TOO EASY TO HATE YOU WHOLESALE
Too easy to hate you wholesale.
I’d rather do it in little painful retail pieces.
My grandfather once chopped up a poisonous snake in Australia
that almost bit him
and threw it slice by slice all afternoon into a raging fire.
It’s not much of a hell for a fire-proof politician
but it’s better than that viral heaven
where you sing your own praises
like pamphleteers in a choir of cliche catch-phrases.
Pimped out in front of the microphone for the press
as if everything you say
were printed on Jensen highgloss like your hair
as you try to pull back hard
on the fifty pound test of your fibre-glass smile
trying to come off like Atlas with the world on your shoulders
when you and I both know
you’re just the seventh son of the seventh son
of William Tel
with another apple on your head,
hoping every arrow that’s pointed at you like the public
has got a suction cup on it as big as the baby’s butt
of your Solomonic face
trying to divide things with a sword
you pulled out of your own ass
like Excalibur from Merlin’s stone
or a white candle at a black mass.
I want to ask you, sincerely, without malice,
watching your body language like a puppet show
how often were you not laid in highschool
and is a tradition of sexual frustration
enough of a party platform to run on?
You say you want to represent me,
be my voice where voices have seldom gone before;
but you’re a retired engineer who thinks like a failing hardware store
and I’m still so spaced out like the sixties
from my last attempt to get out of here
without being followed through the night
by the prophetic stars of my afterlife
like the flashback of a bad hallucination,
I don’t think your limp candle of a Buddha
and the little it knows about darkness
is going to light much up.
You say you’re as common as a cafeteria coffee cup,
that you know just how it feels
to grow up like a tree without birds
as you flock to me in flightless barnyard words
as if everyone’s native tongue
were nothing but a grammar of egg-laying lies.
Let them eat cake.
And heads rolled like lettuce.
Or as the Ontario Minister of Human Resources once said
pruning welfare cheques as a hedge against inflation
like budgets in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles
Let them eat bannas and peanut butter all month long
though he wouldn’t eat his own advice
because he made a fat living being the man
in charge of suffering.
He squeezed humans over his rice.
You want to stand up for people you’ve never met
like a good ventriloquist
who’s learned how to throw his voice around
as we all dummy up to your laptop
like sheeple around a shepherd
as if you were the last echo of the first word.
Let there be lies.
I may be trying to keep faith
with the loss of my faith in religion
hoping space is still faster than the spotlight
you keep burning in the godless windows
of the church of the Immaculate Decision
to cape yourself in another crusade
and patched like a one-percenter Templar biker on tour in the Holy Land
liberate Jerusalem from infidels like me
by plucking the thorns from the rose
like shark fins from the sea for terrorist soup.
And how can you know humans
that are more human than you are
by looking at them through
the pixellated fly’s eye of a flat screen tv
as if you were the third eye of Leonardo da Vinci
talking backwards like a mirror about things
as you dipiliate your own self-portrait
like the god in the machine on stage
well out of the reach of the groundlings?
And there you are all dolled up in the flag
like a political crossdresser
with so many roles in your wardrobe
all the cosmetic chameleons died of shame a long time ago
trying to keep up with all that lampblack mascara
you lavish like soot and newsprint spin
on the eyes of all your peacock rainbows
trying to convince me you’re just a regular guy
with your thumb up the ass of your apple piety
like hamburgers and racism and football.
There should be a boardwalk for politicians
who think like mannequins
and walk awkwardly like models in high heels
trying to show off the newest line of their party’s designer ideals.
But I’m not like you at all.
I don’t want to stand beside a sick child’s bed
like a piece of legislation
and watch her die of things I can cure.
I don’t hate whales and wolves and people and trees.
I don’t gnaw on the bones of evolutionary contention
like a developer in the jungles of the Amazon
bulldozing down trees like tiny bronchioles
in the lungs of the planet
to make more room to breathe commercially
or unmarrowing life of its cowering species
by burning the earth into real-estate
or the lifeline of a highway
with a toad crossing and a toll gate.
I don’t think people on welfare are economic parasites
living off your eyelashes like microscopic cattle for free.
I don’t think people should carry guns
into church into school into bars into work
as easily as they pack their lunch.
I got well laid in highschool.
Gratified desire makes for a more generous spirit
and a kind of human empathy you don’t seem to understand
as if every human you ever met
were wearing the same spiritual skin
and their suffering
made you and them beautiful
everytime you reached out to touch it
like the harp and the rose of a new tatoo.
