9-1-1
EXILE ON MARKET STREET
EXILE ON MARKET STREET
R. C. Webb
~ a retro-revo expose and landfill ~
CONTENTS
I. REALITY: THE BUTCHER OF DREAMS
1. LAZY-BOY MAN
2. PISSED IT ALL AWAY
3. CHECK IT OUT!
4. MAC 10
5. DAD'S BIG LOAD
6. PERFECT STORY
7. RUMPS-R-US
II. DIGGING UP BONES
1. FIRST CONTACT
2. BLACK CROWS
3. I HAVE BEEN TO THE MOUNTAIN
4. COPAGANDA
5. THE MEN OF MEAT
6. A THOUSAND ROUNDS
7. WET DREAMS
8. BE ALL YOU CAN BE
9. THE UNFORGIVEN
III. REALITY AND THE MUTANT STRAIN
1. FULL METAL JACKET
2. SHRUNKEN HEADS
3. INFILTRATED!
4. HIJACKED
5. PATHOS
IV. THE LAST MANIFESTO
V. ENDANGERED SPECIES
V. ENDANGERED SPECIES
PREFACE
“Why,” you would probably ask, would anyone have a problem calling 9-1-1 if they were in serious trouble? Judging by the late-night “copaganda” shows on TV, the cops will go anywhere to “serve and protect.” This, of course, is Lazy-Boy World and nothing could be further from the truth.
The Lazy-Boy Recliner (chained to the biggest TV possible) symbolizes an abject withdrawal from Reality. I use 9-1-1 as a symbol of the State’s laughable promise of protection for the citizenry if they would just turn in their firearms.
Many people may have forgotten, when they read this, of a time from the early sixties to the late seventies when both sides of the political spectrum voiced the adage: “An unarmed public is subject to tyranny at any given point in time.” At the time, there was good reason for this point of view on the Left since the police and their newly formed gung -ho SWAT teams were considered the ground- zero enforcement wing of a repressive, pro-war, and racist government. On the Right, the Militias, White Supremacists, and Fascist wet-dreamers felt likewise threatened.
On the Left, we always had an aversion to calling the police for any reason short of the most heinous crimes. There was a certain pride in being organized and strong, with solidarity and purpose along with a willingness to take care of most of the problems of our community without their interference. Naturally, this radical viewpoint did nothing to enamor us to the powers that be. Actually, watching the police put half a million rounds into a small wooden structure in an LA ghetto and burning the occupants alive (the SLA) on prime time TV pretty much convinced, at least me, that the Government had no problem dealing with its perceived enemies, armed or not.
By 1977, the Vietnam War was over and the American Left, with no central issues and a lot of intellectual fatigue, more or less dissolved into small single-issue groups of varying intensities. Abandoning urban centers, as a "lost cause," many of us, found ourselves and our families holing up in “small town USA,” more or less in a self-imposed exile in the sense that being discovered as a “Lefty” could be most unfortunate, not to mention dangerous.
Not so eager to give up our progressive ideals, we chose to disguise our true sentiments from the local color, keep to ourselves, and try to carve out an economic niche of some kind. The only alternative was to “drop out” entirely and go to Lazy-Boy Land where nothing matters, paranoia rules, alcohol and drug abuse prevail, and, to prove that everything was alright, you got to call 9-1-1 every time you thought you saw the ghost of Richard Nixon lunging at you through the TV haze or the dark shape of a gun wielding intruder moving across your window shade, or some gang bangers from the drive-by drop-off center who have found your drunken door ajar and want to show you what some real “whackers” can do!
I hate to admit it, but, Lazy-Boy Land, at times, seemed pretty inviting. It was my artist wife Maria who constantly reminded me of my social responsibilities, my own artistic destiny, and my own Surrealist Manifesto! As clever as she was, she never really caught me in Lazy-Boy Land mindset and, since we didn’t own a recliner, laying on the old couch in a self-imposed coma was as close as I could get to that Nirvanic state. All Scorpios, we laugh under our skin, cop to nothing, and travel light, and often to no avail.
It was ten years and 15 jobs later (1986) and one didn’t have to be a personnel manager to see that I was not integrating very well into normal Capitalist life. I had a nomadic career (of sorts) in Screen Printing, which gave, rise to a lot of “shit happens” situations as we moved from place to place looking for opportunities for our art, our family, and a decent life.
Circumstances eventually found us stranded in a small fishing/lumber town on the Oregon coast called Coos Bay. A well-meaning photographer friend of ours had invited us there to share a huge painting and photography studio he had found. We had met Lee while on the island of Guam. This was his hometown and seemed like a cool place to "drop anchor". Maria and I loaded our studios up in the Red Dog (My ‘68 Dodge æ ton pick-up with 2 letters missing from the hood) and, with more bravado than funds, made our way out of California. Unfortunately, in the interim, Lee's new girlfriend had decided to commandeer our space, and since both of them were also lawyers, it was easy to understand how something this chicken-shit could have happened.
We didn’t have much choice but to accept this suck-butt turn of events. Lee felt bad about the double-cross but he really needed a sexually functional girlfriend. He put us up for a few days and then it became obvious that we needed to move on, what with all the bad vibes we were getting from his new Squeeze. Maria and I and Sara (her 12 year old daughter) went off to have some lunch and to try to decide what to do. We drove through the town getting more and more depressed as we went. The place was in shambles. There were few people on the streets and many of the storefronts were empty. At the last stoplight before leaving town, we spotted a greasy spoon and decided to have some lunch on Market Street.
The only thing worse than the food was the utter sense of dread that was coming over me. Maria started to talk at me, but I couldn’t hear her. I was starting to go into that Scorpionic space we call “Internoggin.” The burnt Velveeta cheese sandwich and tepid milk had pushed the abort button on my need for nourishment. I stared out the window as my beloved rambled on about our predicament and my utter irresponsibility for it. Slowly my eyes, which had been crossed in despair, started to focus in on a dirty red “For Rent” sign in this old-timey looking storefront across the street.
As if in a trance, I stood up, pushed the lunch “special” away, zombied out the door, and crossed the empty street towards the storefront. As I came closer, I began to read the sign through the dirty window: 1500 square feet for $300! I started jumping up and down yelling, " YES! YES! OH FUCKING-A, YES!" Maria hurriedly paid the bill and ran to see what her idiot husband was yelling about!
