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2677Poem

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  • Wrulf
    Mar 21, 2010
      Triple-Six And The Eternal Drive-By (There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal'
      constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth
      Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered
      as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom,
      while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels"
      until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used
      in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in
      a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making
      Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem,
      "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of
      course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in
      this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
      I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
      - certainly no booze or needle tracks -
      because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
      to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
      because the descendant number of my measureless time
      is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
      needed!)...
      ... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
      over visions of seraphim and angels,
      slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
      butt
      while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
      ... and I want you to know
      that my razor isn't my father's
      road-hog...
      ... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
      the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
      while the bottom line is
      that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
      sacred profanity
      of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
      instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
      "Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
      marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
      And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
      from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
      butt -
      - and, anyway, who breaks wind over double-M, a. k. a. Manson,
      Marilyn?
      I'll give a ride on my razor any day to
      The-Second-Prime-of-Nine-to-the-Sixth,
      who was around long before CD's, DVD's, MTV, and YOU / MYtube,
      spitting out the healing heat, the wound-cleansing apocalypse
      of what some denounce as straight from No. One Brimstone Pl., way
      before double-M, way before the Twelfth Symbol,
      The Serpent-Wrestler
      was kicked downstairs out of sight, usurped by what used to be the
      thirteenth,
      Yeah, and one plus three is four - rex mundi, mundane king
      of only the world,
      while One plus two equals Three - sign of sweet Goddesses, of
      divinities
      and The Twelfth Symbol butt-fucking Marilyn with the Serpent, man!...
      ... and my razor ain't my father's
      road-raging interstate-hog...
      ... my godpappy, Billy Blake, still loony
      out of his goddam mind,
      drumming away for Good Ol' Triple-Six with one hand and giving
      decaffeinated, unsweetened Jesus an enema of infidel wine with the
      other
      while howling Te Deum for
      uncross-legged, staggering Jesus
      failing the sobriety test,
      Fallen Jesus! oh my lord, the world must be cumming to an end!
      without promise of rescue by the pie-in-sky-hook of empty redemption,
      least of all, from Billy Boy with foolish heaven's bees of wisdom
      buzzing about his balding pate, stinging his soul even more alive
      with fire,
      igniting a gnostic explosion to blow the piston-heads
      off my father's gas-hog of false gods,
      laying a circle of holy fire down the centuries
      and giving me the courage to razor-pedal with my own two feet down
      that road still on the map
      to the cathouses, outhouses, hovels and Isis temples
      of court jesters' wisdom under the Twelfth Sign
      where everyone has the hope-salvation
      of failing crooked judgment's sobriety test,
      where Goddesses disrobe the secret of themselves,
      of Gods and Everyone to celebrate the Cosmic Dance, Copulation of
      Universal Soul,
      while William Blake yanks the spigot off the sacred keg
      to intoxicate the Serpent
      and my razor-wheels right off of me.


      Yet, what does it matter I've lost the wheels of mortality?
      since - believe it or not - no longer uptight, decaffeinated,
      constipated or unsweetened,
      a backslidden, paganly born-again Yeshua is drunk as a skunk!
      like me, on the pulse of Good Ol' Triple-Six rapping His uncouth butt
      off in the eternal drive-by of cosmic rhythm and rhyme,
      So there, Manson, take that up the ass!


      * try coffee /java / a cup 'o joe, brotha, sista!



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