by Max Bouillet
And the greatest minds of my generation
are masturbating to Lara Croft
--and she isn't even real. But
you got to have faith. At least
that's what the preacher says,
so, get the Vaseline and the KY Jelly.
For the fool has said
in his (or her) heart there is no God.
So do I believe in God because of
prideful pricks of not wanting
to be a fool... wait, Croft is raiding another
Tomb. Puff on a smoke and pause...
look at those digitized inner thighs
hmm, pixel perfection.
Toilet bowl wombs and the water is running
all night. The anti-depressants work,
at least they do at the prayer meetings
with Lord Calvert.
"Damn Hippie! Long hair!"
Apologies were issued once they found out
it was actually Christ.
So why do we want to know?
Because of hell, that's why.
That's where the Coke machines
steal your money and there are scratches
on your CDs and McDonalds closes
at 5:00pm and they issue you a
cable bill twice a month.
Where obsolete serotonin seraphim sing
praises to Freud while lewdly
dancing around my brain stem
like nymphs around a maypole in
a fertility rite and to my dismay the only entry
in my little black book is a picture of my
right hand with a note that states
that my video game rental for
Tomb Raider is four years past due.
And after all this, what is real?
Cracked heels, irregularity, tampons, yeast infections,
and pre-paid phone cards to call
the 1-900 suicide hot line where
menu options offer blow jobs, church donations,
psychic readings, and psychiatric help.
And nobility is defined by the amount
of sexual harassment grievances, DUI
charges, and Microsoft stigmatas we wear.
Pixels bleed from our fingertips
and are quickly gathered for DNA testing
to prove our lack of faith.
Trippin' on espresso, we perceive reality
in frame by frame 3D rendering and wonder
why God hasn't upgraded our CPU.
And Heaven is further away than a max'd
out credit card and God is still safe from mortal's view
under the guise of trickle down economics and
earned income tax credits. And God
sips margaritas with crucifix tropical drink toppers
and smiles until He inevitably
pierces His lip and all humor is lost --except for a slight
giggle echoing from Galapagos where
Darwin cleans the Vaseline from the Playstation,
and Freud licks his cigar.
But God's lip is still bleeding;
the droplets forming words plagued with conjecture
and multiple interpretations.
Between the lot, no one had a condom.
And is this how we got here?
Are we spinning in the porcelain
choking on cigar smoke and Vaseline residue
with Tomb Raider theme music playing in the
Was Lara Croft the inspiration for our existence?
Did He have to hurry because the Pizza Man
was pounding on the door, already swearing
damnations because he tripped over a pair of roller blades
and slipped in the remains of the last beer run?
Generation Next falters from the game,
mumbles incoherently and says why am I
reading this? Lara's on the tube and there's
no one in the bathroom.
God's bleeding may have stopped, but
the stains remain. Scarlet Rorschach inkblots
in which we once guided our lives and in which we
gained our ideas of morality are now spectacles
for the Inquirer and Jerry Springer.
Author's Note: Inspiration from "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. Formally titled "Ginbergian Epic".
Posted on 10/24/2003
Copyright © 2020 Max Bouillet
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Laura Doom on 10/26/03 at 12:04 AM|
I've never read Guinsberg - can't imagine I'd enjoy it more than I have this...as far from the Rorschach nebula as it's possible to travel :>]
|Posted by Michele Schottelkorb on 10/26/03 at 04:28 AM|
you have just blown me away... incredible insight matched with raw and edgy lingo... you are incredible... blessings...
|Posted by Rachelle Howe on 10/26/03 at 06:36 AM|
how on EARTH do you do it!? i'm going to definitely be reading this again and again, and my god, did it bring a grin to my face. i could quote back all the lines, but it'd take an eternity.
|Posted by Mara Meade on 10/26/03 at 10:57 PM|
Oh. My. You nailed it. Wish I knew more of Ginsberg but I have a feeling I would have liked him, too. Whoo. This burns with a righteous fire.
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 10/29/03 at 03:50 PM|
Ah, the emptiness of convention and pop culture so well described! Is this blasphemy is Truth. Didn't they accuse that Long Haired Jewish Hippie of blaphemy? You are in good company. Ginsberg smiles. Priceless, Max.
|Posted by Karl Waldbauer on 10/29/03 at 05:43 PM|
Max, this is the best of your work I've had the pleasure of reading. Fantastic...all of it.
|Posted by Lauren Singer on 10/31/03 at 11:06 PM|
this is impeccable, shocking, sincere, and brilliant poetry, and i have shared this with about four people already because thats how floored i am. this is magnificent and i wish i could only begin to work myself the way you could.
|Posted by Siri Lipscomb on 11/01/03 at 01:35 PM|
D. All of the above
Bravo, Max, bravo ~ S
|Posted by S.J. Tyler on 11/01/03 at 07:33 PM|
Wow, I totally see the Ginsberg. I don't even know what to say.
|Posted by Melina Raven Maness Diebold on 11/01/03 at 10:39 PM|
Awesome! Reminds me of a poem I wrote about a wet sandwich. but your's is MUCHO better!
|Posted by Christina Bruno on 11/03/03 at 03:37 PM|
omg this is SOOO awesome!
|Posted by Siri Lipscomb on 11/06/03 at 01:38 AM|
Ditto to all the above. This is modern-age Jack Kerouac with an ironic twist at every turn. Whooooosh! Bad, dad. ;o)
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 11/06/03 at 12:13 PM|
for his inability to retort, Ginsberg is howling in his grave and if his hands weren't so busy trying to dig his way out he would laud this manifesto.
|Posted by Nadia Gilbert Kent on 11/07/03 at 01:34 AM|
I really liked it as it went on... it's not finished!
|Posted by Ginette T Belle on 11/07/03 at 03:39 AM|
great flow of thought...you've expressed yourself extremely well...and although i'm not in agreement with all your ideas i applaud your magnificence...
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/07/03 at 05:43 PM|
I've never read Ginsberg's version, but I enjoyed reading yours Max. Entertaining stuff, cynical as it is, with a powerful bite, or should I say byte? :o)
|Posted by Don Coffman on 11/14/03 at 08:03 PM|
Exquisite work, Mr. B. I can't remember what movie or tv show it was, but I'm reminded of a scene where someone's really stressing out, on the border of going insane, and a stream of images and sounds goes by full of things worrysome, things silly, things futile, all building up the stress. So goes the poem, a collection of annoyances, quirks, and cracked philosophies that you've linked together and explored in a fascinating way.
|Posted by George Hoerner on 08/04/18 at 10:20 PM|
In Paris. around 1957 or 58 a guy whose name I no longer recall, including my own, trad Howl to myself two friends and his girl friend. That was the night I started to write poetry although nothing nearly that good. I still have a couple of books with that poem in it. I should have memorized by know I've read it so many times. And nice write. george