the things we shall write will erupt in the faces of our readers like car bombs under Honda's...
full of pain, but with elegance and grace.
our writings will leave all timeless and armless.
every word will be seductive, but wrapped in barbedwire.
when we wake to the sun in the morning, it’ll be like having time bombs strapped to our chests, our pulses will raise and the anxiety to get it all out will grip us like future atomic attacks from far off galaxies.
this is the way I wish for us to write.
but we must be careful, it's a very explosive formula:
one part carnal knowledge --- two parts drugs and alcohol --- one part circus freak --- one parts abandoned lover --- three parts homophobic anal raper topped off with one part lost child.
they will be stories about police chief's selling drugs at coffee houses to the communities elite... and stories about cheating bastard husbands and cock sucking whore wives...
and stories about potty mouthed sorority sisters licking their professors to earn their A's.
in the painful world of the truth, or what we have imagined or have been instructed to be the truth, there is such beauty in wanting death for those lists of books school board members have decided to be "literature master pieces".
to want this death is not shameful...it's expected.
they will be stories of lipstick lesbians detonating dynamite on testosterone fueled boys of all ages, full of new ideas for the socially awkward who are high on whatever depression medicine popular at the moment.
our words will be cancerous...and dangerous...and ugly...and free of regret and shame.
our words will direct people to hide in basements...or attics...or old tree forts in the backyards of their mommy and daddy's house.
our words will be frowned upon, but they will be read by many.
the people who read our words will never admit to reading anything we’ve written, but they will still read...in backrooms, in alleys and in garages after midnight.
these people, they will come from all walks of life:
the chicago bar owner who only employs ladies with big tits, tight asses and wear no panties...
the cowardly city folk who require a prescription for cough syrup...
the lonely strippers who visit Church's just for the chance that father mchale will forgive them for sleeping with his married patrons...
the star athletes who cheat on their wives and the disgruntled frat boys who haven't yet voyaged out of the closets they've stayed hidden in for far too long.
they will be stories with black and white and torn and wrinkled pictures...
stories with fireworks at funerals...
stories about naked teens washing cars at city hall...
stories about paraplegics who chew tobacco...
they will be full of grammatical errors...
they will make librarians and "real" authors wince in pain when they hear anybody mention us...
they will become the high pitched voice of tornado sirens against your ear...
all full with make believe friends...
the stories will be about anti-government protesters, the idiot's war and how nobody really has any idea about what goes on in this country...
they will be the one place where the forgotten errors and mistakes of yesterday will be talked about always and forever...
they will be about the sluts who run this country and each way they've fucked us after they've pledged they wouldn't...
they will be the warm spot inside cocaine throats and loose pussy's...
they'll be the homes of:
titty fondling football players...
crap shooting cowboys in backrooms of strip clubs...
abortion clinics in garages of south suburban homes...
over cooked canned hams...
completely shaven 19-year old pussy...
the holy gospel spoken by Ginsberg, Cassidy, Bukowski or Kerouac...
flower lined walkways with short and curly pubic hairs...
the nipple/clit rings of every woman in town...
horse races with obese riders...
cash fights between the ku klux klan and the black panthers...
pedophiles who run the pta/pto at schools...
assholes covered with chocolate...
passages into the minds of the future made of silk...
congressmen who pay taxes...
government leaders who smoke pot...
sperm swallowing wife beaters...
and the surgeries performed with the dullest of all butter knives.
these are the stories we will write.
they'll be unbreakable, unacceptable, unspeakable and unbearable.
and will be, in no fucking way, for the Shakespearean douche bags of the World.
they wont be stories of love. nor will they be placed in the front windows of bookstores. they'll be remorseful....not so much.
they'll be empty from everything except whiskey, nicotine and sex.
they'll make our parents wish they didn't know us and make the church leaders pray for our souls.
our stories will not be for the PETA professionals...
and they wont be for the wino’s who sip Ajax floor cleaner.
they'll be here for those of us without pain on the mind...
for those of us who speak without erasing the thoughts of the young.
these are the stories that we shall write...
