killer
It's sad that a shaved head is so
cliche.
In fact, so cliche is so cliche.
It's my superpower these days
discovering tiredness, where no one else can
it'll be the reserve currency, the gold standard
when the oil runs out
cause bliss is inexcusable
except when you're insulated with wealth.
Then you can blissly see disaster, dispassionately
write about it, blog about it, not with urgency
but with the leisurely distance of the third martini
at the garden party, the cocktail party, pre
apocalypse.
Maybe I am chronically insulated though.
Maybe my bubble is large enough to protect me
for the rest of my unnatural life.
I'm such a standard sell-out, I'll say yes
mediocrity in favour of catastrophe
cause I don't want to live in heroic times.
A sufficiently punishing crash
will drive market forces
to stash the fentanyl vault.
It'll be the welfare cosmos, jumping the gun and
splurging the anesthesia reserves, the poppy dust
laid out in a field.
When you want to pull down death's hood
he'll be waiting
and the market will be your chauffeur.
You can write about it now
leisurely
and fraidy cats will tell you
"don't whistle for the wind unless you want it to blow".
For the record, I don't
but I'm not jinxing anything.
My superpower is a superweakness. Higher consciousness
and higher despair.
Maudlin glam serio-comic psychewank.
Yeah.
Cause bliss is inexcusable
except in the bubble
except in the bubble that I can't call "narcotic"
when I'm making half-hearted efforts to purge drug associations
even as I swim in the chemical soup, crumbling all kinds of crazy
crackers into congealed currents of neurotransmitting molecules.
Art is still there sometimes.
And I'm worse than mediocre
I'm self-indulgently maudlin, and
arrogant about it
except right just this second, living in the present
the present shameful situation
prostrate before the ideal of failure.
I'm worse than you, I'm sure.
I don't buy your charming false modesty.
You would understand if you were this much of nothing.
Poppies are renewable
and bliss is inexcusable
and talking of suicide
a glam, flashy suicide
is a coping mechanism, a therapy, a remedy
for the unpleasant feelings
when considering the ramifications
of mass scale slow suicide
that might necessitate a fast suicide at some point
or maybe it's not mass scale, maybe it's small scale
self scale.
Maybe it's spiritual, a give up.
I gave up trying to wrap my head around
what chemicals are doing what to my head
what head?
It's just the same sane-drain blame game.
That's an assonant justification for applying
for my cosmic welfare cheque. Usually a month's supply
is all you need. It's a thirty step program. Give or take a few steps.
A few stumbles. Some people run. Some people crawl.
It all leads to the same place. Some people talk about white light.
Some people talk about a black curtain.
Fentanyl is serious medicine. Even though it doesn't have an x or z in the
name. It's not your father's heroin. I'm applying for a research grant. If my
application is accepted by the politburo of the cosmos, I will be paid in
fentanyl. One installment. If I survive the first month, I make it to the inner
circle. That's when it turns into De-Loused in the Comatorium. It's always nice
to lose the lice.
Google and the DEA have become very effective at annoying users. They make us
do shady things. Well, we can't have our actions appear dignified. Not mine,
anyway, I don't know about yours. Your actions are probably okay, maybe even
state-sanctioned, or society sanctioned, even if you are a mess of crazy ideas,
damaging neuroses, paranoid reactions, inabilities to cope, but you hold onto
that rope, and you cope. Me, however, I apply for fentanyl grants, under the
guise of research. There's even a database somewhere that has me in it, as a
purchaser of synthetic tryptamines. It's not a stonecutter conspiracy. It
doesn't even matter that much anyway. I never tried to change things. I never
cared enough to. Why would anybody come after me? I just wanted to tweak a few
things and see what happened. I saw a few things. There was no gateway. It just
was.
Maybe if you feed me enough ephedra, I'll become an activist and make trouble
for the government. Any government. I'll start a mercenary firm that only takes
anti-authoritarian missions. Cause I'll have energy, man. I couldn't get
through Gore Vidal's essay on McVeigh. I don't really care about Waco. I weild
what apathetic power I can, from a distance, the power of apathy, the dignified
apathy. Whatever. My mantra. Indulgence in the occasional paranoid fantasy of
guerella warfare in the kootenays, sniping americans from my sacred tree. Minus
the glamatics, riddled with bullets from automatics, eaten by a bear. But
before that, consuming my emergency invasion package, my pinko birthrite, the
handout from my true homeland, the republic of planet earth, the mama matrix
most mysterious, gaia's medicine, fairy dust. Cause we saw what happened to Iraq,
and we think fairy dust is the only thing that will protect us. And maybe some
native indian inflected remix album. They're feeding the generals prozac. It
seems to work okay. I don't usually think about nukes, do you? They're too
abstract.
I've been to a place called Kansas, but it doesn't seem real anymore. I think I
imagined it.
Ф