We took this as a sign, literally, as well as a Manifest Destiny! The Dam of Despair was now broken! We even found a really cheap two-bedroom apartment above it. It was Whore-House Beautiful! The landlord was a shriveled up old good-heart and he gave us the keys without even asking for the last month’s rent! This was beyond belief! We headed for the Yum-Yum Tavern, which was right next door to the new digs for some liberating libations before off-loading the DOG.
The Yum-Yum Tavern was run by a husband and wife team that we called Sonny and Cher. Cher had no business sense whatsoever. Sonny had a day job as a pipe fitter that paid for Cher’s unending generosity to the customers. She had a side gig giving “Fun Parties” for all her girlfriends. Over the cash register was a huge dildo with Groucho Marx glasses and the words “see me” written on it with a magic marker. I was uneasy about this at first, but, as I got to know the people involved, I grasped the Surrealism of it. After that, it seemed quite natural. Also unheard of, as was Cher’s customary greeting to newcomers, our first beers were free! I could get used to the Yum-Yum!
Market Street looked like a two-bit side show you might find anywhere in small- town USA. In order of importance, it sported a hard liquor bar attached to an old hotel that was the last resting place for many of the oldest inhabitants of the town; a beauty parlor with sun-bleached pictures of Annette Funicello type hairdos which they could duplicate exactly; a similar barber shop with Bobby Darin type dos for men; a heavily air-wicked second-hand store with very little in it; a Trailways bus depot attached to the old hotel, that butt- awful cafe we had been in, our new studio, and, of course, the Yum-Yum Tavern.
Lee thought it wise for us to keep our political sentiments to ourselves and suggested that we paper over the big front windows of the studio, at least until people go used to us being around. Not knowing anyone and being slightly paranoid of street level curiosity, that seemed prudent. This was our first concession to Coos Bay.
As it turned out, most Oregonians are of the “live and let live” type. So, for the most part, the patrons of the Yum-Yum were pretty friendly. Maria and I both made friends quickly. Buying all those "Rounds" didn't hurt anything either! No one seemed to care what went on behind the paper which was fine with me. Eventually it would be discolored by the sun and look like most of the other deserted storefronts around town.
As a precaution, I spent many hours at the Yum-Yum. I had my own booth next to the pay phone and the pissoire. I didn’t do much business but me and my pals played many a fine song and told many a tall tale there, while happily guzzling beer and lunching on free baskets of that ghastly Wheat Chex Party Mix which, for some ungodly reason, Cher adored.
The resident clientele consisted of a menagerie of the chronic or recently unemployed, several Vietnam Vets with varying degrees of post- traumatic stress, some old war dogs left over from WWII and Korea in varying states of decay, a few dyed-in-the-wool assholes and other impoverished souls, one or two old geezers from the Hotel across the street who made an art of popping wheelchair wheelies after a few beers, a couple of bikers with smoky patchwork hogs, and last but not least, the standard coven of old beered-out apple dolls with yellow nicotine fingers, pasty red rouge cheeks, and paralyzingly foul breath still trying to get some young logger upstairs for the “thrill of a lifetime !”
For what it’s worth, these people had enough problems of their own just trying to survive to pay any attention to the squirrelly new kid on the block, especially when it was some Scorpio-fuelled heathen gathering info-nuts for the next leg of his faithless journey into Oblivion! In fact, with all the fish gone and most of the profitable timber too far back in the woods to bring in, it was just a matter of time before even they would all be gone. Staying drunk day in and day out was their way of dealing with it. I, on the other hand, actually found a job screen-printing in a small local shop. Not exactly a career move, but it helped keep us afloat.
I empathized a lot with the inhabitants of Market Street since most of my childhood was spent moving from one cotton-mill town to the next because some Cotton Baron thought he could make more money elsewhere or avoid the Union organizers for a while longer. Just below the surface was this nagging feeling that, likewise, they had been double-crossed by the American Dream; supposedly with hard work, a faith in something greater than oneself, and a hefty dose of patriotism, the rewards of Democracy would surely have been coming their way. In fact, to insinuate otherwise or cast aspersions on the good ol’ USA would have resulted in bodily injury. Even worse, it could have lost me my resident status and open-ended bar tab (Cher liked me), and this rag-tag bunch of crazy’s that were now my overextended “family”.
Fortunately for me, the patrons approved of my working -class appearance and my other persona: popular delta blues musician known for breaking into song at the mention of a free cold mug or from the friendly persuasion of a collar-bone crushing lumberjack who just loved black field songs. These shenanigans were a welcome smokescreen to my real identity: Microcosmic Voyeur and Disenfranchised Anarchist of the Disemboweled School of Attack Surrealist Metaphysics and Propaganda!
We soon left that latter day "Cannery Row," but not until I finally realized that the script was writing me! When I realized that time had run out for the detached observer, I knew that I was being sucked into the vortex of a small town's Delirium and Pain.
The catalyst for this insight revolved around three incidents that occurred around closing time one fog cloaked Saturday night and on into the next day, an old Baptist favorite: Easter Sunday.
The first incident involved the flash- bulb intervention into the attempted post-traumatic-stress murder of a young boy (the son of my blues playing partner's girlfriend who lived in the tenement above the Yum-Yum) playing A.W.O.L at 2:30 AM by a Vietnam Vet I had met in the Yum-Yum that I had been sitting next to and "shooting the shit" with. It was the anniversary of the loss of his entire unit. He was ashamed that he had somehow survived. His story would chill us all out and conjure up this night of karmic and cosmic retribution. I also was not aware that he was "packing".
The second incident involved the cowardly non- intervention in the public abuse and abandonment of a pregnant junky woman by her recently laid-off husband who was trying to skip town on a bus across the street from the studio. I knew them, but 9-1-1 was all I could come up with.
The third situation involved the infiltration of my studio by Predatory Evangelical Porn-Agains who, through hostile hearsay, were convinced it was full of sacrilegious paintings. Where could they have gotten that idea? My defense of the Safe Sex Exhibit was admirable, as well as costly.
Agitated by their idiotic dogma, I physically threw the Body of Christ Snatchers out on their asses! The backlash from this carelessness of mine was to prove ruinous to my Mission. The actual contents of the studio were now known to a very hostile entity. It did not take long for my livelihood to be disrupted as the sanctimonious gossip spread to most of my civic-minded screen-printing customers.
Basically, I was "black-balled," eventually bankrupted, and forced to leave. I was tired of all this small town intellectual constipation anyway. I had managed to make some art there and Sara had graduated in one piece and gone on to study theater in New York. The Safe Sex exhibit was done and needed to be shown. The AIDS battle was heating up, my cover was blown, and generally, I never stay where I’m not welcome. And as Che said, "Never start a battle that you are not predisposed to Win!"
