THE MARKET CRASHED
AND MY ASPIRATIONS
SOARED
(stay close to your own inventions)
Throw those God-damned dice down on the table, come
here you little rat, bring me another cigarette and scotch.
Take my scorecard and shove it up your ass, stand around
waiting for whatever else will come. I have Salvation now.
-
Perpetuate the dagger that cuts to the heart, the entire idea
of violent death. Go to the confessional to strangle the priest.
Write something obnoxious on the altar-piece's awning.
Bring home the candles, cut down the monk.
-
Stand on the corner of Beaver and Pine, peeing into a blazing
cup - beat the next stockbroker you see to death and pieces.
Set ten-dollar bills ablaze and throw them off your shoulder.
Bow down to no one but itinerants and thieves. Gird your
loins, write home to mother, and enjoy your stay in jail.
Whatever else you do, stay close to your own inventions.
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