The Wake

I am a real man.
I know
everything.
I am a good Christian.
I know that the Great Gatsby is trash.
That Fitzgerald had a money fetish, and no more class than,
Charles Manson,
And no talent.
They had a knack to,
engage an audience.
English majors who dig symbolism,
And teen rebels who hate their parents,
All cream themselves simultaneously.
I don’t, I laugh,
“pathetic!”, I cry.
Give me:
Bukowski, and raw meat.
Season it with pepper spray, MSG, and aspartame.
Give me grain alcohol, LSD, and Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
I want:
trench warfare, heroin, and orgasms.
I want hardcore pornography, Shakespearean tragedy, and pyrotechnics.
I want hydroponic marijuana, Needles, and mentholated cigarettes.
I want cancer, photographs of the deceased
AIDS, and heart attacks.
I want scolding black coffee, and ice cold showers.
I want heartbreak to physically break hearts again,
some good ol’ blackmail, and genocide.
I want impenetrable fences built along all borders.
I want hone$t politicians, and dirt
poor royalty.
I want all cell phones broken, right now.
All tires slashed,
All windows smashed
with bare fists,
right now.
blood, right now.
I want a fur coat made from something endangered, and
Warm blood in my bucket of popcorn chicken.
I want a Greek goddess with anorexia.
I want a bi-partisan federal
agenda for total chaos.
I want to wage nuclear war with the rest of the world.
I will write love letters to the enemy, and
Suicide notes signed, Jesus Christ and Elvis Presley
I would have paid Judas off in store credit.
I am the idle idol.
I am a modern man.