friends  lover

At least in this awakening

I know I am no more

Than a black tongue.

Ah, les rites de passage hypocrites d'une année (in)civile à l'autre desquels nul ne saurait s'extraire et auxquels encore bien moins échapper. Ce n'est point en 2016 encore que l'on faillira à la règle immuable du menuet tel qu'il se danse à la cour des conspuants.

Comme je l'expliquais à une lectrice en commentaire, mes premiers instants de l'an neuf auront été marqués d'un monumental lapsus clavis shakespearien lorsqu'au lieu de souhaiter une année « à tout péter » (kick-ass year), j'annonçai en fait une année « lèche-cul » (kiss-ass year). Ce à quoi (pure spéculation de ma part), Thom Yorke s'empressait alors de twitter : « La fin des mots creux ».

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