If i
were a Bacchanalian Slumlord, would i
dream a prince's trove, whisk a feathered glance over a mildly wintered slope?
Catchikan tomfoolery, scissorlegs and alley's cat walks utopian all night to
a slivered moon.
Break me open, peek inside, sort me into categories, dish me out into parfait glasses and serve me on the veranda after the lawn darts are thrown...what a pleasure to feed you.
This spoonful tastes kinda 'spiritual', like Godflesh with decidedly witchy undertones, smarmy like wild mushrooms and heady like a goat. The next bite happened so long ago you probably don't remember so don't ask me to admit that i was once a human being because i am far too busy seasoning my light body with dogma and fresh diatribe. Besides, the next taste you get will have you spinning so fast all your conscious thoughts will become interlaced with dreams of your very own future...just imagine...you'll be describing yourself using superlatives without exaggerating!
If i were a Bacchanalian Slumlord, all the money in the world couldn't sway me from my true purpose--pissing people off. What a relief to know that i would die alone, having lost every friend i could have had. Sandwiches anyone? Come on now, you always liked my bean fiber and mustard root spread, what's gotten into you? Cascade with me down the rainbow, submerge in the moldy undergrowth, breathe the spores, lick the swampy armpit of America--the Guru Lamprey awaits, ready to suckle at your third-eye nipple, psychotic and blessed.
If i were a Bacchanalian Slumlord, would you marry me, you underfed, wheezing ass-curtain? Would you let me honeymoon-fuck your weak philosophy, could i pump my higher consciousness into your hopscotch chalk-marked gash? Maybe we could even make a little baby thumbprint together--whaddaya say, honey, ink me up and let's get it on! {Allen Ginsburg is staring at us from somewhere with that wall-eyed look on his face and all the litttle Moroccan boys can finally sleep through the night knowing that there is one less horny poet loose in the world}...but what about me?
Maybe you think i'm a strong woman. Maybe you think i'm a sweet little girl. Maybe you think i'm a self-centered, arrogant, greedy bitch out to steal your boyfriend. Maybe i'll save your life someday. Maybe i'll kill you. But if i were a Bacchanalian Slumlord, we'd all have a round on me, and a toast to all of the people in my life who might hate my guts...
if
only i were a liar.ream a prince's
If I were a bacchanalian
slumlord, all the money in the world couldn't sway me from my true purpose--pissing
people off. What a relief to know that I would die alone, having lost every
friend I could have had. Sandwiches anyone? Aww, come on now, you always liked
my bean fiber and mustard root spread, what's gotten into you? Cascade with
me down the rainbow, submerge in the moldy undergrowth, breathe the spores,
lick the swampy armpit of america--the Guru Lamprey awaits, ready to suckle
at your third-eye nipple, psychotic and blessed.
If I were a bacchanalian slumlord, would you marry me, you underfed, wheezing ass-curtain, would you let me honeymoon-fuck your weak philosophy, could I pump my higher consciousness into your hopscotch chalk-marked gash? Maybe we could even make a little baby thumbprint together--whaddaya say, honey...ink me up and let's get it on!
(allen ginsburg is staring at us from somewhere with that wall-eyed look on his face and all the little Moroccan boys can finally sleep at night knowing that there is one less horny poet loose in the world)--but what about me?
Maybe you think I'm a strong woman.
Maybe you think I'm a sweet little girl.
Maybe you think I'm a self-centered greedy bitch out to steal your boyfriend.
Maybe I'll save your life someday
Maybe I'll kill you
But if I were a bacchanalian slumlord, we'd all have a round on me, and a toast to all of the people in my life who might hate my guts
If only I were a