Post Temporal Sludge Decoder

"Post Temporal Sludge Decoder"

Who seeks a place of quiet repose? Have a stanza—

But not from me. My pen knows only anarchy and as such picks the tales I tell

Though I tell them with sideways glee.

Here is one for you

One for me and for us all—a tale of a fall—in autumn. Yes. A fall in autumn.

 

The Black Cars came and it is fair to call my reaction

My movement

Masked

Self-mutilation

Yet I did not bleed and the drivers did not laugh.

Some fat fucking lump watched me strip; same slug throw my clothes at me later.

Meantime just a pumpkin suit and some stone for a pillow.

Now smile for the camera flatfoot seventy-three. Or we can settle for the “suck it, cunt,” look.

Seen it all before.

Nothing shocks us dear.

Next the intruder

Finger in the back passage

Looking for dope

I was not holding and the invader laughed.

Come back later that fucking lump to meat-hawk

I caught my clothes plastic and awe

Watching me dress he lick his lips so I shake my balls he get a show for later.

He turned away blushing.

Who seeks a place of quiet repose?

When those bars slam home baby, you got it.

My pen knows only anarchy and cannot lie

So I signed my yellow papers “Die Laughing.”

No one noticed the difference.

State shrink asked would I kill myself—

I told him I don’t work for the government.

Then come the grey lady on Vogon TV

Not liking her face

I beat the State into the fucking floor.

Scared kid maybe twenty look ready to drop bowel

I tell him “Take it easy, brother, they will.”

He stared at me like I might be mad—which I am

But madness does not make men wrong.

“Keep that look pasted on and ma’am the cunt,” I said.

His mother slapped me in the face.

One good turn deserves another.

This time they saw the Carny go.

 

Got home and Doctor Whiskey paid a house call

Brought his assistant the good Mr. Caine;

We passed the time considering that kid.

Later I had a dream about the Meat-Hawk

He stank of cat piss

Scum

And syphilis

Humping his lump wife in slow degrees

Memory of my sack brought his to bliss.

Some nights I rattle the bars and howl “Swine!”

Do not wake up until my baby whines—I hate it when I punch love in my sleep.

 

Well

Back to that place of repose

Some deaders dig

Midnight ringers

No fingernails as wood and earth erode skin to bone or bone to skin

And then again.

 

The triumph of one free from soul!

Bright green skull grenades

That haunt until Heaven’s Final Day

Some things man cannot let himself let go.

 

Did I answer wherein lies repose?

It lies within the void!

Fold your hands once for Sorrow.

Sucked under the mud and covered with snow.

Fix the mirror until you see nothing but jelly staring back

And never mind repose—or illusions otherwise!