This Text

Under the fleshy mat of July afternoons,
Calling out the many names of boredom
This text is entered.

This text could offer knowledge,
Or ancient harbor gems, shinning,
Europe on the physical plane,
Reflecting the matrix of vicious illusions
And post-illusions.

Yet for what does our language do?
Is it the ancient DNA nested in our brains
Affording us the pseudo-critique,
The words can't come out right;
They is us, the problem,
The violent and the lazy label,
Lapped up in the rubble of our cockroaches and cities,
Our vacations to smile town, frown,
A flipped-out bunny wearing diamonds.
Die rich they tell you!

We're all sick of these dull incarnations
Those endless lives of cocktail parties
And nipple pleromas in the cocaine of monopoly proms.
We want mountains,
Desert acid-trips,
Induced by the sacred mango,
Juicy weeks of mysticism,
And a wanton hedonism
That is really disgusted as anti-tantric Marxism.

But who cares what we want?
For the wishes have left us.
Hope hides in the isn't of this age.