“I can hardly wait.”
Pay at the door, End of the World party
or been down so long like up to me losers,
for Pynchon‘s whole sick crew, V leftovers
and assorted headbangers, spike haired Mohawk
millennial monsters, walking wounded mosh
pit mauled survivors of blunt forced traumas,
adrenaline junkies and light show losers,
four shades of drunk and disordered, drugged
and deformed by unidentifiable pains, internal
injuries no X-Ray, no CAT Scan, no magnetic
resonance exam will show.
Revolutionary roadies, protest signs written
in Braille, in day glo orange fighting the front
lines of mental exhaustion, of freedom’s last
chiming bell descending into the pit of Blake’s
most vivid hell, at come as you are parties as
characters in documentary filmed Heaven of
Earthly Delights: Times Square at turn of new
Cross picket lines at your own risk, drag the body
of your dead familiar with you to Armageddon’s
firing squad, “let’s do it”, Gary Gilmore style
execution of justice American Gothic style:
the devil wears high heels and the Joker rides
on top of a tank: police work is for pussies,
murder is for professionals.
Resurrection men and dead rock star cover bands,
artists and wannabees, decades gone but refusing
to admit defeat, knock knocking on heaven’s door
with fire axes and riot sticks, let the games begin.
Fire bomb burn scars and high water marks on gold
paved streets, on the let’s paint all the banks and
brokerage firms plague year yellow for the coming
economic collapse; even the politician’s jumping.
Sex in the streets is only the salvation: limousines
converted into makeshift hearses, Cosmopolis made
Apocalyptic, all the white noise that fits, we broadcast,
the streets are fields that already died.
All the bleeding edges, cyberpunk dreams about to implode;
all of tomorrow’s parties are filled with virtual light,
negativity won’t pull you through.