Don’t stand and wonder about the motivation of me (Why try to make this puzzle fit?). Sigmund Freud has tried (has he not?). And now look at all the trouble this one solitary man has wrought upon the earth! Ten billion of his disciples keep themselves up at nights (did you know this?). They are busy breaking the world into tiny pieces so they might learn how to better medicate you (yes, you!). The artists are hiding beneath the floor boards in these times. They are not nearly as precious as the dead and dusty art that is hiding out in the dead men’s attics. If the truth be told out loud, they all a bunch of bores (psychoanalysts, I mean). Their occupation is with the banal. Don’t love me like that. For Christ’s sake.
Don’t hide your passions or your swear words under your breath. Don’t keep your discoloured pajamas hidden in the bottom drawer on this day, or the fact that you don’t give a damn about your cholestorol, hidden from my view. Don’t feign perfection for me, my love. I won’t believe it anyway, and what’s worse is, (your mother must have told you!) your face will turn to stone.
The world is not an elephant’s foot. And even if it were, there is great honour in being a worm or a mouse or an ant caught in the act of doing the obscene (even if you die under the weight of it). You would know this already if you had taken the time to think – think, my love – instead of reading all those god awful texts that teach you how to do everyhing but.
Would it help you to know that I have never lied to you? You smell sweeter than the dung of an elephant. You are sharper than the sharpest nail that has been hammered into the shingles of this roof. (how can you not know this?)
I shall say it to you only once, my love: You do not equal the weight of your penny jar (does this bear repeating?). I am sorry to have to tell you that Freud was obsessive, and that the psychoanalysts continue to misguide and mislead. This is the reason that they themselves, are now, misguided and misled (who’s to love their little hearts?). I think, now, that they probably mean well.
Stuffed shirts/skirts and shiny cars do not equal your mental health, or theirs, my love. Damn them. Damn the good will and straight intentions of every analyst. They are difficult to hate. But look! Please don’t turn away: The artists are being held up for auction at garage sales. There is nobody doing the bidding. Many of them will die with nothing but cheap noodles in their hollowed guts. Fancy theories, instigated by Sigmund Freud himself, will try to explain away their poverty. Their dead minds will be assessed; their sanity doubted for what their bodies could not endure. Don’t love me like that! Don’t take the Beauty from my voice (thinking my gifts for free). Don’t steal the beauty from my song and ask me to prove my worth by the weight of my penny jar. Don’t love me like that!
Did you not hear what I said to you a zillion times over? I care nothing that you should retire in 28 months and sixteen days. These kinds of details are enough to bore it blind! (the eye of the hurricane, I mean). Only those without knowledge of the moon’s eternal sustenance should worry about tomorrow as you do. “Are you a man or are you not?… Are you a woman or are you not?… Have you not a good paying job? (God will bless you for having the right job in these times, you know. You will be redeemed in God’s boring heaven for all of eternity, and you will go on and on and on. Not one artist will be there to lull you into the heart of life itself. You will only wish your pennies could buy your way out of this one!). That these kinds of questions should precede the highly poignant question I put to you in this very moment is absolutely proposterous: Now, will you or will you not, have a root beer with me?
With all of my heart I am asking you to hurry up and claim the heart you’ve won, my love. It’s free! It’s free of charge! You’ve already been informed of this. Don’t sit awhile and wonder. You know I was nothing before you wooed me and won me. Now woo me and win me.
Oh my beloved you, sit me down again and drink me into the blueest eyes of you. Sit me down and sing me an upside down queerest of all love songs. Kiss the lips of me with those lips that are pink and full – glorious as the vulva of another woman! Kiss me with the pink rose of those glorious obscene lips. Weaken me with the obscenity of you. Don’t bore me with stories of women who go to church and love men but who have no love for other women – women who are sanitized and never swear. Who, in their right mind, could claim to love a man who never swears?!
Tell me now. Tell me what it is I already know, my love: that you are queer. Queer as the first bump on the bum of a crocodile. Queer as the the mother of God who might still be working at the Walmart if Joseph hadn’t come along. Tell me, again, what it is I all ready know: that you are there hiding away – soft, soft, soft as the skin of a tulip inside the foreskin of you.
Tell me you love shredded wheat without sugar, my love, and I shall forgive you your awful choice. Turn yourself into a catholic, for Christ’s sake, and I shall forgive you even this! Do as you please, my love! Be as you please! Make mudpies on my door step and I shall eat them for supper!
…Make the rain fall so hard upon the earth on this day, that all the trees bend over with the weight of your request, and I shall beg god on my hands and knees to forgive you. Stand on your tip toes and rip the most glorious leaves from the tops of gods most glorious of trees and I shall make a case for you on this highest, most holiest of ground, my love. I shall stand my ground!
Refuse to save your good leather shoes for another day, my love. Undo the awful knot of that precious silk tie and burn it with the dry leaves of autumn. Don’t come to my door smelling of cologne and holding twelve red, dead roses in your hands. Don’t come to me with the apology of an open wallet! Don’t love me like that, my love (for Christ’s sake). Come naked. Come as I know you, my love. Come as I know you!
