The moon is now our sycophant, and the earth our omnipotent sleeping grave. Our shoes the thrones of our feet, our fingers the dreadlocks of our slit wrists. The ashtray our baptismal basin, the smog of cars our aphrodisiac musk. Our nose our syringe and siphon, DVD tongues which spin ellipses dot, dot, dot. Our oak dining room set the sacrificial chamber and devices where the hearts of beasts are sliced and shared with titanium knives on LCD paper plates rendering educational videos of our esophagus gyrating the baked blood of farm animals in seductive circular vortexes leading to our blinking carbon polymer stomachs. Church our magazine. Children our investments. Food is entertainment. Defecation a personal mishap. Wouldn’t you say? Don’t you agree? How could it be otherwise?
Dental rape dime novels with attractively wise teeth written by fuzzy pink-coated succubae float dizzily among the vitamin bottle ambiances of suburban dance halls, so everybody puts on their coats and braves the cold to smoke a cigarette. Nobody remembers that though. Conspiracy theorists catch hold; the clouds are holding us under siege, it is a wonder that they still consent to let us breathe, they are swallowing up the sun, the moon is next, all the sky in that white hollow thundering belly. They are the true enemy, circling, circling like beautiful imprints of surrealist vultures.
And then no one shows up. And then no one comes. After the waiting, and the yelling, and the work, an instant takes it. Meaningless renders. I’ll comb my hair. I’ll brush my teeth. I’ll believe in God. I’ll make good money. All for you, you that never actually came, that never actually existed, but who was a fabrication of my mind made with the silly putty tools and images of the televisions and the coloring books. There are those for whom the story never begins. There are those who would cry and scream for the chance of an unhappy ending. There are those to whom every show, story, play, song, advertisement, newscast, is a mockery and reminder of their fundamental non-existence. Their suicide a cry for help no one would hear. There are loopholes in the social fabric, places where some can fall through and into the nothing beneath. At what point does an individual accept in old age that there will be no mate. There will be nothing, and who is there to tell them this but themselves. Not that it isn’t possible to survive alone. A religious order can dilute, a sibling, a parent, a job, a real good hobby, cream cheese cakes and ice cream cones and Sundays at the park and pets and a beautifully rendered likeness of the lily on your coffee cup and subservients and money and a good novel by the fire place with a true Italian cappuccino and nice slippers and a top of the line DVD player and cigarettes and drugs and pot and liquor and writing novels and casual looks that never amount to anything but an active fantasy life and porn and nachos and cotton candy and kittens and white post fences and bright green grass and towering cacti and the grand canyon. All can be worthy substituents of a proper substitution. And god gave us advertising. And god gave us flies. And god gave us nightcaps. And god gave us god damn it a damn good public plumbing system. And Cheetos. And Doritos. And breath mints. And caring psychiatrists and physicians with a little rounded counterbalance to every unbalance possible in our mind. Yes, it is now possible to mimic the chemical composition achieved under the effects of love with a properly constituted cocktail of modern psychological medication. And god gave us good chemistry.
Cracked lips break finally to reveal the eternal frown underneath. Un-tongued teeth reveal the snow-covered tips of saliva-digested mountains of starch. The mouth the key to all, speaks in cryptographic oscillations of self-induced halitosis. Everyone listens, holding their noses, and hears nothing, walks away content and buys a minivan. An orange flower blossoms underneath the tongue, arching forwards towards forgotten plaque deposits behind the lower cuspids and the glimmerings of light let in when we blow kisses into the air. In a strange fit of dental mood, we brush our teeth with extra-whitening toothpaste, destroying the candy colored bud and muffling the vibrating message of stench wafting up from the holes where our teeth of wisdom once dwelt. A people deprived, with strangely colored teeth, oscillate here, always adding, and never taking away. Wouldn’t you say? Don’t you agree? How could it be otherwise?.
Buy the Book!