and each will be rough...beat-up...and tasteless.
full of pain, but with elegance and grace.
our writings will leave all timeless and armless.
every word will be seductive, but wrapped in barbedwire.
when we wake to the sun in the morning, it’ll be like having time bombs strapped to our chests, our pulses will raise and the anxiety to get it all out will grip us like future atomic attacks from far off galaxies.
this is the way I wish for us to write.
but we must be careful, it's a very explosive formula:
one part carnal knowledge --- two parts drugs and alcohol --- one part circus freak --- one parts abandoned lover --- three parts homophobic anal raper topped off with one part lost child.
they will be stories about police chief's selling drugs at coffee houses to the communities elite... and stories about cheating bastard husbands and cock sucking whore wives...
and stories about potty mouthed sorority sisters licking their professors to earn their A's.
in the painful world of the truth, or what we have imagined or have been instructed to be the truth, there is such beauty in wanting death for those lists of books school board members have decided to be "literature master pieces".
to want this death is not shameful...it's expected.
they will be stories of lipstick lesbians detonating dynamite on testosterone fueled boys of all ages, full of new ideas for the socially awkward who are high on whatever depression medicine popular at the moment.
our words will be cancerous...and dangerous...and ugly...and free of regret and shame.
our words will direct people to hide in basements...or attics...or old tree forts in the backyards of their mommy and daddy's house.
our words will be frowned upon, but they will be read by many.
the people who read our words will never admit to reading anything we’ve written, but they will still read...in backrooms, in alleys and in garages after midnight.
these people, they will come from all walks of life:
the chicago bar owner who only employs ladies with big tits, tight asses and wear no panties...
the cowardly city folk who require a prescription for cough syrup...
the lonely strippers who visit Church's just for the chance that father mchale will forgive them for sleeping with his married patrons...
the star athletes who cheat on their wives and the disgruntled frat boys who haven't yet voyaged out of the closets they've stayed hidden in for far too long.
they will be stories with black and white and torn and wrinkled pictures...
stories with fireworks at funerals...
stories about naked teens washing cars at city hall...
stories about paraplegics who chew tobacco...
they will be full of grammatical errors...
they will make librarians and "real" authors wince in pain when they hear anybody mention us...
they will become the high pitched voice of tornado sirens against your ear...
all full with make believe friends...
the stories will be about anti-government protesters, the idiot's war and how nobody really has any idea about what goes on in this country...
they will be the one place where the forgotten errors and mistakes of yesterday will be talked about always and forever...
they will be about the sluts who run this country and each way they've fucked us after they've pledged they wouldn't...
they will be the warm spot inside cocaine throats and loose pussy's...
they'll be the homes of:
titty fondling football players...
crap shooting cowboys in backrooms of strip clubs...
abortion clinics in garages of south suburban homes...
over cooked canned hams...
completely shaven 19-year old pussy...
the holy gospel spoken by Ginsberg, Cassidy, Bukowski or Kerouac...
flower lined walkways with short and curly pubic hairs...
the nipple/clit rings of every woman in town...
horse races with obese riders...
cash fights between the ku klux klan and the black panthers...
pedophiles who run the pta/pto at schools...
assholes covered with chocolate...
passages into the minds of the future made of silk...
congressmen who pay taxes...
government leaders who smoke pot...
sperm swallowing wife beaters...
and the surgeries performed with the dullest of all butter knives.
these are the stories we will write.
they'll be unbreakable, unacceptable, unspeakable and unbearable.
and will be, in no fucking way, for the Shakespearean douche bags of the World.
they wont be stories of love. nor will they be placed in the front windows of bookstores. they'll be remorseful....not so much.
they'll be empty from everything except whiskey, nicotine and sex.
they'll make our parents wish they didn't know us and make the church leaders pray for our souls.
our stories will not be for the PETA professionals...
and they wont be for the wino’s who sip Ajax floor cleaner.
they'll be here for those of us without pain on the mind...
for those of us who speak without erasing the thoughts of the young.
these are the stories that we shall write...
and each will be rough...beat-up...and tasteless.
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