Just graduated! From ankle-biter to gabbler, still a magnet for every passing female to scour my face-drool with dank and musty cloths they never sniff first, and damn! I don’t know mom’s gartered knees from the grammas’ when they charge me. I don’t know shit (well, literally, sure) I don’t know pigs can’t fly! But everything sizzling on my retinas and trampolining on the drums of both ears sparks high-voltage straight into my sponge-brain—ZOT! I gobble it all! From pupa to pupil! In no-sense (innocence!), a state of grace, I got no filters, gullible, but that’s great ‘cause I’ll be a pain in the tuchus ‘til I get me some sense and grownups dish it it out by the bushel and they can’t keep from ogling the calendar for the red-letter day I’ll be worth talking to and I slurp it all up and squeal gimme summore!
But there’s a worm wriggling in this apple pie, a guided missile with crosshairs on my forehead and it’s called dogma. With luck when I get lanky and cheeky I’ll call it dreck and vomit it out, but bits of the vile grossness cling and I’ll beg the cosmos for a very high colonic to cleanse my greymatter and kill the sick twin-joke of gospel and gossip, flush ‘em down the cloaca with kindred sewage. The fam-damily guts their most cherished, and there’s no Me Too! for victims of clot-brains so while belief in the power of prayer still has me hijacked I’ll pray those so-called grownups suffer epiphany someday, gripped by the horror of their gruesome villainy, except I wouldn’t really wish that on the worst.
I’m my own biggest fool, and post-cheeky me, analytical me, kicks crazy in the tires, ‘cause transubstantiation just screams cool, and critical faculties go eyeball to eyeball with the gnostic Gods and what was I thinking! to forget that since great-grandpappy crawled from the brine on stubby fins, every single craziness that has ever been grokked has turned out to be not magic!
And cut to this dismal day when I’m the official geezer and fuck! would I grin to talk smarts into the new blood but their ears are stuffed with Spotify and you’re not the boss of me! is the respect I get for trying to save them! Save them from barking fools. Barricade those brains from becoming kith and kin to nitwits and grist for cocktease hucksters. I’d piss on a spark plug to future-proof Gen-whatthefuck but they’ve never seen War Games and they refuse me and now my damn coffee’s gone cold.
But there’s a worm wriggling in this apple pie, a guided missile with crosshairs on my forehead and it’s called dogma. With luck when I get lanky and cheeky I’ll call it dreck and vomit it out, but bits of the vile grossness cling and I’ll beg the cosmos for a very high colonic to cleanse my greymatter and kill the sick twin-joke of gospel and gossip, flush ‘em down the cloaca with kindred sewage. The fam-damily guts their most cherished, and there’s no Me Too! for victims of clot-brains so while belief in the power of prayer still has me hijacked I’ll pray those so-called grownups suffer epiphany someday, gripped by the horror of their gruesome villainy, except I wouldn’t really wish that on the worst.
I’m my own biggest fool, and post-cheeky me, analytical me, kicks crazy in the tires, ‘cause transubstantiation just screams cool, and critical faculties go eyeball to eyeball with the gnostic Gods and what was I thinking! to forget that since great-grandpappy crawled from the brine on stubby fins, every single craziness that has ever been grokked has turned out to be not magic!
And cut to this dismal day when I’m the official geezer and fuck! would I grin to talk smarts into the new blood but their ears are stuffed with Spotify and you’re not the boss of me! is the respect I get for trying to save them! Save them from barking fools. Barricade those brains from becoming kith and kin to nitwits and grist for cocktease hucksters. I’d piss on a spark plug to future-proof Gen-whatthefuck but they’ve never seen War Games and they refuse me and now my damn coffee’s gone cold.
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