THE BASTARD SON OF MOOSE MALLOY
(aka... My Poetry)
I am here
I am not here
I am me
I am not me
I have forgotten what I was
what I am
and what I shall be
my time is no time
my time is passing in dog years
and dog days
and dog day afternoons
until I become sympathetic with my captors
until I can't see the maze on account of the walls
not knowing if there is an end
or a beginning
the past is just a movie I saw when I was someone else
the future is just something that someone will try to tell somebody who thinks he's me
but I can do one thing
I can send a message
a time capsule
This is me
I am here
this is actually happening
now it's over
It was a trip
on the road
it may have been Oregon
it may have been outer space
but the bus driver had a headache
and the skinheads
hated the black family
and the headbanger brothers
were on their way home
to murder their parents
take the family car
and embark on a cross country crime spree
it seemed as though
we could have been
the last people on earth...
it seemed as though
we could have been
in a petri dish...
it seemed as though
and Bobby McGee
I watched you die
as I ate my grilled cheese sandwich
I watched you
Out of my head on a yellow rolllercoaster
I see a speck in the foreground
No one is there
I hear a heartbeat
smell the ozone
Could this be a transformation?
a mutation more likely...
No! I cry
or is it Yes?
It's all a blur to me now,
perhaps I never knew
unless it was in a past life...
In the passing lane
Am I in a sports car
or a dump truck?
Do I even know how to drive?
The destination is 5
the deviation is standard
and the devastation is complete
I am ready
ready and waiting
since half past satan this morning
I talk the way I walk
write the way I think...
There is no self censor
there is only some guy behind a desk
with a file that you can't see
The twinkle in his eye
is probably just a reflection
off of a particularly shiny cog
People tell me that
I have a recurring dream about
where I can sit
feel the rays of the moon
and spin my head around and around
it seems so far from the pace of the face that looks like...
or a door
Did you know but refuse to tell me?
Or were the guards unwilling to let you in
without the password
Off in my placebo orgasm tent
a carp tree flies to eat out of the hand of its lord
We belittle its subservience,
but admire the meal
the clamour of tiny little chains
follow the ghost ants around
we are left to ask...
Are there no workhouses?
Is there no man-size kleenex left?
Who is in charge here anyway?
Why can't I see my feet from here?
This is preposterous
It seemed like forever.
But we finally reached agreement on the thirteen points.
From the wadded Thai dress,
to the tan interpretation of the sun...
We have a platform for a truly unusual king.
In spite of the people,
I see a palace towhead.
He is very far from here.
He is trying to make a molecule in the knob undulate.
He needs to cross this abutment.
there is no way it can be done.
Not with a matter pattern
like the one I saw on the bus today.
Did you see a Gary
dressed like me
acting like me
saying he was me?
nobody knows how to do anything anymore.
The tallest man in Tuscon
believes an AFL entity is responsible for everything.
But he might just be having one of those,
a multitude of trilobites briefly appear,
shoot a hole in one,
and return from whence they came,
At least one teeing should go right.
Two is a terrible wood.
It seems as though
everyone hates golf,
but I see no buildings burn.
Back in the olden days,
way before the invention of scotch tape,
I had to make my Jesus out of rocks
But I was happy,
he looked very realistic.
before I knew it,
three wise guys showed up
and said unto him,
"pelican toothpaste reverb"
or something like that.
Wise guys were alway saying cryptic things
in those days.
They thought they were so cool and mysterious.
It was then that I knew
I had to teach my Jesus
to play guitar.
That would show those bastards.
Now he knows most of the chords to
Smoke on the Water.
And with this knowledge he grew,
like hair on a cheese sandwich.
Until, my Jesus was 100 feet tall.
Now... my Jesus can beat up your Jesus,
on a good day...
if the wind is in his favour.
because he's bigger
because he's better
because he's right
My Jesus can beat up your Jesus because...
my Jesus cheats.
I used to wear my toupee,
now it wears me.
I used to perambulate along the boardwalk
sporting my toupee at a rakish angle,
whistling at all the girls who did not know I was wearing a toupee.
Now it drives me around
like a drunken five year old at an amusement park,
My toupee tells me politicians can be trusted.
People just don't understand
the delicate balancing acts they have to perform.
It is a noble profession pursued by modern Lancelots.
My toupee tells me to live in a trailer park
and sit on the porch in my underwear
with my gun
my near beer,
and my Sears catalogue open to the ladies' underwear section.
I play the national anthem and raise the flag every morning.
My toupee tells me the American Medical Association
is just a cover for
a diabolical supersecret United Nations plot
to catalog and control everyone in the world.
This is why I can never go to a doctor.
They put things in your brain that make you go crazy.
My toupee tells me I'm important.
A misunderstood genius, a prophet perhaps
or maybe even a messiah.
But the forces of evil all conspire to put me down
and discredit me.
They know how dangerous I can be.
My toupee tells me I am a close personal friend of Frank Sinatra.
His songs are actually coded messages to me.
And although his handlers try prevent him from making contact,
I know he knows I know.
But more important than all of that,
everyday my toupee tells me two things
over and over again...
It tells me that no one knows I am wearing a toupee
My toupee tells me that I love you.
I don't really believe it
but even when I shake my head
I can still see a wombat,
a Dani tribesman,
three hundred yards of pink cellophane,
I don't remember when all it started
and there's no way of telling how it will end
but ever since the beginning
my right testicle has been vibrating
and my eyes change colour
from blue to brown and back to blue again
when no one is looking
I talked to a tax accountant
and I went to see a punk rock journalist
and they both told me the same thing
"There is some kind of Pre-Holiday Clearance
going on somewhere."
Still I'm skeptical
Too many times before
there were omens,
that all came to naught
This time... this time...
please gawd... something
So that the next I wake up steaming
with the jungle in my veins
and the sound of the kookaburras
echoing inside my skull
I will know that its probably just
the Spirit of Michael Rockefeller
communicating with me from across time and space
either that or its something I ate.
I am the bastard son of Moose Malloy
I am the second coming of Mortimer Snerd
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the cumming of the Lord
and I only ask for one thing...
a blue plastic pail containing the placenta of the Sasquatch version of Elvis.
I was alive when Toucan Sam got busted for public masturbation
and I will be alive when the Doomsday asteroid collides with the spaceship
containing all the people who think they are escaping the planet.
I AM the bastard son of Moose Malloy
I am a peanut butter and Preparation H sandwich
I have seen all of the things that go into an Oscar Meyer weiner
I ask for nothing
and a big bag to put it in
I was alive when Herodotus first learned to lie
and I will be alive when the apes finally take over the world
I AM THE BASTARD SON of Moose Malloy
I am you when you can't remember what you did last night
I have seen myself in the mirror with my eyes closed
I demand to be caged
and occasionally beaten by giant half naked Amazons
I was alive one second ago
and I will be alive one second from now
I AM THE BASTARD SON OF MOOSE MALLOY
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