Hillbilly Castro
Well-known member
WHO'S the lord of snickers bars, the drive-thru pigeon pimp, pumping down America's streets, slick with grease and tanning lotion, the lord of drag queens and mountain dew, the gasoline-sluggin' bastard who's gotchya, no matter what?
YOU'VE heard of the Godfather, well baby, forget all that - she's the Demon Daddy, and she's comin' to getchya. She's liquored up and lacquered up, the large-and-in-charge big-boy-babygirl of the underworld, and she's here to slaughter all heresy and expunge the names of the pious Peters and Pauls from the records of revolt.
NEON lights hit the chemical smog over the Vegas slums and big gangs of bumpkins thump books in big theatrical shows, vomiting jargon, they, the limp-livered lawyers, with "deep ideas" that lay flat like lasagna. They ruffle feathers like big turkeys, thumping thumping, faces melting in a stoned bliss, blood lubricating their every ideological dance move. Their necks are like stone, their sclerotic spinal columns remain motionless in the violent wiggling.
EXILE, exile! They screech and chortle, they cast bald-headed aspersions, they shave the hairs of their utopias, they weave kinky locked gummy-bear harnesses for the disillusioned young men and women and call it "education" with ashen grey sinister scowls that read "freedom in complete exactitude". They love books but loathe words. When the poet passes, their faces droop and hang like the dangling bits that jingle beneath the haunches of the buzzard. The grand column of the possible is gnawed at, they, like excitable chihuahuas, shake this column and demand public humiliation of the Great and the Wild before their exile.
THIS wet little erection, this embarrassment, this big nasty facade of Bakunin-in-ecstasy that melts in the sun of Gay-Eagle-Truth and Superman-Koolaid-Blizzard, it makes craven requests, it sinks beneath the tables of the diner, this wet mess of ideologies, it is pink, but not the glorious pink of the sunrise, it is the pink of infancy and late-onset puberty, it is the pink of the brain on ice, it is the wet, lurid pink of uglies bumped in dormrooms on computers paid for in serfdom. It leers, a panopticon, before the Great, the Gay, and the Bright. It is the form assumed by the drunk popes of utopian legalese.
DEMON Daddy lay prone on the drunk sidewalks of time, puke-full from the forcible burrito of precarious employment. It was not even worth it, she mumbled, as as she sobered up into a criminal malaise, one backed by the tactical prowess of a Raven, she lifted her head up to realize that the skies had gone bloody red with the sick hernia of Fascism. The walls went up like Martha Stewart curtains, walling in the plastic hymens of the pearly elites, walling in the Wellbutrin and the chaste failure, walling in the wet webcams of slobbering somber male hatred and doom.
GASOLINE went straight into the machine, for there was no time to waste. Demon Daddy's leather babies leaned down for a taste, but the labial riddle could not be solved tonight, for the end of their exile would befall them tonight. A gun was produced, and her bullets; her teeth, and a fresh hot burrito of wildest beef, was slipped into purses and pulled into sheets, and in time Demon Daddy would take back the street. She slipped hot sauce into the wrapper and burrito to mouth, and from her mountainous lair, she went full-speed due south, motorcycle and revolver, went straight to the mouth, of the university system, the CIA, college boy cottonmouth.
AND when she arrived, on the wet plastic scene, she opened the whiskey, and slipped in between, she chortled and burped and she went straight buck-wild, so much had she mastered ideological styles. And in due time by everyone there it was known, she brought the most to the table, was heir to the throne, she ran union meetings, burritos and all, until a foul stench was smelled in the halls. The lawyers of anarchists swore profanely in legalese, for 'twas a pair of balls that stank like the seas. It rotted and festered, claws stretched from on high, it became totally clear that the left had just died. She laughed and she chortled, flew into the air, and from the most pious received only blank stares. The memes were too precious, her whiskey too strong, for with her in their caverns they couldn't last too long.
There are no heretics in this church, she proclaimed, there are none who will be thrown into the electric meat-cabinets of judgement or unreason. We will saunter through the streets we call ours, we will suckle the whiskey, and nurse snickers bars. But we'll never nurse those with a mind they call 'ours'. We'll ride our gas engines into deserts and fields, but only survivors will taste of the meal! We'll ride and we'll ride and we'll shoot and we'll kill, but only the heretics will taste of the schwill! Vampires of spirit and mind and of flesh, shall be eviscerated, salted, consumed fresh! And these vampires of their pink throng was composed; the men who insist 'yes I know, yes I know'! They suck and they whimper, they bitch and they moan, they fuck and they whisper 'oh I'm so alone'! But it's not my job to carry them through to themselves - they think we aristocrats are like Santa's Elves! They slither and burp and they thump on their books, they cry 'exile, exile' and demand back what we took! They think this revolt of the wild came cheap - but death to them who over all else, saith "but what of GOOD SLEEP?"!!"
