Poetry in loose motion

Something that washed into my feeble excuse for a brain this morning as I struggled against consciousness (and gave it a walkover instead), fought daylight off with my bare hands and made love to Veronica Guerin's memory (as played by Cate Blanchett):

Self-eulogy (and that gin-soaked boy)
I'm the KK in Philip K. Dick

The tick in Robin Williams' shtick

I'm the ergot on a kernel of rye

Ergo the burnt slice in every American Pie.

I'm the serotonin riding your every high

I'm the hyphenate in old Brindle-Fly

I'm the Big Bang and the Final Void

Franz Kafka's third hemorrhoid (on his mother's side)

Just took an epic dump, almost biblical in terms of scope and spiritual gratification (like parting seas of curry to let your spastic colon through). Ah, 'the sweetness of riddance...' (Updike) Vastly underrated bodily function but this is soul food in a reverse, perverse kind of way, serving also to purge some of the bile that had purled and gathered within the centre of my bowels, hardening there in a rage-tight knot after I’d glanced through the morning papers. Orgasms can wait. Even if they’re patiently serried in rows of three, awaiting further command.

This is what pissed me off:

                and this:

Praying for peace??? Praying for fucking peace? How - or why - the hell do these nutjobs (cops and copywriters) exist? I’d like to meet the god they’re praying to (definitely male, this one, but endowed with a laughably diminutive dick – maybe even a Chinese one) and ask him if he’s having fun. Because if he isn’t, what’s the goddamn point of it all? Even sucking his dick isn’t going to help; he’s just not gifted in that department. that’s why we have gods for every possible category in the universe, to make sure there’s no overlapping.

I didn’t ask to be named after the Hindu god of war, Kartikeya, the elephant-god’s brother, with that fashionably insouciant, just-out-on-parole-from-the-local-zoo peacock between his legs (his steed, not his claim to porn fame) but if these scumbags were, accidentally or deliberately, worshipping me, I’d give each one of these weapons a human scabbard by ramming it up the turd-hole of each of these villains, so that even a tiny bubble of gas spinning through his entrails could trigger a fusillade of bullets through his mouth (and thus the phrase 'biting the bullet').

The worst part would be the waiting and not knowing: did I just seal my family’s fate by wolfing down one bean too many. Whiny murderer’s voice: "But it’s my favourite dish and she makes it so tasty..." Worship that, motha’ucka.

But we deserve this. this is what we get when we hire philistines and chest-thumping savages to clean up our bloody messes.

We worship gods such as these -

 - and we believe wholly, immutably in their existence, as if they were just a Jumanji-style ouija board away from us at all times.

But then we also treat them like cowshit and monkey-dung:

Another sacred carcass

 

                           Engelbert Chumperdinck unveils his new 4-D glasses                            

Ok, the last picture isn't really part of the collection, although there are some monkeys involved. Look carefully and you'll see that he actually thinks he looks cool. Saif and not sorry. Designer chump wear, fallen collection. The pitfalls of fame when you’re so anaesthetised within the impenetrable barricades of your celebrity that no criticism - constructive or otherwise - reaches you, and in your mind, reality is only something that precedes ‘show’.

But thank the lord, or his plumed ride, for comic relief.