No Right Answer

No Right Answer
Forest Muran

There are no right answers. You answered incorrectly. Dig deep into the well. The year the earth dies, the ants will remain, crawling gingerly like black little quavers, the Lord’s last great dirge.
Humans will always find a way to survive, it’s our salvation. 別段恐とも思わない。
Shaking, I’m really shaking. Doomsday. Buildings crumble under seismic quakes of a red-eyed Republican’s speech. Give the self-righteous devil a residence in Auschwitz already! I can’t tolerate the intolerant. But peace and love, in any scenerio. Inimigo intimo. Always try to be a little conservative. Modest girls in a modern world. Hell naw, I didn’t campaign for Lincoln. I only do democrat. Padre Peter and his possy of promiscuous little puppies says that “commitalism killed my career, and now it’s time to pay.” One wonders if the supreme price is the commodification of virtue. I was visciously shaped by my shapeshifting lover, a being of dark shadows, a beautiful ghost. She only wanted social dominion, that obtuse, bellicose man. A ghost who hung from a withered rope, seeming dim in the moon’s pale april light.
Next, the subject is: Beautiful women. To women, women are not beautiful. To men, women are not beautiful. Women are not beautiful. For women are only men. Larger men with masks, who have morphed into strange wives, worshippers of the suffering self. Add a 女 and you’re good to go. Sri Krishna, reveal yourself. He routinely slurps fat noodles. He never eats. He never reads. He always needs, needs, needs. He’s so fat you could cram him into a carousel and his gravitational force would cause the gears to turn. That’s science. She’s so fat that if she ate the earth her fleshy insides would warm up the ice caps and then we’d all be out of a job in this bog of a portentious world. Fine art has no practical purpose, no possibility for owning the lactating liberals. But a r t is how we breath. Art will inevitably suffocate us.
The Buddha will come and wash over this dying world. The Buddha will sit and do nothing. The Buddha is ourselves. He smokes pot on top of the stove, cross-legged, starving. A true medicated mendicant. She needs it to survive her daily, self-imposed anxiety. It’s not her fault. Just avoid drugs, said Bodhisattva Jim Jones. Don’t drink the Kool Aid. Why is it that only the cool kids ever got aids? Laid down to rest in his cavernous tomb, the Lord rose after three days and three nights. Jesus in the tomb. Jonah in the fat woman. Bright red night かな.

そ 謎 謎
れ の の
は 世 世
だ な は
け が
よ ら

– 森

You are welcome here. You are not welcome here. You are not welcome here. You are welcome here.
Welcome, welcome.


Back to the Writing Page