April 13 by The Running Son
what is twenty years anyway?
iv’e played the generation game too.
given thirtyfive you’ll find a nationalized
israel proving a quite displeased christs
return in nineteen eighty eight. 88 reasons
or seventy times seven pitfalls to a rapture
event waiting to happen: one of us
left heaving with acid, still believing,
one evaporating to heaven by the infantile
drip baptism of golden aged ignorance.
piss christ in a vat. i remember that.
and i wonder if you do. a generation
back blood would’ve spilled, flame
and ire mixed with water
in scientific proof of the crucifixion
of the christoamerican dream
of corporeal addiction. sadiction.
i love number traps but i’m better
with words and the masochist never slaps
and anyways promise keepers once
cured me of all that. didn’t take.
took a decade to wash off
my ziggy stardust makeup.
grunge had passed and i was afraid
to be naked now that i understood
the nefariousadistical roots of the music
in my head. god i cant explain.
it’d take a damn generation to tell you
what came later.
like if jesus
brushed his finger
from below the base of my back
slowly up i might just spring kundalini
into everybodies faces and scream
be baptized! neo,
shoot the chute! a one-birth
out of ur mechanical curdle! whoop
da whoop this juice
give me some time to decide how to best
deliver a message i may not even get
myself for at least a generation, or until
displeased jesus kicks my head in.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.