Brokeback Mankind

We were the voice of the nineties, of the frustration of the post-modernists. The sad eyed codgers sitting at the bleak and empty end of a Brooklyn streetcorner. They were the beatnick's savage children. The sickness of the sixties is coming round again.

Remember the moon? The moment of magic when first stepped man onto the dirty pock marked surface of another world.

The players were well known; standing at the crossroads of fame, looking one way and seeing their demise after a brief, explosive nova of drug powered fusion, of mind and body broken down until only the substance of heart and lastly, the pains of memory remain. Down that other path, they see in both directions, back and forward, the caricatures of others who shared their shattered fate.

To die, to be remembered, to become at last a footnote in a history book covered in dust, buried in a earthshocked temple on the edge of a skeletal skyline. Worst of all they could build a church in your name long after the story is over, the ground cooling, your headstone coated in beggar piss and with that testament, they'd never let you rest.

Child, where are you standing now? Is that you watching my bones ache? I need someone to shove a vibrator between the hemispheres of my brain, split them left and right, then suck up whatever drips out of my eyesockets and serve it in fine restraunts. The Hell's Angels gathered thirty years worth of pot bellies and scag until at last their tiny culture, their brief burst, their invasions and deviance was accomplished. Their saga was over and the childlike refugees of Tim Leary's expanded mind were left to recover.

My breasts are full of bitter milk and now, I read for you the last days; thumbing back through Revelations to find the prophesy when at last the heavenly connection is made. God steps through the gates of New York, claps his hands for attention and is ignored.