I don’t think the polls you conduct
like dour Roman augurs
playing with their livers and birds
to know the mind of god
like the snakey percentiles of Delphi,
can give you a clue as to what it means
to be so fucked over for so long by people like you
who have wiped them off your shoe
on a patch of public grass
like something you stepped in
the little choo choo that knew it could knew it could knew it could
up and down the modelled hills of your toy train in the basement
isn’t the same as the private chant
of a shattered man in the looking glass
that shows him in the attic of Heartbreak Hotel
repeating to his own reflection
I will not be pathetic
I will not be pathetic
I will not be pathetic
as if he were running his own private underfinanced election
like Sisyphus up the hill of his incumbent brain.
Evolution must have lost its sense of humour
when it created you
out of the scraps of everyone else
that went into the dismembered stew of Marduk
like Tiamat and Kingu
to serve your coporate idols
the human muck you’ve made of our children
in the maw of Baal
who serves us all like Exxon.
And now you say no to women
because they said no to you.
But why should there be fewer zoning laws
in the suburbs of your six inches of dick
than there are in the mismanaged slums
you made a fortune from
like infinite riches in the little rooms
you want to regulate like women’s wombs?
You’re into bondage.
The legislation you espouse
is a kind of S&M.
Maybe your mother beat you
with a vacuum cleaner pipe when you were young
for jumping on the couch
and now you see her in all women
and you hate them
and that hate seeks power to control
as you do that dick-whipped mouse of a wife
that stands beside you
like a mismatched accessory to your tie
the power of life that eludes you.
But you’d kill any number of children,
squander any amount of the public’s money
anywhere anytime on the drop of a drone
if it served to secure the national interests
of a personal agenda of your own.
There are a lot of people not like you.
There are a lot of people who don’t kill people
like drug companies or insurance adjusters
who look upon their suffering
like a Vatican of pain
selling their snake-oil salvation to superstitious slaves
as if Jesus could forgive whatever you did for gain,
as their greatest, natural, renewable resource.
There are people who don’t speak for God
like a pale rider on a white horse
or a politician high on himself
like a small worm in the multi-foliate rose
of his slow corrupting rise from orifice to office.
There are a lot of people
who don’t want to own the rain the grain the air
the moon the oil the gold the gene the disease or the cure;
they don’t want to put their brand on the brain
like a tumour of material success;
they don’t want to ride in a limousine
like a golden chariot through a slum
as if the king and the kingdom had finally come
like a bulldozer to a ghetto of old rezoning laws
and heaven could now come down to earth
and the prophecy be fulfilled everywhere in shopping malls
there’s no eye of a needle so small
or camel so large
you can’t lead a consumer through it by the nose
into an artificial paradise of credit and debt
where the cynical angels are feathered in cash
like a good bet on a bad horse.
I’m a face-reader.
Yours is pornographic trash.
And looking deeper like a mind-reader into your thoughts
and the shit you fake as your feelings,
your inner eye is an Arctic cataract
and your soul is a nasty diaper rash.
And in your next life you’re coming back
as a homeless man on a heating grate,
a runaway hooker bruised by West Van,
a pregnant mother with you for a slumlord,
a dead hockey player brought back from Afghanistan
where his blood still stains the sand like oil
to a homely funeral just outside of Edmonton
to do his time in the penalty box of his native soil.
You’ll see what it’s like to be an Ojibway in jail,
a black man in a holding cell in Syracuse,
a Somali immigrant beaten to death
in the studio of a privatized detention center
that breaks the news like a racist snuff flick
that doesn’t make anyone sick.
And because your soul is a partisan misinfomercial
about who threw the acid in the face of the moon
and who’s going to pay for the facial,
you will spend eternity in the emergency waiting room
of an overbooked hospital
that doesn’t even know you’re dead
and suffer every injury and ill that’s wheeled through the door
as if it were your own urgency
that everyone ignored
because you were Hispanic and old and poor.
You’ll eat the bitter black bread
that’s baked from the crumbs of your dreams
when you wake in the ghettoes of night
to the sound of gunfire sirens and screams
like the bedtime stories with heart-crushing themes
you made up like laws with draconian claws
to keep everything just the way it seems.
You will watch your mother die alone on a hospital gurney
parked for hours in the hall
like a long unforgiving journey with no farewell.
And every step you take to try to escape
your progressive thresholds of pain,
hunger, squalor, disease, murdering police
the death squads of the softdrink companies and drug cartels
will turn into the virtual wall of a well-guarded border
that unspools like a snake scaled in coils of razor wire
you’ll waste your tears in vain to train to bite other people.
Scorned by the light as someone not to fall upon,
the steel stars of the hateful constellations
and all the lives you ever tore like roses
on the gory horns you once wore
as if you were a Viking slug of a sheriff in Albuquerque
hunting down aliens that threaten your obesity
with mouths to feed of their own
will sink their fangs into your illegal blood
like the nemetic thorns of all the refugee nations
you ever treated like Mexico.
And your heart will be towed
by red white and blue American tugboats
far away from the unwelcoming shores
of your flesh and blood
like a barge of surgical waste
dumped into a snakepit of spent syringes.
