Fever, sugar, Oprah

I couldn't stand it any longer--the near inhuman sounds eminating from my next-door neighbor's escapades with my ex-fiance--so I bought a new television. It doesn't help that I've been rather ill as of late, with fever and delusions and remembrances of horrors seen and unseen (hence the delay in writing more). I even copped for cable. What lachrymose times they are when a man has to buy artificial stimulants to drown out the sound of murder most foul--the murder of human dignity.

I fell asleep last night watching Oprah's 'Book of the Month Club' where they discussed with unqualified praise a useless piece of tripe about a negro woman who rises above opression and poverty to become the greatest funeral home director in the world or some rubbish like that. I woke up to grotesquely shaved apes in shiny underwear (why bother shaving them just to cover them up again?) throwing each other around a SQUARE ring (just like us to say something is what isn't) and screaming about how they're going to throw each other around said ring or feeling up some trollop who could spread her legs to someone MUCH better than these man-beasts. Pardon my obscenity, I get quite upset at such prevalent and decadent debauchery.

The news media is useless as well. It's interesting that as we have access to so-called information, both through the internet and through television that we learn more without learning anything. Any information is only as good as the informer, and for the most part our 'informers' are more akin to novelists than historians.

The other night, Parphit came knocked on my door requesting the borrowing of a small amount of sugar. When I answered his hair was disheveled and he was wearing the grotesque outfit of a t-shirt that looked like it had been dragged through the Australian Outback with the charming epithet "Bull Shirt" and a pair of boxer shorts with an open window...of opportunity. One is often ill-equipped to remove his gaze from the foulest sights of human existence.

"Just what do you mean by calling at this hour?" I interrogated

"This hour? It's 4 o'clock in the afternoon. I heard your TV on."

"I am ill disposed to receive anyone right now." He looked at me like a smiling child who doesn't understand that we adults are actually angry--not play angry, but really ANGRY, like we're just playmates or frat-house brothers hazing one another. He is a vacuum into which all love and goodness within a 10 meter radius is sucked in and then excreted, destroyed and transformed into a cloud of carcinogenic waste.

"Can I borrow sugar?" he asked with that same revealing coffee-stained teeth that reminds one of a communist neighborhood.

"Is she over there?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Oh, your ex-woman? No, I think I tire her out. She said she had to go lie in bed for three days and drink nothing but protein shakes consisting of bananas, prime rib and cocaine. I like prime rib, now!!! In India I would be outcaste if I ate any meat but now I'm in America and I say, 'slaughter away' and now some TV guy wants to give me money to say that on TV."

"Do you have no taste?!"

"Yes--that's why I like sugar."

"Well I shan't...this isn't..." and I knew that in order to be rid of him I had to give in. I gave him the sugar and told him to rid himself from my jaundiced sight and he replied: "Thank you very much. I see you on flip side, but not in my bed--hee hee."

I wrote a poem about it all today, which Spurlock is currently criticizing. I hope someone on here finds it worthwhile:

The nightingale cannont sing for the nodes
on its throat just brings
a cry like an axe in the forest
gored by a taurus
the matador bleeds the ground
the color of his cape
a red sun ten-feet around
like the flag of the kamikaze
and a spider that survived
to be killed in a whore's brassiere

The last unicorn will saw off its horn
to avoid the scorn and will silently morn
the sun rises apocalyptically
as bodiless voices echo cryptically
nonsense through prison cell teeth
that bequeath of me the dowry of my
of the last shred of innocence that buoys me
on the sea of melting flesh mixing together
to become a toxic ocean
of vile, gray, indistinguishable motion
I offer the horn, promptly ground to dust
and I see the face for the first time
it laughs and taunts, 'you're with the rest of us'

I have noticed that this was 'posted' on the same day as my last post. This is a bald-faced lie. In order to avoid confusion I published this the morning of January 16th, 2007. I had started to type my poem on January 1st and, in this web of cyber-'perfection', this site (such a disgusting distortion of the language) calls it 'posted' as of that day 15 days ago, before the illness...