Charles Burkowski wasn’t the poet of the human condition but the alcoholic’s condition:
The world is too busy genuflecting to the HD television. We dream of lithium and gold while the gaping ozone begins to boil the blood of grandmother oozing from her gaping wounds bleeding the seas into its last rites. We begin to dream of the apocalypse saving us from ourselves. No one is inoculated. No Signet ring will be worn to differentiate the winners from the sinners. G-d no longer intends to discriminate. The fool believes they will be saved from our ancestor’s follies while this next generation keeps the traditions of beatnik ideals and yuppie wet dreams alive and well. Why are our poets too busy writing about self inflicted love and diagnosis inherited from our family’s bad choices, weak character breeding new generations of victims. Doesn’t anyone want to model transparency and ownership?
Baby doll, if you can’t survive a day with a few bad feelings, how do you think you’re going to survive this next revolution – which will not be televised because Mamma E. knows the first way to bring us to our knees is by stomping on the boob screens via our power source – the black gold that made it to shore. While we search for the tourniquet to choke the flow, grandmother knows we have passed the line of salvation. She waits for the next thunderbolt to strike our Babeling towers of hypocrisy. Are we really likening ourselves to G-d when we fucked it up so bad? I am not a poet caught up in the guise of Cassandra spewing the obvious at the deaf throngs; too busy masturbating to Niche’s mirror. I AM Simply a woman about to bleed herself and too tired of the rhetoric thrown at me day-to-day-to-day that begs me to say, to want to scream – how are we not accountable to each other, to our Mother Earth, to the third parties orbiting around our gravitational fields if only by default? Why is it everybody else’s fault but our own? Why is the American Dream the only thing sacred?
~Just cranky tonight. I like the images, if not the misdirection in frustrations.
Maybe I should also point out, I am one of those poets who write about self inflicted love. ;). ~gg