LOST MY TASTE FOR
THE MATTACHINE
It isn't that I hardly understand, but more like
this : up early each day to shrug off another
lost day for work - I have to go, hang stringers
for those who buy books or pretend. Elicit winger's
responses to things proper and note. Stack the coiled
boxes, roll the foiled carts. Make the beggars eat.
-
Too long, and too long ago now too. I did all that
too long for no return at all : having to listen, pillar
to post, having to shave identity, wax and wane and
write things down. Reports the shavings, count the
glue. Blend the time lost into something for a bank
to treasure - no, no, that never came; seven years,
all the same.
-
Now, in derogatory fashion, I roll new dice on open
waters : see what sinks, give no fuck nor care at all.
I know my people, know my guys and girls. I only
need salute the real flag, the one which unfurls for
Freedom's truth and real sincerity. I won't harp
on nothing any longer, and they can keep
their creepy pennies. I've lost my taste
for the Mattachine.
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