YOU'VE heard of the Godfather, well baby, forget all that - she's the Demon Daddy, and she's comin' to getchya. She's liquored up and lacquered up, the large-and-in-charge big-boy-babygirl of the underworld, and she's here to slaughter all heresy and expunge the names of the pious Peters and Pauls from the records of revolt.
NEON lights hit the chemical smog over the Vegas slums and big gangs of bumpkins thump books in big theatrical shows, vomiting jargon, they, the limp-livered lawyers, with "deep ideas" that lay flat like lasagna. They ruffle feathers like big turkeys, thumping thumping, faces melting in a stoned bliss, blood lubricating their every ideological dance move. Their necks are like stone, their sclerotic spinal columns remain motionless in the violent wiggling.
EXILE, exile! They screech and chortle, they cast bald-headed aspersions, they shave the hairs of their utopias, they weave kinky locked gummy-bear harnesses for the disillusioned young men and women and call it "education" with ashen grey sinister scowls that read "freedom in complete exactitude". They love books but loathe words. When the poet passes, their faces droop and hang like the dangling bits that jingle beneath the haunches of the buzzard. The grand column of the possible is gnawed at, they, like excitable chihuahuas, shake this column and demand public humiliation of the Great and the Wild before their exile.
THIS wet little erection, this embarrassment, this big nasty facade of Bakunin-in-ecstasy that melts in the sun of Gay-Eagle-Truth and Superman-Koolaid-Blizzard, it makes craven requests, it sinks beneath the tables of the diner, this wet mess of ideologies, it is pink, but not the glorious pink of the sunrise, it is the pink of infancy and late-onset puberty, it is the pink of the brain on ice, it is the wet, lurid pink of uglies bumped in dormrooms on computers paid for in serfdom. It leers, a panopticon, before the Great, the Gay, and the Bright. It is the form assumed by the drunk popes of utopian legalese.
DEMON Daddy lay prone on the drunk sidewalks of time, puke-full from the forcible burrito of precarious employment. It was not even worth it, she mumbled, as as she sobered up into a criminal malaise, one backed by the tactical prowess of a Raven, she lifted her head up to realize that the skies had gone bloody red with the sick hernia of Fascism. The walls went up like Martha Stewart curtains, walling in the plastic hymens of the pearly elites, walling in the Wellbutrin and the chaste failure, walling in the wet webcams of slobbering somber male hatred and doom.
GASOLINE went straight into the machine, for there was no time to waste. Demon Daddy's leather babies leaned down for a taste, but the labial riddle could not be solved tonight, for the end of their exile would befall them tonight. A gun was produced, and her bullets; her teeth, and a fresh hot burrito of wildest beef, was slipped into purses and pulled into sheets, and in time Demon Daddy would take back the street. She slipped hot sauce into the wrapper and burrito to mouth, and from her mountainous lair, she went full-speed due south, motorcycle and revolver, went straight to the mouth, of the university system, the CIA, college boy cottonmouth.
AND when she arrived, on the wet plastic scene, she opened the whiskey, and slipped in between, she chortled and burped and she went straight buck-wild, so much had she mastered ideological styles. And in due time by everyone there it was known, she brought the most to the table, was heir to the throne, she ran union meetings, burritos and all, until a foul stench was smelled in the halls. The lawyers of anarchists swore profanely in legalese, for 'twas a pair of balls that stank like the seas. It rotted and festered, claws stretched from on high, it became totally clear that the left had just died. She laughed and she chortled, flew into the air, and from the most pious received only blank stares. The memes were too precious, her whiskey too strong, for with her in their caverns they couldn't last too long.
There are no heretics in this church, she proclaimed, there are none who will be thrown into the electric meat-cabinets of judgement or unreason. We will saunter through the streets we call ours, we will suckle the whiskey, and nurse snickers bars. But we'll never nurse those with a mind they call 'ours'. We'll ride our gas engines into deserts and fields, but only survivors will taste of the meal! We'll ride and we'll ride and we'll shoot and we'll kill, but only the heretics will taste of the schwill! Vampires of spirit and mind and of flesh, shall be eviscerated, salted, consumed fresh! And these vampires of their pink throng was composed; the men who insist 'yes I know, yes I know'! They suck and they whimper, they bitch and they moan, they fuck and they whisper 'oh I'm so alone'! But it's not my job to carry them through to themselves - they think we aristocrats are like Santa's Elves! They slither and burp and they thump on their books, they cry 'exile, exile' and demand back what we took! They think this revolt of the wild came cheap - but death to them who over all else, saith "but what of GOOD SLEEP?"!!"