Maria and I moved out of exile to the urban sprawl of Portland, Oregon. Looking back I knew, in no uncertain terms, that I had come perilously close to ideological suicide: mythically within my own Surrealism and spiritually within my overdeveloped sense of the comedic. If there was anything heroic left in art, it was wasted on the pathetic reality of Coos Bay.
I now admit that the true Revolutionist does not have the luxury of “falling out of grace with Reality.” We Surrealists, on the other hand, do it all the time. It is our way of rejuvenating our souls, and for that, we take the risk of never being taken seriously again. What we Surrealists ingeniously perceive as a purposeful transmigration of the creative spirit is often viewed by those more disposed to recreating History’s mistakes as something politically selfish. Rather than seeking emancipation from mass stupidity by imagining a way out, these politically correct wanna-bees couldn’t care less about the consequences of their quest for the perfect “ISM!"
This, of course, is not a big loss to the cosmos or us. In fact, we do not only get to fill out our own Death Certificates (poetically, of course), pontificate Life’s earthly meaning, and generally Schmooze in Paganistic Intercourse, we also get to announce and commit the Coup de Grace in perpetuity.
CREATION = DESTRUCTION = CREATION = DESTRUCTION = CREATION
Reality: The Butcher Of Dreams
The Cruel Lamentations of the DaDa Avenger
"Ride with Pride, Die with Dignity"
Lazy-Boy Man
"AS THE WORLD TURNS..."
"BURNS" is more like it!
"DAYS OF OUR LIVES..."
The REAL world's too Tough!
"ONE LIFE TO LIVE..."
9-1-1, you better call it!
LAZY-BOY MAN...
Don't like to play Rough!
Oxygen thieves
In their Lazy-Boy coffins
Live and die
In their vinyl reclines
Numb-Nut masters
Of the truly banal
Opinionated and vulgar
Cruel by Design!
Daytime show queens
Turn big plastic letters
Spelling out "RIGORMORTIS"
You win if you can,
"THE WHEEL OF MISFORTUNE"
Crushes the losers
"Great Fucking Life!"
Yells LAZY-BOY MAN!
Talk shows pundits
Give up no warning...
Cheap sentiments roll
Off their swollen tongues,
Pretending to care
Raking in millions
LAZY-BOY MAN'S
Satellite Dish Hums...
Fat burners grunt
Melting love handles
Their groaning Squat-Thrusts
Turn him On
High-rises tremble
To the jiggling tonnage
LAZY-BOY-MAN
Firms up at home!
LAZY BOY-MAN...
Waits for Deliverance
Televangelists cash his
Unemployment check ...
The LAZY-BOY MASTER
Knows his true feelings
Oblivious to the fact
He has no life to wreck!
Buried deep in the cushion
Sweaty hocks rumble...
A commercial is coming,
Perfect time to relieve!
Anal Explosive...
Short fused and burning
That much crap out of one man
Is hard to believe!!!
LAZY-BOY MAN
Waits for the Answer...
LAZY-BOY MAN
Don't even try
LAZY-BOY MAN
Has thrown in the towel
And "There but for fortune
go you or I"
PISSED IT ALL AWAY
If Life was a Game Show
You'd have to be present to Win
If Life was a Cop Show
You'd have to turn in all your Friends
If Life was a Talk Show
Everything they said would be True
No, Life is just a RUBBER HOSE
That leaves you Black and Blue
Yes, Life is just a Rubber Hose
That leaves you Black and Blue
Is life just a daytime Soap
Because real life is so Cruel?
Is Life just a Cheap Burlesque
Where lonely men Re-tool?
Is Life just a front row seat
On a fast freight to Hell?
No, Life is what you make it
If you can just get past the Smell!
Yes, Life is what you make it
If you ever get past the Smell!
Is Life just a Big Freak Show
That everyone must pay to See?
Is life just a Lazy Boy
Chained to a huge TV?
Is Life just a GO-GO Show
Shitted out at Half-time PLAY?
No, Life is just a big "NO SHOW"
Cause you Pissed it all away!
Yes, Life is just a big "NO SHOW"
Cause you Pissed it all AWAY!
 |
| Last Dancer "No Encore" |
CHECK IT OUT!
Ever see a human take a real solid hit
Or a knife in the chest that didn't make a real mess?
Maybe outside McDonalds or a drive-in nightclub
Splattering their gang guts all over the sidewalk
The floor of the drive-by fills up with hot brass
Smokin’ tonight Bro, cappin' some punk-ass
The kid on the couch watchin' "Boys in the Hood"
Thinks the noise is straight out of Hollywood
Sirens howl like demons while scattered bullets whiz
He passes by the window on his way to take a piss
The stray pops his head like a Randy Weaver melon
Kicked through the goal post by some "baby head" felon
The wallboard shreds like paper from the Uzi gunner’s finger
Zit-faced white bread, strung out, gang-banger
Tweaking from the heat of the automatic's fever
He sweats like a man
He cries like a child
The glasspak roars
He’ll get the headlines for sure
Sad faced firemen hose down the mess
Police write down the number but it's the wrong address
The “Boys in the Hood”
He was their little friend
He thought it would be cool
To grow up just like them
Lockin’ and Loadin’ with a shit-eating grin
He’ll be Squirmin’ like Vermin when the gurney’s rolled in
Read out the name while the executioner drools
Voted "most likely to die
Before quitting high school"
Better think about it, you’d be safer in a Cult
Than to get a hangin’ judge and be tried as an Adult
When the hammer falls and the verdict is read
Nobody will give a shit for what’s in your head
Or that you see the world through eyes so sad
To smell gunpowder, smoke and lead
To go to bed happy
And wake up Dead!
 |
| YOUNG DEAD PIGS: GANG PORK |
MAC 10
School kids with MAC 10’s
Smoke dope for courage
Green suburban schoolyards
And video paint-ball jungles...
Blast their bad-time schoolmates
The do-gooders had it comin'
Ready to hose, your grungy Goth clothes
Treat you like they were slummin'
The Brady Bunch got slaughtered
In the Jihad of the Junkies
For anything they could find to sell
To stave off the one trick monkey...
Load up the trunk with high class loot
Jonesing, they can't wait to unload it
Kill for a fix
Turn a few Tricks
And go out again in the morning.
