The Sock-Monkey As Alone

        an Opera in D-Minor (Call me little horn!)   I wish I was a poet... Looking up at the Spun Sugar (The shade of clouds of the near dark) Whistling some bluegrass tune, as my sweetheart cooks our supper (Some slow cooker chili with jalapenos and banana peppers shore would hit the spot).   I wish I was a catfish swimming through the outer dark of space eating the light and swimming in the abyss. While space pirates dance in their shuttle craft with the naked women they have "liberated" as the carrier they attacked is set ablaze from the inside.   ...The maidens are never to be seen again...   I wish my bones to be picked clean by some prehistoric critter... that I may be devoured... that the loss of my life (through one hell of a struggle) would leave me content despite the meaninglessness of the pain. Because I know in my heart that things worked out.   I'm too tired to be optimistic But lived enough to know ...

Often the act of saying something is not worth the effort. Punk rock was Dada for the people, though, in effect it was populist surrealism as viewed as a happening.  Metal is less pretentious but creates many of the same affects and ironically seems more pretentious because of the passion it inspires Hardcore the soundtrack of hooligans you don't want to mess with equating artistic integrity with being afraid of being beat up... it is art as fascism. This is not a manifesto but THE manifesto. DADA Rock n' roll is Dad rock in practice. It's is the belief that denying the existence of the wheel is not the creation of an alternative to it. YES: Pere Ubu did it first. NO: that that does not mean it is not vital. Rock N' Roll is the soundtrack of rebellion. Resistance is necessary in world the will not allow existence of dignity. If you can resist the slow creeping march of the death cult we call fascism there is NO REASON you should not be listening to ROCK N' ROLL. YES...

The rain is all over Standing under the tree the dew still in the air both cleansed and redeemed I get a box of drafts let the poetry fuel my warmth the fire burns... years turn to smoke unadorned... a lump in my throat I think of what could have been the tears make me choke my eyes sting ugly as hell The rain returns ambition as pure as a bell the fire goes out  

I remember and forget The past is alive and so pretty for some for others "dead is better" but like a schlocky phantasm they come to conqueror and rein over us over come through sacrifice victory without self rightfulness   I do what I can.