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"the confrontation of aesthetics..."
writeThis.com
a pretendgenius.com production
vol. ii, issue v
Nov. 10, 2004
fall
writeThis
sept. 2003
the cabal
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wrong mood
scott taylor
no, you can't go out to wyoming.
because you will wake up the following morning
after your blood has stopped boiling
and wonder what the bloody fuck
you are doing
in wyoming.
i was in the stall in the bathroom today
and was envisioning
a shack in the mountains
cold, isolated
where i would hunt
and make no money
and pay no taxes.
i'd say this idea appeals to me
about fifty percent of the time nowadays.
i want to hunch over a kerosene heater
spit and roast pine cones
contract strange diseases
no car or truck
just a footpath leading in
with a sheet of cellaphane wrapped around the trees
and a big sign o’er the top
"NO FUCKERS ALLOWED"
i've had it with your race,
it's time for all aliens
to disengage.
it's hard just to get back to your door
there's the black guy jumpin in front of you babbling
and almost running you over
there are the two cars swerving trying to hit you from both sides
as you drive along in the center lane
computer systems that melt down without warning or reason
cunt stains dismissing anything they can find to dismiss
endless dizzy spells and phlegm-coated gasps for breath
cars that need servicing
birthday cards that need buying
bodies that need feeding
plantar's warts burrowing through your heels
souls that need soothing
voids that need filling
god fucking almighty
you’ve got to be kidding me
BUST ‘IM IN THE MOUTH!
BOOM!!!
I smacked him in the mouth.
He smacked me back.
Nature a’ laughed and laughed.
Tis the way of the world to have leopards jump on impalas
And big fish eat littler ones
And grown men beat the shit out of each other
On Friday night
For the sake of entertainment.
What are we to do, the bear fathers
Kill their sons
And female spiders eat their hubbies
And praying mantises rip the heads
Off their loved ones
In the name of
Instinct.
And the aggressive and murderers
Have a leg up
On the sane
Because nature
Ain’t sane
And the rules of morality
Were written by
Vulnerable monks
Nursing their wine
Sitting in protective towers
And there really is no
Point in arguing.
You can side with
Whomever you want
To
no
avail.
Mother Nature
Was a byatch prize-fighter
With brass knuckles under
Her green mittens
Until we KOed her ignorant ass
Once and for all
With a couple hundred billion
Acres of
Blacktop,
But at least
We still have
The title fights
To watch
On the tube.