Lost in the vinyl of Lazy-Boy Land,
Parents are chained to a wall-sized T.V.
Watching wholesale murder and rape
Too far from the fridge to relieve
Kosovo, Rwanda, or Taliban Thugs
The Belly of the Monster keeps filling
No need to take a stand, in Lazy-Boy Land
Or give a damn about all that ruthless killing.
"Life chops its own Meat"
In the fly-papered lair
Youthful minds cross-thread and fry
Not that anyone cares...
Everyone’s to blame unless they have
Your Name
Your Religion, Your Skin Color, or History
Shit in-Shit out, is what dope is all about...
So why is Violence and Hate such a mystery?
Classmates gather around the graves,
Their pain shows the turmoil they're in
With Mac 10's and junkies
And Lazy-Boy Flunkies
The Proof's in The Pudding -- Amen
DAD'S BIG LOAD
Dad’s Big Sperm Load was a monumental blunder
Never saw the lightnin’, never heard the thunder
Right under his coke filled nose
The KID started wearing camo clothes
Now how could that have happened,
Gee, I wonder??
Making pipe bombs to throw, that’s real slick
Don’t you want to know what makes me Tick?
Murder and mayhem’s just a video game
Live or Die, it’s all the same
If you really want to know, just Point and Click!!
What happened to your baby bunting
Gave him a gun and took him hunting
Close one eye and take a bead
Squeeze, don't jerk, is all you need
Unfortunately for you, he’s missing something
In the schoolyard, his trigger finger itches
Got to get even on all those sons-of-bitches
Their constant torment and strife
Will cost them their life
Teachers, Bullies, Jocks, and especially Snitches
The lunch room rocks with wounded and the dead
Like the sterile video violence in your head
Too bad all of this is Real
Like the emptiness you feel
As the empty clips turn the linoleum bright red
Should parents pay when their Darlin’ turns out cruel?
Their job’s to teach what is and isn’t cool
Making pipe bombs in his room
Your seething Looney Tune
Plans to cap you both at breakfast before school!
This is said to be just another senseless act
But, one cannot get beyond the facts
It’s real people getting killed
Real blood is being spilled
Life’s not some stupid program you can hack!
At twenty-one they’ll let you go free
To the victims it adds insult to injury
The law says you’re too young
To die for what you’ve done
Lucky for you that shit is not left up to me
I’d read Kafka as the preacher pats your head
The pepperoni on your Tombstone’s turning RED
I’ll have to call the EPA
Just to throw your ashes away
And may you have heartburn till you drop dead
I know my approach to retribution seems extreme
Like something in a nightmare or bad dream
But even that’s not real
He’ll get off on an appeal,
Some technicality or other GOD DAMN thing!
A PERFECT STORY
"JUMP BACK JACK!"
Violence erupts without warning
Lunacy like lava
Down the angry streets flowing
The innocent ones, they flee
Dropping their groceries
Cut down like straw
In the streets of confusion
Where in the hell
Can I get a transfusion
For shoppers chopped up
Like cheap confetti
Tossed out of windows
At the next election
Right Wing politicians
Offer constipated visions
Their big-hair wives
Would kill for an erection
If she could get his attention
Long enough to screw him
Perhaps she could realign
His megalomaniacal conclusions
If he ever told the truth, you know,
Someone would try to shoot him!
Not much chance of that though
Waiting for the big dough
Maybe write a book, you know
Tell everything she fucking knows
Make up big fat smelly lies
Juicy Lucy's sweaty thighs
Buttrafuge, fat and whorey
Never let the facts, Jack,
Ruin a perfect story!
RUMPS-R-US
Wring your hands at this senseless carnage
Dope fueled, skinhead, white bread bullies
They know the Constitution protects their vomit
From your non-retaliation which isn't much better
From the Numb-Nut fathers afraid of the danger
The chicken-shit hoods run the neighborhood bunkers
Payin' off the Heat, busy jumpin' jay-walkers
Or chasin' the homeless behind the Dempsey Dumpster
Or save the street urchins from wino dribble
Butt-hole barter or even prostitution
So, if you gonna do the time
May as well do the crime
You'll be throttled in the shower, at the midnight hour
Take it like a man, when the Brothers smoke your ham
It only hurts, they say, if you put up a fight
That's no reason to enjoy it
And you never know, you might!
It’s all just conjecture to me, of course
I've never been reamed by a two-legged horse!
So, who are the criminals?
Who are the Thieves?
Who are the Murderers?
Laughing in your face?
Don't you think it's funny?
That you turned in your gun
You know the State will protect you
Just dial 9-1-1
Sucker!
Just dial that 9-1-1!!!
The Patriot Game
The Patriot Game
 |
| I'm the one your hairdresser warned you about! |
FIRST CONTACT
BLACK CROWS
THE MEN OF MEAT
"Do you have a problem?"
A coldcut inquires...
"Who said it was My Problem?'"
I start to perspire...
"What is the nature
of your Beast, Sir?"
Baited conversation stalls
The crackpot call...
So technology can grip
And displays your street
Name of first-born
Brand of cigarettes
Your religion
Your political affiliations
Number of cavities
In YOUR MOUTH
Your sexual orientation
And the name of Your Dog
Up on the green screen
The Longer You Talk!!!
The "Black Crows" of religion
Peck piously out...
The eyes of anyone foolish enough
To fall asleep
In the Amazing Grace
Period between the break of day
and the collections of the MIGHTY GOLD!!!
With a Ritz Cracker Christ
To fill the void
"WH0 ARE YOU CALLING PARANOID!!"
"The Ritz Cracker Christ"
 |
"Holy Galletas!"
|
I HAVE BEEN TO THE MOUNTAIN!
Forced to pray at the age of ten
The Sunday School window provided The Way
Thinking to fly from the Deacon's grip
To the ground so hard and far below
My skinny little arms, I used for wings
To set me down, without a scratch
To the hot asphalt parking lot
Two stories below and jammed with cars
I hit that shit running and have never stopped
Silently cheered on, by those not so lucky...
I HAVE BEEN TO THE MOUNTAIN...
And there was NOTHING THERE!!!
COPAGANDA
The surrealist humor of J. Edgar Hoover
That butt licking fascist of FBI glory...
In black bra and panty ensemble
Worn on the outside of his 50's blue suit
With Fredericks of Hollywood’s
Best garter belt and stockings
With those black lines up the back
That he thought were so cute...
Accented by knobby dildo eyebrows
Supporting the engaging dialectic you know...
