If you have just arrived at The Library in Purgatory, the first chapter is here.

"I never found the girl, I never got rich. Follow me."

~Leonard Cohen

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Chapter II.4

The Downside to Riding a White Steed

I believed in myself when no one else would. I cared when nobody had the time. I will remember when it all fades away, like an excitingly bad dream, dropping below the horizon in a warm, red, hazy glow.

Fuck you all, these shall not be forgotten years!

No one remembers, no one cares anymore. Colleen is gone and who remembers? No one asked, “What kind of insanity made suicide the only way out? What hurt, frightened so much? What pressures? What problems?” No one cares that it still goes on everyday for hundreds of others like Colleen.

No one is angry. No one is pissed. No one wants to have to stand up for themselves; they haven’t the time nor the inclination.

Stupid blind fuckers…all of them…poor stupid fuckers.

I stood alone in the cemetery as they slowly milled away like cattle lured by the promise of food back at the church. I stood alone screaming, screaming, “Something is very wrong here! Doesn’t anybody see what’s happening?”

But they were deaf and had a schedule to keep; the bus leaves at three on the dot, can’t be late, can’t be left behind.

I climbed the mountains of Burma. I crossed Bedlam Bridge. The stars fell from the sky and the moon sank into the sea; no one cared. Armies marched against each other and B-52’s flew high, white crosses against a sky of blood, while demagogues pounded pulpits and screamed empty words into silver microphones…and still no one cared.

Everybody died, stupid eyes staring blankly at the sky and nobody heard me screaming; no body cared.

I will remember. These shall not be forgotten years.

We are the unwilling
working for the unqualified
to do the unnecessary
for the ungrateful.
This is about as truthful as you can get.”

-Kit Bowen, Charlie Company 1968, Vietnam

The Unforgiven

You cried a 100 tears
and I caught 99.
But the one that got away
is the only one you see.
It was just a duty, what I did
and you were found deserving.
So the road is light tonight
‘an we’ll pretend it’s alright
‘cause I’ll get by on my own.

Don't Talk to Me…

Don’t talk to me about life
‘cause you’ve always faked it.
And don’t talk to me about love
‘cause you think that your daddy can buy it.
And don’t talk to me about friends
‘cause you’ve never done it.
So don’t talk to me about right and wrong
‘cause you’ve never known it.
And don't talk to me about hate
‘cause right now I own it.
And don’t talk to me about me
unless you’ve put it to your head
and blown it.


I met you at the bar
Looking for a fix
You had the blues
So I drank them
To drown them in me
I smoked with you
To see your God
But he disappeared with the buzz
So I worshipped you instead
You wanted love
So I snorted a line
And held you through the night
Your thoughts were made of chemicals
So I ate LSD and altered them
But they were still incomprehensible to me
And nothing had changed
Your world ended
So I shot up and crucified myself
To save it
And one day you decided
You couldn’t take it anymore
The needle marks of the relationship
Were starting to show
So you packed your things
Called me a junkie
And walked out the door—
I died for you

Feb 14, 1992

Suicide tastes like:
the cold, steel blue
of a shotgun barrel
caressing your lips.
Smells like:
Hoppes #9, sweat,
and fear.
Sounds like:
the rattle of lead shot in plastic shell,
the deathly slow rasp of your breath
in and out,
and the SNICK/SLAM
of the bolt ramming home.
Feels like:
the wall at your back,
sweaty-cold-clammy hands,
the kink in your neck that won’t go away,
and the steady skin-prick-blowing
of the wind through your head,
crystal clear and razor sharp
like the stars on Christmas night.

A Good Day

Someone shot down thy sky today. It floated slowly down in gray bits as Social Distortion sang about Bad Luck and the Pixies rode a Wave of Mutilation.

I made this tape to take with me on my Great American Road Trip this summer. But with the sky gone it looks like the only thing to do is go home, masturbate, and wait for the end.

I wonder who did it. Maybe Johnny Rotten knows.

It just keeps coming down in small downy flakes. Pretty soon we’ll be able to walk the sky, crunching it under our jack-boots as we march to June.

If I was a Family Man I might know what to do, but I’m not and right now my family happens to be careening over O’Hare International Airport in a long, lazy cartwheel that will end in an excruciatingly exciting fireball of jet fuel and metal— faces pressed up to the window as their hair melts to their heads like Lego people.

