Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Let's go out for a drink by myself

in the humid, confounded
confines of my mind, i am often heard saying
"fuck this," or "fuck that,"
or "this motherfucking moron and that shit-brained scoundrel-beast. What happened to all
the good abortion doctors?"
i peer at unknown nameless men across bars,
comfortably scanning their faults and vanities,
with the kind of consuming but off-handed
contempt that even their depressed
and ashamed mothers
might have trouble feeling.
The thoughtless, self-adoring follies
of youth
are to me a very big intolerable deal,
because these days,
you must admit
the youth is like terminal cancer,
like daily nuclear war and fallout.
They are far too big for any britches ever made,
and there are no legitimate medical organizations
founded to stamp them out,
or stem their tide,
or limit their travel to within the boundaries
of the plantation.

....(Fearfully) ..Also, there are simply more of them now,
Remedial math-wise:
because they never grow up...
the instinct to adulthood is excised, purged
away into the toilet of youth-worship
and Currency and Orgasm:
things that Aging is Not.
Yes what you are seeing is a
concretion of hot, idle, human droppings,
a plague of
many generations of giant infants,
a mass backing and piling up of
big ol babies
pumped full of a mad priapic sex drive,
with the evil motor of
ascendant,
war-mongering capitalism
powering their well-muscled
and tightly packaged,
glorious legs and arms,
justifying everything for them,
every casual, disdainful
act of shittiness, every answer delivered with a snarkle,
every posture of uncaring,
each dull impulse towards combativeness
and the cruel humor of
the shallow and insecure, 
yes justifying
all this with Josey Wales-style gritty determination
and the will to shoot any Nicaraguan who
does not smile agreeably or join the US Marines
on a dodgy citizenship basis,
justifying the imagined responsibility to publicly revile
any sensible person
who might not care about carbon emissions
or the fucking trans-gendered,
any more than any other pointless soft-shoe
shuffling of a manufactured political issue.
O sweet blood-drinking neo-liberal capitalism that
gives all this shucking a very hale and immortal
and fashionable
soundtrack of death denied,
but ever-present.
Fucking milquetoast petit bourgeois poseurs,
your soft hands stink of blood.

Admit it. 

...The youth is expert at sneering, and derision,
and sniffing at things and pronouncing
that they have definitely
seen and sniffed better things before,
and did so first.
Here is the link, they opine,
Full of vile second-hand opinions as they all are.


And they like better bands and
have seen more better movies than you,
and for them, those two trifling
cultural forms actually pass
as "art," providing
the raw flavorless material
for major aspects
of their shabby personalities.
Conversation seems to be cannibal,
a mode of combat among them,
marked by insecure waving around
of the wooden swords
of their intellects,
and some pissing
about alternately with slang and
pseudo-informed phrases, sucked from the
fat mother's teats they can no longer survive
without:
their beloved internet,
and black american culture.

Honestly i suspect that many
of them could not put on their tight leggings
without first consulting Reddit,
or text while driving,
or find white privilege distasteful,
unless
some very knowledgeable rapper
had not explained these processes to them.
They are the most dismal
and therefore the most perfect americans ever.

Above all, they are happy to love mostly themselves...no, no..
they are positively Ecstatic at this prospect
of a life spent
loving mostly their
own tired, opinion-holding, dingy asses.
If they could tongue and make love to their own bungholes,
we would never have to deal with them, for
they would be chronic shut-ins,
eating every meal
repeatedly,
and posting awful pictures
of each repast.
These average icons whose shit not only
doesn't stink, but which
has excellent flavor.
I am not really joking.
Narcissism is the new
default state.
Facebook is deathless proof
that we are all celebrities,
celebrity rats trained
to stab the hell out of various buttons,
fiendishly hungry for the
cocaine rewards of acknowledgment
and a carefully designed,
favorably impressive
image of the Self..
The Lie of YOLO is
now official, sanctioned State Policy.

i try to avoid conflict and dreadful fits of
embarrassment at belonging to this shit-ass species of
gussied-up monkey,
this
infantilized and perfumed primate,
that is, i try
to avoid going needlessly into public
without the fortification of alcohol or some other drug,
but sometimes it can't be helped.

sometimes i must go to
a bar and drink in public
so that i can
scrabble about
in the great trashy pre-school of my particular city,
hunting
for some feelings of
bonhomie with a familiar face
or a brand-new face, one of those
that has
the rare
promise of wit or humanity,
or that prima materia, Humility.
Or maybe
i go out to remind myself of the happiness
and wisdom there is in staying home.

It can't be said
that i am a complete cynic
or a hopeless acid-bellied sourpuss,
for i never go out drinking without my lantern,
my magic lantern
of Diogenes,
for looking in the gloomy cave
of my particular society for that honest man who
doesn't babble
and confuse his ass-fed opinion with
truth or reason,
and who doesn't say dull, infuriating, insipid things
as a rule,
Just like it says in the script,
and in the meme,
and on the bathroom wall