Of perfectly centered cross-hairs
Aimed at the Beast...
Who knew how to dress
When it was time to be SWEET!!!
The little Nazi spent his life...
Killing commies black and white...
Running Queers out of Washington, D.C.
In the middle of the night...
The irony of course
He kept in the closet...
"Pitchin' and Catchin'”
Behind the curtains!
Satirical truisms...
By the Reichian Reamer
When I finally heard it,
I thought I was dreamin'
Buried face down
In his Glory Hole coffin
Buggered by ghouls,
And other Nightwalkers!!!
J. Edgar Hoover Modeling His Convictions
 |
I'm So Hot!
|
"Great Shot Comrade!"
Perhaps it was that
Urban guerilla sniper...
Disfiguring the mutated
Men of Meat?
Special weapons and tactics
We really needed
To SWAT the earth
With an iron fist
While performing the
Postmodern variations
Of the infamous end-zone "dookey dance"
Of the seven digits in real tight pants
Puking yards of Xeroxed legal tender
The way is clear for
The total surrender
Not the snuff job
Of the "Final Solution
"
But to buy guns, you know...
For their own Revolution!!!
A THOUSAND ROUNDS
 |
"Che por siempre"
|
Maybe it was that full size
Silhouette target...
With twenty or thirty rounds
Dead center...
With the menacing face of
Brother Che
In the place where the faceless head
Should be?
Smiling through the murderous hail...
Asthma choked and pierced with lead
The Rangers howl and beat their chest...
Like apes gone mad for a free ride home
In Air Force One
With You Know Who!!!
WET DREAM
Burning tires provide the light
By which I paint the Eyes of War
While soldiers, dead in their comrades’ arms
View our lives from the other side...
And Paintings ... Ha Ha Ha...
What fucking good are They?!
Inspirations unfold
In my ancient brushes
At their mystical violence
And worthless notions
That to trash the image
Robs its power
Hung up like shields
In our darkest hour...
Piled high on the dung-heap
Of reactionary dreams...
They feast like worms
Above the ground
We waited like crows
For the Beast to fall
Reduced to gray mush
In just a matter of days...
Their black hearts hang
By a thread in time
Motionless in the fascist storm
Dreaming wet dreams
Of Civil War!
BE ALL YOU CAN BE!!!
BE ALL YOU CAN BE!!!
BE ALL YOU CAN BE
When the War ended
Everybody went on home...
Back to school
Or to find old lovers...
Scattered from fear
And obligation...
Waiting for the "traitors” like us
To be caught and punished
Or spanked and pardoned
By the benevolent State...
Weary of the War
And its contradictions
Fifty Thousand American
Lives too late!!!
THE UNFORGIVEN
THE UNFORGIVEN
THE UNFORGIVEN
Left behind in the taverns
Saloons, alleys and gutters...
Many a shell-shocked grunt...
Point man or Ranger...
Sweaty hands around
Warm beers tremble
Reliving in pain
The bitter losses...
Titillating old war dogs
Or killers in closets...
Sitting next to pacifists
Pinko squatters...
Who rattle the chains
By their very presence
Dreading to hear of
The Unforgiven
Unfortunately for the room,
Every time he remembers
Who KILLED WITH THE GUN...
Who BAYONETED AND RAPED...
Who BOMBED AND TORTURED...
MUTILATED WITH GLEE...
While we waged war
In parenthesis...
Here at home too
We took casualties!!!
Wherever emotions
Like these collide...
Violence inevitably
Will erupt...
The butcher's tears
Give way to rage...
Old, outnumbered
And in the way...
In the walled-off world
Of small town fame
Lie the secrets of the
Revolution so dear...
Shit-faced and waiting
For the times to change
Like the poet Bob Dylan
Always said they would!
PART III
REALITY AND THE MUTANT STRAIN
White Power
 | ||||||||||
"What's wrong with this picture?"
FULL METAL JACKET
The moon is hidden by a raven wing...
Market Street is soaked with fog
From The Yum-Yum joyfully "tatered" I stagger
Having my fill of story and song
Keys lost in pockets -- old pieces of string...
Trash from the bar-matches and things...
Mumbling, I’m fumbling to find them quick...
Or piss on myself in social disgrace
While a story as bizarre as BATS unfolds
For me, alone, to witness all!!!
Pajama-clad in brown and green camo...
A boy jumps from the tenement stairs
With an M-16 replica of a BB gun smoking
"GERONIMO!!!" rings through the empty night's air
While pumping a road-kill pigeon full of lead
He screams like a banshee, I am filled with dread...
"Death to the Gook pigeons and his fuck-feathered friends!!!”
B-52s of bird shit have poisoned the air
"FIX BAYONETS!!!" he imitates authority
"Do'Em, Do'Em!" he squeals with glee...
With MYLAI accuracy, he sweeps the alley...
Taking no prisoners, just following orders ...
"Every living thing, by my hand, shall perish!"
Lockin' and Loadin' while poking through garbage...
Search and Destroy 'til you're all out of victims
"KILL'EM ALL!" he shouts...
That's the system!
Just "Rats with Wings," those fucking pigeons...
Through the heavy wall of the bus station fog
Stalks one who has paid a thousand fold
For the smells the sounds, and the sights of War
Dazed and confused he pulls out his pistol
The plate in his head bulges in pain...
Like a cat moving in on a wounded canary
M-16 memories burn in his brain!!!
Red White and Blue beer signs light up the dead street
Dashing off the tube of hollow blue steel...
The Vet’s eyes glow with a thousand rounds flashing,
Fired in vain to stop the night crashing
From closing in on a young boy crying
The hissing grenade that found his buddies
Bar-B-Qued them like chickens in the cherry-bomb toilet!
Along with the child in the coal black pajamas
Perspiration and tears fill his sad hollow eyes...
Where teen love once blew on warm summer nights
And a special "Of course I love yooz...Baby"
Copping a feel on the new girl in school
In the shallow end of the public swimming pool
Back in Yonkers around 1965, before he got drafted
He was young and alive...
The studio door open, my Nikon is loaded...
Cocked and ready for a Pulitzer Prize!!!
The vet holds back the sorry truth weeping
That this lesson is a waste of cruelty so blind
Hesitation belongs to the man with a conscience
While treachery is felt in the bullet so cold...
The killer of time hides in the shadows
Waiting for the chance to murder us all!
The POP! POP! POP! of my flash distracts him!
Remembering the flares, he loses his grip...
