Nothing is True All of the Time

And during the day, I am a vegan organic crunchy hippie with lifts in my shoes and a moral code built on ethics of Christianosity but I’m Jewish looking around going, where am I?

And at nighttime, it’s give me all of the drugs and screw a bra and torture me. Let something terrible happen because I know that destruction is the only material I have to work with.

Commedia del Arte. People laugh at the tragedy survivors carry with them. Transcendence is a gift and this moment is all there is. In the nighttime, I’m only a puddle of darkness occasionally chastised by the moon. But her light is no match for a bitch like me. Go ahead and give me your best shot. I’ll take it in the chest and use my blood to write the poetry of my death. It goes something like, “I’ll be back.”

And during the day, when the sun scorches my youngish skin, I change my hair and my clothes hoping to make my face and tits look better than they did before. But they will never look better than they did before. Nothing new will hide the fact that I’m a corpse in the making. But still, ain’t it fun to put a shiny wig on rotting flesh? Maybe death won’t notice me, we think. Maybe just this time, I’m too cute to die. I’m too hot to die.

And the addicting power of no shits, of escape, of depression, of caring so much we don’t care at all, teases us with early death, the promise of a brightly burning light aflame, fast and gone. During the nighttime, I want to kill the princess. I want to fuck my way through the United States. I want a microphone. I want the confidence to castrate. I want my tongue cut in the center so I can shock and lash. I want a bullwhip and vagina dentata. The daytime is oppressive with her moral highground and fear and expectations and doing the right thing.

Isn’t this the end? What is this good life we promise people? The privileged, those of us who stand there and show others the good life? The western way, stuffing your face, addicted to suffering, to being miserable and fat and aching for transcendence, to be fucked, locked in a cage of desires we’re too stupid to touch.

The pressure of expectations: babies haunting me, the umbilical cord attached to my mother which I hold in my mouth, drinking in ancestral bribes of mediocrity. This is not for me. This is not for me.

Do what makes you happy. Do what you makes you happy. Drugs make me happy. Sex makes me happy. Cruelty makes me happy. Friends that  burn bright and ask where we should bury the body makes me happy. Is that good enough, ma? Is that okay to share with your friends? Can I come to dinner parties and family reunions and weddings with a sword in my cooch?

I don’t wanna be good. Don’t wanna be good. Do what makes you happy.

Being bad makes me happy.

Any institution places the bar at a level no one should aspire to be. Mediocrity.

I wanna blow it up, ma. I want to dance free, on the street, encased in leather.

I wanna burn through them, ma. I wanna poke their eyes out.

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