All I seem to do over and under, is to bitch about the same two things: the fact that there are too many damn people in the world, and the problems that I have with keeping faithful to one woman. But when it comes down on it, there are no other real problems in the world. There is only the things outside myself and there is only what is inside myself. There are too many damn souls in this world. There are being encouraged to be created and over-made for the purpose of some unseeing hand. I do not know why, I know not who, but I feel that there are too damn many souls. It is a form of pollution and shit. I feel that the world cannot take care of it’s own as things sit. And at this time you are a selfish bastard-bitch if you wanna try to fix yourself by having kids. And I feel a basic need to deal with my problems that are futtered away in my own insecurities. I will never know the things that can be freely given until I can feel only one gal in my bed. It would be OK to maintain equanimity for other humans, to carry love and maybe even a little lust for other kittens. But if I could turn down all the other offers and just lick her kitty. That day I would truly be a man.
I wish that I were man enough to only taste your fluff. I would never know the things that could be freely given.
There are so many damaged girls and boys in this world. There are so many needs to be given and loved and kissed and futtered and fuck you for being a drunk when I cannot drink like you. I am constitutionally unlikely to do that which I see and need and give and futter and love to hate to watch the cops kick the shit out of some kids.
I need a thing that can be given and the north forty will be unable to love and glove and kiss and know that I will never know.
Sitting on a hill in Downtown San Fran, looking a long way away and also at my own beating-drum heart. Being loomed over by a gorgeously plain apartment building, full of yuppie ants clamoring for their right to fight for their blight to party and live in something resembling a decent little cell of the hive. I look at that building and consider the need to see something special about each individual sameness of life. Where preferences can be selected from millions of pre-determined channels and stored away as your own need to feel different in your sameness. And you probably think I am singing about someone else. My name is Sasha Maduro and I’m the spic of the group.
You need to know that I possess an innate ability to see through the walls of those same single-celled yuppie dwellings and smell the slow-burning hair and flesh within. I can glean the bee culture of the hive and see you a raise and see your promotion with premonitions of dereliction, “Dumpster waits for you.” You are all just one paycheck from the heap and will not rest until you are dead. I will know the things that can be freely given and know that the girls that I picked to rest myself from death were worthy of my cock. I will have never known a beauty like the pickins within the need to be given and taken and futtered and deralicted and I know you and I will see through what you do and you will leave my group and go solo because you are a pussy.
Walk around Russian Hill and marvel at the archaic beauty of the rattle and strumm of the cable cars wheezing up that hill. I think they can, I think they can. I will stop and smell pretty bursts of hyacinths fluttering into the air, and love the feel of a rich neighborhood. As much as I decry the rich, there is a feeling of calm there. When your main worry is not where your next meal is coming from, but rather where your next mortgage payment shall originate, you have a little bit of what we down the hill like to call, “Quality Problems.” You will never need to know that I have to go do day labor and dig ditches once or twice a week to supplement my art income and make the rent to live four blocks down the hill from you. You basically play the horses in the form of stocks and securities. Is that work? it may take up eleven hours a day for you, but I wouldn’t call it work. I will look at the apartment in your building with the for rent sign and think, “I am sick of my curtains. Maybe I will move,” but I couldn’t really do it today, like you could. But you never would. You are locked in. You are just another bug on the pile.
I listen to the hum of my god working her ways through my life into the purr of the cable car cables and I will smile.
Can you ever know how cool it is to be me? I thought not. The most marketable commodity in my life, the one that I have unfutteringly been chipping away at increasing salability of for 34 years now, is how great it is to live vicariously through my shimmery soul. I live really big. Wanna buy some?