these are the thoughts of monarchs in flight

by dschapman

i’m falling fast asleep in the arms of enniu, but i can’t close my eyes just yet.

allow me to venture into self-expression. i am world weary. atlas wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘damn.’ and i’m not sure where to go from here. i always wanted too badly to grow up… and here i am, bored from the start, ready to wrap up the whole affair and throw it to the trash compactors. parties aren’t bad ideas. let’s get our dirty buck on. let’s lather up in semen and chew on something tender. there doesn’t seem to be much need for self-expression with such a blase audience. in china, an artist ate babies and the western world reported it on the news that china was a country of infant cannibals. if i could make art like that, i’d have quit school long ago. i’d have blown myself away for a snuff film if i had the balls. it caves in from the chest and ends up dripping off your toes. everything still tastes like it used to.. all the photographs are in place along the wall. my father has grown old and stiff. my mother has turned into her mother, like her mother did before her. will i turn into my mother? who is my mother? i’ve been stingy with my carrots and peas and have appealed to the medicine man for more drugs. they’ve got some wild chemicals up their sleeves. and we gobble them up like candy. everything is just as it is, and will keep on being. remember all the chocolate bars they used to sell… all those energy drinks, that neo-corporate shamanism, real keen and real jumpy, smart as a whip, painfully hungry for more and leaving no one unscathed. so in turn we scathe.

come with me, we’re going for scuba dive. i’ve a crop of cobraheads at the bottom of the sea. take the scenic route, through the choral reef. pardon the skulls in the cracks. things haven’t been going well these days. the natives…

nevermind that nonsense.’

green earth, red sky, blue paints – something about the empirical that supposes elegance. that’s more than i can say about me. look at the prick, hanging between those legs. look at those fingers, chopped up and knobbled… what else would you like to perceive? i before e, except after c – simple aspects of intelligence, starting from the ground up, which is where they teach you to stop. it’s a shame. if it were me, i would never start a lesson with the failures of the past. i would instead teach the mistakes of the present, from which to work optimistically into the future. into prosperity. turn back time to the fifties, the ideal age. the jets are moving smoothly forward. the apples are red and fat and droop their branches to the ground for dumb little boys to steal and hide in their pants. but that colored boy’s been making moves on june. just what should we do about it? they bring out the ropes… away, away, gone back to better days, farther back, to the Southern Family Romance, the Tragedy of Our Fathers And Their Fathers. farther still, to when the land was ruled by savages, indecently exposed, raping and enslaving one another from coast to coast, murdering and doping up and tripping balls out in the desert or in the hills or down south in the mystical jungle where panthers lurk in the trees and the natives gnaw ayahuasca.

‘nevermind that nonsense.’

i’m greatly concerned with aestheticism, and await a conversation in which i can express it. no one else seems to see the aesthetic value in my wall, even with the curtains. but what do they know? they’ll never be aesthetes. and why should they be? they’ll be farmers, or doctors… dumb, silly boys with plastic toys. i know a thing or two about masculinity. i know that i’m effeminate, and that those qualities are supportive, not negative. look at me, with those pretty little eyes, and that handsome long cock – dream on, they might say, and they might be right. it’s mighty allright should they should stay the night to see for themselves just what there is to see. not much here, but enough. i generally keep to myself though. we’ll confide a little later.

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