A Story
1991-08-25
On the Beach, Why am I here? To get a tan? To praise the sun or the scratchy sand that beneath buttocks, or to praise the waves?
Or write ocean-polluted poetry of overburden? Ridden by copper-tanned straddling saddles Of fiberglass.
The sand is strewn with celluloid debris sacrificing write-ups to the sunless sky, wall to wall people, waves of flesh against waves of water, American music from transistor radios, and all the sand, sky and celluloid are one.
Life could be a Sci-Fi novel. Ads praising toilet paper like the messiah,
Phallic ships soaring to the moon, or to deliver atomic death, couch potatoes collect radiation from their TV sets,
While models collect cash for their printed photons. They glorify themselvesn their stinkin' tobacco and cheap cheapo.
Heat is the sponge that soaks up hope. It burns, heats and melts, dragging away life, sucking like an infant's mouth upon the nipple of life.
When do you kill? you fill the drainage ditch with bodies, to satisfy you lust, cravings of your mad gods.
Do the gods listen, or do they simply float away, on a cloud or non-existence.
You make the world stink with the stench of burning flesh body.
But only the youth, children die.
They say that your gods are the worst.
But I think not. You sacrifice fourteen, but ten million die for the Power.