Narcissus sees himself in everything
but when he looks at his reflection in you
from the balcony of his pent-house view
even the mirror cringes.
You are not my leader.
I don’t follow you.
You’re not a tall ship
and a star to steer her by.
You’re just another flavour of pollution
spit out by the sea.
You’re just another pea
under an electoral pod
on the huckstering midway
of your snake-wielding exhibitionist god
making money off events
for a sleazy foundation of revivalist tents.
You’re the bad meat of the body politic
that gets dumped down our wells every night
like neighbourly corpses on cable tv.
You can’t even pick up a hooker
without getting caught
pinching your dick in your zipper
like an upright Christian family man
who went slumming in a pagan shrine
as you apologize in emotional Martian to the curious earthlings
waiting to catch a falling star and put it in their pocket
as if you were suffering in some moral gulag
for letting God and family and party
and your famous homophobic stand
against gay marriage down
as you swear on a gag-order of prominent lawyers
you’ll learn from the experience to become a better scumbag.
But I don’t want you working hard for me anywhere.
I don’t want you doing anything in my name
as if what serves you were one and the same bloodline
in the heart of a human and the heart of a leech.
Those that can, love. Those that can’t, preach.
But no one’s about to practise what you teach
in your pulpit, at your podium, in your steeple
as if you were the moral crutch of the crippled people
you’ve maimed enough to get them to believe in you so much
as the King of Centipedes with legs to spare
they crawl up the stairs on their hands and knees
for the ideological touch of your venomous extremeties
to prosthetize their fervent prayer
like ghosts at a seance on a local channel
or howdy-doodies of apocalyptic despair
humming in the high frequencies
of outraged bugs in the webs of a treacherous dreamcatcher.
No soul. No heart. No mind. No integrity. No shame.
Nothing but you standing with your hands on your hips
like one of the original gates of ignorance
deepening the darkness that underwhelms us from beneath
like the efforts of a mother at a public pool
trying to teach her children
to swim through all this quicksand
that was laid like the cornerstone of the promised land
by a grave-robber’s shovel in the hands of a vicious fool
who does unto others before they do unto him
like the iron rule of the missing limb
that dips the horn of the mythical unicorn
like the poisonous thorn of a bitter eunech
into the virgin waters of his backed-up public
like the closet-queen of killer bees
tainting the honey of private hives
with placebos of money and venom
and anti-snake-oil serums
running like your political lives
down the last leg you’ve got to stand on.
You’re the embryo of a head of state
trying to lobby the rightwing reformists of fate
at the gates of the Alamo
overun by Mexico
and the human overflow
of your own abortive theorems
like bad seed in the unhappy harems
that prorogue you as you did them
like the dying breed
of a prophylactic creed
suspended like an STD
in the subcomittees of a parliamentary quorum.
And I can tell by the hair on your hands
you’ve got a firm command of the issues
trying to fit the sloughed skin of the usual snake
under the rosebush of the convential spin
like a compromised condom
to the medievel domestic policies
of a corporate Albertan oil sheikh
or the indecent liberties a prick will take
like a government on the make
with its hands down everyone’s pants
asking for a second chance at re-election
to advance the Viagra of the party-line
by running attack ads in prime time
to broadside Onan on the blind side
of another snap erection
just in case it slips out
you’re having an affair with yourself
it would be impossible to lie about
like an ingrown hair
like a skidmark in a tailored suit
like a black hole with the light on your face
like a celebrity scandal with its own disgrace
like that icky boy in highschool no one ever liked
three rows over and a moron or two
outside the bell-curve
humping his nose like a camel in heat.
Or to quote the mystic Hadani dancing like a carnelian
before the temple of her gods
in a trance of love and joy
that irked her chauvinist elders,
pundits of the mysterious,
who begged her to return to a life like you:
I have felt the swaying of the elephants shoulders underneath me
and now you want me to mount a jackass?
Try to be serious.
And I would add my loveletter
like a vote or a leaf in the fall:
Shove this up your ass
like a worm in a mushy apple
and when it comes to pass
that all that’s left is rotten
take a good look at the mess you’ve made of you
just before God sends out
an emergency health warning
to the roots of everything
there’s salmonella in the mindstream
you’re trying to palm off on the public
as the peaches-and-cream-scheme
of the nightmare you’ve been trying to spawn
since you first went pubic,
and you’re recalled
and you’re forgotten
and nothing lives on.
Like a bubble of bad gas
like dogshit on the grass
when the snow’s thawed
like a bill that didn’t pass
like a skunk that’s been declawed
by allegations of fraud
like the lies you pimped for God
by selling your own ass
to the pharmaceutical companies
like bad porn,
nothing lives on.
Your afterlife is stillborn.