The Boy breaks away, heads for the alley
To clean out his pants
Which are going down hill
Dropping his prey, he crawls on his belly
Into the cement Bunkers of the Dead...
"INCOMING ROUNDS!" sounds like a volcano
"FIRE IN THE HOLE!" rattles the plate in his head
Diving behind an old Dempsey Dumpster,
“No Pulitzer for me, Was it somethin' I said?!"
Holding the twisted toy gun replica...
With its brilliant sparks and authentic noise...
Revered by his friends for its extreme detailing
He’s the hot brass version of a cruel young boy
Ironically, his dad came back in little pieces
Horribly burnt like forgotten cheese toast
Dog tags melted, teeth black as coal
Showed up at the July 4, big wiener roast
Tucked in a box with the standard condolence
“Life stinks, huh kid?” I tried to console him
Not amused, he levels his gun
“GET YER ASS UP HERE!”
the mother hussy trumpets
Herself being hit-on by a one night stand
Dragging his curler-haired lipstick smeared plaything
Back into the darkness of her smelly lair
Her cocaine filled panties fall down quite freely
Apathetic to the shameful plight below
Her son runs off to finish his Recon
Loverboy cuts lines while mom puts on a show.
THE ART OF PERSUASION 
"Murder Incorporated"
I CALL 9-1-1...
"Hey what's the problem?"
The self-appointed saviors
Would have taken some losses...
On the night heat carousel
In this deadly oasis
Tossed on a sea of total indifference
The black horses spin...
While the calliope whistles!!!
“What is the nature of your problem, sir?”
A monotone nose job digitally inquires...
While probing the dial with a DNA finger
Buying the time to set up a "fall"
The good samaritan Death Wish father
Never shoulda called,
"It’s not MY problem”
“So, where the hell were YOU
In that kid’s darkest hour???!!!"
My obvious disgust is not characteristic
Of one needing help, but rather one needing
An "attitude adjustment” administered freely...
With a three-sided nightstick, outlawed by Geneva...
In the hands of a tyrant, it always delivers!!!
"It was YOUR war PIG
That put that human
Sunken-eyed, plate-headed
Wounded brother
Gun-toting fear stricken
GI martyr...
On every crumbling Market Street
Town to Town and
Border to Border!!!”
Fearing detection
I hang up quickly!
Long before...
They can track my call...
I slump in my chair
And scan the bad news
Through cold coffee backwater
And cigarette butts...
Scanning the headlines
Always cheers me up...
Here's a good one...
“A man in Georgia has been arrested
His car impounded his wife molested
For a 'Shit Happens' bumper sticker
Sunday morning...”
Should have stayed in bed...
And read the Funnies!
Hmmmmmm, here's some more!!!
"A Skinhead is awarded two years for killing
A black man with an "All-American" baseball bat...
With “Make Shit Happen” tattooed on his forehead!"
His Aryan wrist got an awful slap!
A trophy of HIGH evolutionary standard
On the sports page of
INCOMPREHENSIBLE IGNORANCE!!!
SHRUNKEN HEADS
My attention is drawn back
To Market Street...
Life is busy
Picking its teeth...
With the toothpick people
Down on their knees...
Hiding their faces
From that awful scene...
Where alcohol and dope
Fuel up
The saddlebags
Of their needle dreams...
"I Hate YOU! I Hate YOU!"
His voice is a bludgeon...
He drags her across the parking lot...
"What about the kids, Joe?
They need their father!”
He grabs her throat,
Smashing his bottle!
You know this poor guy
Has changed his colors...
Last year got a raise
And a big promotion!
Hate and rage, now
Swell so deep...
Since the mill closed down
And walked away...
With all the Gold
They had ever known.
Hand in the empty coffers so deep...
Drenched with the blood
They could pull the teeth
From the Green Chain mouth
Of honest work
Hard and thankless
The owners wave...
Farewell, leaving town...
In their black limousines!!!
"Call 9-1-1!" a wino yells...
Swollen-tongued, moving his hands
"Wife beating is illegal
In the LAND of the FREE"
The Voice comes on
As the coin slips away.
"What is the nature of your problem you say?”
“Who said it was MY PROBLEM, any GODDAMN way?!”
It was YOUR American Dream Bullshit Party,
That created this angry man-child turning
Into this board-wielding believer in the Benevolent Masters
Who dropped them all like hot potatoes
The minute his profits went down the river
Putting this woman in serious danger...
Too tired to scream, she sobs in the gutter...
From the look in his eyes, I think he's going to DO her...
I called 9-1-1, but it was too much trouble...
Twice in one night, requires a better story...
“This woman needs help NOW, or this drunk fool will KILL her!!!”
Word on the street is she has a "Big Habit...
Strung Out, pregnant and seriously battered...
With her "Sugar Daddy" gone now, she'll never get better
"Kicking" that shit is a real bed wetter!
The medicine-cabinet children
Of this Chromosome Damaged Nation
Their drug addicted mothers
Begging for Deliverance...
Waiting for the Letter
And the personal belongings
Not to mention that Big Check
From the Veterans Administration
And that urn of smelly gray powder
In its rightful place up on the mantle
Is his mortal contribution...
To the nation that created
This drug infested ghetto...
She stashes her dope
In his pint-sized quarters...
On the one hand it’s Brilliant!!
But, on the other, it’s Horrible!
The baby in her belly, forever shaking...
To be born addicted, always craving...
Kicking her guts out, every five minutes
One-day-old detox is not real pretty!!!
No milk can dilute the Needle of Hate
Jammed in an arm or lost in a vein...
The demonic filth flows
As easy as the name!!!
Picked out before she even
Started to show
"WHY FUCKING BOTHER?!
"
Is what I want to know!
"Come again?!”
the phone God demands...
"Where were YOU
when the shit hit the fan?!”
"Not talking to a
Lousy Cop. Ha! Ha!"
"Fuck you!" she says
I quickly hang up!!!
INFILTRATED!
The sunrise is magenta
In the Pepto-Bismol dawn...
The wino's snore is peaceful
Almost like a song...
A sonnet to life
Tokay
Rose, Burgundy, and Free!
With blistered lips from
Mad Dog 20/20,
Night Train, or T-Bird,
or other concoction...
Their runny noses gurgling
Their eyes red and crusty...
Sucking in the foul air
Of this Black Easter Sunday...
I was dreaming, for awhile
Of a world freed from hunger...
Where avarice and greed
Cannot plunder...