Planes can’t fly if there is no sky.

Maybe it was the Russians, I hear they hate God. Maybe they were trying to get at him. No matter, pretty soon the sun, moon and stars will be raining down on us; God doesn’t take being fucked with lightly.

If only Allison wasn’t here I wouldn’t be so lonely, damned Sister of Mercy. The end of the world might just be worth it to see her get hers, bitch!

The nurse is talking about Kicking out the Jams and maybe that’s why I am here; she has a tattoo. My head hurtz, that means it’s almost time for my shot. It’s been a good day.


The blood felt to so warm

and soft

running down my white wrists

and arms,

so red, safe—

that I didn’t want it to stop.

Each new droplet that dripped

from my finger

into my mouth

sent a chill,

a shudder

racing up and down my spine.

My blood loved me,

wanted me to go to Greece.

And now it was running

its warm red nails

across my chest

and down

towards my crotch;

red rivers of blood

racing down

as I licked lips,

pulse quickening.

So soft…

so warm…

so strong…

so very…

so totally…

A red orgasm from clenched fists

and teeth

just like my mother

and snatches

full of partially

overheard conversations.

19 Miles into Illinois

I am rage

I squeezed the trigger

I lit the match that burned L.A.

I am rage

the Red Knight burning

destruction on wheelz

I am coming

to maim

to destroy

to kill

to hate

Lock the door Mom

and load the guns

I’m coming home

I will cleans

your festering

whoring heart

Blood will flow


the heat


I am Rage

I am Rage

I am Rage

I hate you

I will kill you

I am rage

Until the End of the World

The black-gray clouds piled up on top of each other like five o’clock traffic on the Ike. Pregnant with rain and boiling in violence the sound of drums rose up out of the jungle, a bird in flight, echoing and reverberating in the clammy heat; grabbing you by the ears and ripping your heart out, a lone cry, spiraling on the thermals, a voice, a thousand.

The drums continued ceaselessly, pounding, evil, heathen, as flames filled my mind, dancing shadows, twisting and turning, this way and that, chanting, screaming, fucking.

The natives are restless tonight.

Death, my only companion for the last four thousand miles, looked at me, eyes gleaming, a toothy smile slowly spreading across his taught white features like a sunrise or sunset.

The natives are restless tonight.

The rain came down with a thunderous roar, drenching us both; the drums continued.

All along the watchtower the Afrikaners, in khaki and pith helmet, heard the drums, clicked off safeties, and checked magazines on their bush rifles, sending nervous glances into the dark, impenetrable jungle. They knew, it was the steamy, mysterious mistress they could not dominate, rape; the natives were restless.

Horns of lightning ripped the sky; the voodoo gods of old, Satan himself; the Minotaur had escaped the Maze and was looking to sodomize.

The flames leapt higher and higher, fanned by the rain. The jungle was alive, on fire. The Minotaur found his first and gored him; it was Tennessee.

The Afrikaners danced and screamed for more blood, sacrifice; shooting in all directions, bent. In Vietnam, the fire caught and monks went up like roman candles. The drums didn’t stop, the rain didn’t stop. Death kept grinning, shaking his head appreciatively, a beer in his hand; the natives were restless tonight.

The Minotaur continued on, rending the earth with cloven hooves, twisting its bullish head, snorting and bellowing in time with the drums. He found his next in LA and beat him in the streets with truth, justice, and the American Way.

The Afrikaners danced in a frenzy of glee, whirling and twirling, screaming obscenities at the world, raping everything in sight until nothing was left, then raping each other in twos and threes.

The sky throbbed a crimson red; the heart of darkness had been pierced, the drums tirelessly keeping up their frantic urgency. Death snapped his fingers and smiled; the natives were restless tonight.

The Minotaur, finding nothing else to rape, raped itself; screaming in ecstasy, blaspheming the world, calling every spirit, fiend, demon, devil and sacrilege down; taking its own life in an orgasmic climax of fucking.

I sat in the jungle with Death, my only companion for the last four thousand miles; he offered me a beer.

“The natives are restless tonight,” he observed. I nodded and we waited in our foxholes until the end of the world.


I feel like I’m in a limbo
Somewhere between wanting
To be
And even maybe thinking it
And being totally the opposite
I can believe that I am
Sometimes I think
I am the Anti-Christ

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