Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.

Sometimes
i feel as if
my thoughts
eat me
alive,
as if
they are tearing
apart
grey matter,
popping
brain cells
like pills,
getting high
off me
and the nights
i can't sleep
and the nights
i lie awake
and the nights
i am alone
and the nights
i am too quiet
as my
thoughts
throw extravagant parties
behind my forehead
and invite all their friends,
who bring their friends
and their friends
until my head
is a head
of raging thoughts
that dontcantwont sleep
so that
i dontcantwont sleep.
They keep
knocking, banging my skull with their fists
they keep
pounding, bashing my head with their screams
they keep
my eyes open
so that i can watch the floorboards creaking
so that i can hear the shadows pirouetting off my wall
so that i can smell the rustling in the darkness
as if i am the one ecstatically covering myself in angel dust
and not my thoughts
as if i am the one speedballing too fast, too fast, slow down
and not my thoughts
as if i am the one flying, crashing, idontknow, too fast, too fast, slow down
and not my thoughts.
They won't let me sleep
Just let me sleep
let me sleep
and you can
tear apart
all the gray matter
you want
and you can
pop
my brain cells
like pills
but
just
let me sleep
let me sleep
Just let me sleep

please.

Early morning flight, you're
in for the long haul but you
toss and you turn and you
just can't get any sleep so you
board the night train and it
keeps you up as it pulls
out way too soon and through
pitch dark you're speedballing you
rock and you roll but you
gather no moss as you
slip and you slide as you
try to find your way across
a barren landscape of black ice

The nomad follows the northern light
hopes against hope for Holland in the night
miles away from home, address unknown
waiting for a sound or sight of heaven

Next thing you know, you're a
quarter down with no will to go on
ordinarily there'll be three more
but you really don't want to carry on
just hold your horses for a little while
reign them in, don't let them
jump the gun and out the coach 'coz
the midnight express is moving fast
now it's the middle of a moonless night
but Saturn casts its ugly shadow
ringing in yet another re-rerun
fashioning the grand return
a shadow on the morning sun

The geek's got prospects in Acapulco,
dabs her pinprick eye and rides her white horse
down the rabbit hole, milestone 24
but still no sound or sight of heaven

So you pull the chain and bring
the runaway train to a grinding halt
and you step outside but it's
not yet dawn as you shiver at the sight
no there's no one in sight except
that widow draped in a white cloth
red lantern in hand at the door of
a room at the far end of platform number one
a light that shines like a beacon it beckons
urging you to embrace the dark side
but it still ain't what you asked for
where are the bright arclights
and the glares of the videocams?

You thought you'd be a lamb but
no one played the guide so you
led yourself to the slaughter, sadly
it ain't no pay-per-view, no
broadcast live world over, HD
you wished to be the voice of
a vociferous generation but you're not
no medallion, no trophy, no Grammy
now you're in permanent rehab
with nothing but a double whammy, you've
neither life nor legacy as you
show up for your great gig in the sky
long before your time has come

Led astray by the northern light
all hope's lost on a brown Persian night
no direction home from milestone 27
guess there never really was a heaven