For a crust of bread
They’d kill their own mother...
The derelicts need food
But, they would rather have Vodka
Can't hardly blame them
When you consider their options!
Speaking of liquids
It’s time to deliver...
The folly of last night
To the porcelain angel
Half wiped out
And the other half sober
I headed for the john
Leaving the front door open
The Last Temptation of The Wiener Christ!
I didn’t know it then
But a crisis was brewing...
Outside my studio
The God Squad was forming!
Porn Again jerk-offs
Calendar salesman!
Got inside the Black Cat,
While I was "Doing the Honors”
The Christ/Kitsch sales pitch
Made me nervous
My bad check bounced
Before it was even folded...
"This is for the Pastor
He really needs the money..."
"
To buy swaddling clothes
For your Poor Little Bastard!?
THIS IS THE TEMPLE OF SHRI WEBBO!!!
Next time I piss, I'll lock the fucking door!!!"
"Do you like those paintings?"
The torment begins...
"They're quite Satanic
If I do say so Myself!”
"THAT'S JIM AND TAMMY FAYE
CRAMMED INTO THOSE CONDOMS!"
She screams
She grabs her chest-melons
And starts to fall backwards...
Her wiener army
Of christ puppets scream
Scattering like rats
Or be crushed by the Queen!!!
Her tonnage by all,
Is completely forsaken...
In lieu of wild genuflection and
Other Cult manifestations!
I lock my door,
Out of self-preservation...
After tossing the whole bunch
Out on their bibles...
They run down the Mean Street
Heading for Mt Zion!
Nothing wrong with them
That wouldn't feed a few Lions!
Pop Goes The Weasel!!
Where is the S.W.A.T. team?
When you really need...
To bust up some Crap
Put In a bag
Set on fire for
Vulgar vespers...
On the "Guiding Light" doorstep
Of deified nausea...
Home of the self-serve
Crew-cut maggots...
Burying Into the Dead Sea
Hieroglyphics
Or...
Turning in your parents,
For a "Free Ride Offer"
To a Flock-Shucking Bible Thumping
Theme Park circus...
In the middle of the swamp
Mating gentile faithfuls
Pitch used condoms
Out three hundred-dollar windows
While vulva-licking Hypocrites
And their gold-chain poodles
Crap like Deacons
On the Acrylan carpets
And their time-share condos
Sold ten times over...
Pray As You Pay!!
For the butt-gouging honor!!!
Fleeced by the convicts
On the Chain-Gang of Mercy...
And forgiveness for lust,
By that Secretary Poking.
Wallet Stroking
Mousey
Little Shit
Mascara-Faced Porker
Leaky-Eyed
Boo-Hoo
Voo-Doo
Lard-Bucket
Bunco Bitch
While some Lord Filled
Bellhop Deacon
Wears her Parachute
Sized drawers
On his sweaty little head
Fucked up
In some smelly church annex
He sits on the toilet
Resurrecting his "Little Buddy"
For Tammy, his queen
The Pages Turn Themselves
As his tithe hits the ceiling!!!
Utterly pathetic, and totally obscene
Boo-Hoo Tammy
HIJACKED
Through a long steady draw on the coffin nail dream...
The front door slowly opens, I'm instantly afraid...
The light of Uncola streams in like a ghost...
The silhouette backlit, fills the door
I cock my pistol and take off the lock...
A Bladerunner perhaps sent to ZAP my butt?
I'm so flattered to have actually pissed them off
"In the bag, DAD?" a familiar voice croons
"I've got a problem, Can WE TALK?"
Only a daughter could sit and chat
To a man about the Epidemic
with the Bag of Turin on his head...
"You and Mom had all the fun...
Free love and all, or so they say...?"
"Times have changed my dearest one...
The party's over and the Dark Side has won...
You can always wear a condom over your head
If you believe every kiss will be the Kiss of Death!!!"
The "Black Crows" want this girl real bad
To sing hymns all day, snake-charm the crowds
And bury the Bone Of Righteousness so deep
A sweaty preacher's palm on a young girl's knee...
Stroking and rubbing new skin so soft
No, the young and glamorous don’t have a chance...
With a THREE-LEGGED preacher in TWO-legged pants!
"God gave us AIDS to save the human race
From copulating homos!"
you hear the preachers say...
Excluding, of course, the Chosen Few...
Who seduce with this swill the young and confused!
Now fascist balls tingle in the belfries, so high
People are terrified of the blissful delights
Shoved into condoms instead of a cure...
Or the body-bag alternative--
a Third World War
Seemingly wed-locked in the missionary position...
Or, even I've heard,
"NO SEX AT ALL!!"
Unless, of course, like shepherds of old...
You boff the muttons, yelling,
“Christ That’s Good!!!”
Treat your flock with kindness, sir,
“Now wife, what’s fer SUPPER!!”
Three Legged Preacher in Two Legged Pants
PATHOS
The candles of souls
Snuffed from stale air...
On the stairway to heaven
Cannot be re-lit...
Ending suddenly in the rafters
Of truth fucking clergy
That roll out church doors
And windows each Sunday
Down into the village
Of the sad and deserted
To burn the hands of vandals
And other wretched humans
That wander from the ditches...
Of white atomic powder...
To dial 9-1-1 with their only
Remaining finger!
“What is the nature of your problem, Sir?”
“Who said it was My Problem?!
I Was Raided By Predatory Christians, Ma'am
Who snuck in my studio to beat me up...
With their horrible brand of Psychedelic Smut.
My wiener duel with the bible-coated thug
I admit, gave me the best orgasm
I've had since LUNCH!!!”
"
"Just keep joking"
An evil chuckles hiss...
"A few more seconds
and we'll know where you live!!!”
I left my mouth running
In the 9-1-1 tub...
Which is rapidly filling
Their computers up!!!
Fire trucks, cops
And paramedics
Will show up in droves
For the public hanging
Firing squad, or
Brutal spanking
Or, whatever suits the
State today...
When they catch a painter with
Too much to say
THE LAST MANIFESTO 
A whole day has passed, the night is upon me
Market Street is beginning to stir
I sit in the darkness tired and hungry...
Tonight is the night I will lay down the Word
Wet with confusion, my paper bag’s drooping...
Losing the crisp edge of my fashion statement...
Drinking cold coffee, I look in the mirror
The warrior is old, but beautifully attired...
My entire getup: bag, robe and pistol...
Would pitch my enemies into convulsions divine!!!
