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Homunculus Mar 20
As the curve flattens
the pockets will fatten
with 500 thousand
now deader than Latin
how many more will die
before our jubilant July?
When we all can get our
jabs in and say
"well now, I guess
that's that, then"?
Homunculus Feb 28
There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was ****** looked like **** in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And ******* Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried *** and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and ***** just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
But I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive *******!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of **** is this?
My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll **** your guru ***!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,
It’s always easier to sell them some **** than it is to give them the truth."
Homunculus Jan 13
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.

We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.

And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.

If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.

**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.

Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.

Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?

Or
is it that you feel something more. . .  
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?

When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?

The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.

Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
A bit too much wine is the culprit here, I suspect.

1: Murray Bookchin, radical social theorist and major figure in the ecology movement.
2: "In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation." - Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, 1967
3: The Borges story, credited fictionally as a quotation from "Suárez Miranda, Viajes de varones prudentes, Libro IV, Cap. XLV, Lérida, 1658", imagines an empire where the science of cartography becomes so exact that only a map on the same scale as the empire itself will suffice. [source: Wikipedia]
Homunculus Nov 2020
Spectacle!
Spectacle!
Spectacle!

Upon thee I feast  
as your willing
receptacle
thou art my bread's yeast!

Fill me with fear and with grief and doubt
Fill me with joy and with hope I may shout
From atop a tall mount of my own dissolution
And lull me to sleep with your grandiose illusion!

Spectacle!
Spectacle!
Spectacle!

DEAR!

Help me make sludge into mead, crystal clear!
Tell me my roles and opinions and thoughts!
Sell me that which makes my deep emptiness naught!
Oh, you our greatest omnipotent seer!

Spectacle!
Spectacle!
Spectacle!

CAUGHT!

See what you've so serendipitously wrought!
See how so boldly and wondrously you've taught!
For without your guidance, what would be bought?
What would be sold lest the gold you have brought?

Spectacle!
Spectacle!
Spectacle!

FRAUGHT!

What would become of mass cultural trends?
When means for themselves would desist and come ends?
How could we possibly live without you
When you are the arbiter of all that's True?
I don't know that this is finished. Also, don't read Debord the day before an election.
Homunculus Aug 2020
After all, it has come to this as our
Laughter falls dumb and a mute glum persists while
A once gorgeous flower now reeks of rank **** in

An **** of power that seeks to dismiss that
A siren song hides a great serpent's grim hiss in
A dire long ride to a fervent abyss, but

A glorious hour now seems to persist as
A warrior throng's rising insurgent bliss
Is igniting wrong's righting, with glee
THEY RESIST

In a fight long and tiring they refuse to desist
In the night they stay strong as abuse gives its kiss
But they KNOW what is right and must make it EXIST
and when new order comes:

THE OLD WILL NOT BE MISSED
Homunculus Mar 2020
. . .(and the narrator asks:)

Can someone tell me, where did
all these basketball sized mangoes come from?
Why is the sky purple, and
who is the debonair, pinstriped,
feather-brim porkpie hatted man in it,
twirling his diamond handled cane and puffing his pipe
into clouds, raining splotches of
incandescent dark matter?

See how it congeals into forms.
Watch how the forms animate . . . .
. . .****, how many cigarettes is that, now?
Could swear I'd quit months ago . . .
LISTEN: Now they are communicating!
    "Zeepa Dappa Doppa Dooba Dooba Dee Dao!"
The ghosts of deceased jazz musicians?
Louis! Is it you? I'm not Dolly, but it ain't no folly of mine!
D'ya wanna puff on this here ******, have a swig of this here wine?
Wait, wuh-wuzzat?
My FEETS' too big?
FATS!!!!!!!!!!! IS IT REALLY YOU?!?!?!?!
Cuz if'n it be, I must confess, I HAVE been misbehavin'
S'pose that's why I'm here, after all.'

This world is dense and immense
and it makes less sense
than a fortress guarded by
an inch-high ironclad fence


(. . .and 3 days later the narrator awoke and aptly asked:)

****!
Where did all my money go?
Where is my left kidney?  
Why is there a tattoo of Icarus on my forehead?
Why am I in Colombia?  
Where is my passport?
WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS?!?!?!?!
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