Thursday, February 7, 2013

Workin' Mojo Flies

The first issue of Mad. Art by Harvey Kurtzman.

A murdered bee on a last gasp told me of his stolen hive
How they smoked-out his hardy tribe from a cliff’s bosom they called home
The desecration of his temple and the repeated rape of his queen
Who was killed after a savage siege by two-legged beasts
The spoils were honey the hunters had claimed and not the bees

A silkworm told me something similar
Of casual homicide and such merchants of death
They come with detestable virtues fashioned in blood-clot apparels
Honking offensive sounds beheading sticky truths
Clad in defensive postures of the puritan part and their lackluster lot of cheapening parts and plots
Watering pots of plastic accumulations
Growing shallow claims of hollow boroughs
Badgering weakness
Banging the tame
Fielding the whole nine yards
From forgettable whimpers
Stale remembrances of easy boldness and rubber guts
Blunting honesty
Decorating bullshit and disguising the hypocrite

William Shakespeare

Through a worm-hole a dung beetle appeared
Who took heart, taking out classifieds stating he was selling his votes to the highest political bidder for the lower and upper seats of parliament for his beetle-banks and votes
Asking Austin Powers if anyone ever notices that nobody starts an illness-related foundation until they have been sick themselves
That the material dream dries but does not die
That as much as the poor man dreams of gold and is bereft of his peace of sleep, the rich man worries about their safety and loses peace of sleep

And a housefly said the answer was sleeping pills
or getting over that gold
He said “Remember- a clean and good image is still an image”
The housefly who finds accusations of being a schizophrenic-fly insulting-
For he believes there's a whole motley crew residing in his heads-
and in his being are a whole lotta other flies-

That he was practically a swarming buzzing feathered-flied population
Under termination from the merchants doing the bees and the silken worms
When this morning he arose
The fly heard the singing dove
It was not a song
A croon
A tune
Or a tone
English: Shakespeare At the end of a terraced ...

It sounded more like a Shakespeare soliloquy that dialogues:
“Mostly love's become a four-letter word
which is not too bad
as a good fuck's close to a spiritual union of togetherness as any nesses
but when it transcends those four letter words and that fucking fuck
its probably transcendental bliss
and then the four-letters mean nothing
together with that fuck
at best they are li'l bonuses of amusement

at others
the end of things
and back to square one
and the hunt for another

spiraling on and on”
When spotted
The merchant confessed to killer instincts and murderous binges
In a moment of sparkling humility
The tongues slipped and worded
Some sense of guiltiness as he was quoted:
“Getting along with most of me but it’s the parts related to other than I, me and myself wherein shelters ambushes trying to kill me every single fucking time and guess what? I’m still fucking alive and getting along grander than ever with most of my-selves today I’m unabashedly playing and saying that I’m indeed the machine-gun-preacher man”

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!
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