Time has come to start the battle
The ghosts of comrades rally to my side
My finger in the 9 hole, bent on destruction
Copping an attitude, I begin to dial...
“What is the nature of Your Problem, Mr. Webb?’
“Well, here goes MS. PIGGY, SINCE YOU ASKED!!!’
“I see a flock-boffing priest
In every pulpit
I see fascists in high places,
Manipulating my World...
I see good, honest people
Sucked into sorrow...
Where ignorance and double-speak,
Enslaves and kills!
I see a whole generation
Bordering on Madness!
In the anti-sex mysticism
Of a hidden agenda!!!
I see a christ-infected oligarchy
Of despots and kings!
Brainwashing our children
Stealing them away!’
Behold, the Pallet of Bullets
We thought that we
Could turn the tide...
In the open sewers,
Of our land so fair...
We fought on
With no chance of winning...
A Revolution...
That would never end!
We have the smoking
Pallet of Bullets!
We have imaginations
Fragile shields!
We have the fangs
Of BRETON!
We have the pantaloons
Of DALI!
On the Executioner's foot...
We piss with glee
Splattering ourselves,
Waving at the hungry crowd...
Our hearts were in the right place
But our aim was just bad
So, if you are truly an artist,
DISTILL REALITY TO ENRICH MANKIND!
If your images are horrible,
IT'S BECAUSE LIFE AS A SLAVE IS HORRIBLE!
If your images are sacrilegious
THEY ARE LIKE RELIGION ITSELF!
If your images are gross or in bad taste
LET THE WORLD SEE THAT IT'S A DISGRACE!
Morality has no right to exist when it becomes the subterfuge
by which society enforces its State Religion
over the lives and aspirations of the young!!!
GOVERNMENT
Government has no right to exist when it robs the people
of their self-respect, when it destroys the world in the name
of us all, when the ashes of the weak and the powerless
sail through the air devoid of purpose,
or when in its wake a generation is programmed for annihilation!!!
RELIGION
Religion has no right to exist
when its sole function is to hide the fact that mankind,
freed from guilt and oppression,
always acts in its own best interest
and generates the feelings of love and tolerance, brotherhood,
sisterhood and all that is natural is within a Finite System.
WAR
War Does Not Have The Right To Exist,
fornicating in Greed, Power and Hate,
it is the Demon child of all three...
to the Demise of us all ...
to the Reduction of us al...
to the Shame of us all!!!
How rich the world would truly be
if all those killed in the name of some God
could again walk the earth
and give the love of which they were capable...
devoid of the sanctimonious intervention of
Morality, Government, and that God Dammed Religion!!!
If it reeks of Manifesto
READ IT WELL!!!
ENDANGERED SPECIES
I am pulled from my Day-Dream Danger
By an ominous THUD on the door!
Red White and Blue
Police lights flashing!
Filtering under the door
Like a hit of bad acid!
My paintings are not heavy
Enough to protect me
From the GUIDING LIGHT BRIGADE
And their swollen crosses
“COME OUT WITH YOUR BIG MOUTH SHUT!!!"
The Bullhorn of Righteousness
Delivers its sting
I scan the sanctuary
Of SHRI WEBBO
The laughing gas seeps
Under the door
I am insulted
By their non-lethal choice!
Perhaps we're not the threat
We once were before
Still, the intent is to distract
And confuse
Time stands still
For those who refuse
To pass on with the rest
Of History's Mess...
This bag on my head,
Will be hard to explain...
The mascara’ed image on
The Bag of Turin fades...
CHILDREN OF THE FUTURE
My comrades and friends
Pass before my eyes...
I see a young art student.
Running in pain...
Into Chinatown
To escape the flames...
The Nob Hill Riot of 1972 welcomes Nguyen Cao Ky
And some of his Hoods
With rocks bottles
And gasoline!!!
Tears cool the pain
As the corneas burn...
Fighting the police,
For the barricades
Black smoke billows
From the compressors set ablaze!
Darkening the sky.
With REVOLUTION!!!
The three-cornered billy club bloodies the face...
From high on horseback they crack heads with precision
Of the stupid and slow, confused by the carnage...
Convinced that we were the cornerstones of freedom
Our hearts pounded hard as the bricks went skyward
An end to the war was all we wanted...
Not a New Age debate on the meaning of Violence
With years of organizing and confrontation...
From Ku Klux Klan to Indian Grave Robbers...
Criticism-self-criticism until three in the morning...
While we argued like rats over the color of cheese...
Our little piece of cheddar slipped harmlessly away...
Fighting each other for the correct things to say...
With the convictions of cattle, we are now led away...
Into the technocratic abyss asking for permission
Just to take a piss
Numbed into Nothingness, we flip the channels ...
Unable to decipher exactly what's happening...
From murder to choreographic Expose
It’s a long way home when you don't know the way!!!
THE MASTER OF STONES
I rub my eyes...
For a welcome coma
Into these dreams
I will slip asunder...
Drowning these images
In a fool’s hereafter
Through time so fast
And the phosphene’s laughter
Rattling sabers
Drag me back...
The receiver dangles
For the final attack!
Resounding, never ending
In a life so absurd...
I can hear them all sniggering
As the gas starts to work
I'm suddenly threatened
By the ultimatum...
I don't give a shit personally
But they may be getting serious
The voice on the phone...
Grabs my attention!!!
“What's the nature of your problem now, Bozo?
Are you in any immediate danger?
Ha, Ha,
Don't you know better than to Screw with us?!"
"Apparently not, or I’d probably stop!"
It's time to go now
The phosphenes scurry...
The street lamps of
My favorite journey...
A bullet in the brain
Is no excuse for courage...
I migrate to the darkened corner so high...
To watch the Keystone Cops
Gung Ho!!!
Cross wielding middle-aged,
Skinhead-boners...
Crashing through the door
To crucify the owner...
Of these ideas so dangerous,
Seditious and vulgar!
All they will hear,
Is the Laugh of the FOX
His mouth full of Feathers
His teeth full of Meat
Food chain surrealist
Attacking the Beast...
Laughing with the hyenas
Of the Jungle Streets...
When the Cyclops falls
We’ll all get to EAT!!
I approach the Vortex
Without regret or shame
The tab for this folly
Long ago was paid
But I have to ask now,
Before it’s too late
What I really want to know
What drives me insane...
WHAT I REALLY WANT TO KNOW
Is one little thing...
IF I AM SO BLOODY PARANOID,
HOW DID 9-1-1 KNOW MY NAME!!!
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