December 15, 2005
This picture is entitled De-Generation.
And the greatest minds of my generation
are masturbating to Lara Croft
--and she isn't even real. But
you got to have faith. At least
that's what the preacher says,
so, get the Vaseline and the KY Jelly.
"For the fool has said
in his (or her) heart there is no God."
So do I believe in God because of
prideful pricks of not wanting
to be a fool...
Croft is raiding another
Tomb. Puff on a smoke and pause...
look at those digitized inner thighs
hmmmmm, pixel perfection.
Toilet bowl wombs with water running
all night. The anti-depressants work,
at least they do at the prayer meetings
with Lord Calvert.
"Damn Hippie! Long hair!"
Apologies were issued once they found out
it was actually Christ.
So why do we want to know?
Because of hell, that's why.
That's where the Coke machines
steal your money and there are scratches
on your CDs and McDonalds closes
at 5:00pm and they issue you a
cable bill twice a month.
Where obsolete serotonin seraphim sing
praises to Freud while lewdly
dancing around my brain stem
like nymphs around a maypole in
a fertility rite and to my dismay the only entry
in my little black book is a picture of my
right hand with a note that states
that my video game rental for
Tomb Raider is four years past due.
And after all this, what is real?
Cracked heels, irregularity, tampons, yeast infections,
and pre-paid phone cards to call
the 1-900 suicide hot line where
menu options offer blow jobs, church donations,
psychic readings, and psychiatric help.
And nobility is defined by the amount
of sexual harassment grievances, DUI
charges, and Microsoft stigmatas we wear.
(Pixels bleed from our fingertips
and are quickly gathered for DNA testing
to prove our lack of faith.)
Trippin' on espresso, we perceive reality
in frame by frame 3D rendering and wonder
why God hasn't upgraded our CPU.
And Heaven is further away than a max'd
out credit card and God is still safe from mortal's view
under the guise of trickle down economics and
earned income tax credits.
God sips margaritas with crucifix tropical drink toppers
and smiles until He inevitably
pierces His lip and all humor is lost --except for a slight
giggle echoing from Galapagos where
Darwin cleans the Vaseline from the Playstation,
and Freud licks his cigar.
But God's lip is still bleeding;
the droplets forming words plagued with conjecture
and multiple interpretations.
Between the lot, no one had a condom.
And is this how we got here?
Are we spinning in the porcelain
choking on cigar smoke and Vaseline residue
with Tomb Raider theme music playing in the
Was Lara Croft the inspiration for our existence?
Did He have to hurry because the Pizza Man
was pounding on the door, already swearing
damnations because he tripped over a pair of roller blades
and slipped in the remains of the last beer run?
Generation Next falters from the game,
mumbles incoherently and says why am I
reading this? Lara's on the tube and there's
no one in the bathroom.
God's bleeding may have stopped, but
the stains remain. Scarlet Rorschach inkblots
in which we once guided our lives and in which we
gained our ideas of morality are now spectacles
for the Inquirer and Jerry Springer.
Author's Note: Inspiration from "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.