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It’s Easter Sunday, and like every year this timeI come to you by the last neighborhood, pirate radio. The signal stretches on the land of the Zulu, Zulu nation, all the way to the land of the Morak nation. For the next two nights, let’s steal the Babylon air waves and let on them re-evaluate the immigration politics. The trick is about you bringing the verbal intercourse, and I’ll bring the lice(?). So cock the hammer, sharpen the spirce, throw stones. The cool attack has begone.
“Is this one of the Canadian lines?”
Fifty thousand is the number of boys and girls, dogs and bitches. Fifty zero zero zero thousand pupppies will be conceived on this beautiful Friday night. Oh, that’s definitely a lot of stroking. Listen. Perhaps you can hear the slapping of the dog’s hip against the bitch’s but near in front of him. Or perhaps you are just one of the mongrels going through your particular brand of strokes. Or if you are considered this as the pelvis is arched for the dumb strokes. Ten thousand single bitches will breed these puppies, these bundles of joy, as if the embryos get passed the hunger(?). This not. This one is for the boys. The DOG as dogs. If you are tired of hauling a sock onto your prickle, I have an alternative form of birth control that . . . already used.
“Take your shirt off.” “Now fuck off. You are ill.”
Then call it the split-second, poor old technique. The oldest contraceptive known to us . . . . The method is simple; we are experimenting with it. . . .
“You are ready.” “You think so yeh? I’d better be fucking ready, cause I left my fucking teeth in my head.”
As the bitch has her legs locked around your shoulders as you are panting that fifty-mile purr, she dig her paws into your bottom holes. Don’t come in man. Ignore the bitch, keep stroking.
“Yo, man, what’s up. What’s for sale?”
You ask her whose pussy is it, she barks in ecstasy, your pussy, baby.
You ask her to spell your full name, she spells the middle name wrong.
Concentrate now, because you are coming up to your last funeral strokes.
“Are you absolutely completely naked?”
You feel it starts at the bead of your balls as it work its way toward the tip of your seven-inch tomb(?). . . . But you know a sophisticated bitch never believes what a DOG says when he is on his last stroke.
It’s coming, coming. Ohhh. Coming. At the last split second, you pull off your manhood and your legs contract over and over your love your love comes in spurts dripping harmlessly over the bitch’s soft stomach. You collapse on top of her. You see, the potential fetus is now warm lubricant sliding against your stomach creating a harmless wet spot. . . . After a few seconds, she’ll ask, did you come in me? Well, you’re sure .. . Wait a minute, you’re not sure? You sure you never come in me. You pause. Concentrate hard now; try to remember the last few strokes.: did a squirt escape? . . .
If you have a tale to tell in this season of death and resurrection and rebirth, I am in my ears.
************
Boys and girls, the lion is loose tonight. If you’ve seen his Majesty, give him a call.
If you lost the song of your disenfranchised diasporic voice, give me a call. Maybe I have it.
“Why don’t you give us back our air waves, Bitch? Nobody wants to listen to you.”
“I guess then you don’t want love. What on your mind.”
"Don't recognize my voice; can't see my face? Many faces, isolation, isolated by a fragile infantile fantasy. Many sleep with eyes open, coping with the pain that stays in the brain.
Don't recognize my voice; can't see my face? Rock the light pace, feel the blood waves. Treading motor, a tragic existence is a coexistence. Fight with spiritual persistence.
Don't recognize my voice; can't see my face? A kiss of dysfunctional illusion, fusion of silence plus night confusion, sweet and sour delusion. Laws of survival: resist the self-rival, self-righteous primal desire to see, to feel, to buy, to find the bland center of identity. Reality. Reality? Two-dimensional sensuality. To touch you is not to know you.
Don't recognize my voice; can't see my face? The past is set for me destructive destiny. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Oh, the tragedy. Another ocean swallows the island, treading water, a tragic existence fight with spiritual persistence.
Don't recognize my voice; can't see my face? A kiss of mental intrusion,
physical exclusion, unaccessible solution, seeking spiritual evolution. Voided eyes, embraced by a lie, coated in self-despise.
I wonder, I ponder, I imagine --
if I shall rise from my sublime demise?
Don't recognize my voice?"
************
Oh, ya, shouts from the mother ship have just been heard. . . . Keep yourself on the prize and you’ll live to see the dawn.
“Is this mother-fucker what you really want?”
“I need someone I can trust” Yankee to Luke.
Boxing of George and his friend.
************
Tonight we worship the golden calf. Eat the sacred codes and speak in recognized tones.
Tonight the uncircumcised participate in the intercourse. A music is for the youth, for they shall inherit the earth.
Tonight it’s gonna be like the last night of the world. Propaganda and mind bombs rule. Armageddon has begun.
************
“Too late, officer. You’ve brought many Zulu to the land of the Morak. We are here to stay.”
************
After Luke gives the money back to Yankee.
It’s time to again destroy our shits. Let’s start with ourselves. First, light the pipe. Two, put it to your mouth. Three, hewh, destroy.
Johnny disappears.
Boys and Girls, Dogs and Bitches. Tonight’s self-destruction, where . . . and feel like being abused. I see what kind of cool pain I can unleash.
Feel a little self-destructive, feel like being abused?
Johnny with Yankee
So what do you do when you feel this way? Put the needle up your eyes, bubbles shoots up your fingernail(?) or hung yourself by your testicles?
“I get high.”
“. . . That’s not very self-destructive; that’s an escape.”
Luke, Johnny with Yankee.
Maxine destroying the mannequins.
“What do you take to get high.”
“The stuffs. Our free-base stuffs. You know. Shits like that, Rude. ”
“What I’d like to do when I get high is to destroy shits. Kick my kick and go down and kill somebody that’s like me. What about you? The last guy he likes to touch the sky to feel self-destructive. What about you?”
It’s Easter Sunday morning. The sun is rising, the sun has risen. And the mother ship is leaving. Our majesty has forgiven us, and our senile sins are washed away. You just heard the trumpets disguised as gunshots singing us home. So all aboard on our mother ship for those who want a chance of rebirth.
I’m sending out an SOS to the boys and girls that were taken from the mainland brought to the land of Morak and . . .I’m sending out an SOS. If you want each of my voice, give me a call. You know my number
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