Shattered faith beneath the streetlights
Torn to shreds; we’re fighting for scraps
Among the trash, far past midnight

A better way, but not tonight
All hope drowned in a sea of swill
Shattered faith beneath the streetlights

New horizons fade out of sight
Our vision blurred in barroom brawls
Among the trash, far past midnight

Our city is a satellite
Lost in space, we’ll die like stars
Shattered faith beneath the streetlights

Every Sunday, share the highlights
Tall tales recalled for brainless pals
Among the trash, far past midnight

Hostage in a splendid bombsite
Downtown heights that steep to new lows
Shattered faith beneath the streetlights
Among the trash, far past midnight

Somebody asked me how I reconcile my admiration of Houllebecq with the fact that he is a racist, misogynist, sexual predator, and abject dipshit. I was flabbergasted by the very question. Why would you admire an artist? That’s not what they’re there for. They’re there to make you feel alive for a few minutes and to be periodically expectorated upon. They’re street magicians; conjuring up the illusion of meaning, pulling a sense of purpose out of their sleeves, fleecing rubes like me for a couple bucks. The most notable among them are not only illusionists but clowns to boot. Houllebecq is a buffoonish caricature of a French writer, just as Jim Morrison was a buffoonish caricature of a rock star, just as Donald Trump is a buffoonish caricature of a rich person. This is the only trait of the artist that can be deemed truly meaningful; illustrating the absurdity of existence with their own loathsome flesh and blood. Just don’t gawk at them for too long, or else you’re start thinking their little card tricks are actually sorcery. You’ll lose your mind that way, believing in magic. Gaze for a moment, chuckle, spit on them if you’re in the mood (if their art is any good, they’ll love it), then learn to weld and try to find yourself a wife.

Note: None of this applies to my numerous family members who are artists. Artist that I am, I have no idea if any of this is true or even legitimate in any capacity. But them words sound real purty together, don’t they? Liable to make a few gears shift in somebody’s brain, toying with the possibility of a coherent thought. That’s all I can hope for.

It leaps into my mind unprovoked, like a vicious jungle cat pouncing out of memory’s treacherous ether. That pussy digs in its claws, my every muscle is made tense, a rush of sweat pulsates to my armpits, but I will neither fight nor fly. For as that fearsome jungle cat fastens its stinging grip, as my muscles tense up and my various glands work overdrive, my eyes also widen. And nothing has ever doomed me more than my own droopy eyelids. Falling asleep at the wheel, dozing off in a cubicle, nodding out on dope, that perilous ether rendered inaccessible by a grand stuporous barrier. I gotta stay awake, bro. I need to keep going.

“Permanent work on your obsessions will end up transforming you into a pathetic mess, sapped by anxiety or devastated by apathy. But, I repeat, there is no other way. You have to reach the point of no return. Break the circle. And produce some poems before you crash into the ground. You will have caught a glimpse of immense spaces. Every great passion leads to infinity.

Every great passion concludes by leading to a zone of truth. To a different space, extremely painful, but where the view stretches far and clear. Where the cleared objects appear in their clearness, their limpid truth.”

– Michel Houllebecq, “To Stay Alive”

Toe-headed pig-men clad in iridescent golf shirts, wraparound sunglasses firmly encircling their heads, their bald skulls turned to pustules about to burst with their own bullshit, reaction and and entitlement and grievance left to stew and boil and ferment for decades, pricks like Sean Hannity get fat paychecks to keep pricking that pimple. Sooner or later the zit goes POP, right there in the McDonald’s drive-thru, and all of humanity is sullied by its splatter. Rancid discharge splashes into the drive-thru employee’s eyeballs. It’s bound to get infected. She could lose her eyesight. She doesn’t even have fuckin’ health insurance.

Slipshod battalion, heads swimming with rock roll myth
Ill-equipped for the coming rush, soft flesh, hard drugs
Eyes bright, denim gleaning in the rust belt twilight
Leather breastplates well-worn, young hearts unfortified
Three-chord crusaders, berserk in ecstatic din
Sharpening bayonets, cloaked in the reefer’s cloud

We were armed with our dreams, and electric guitars
We stormed into battle, but we didn’t get far

Reality’s grip creeping in, like mustard gas
Wages of sin crashing down; a swift bombardment
Flowers of romance bloom, like bursting hellfire
Wounded, limbs gone limp; longing for a sensuous nurse
She’d stitch up my shattered mythology, but nay
Our mirage is blowing up, like downtown Dresden
The killing fields rendered stark and grey before us
Amps turn to zero as passion’s haze dissipates

We were armed with our dreams, and electric guitar
We stormed into battle, but we didn’t get far

Starving in the trenches, our comrades cannibalized
Bad boys turned to dumb beasts; we were once more than men
Stumbling towards greatness in this small-town proving ground
Beatle boot heels dug into this cursed, fallow ground
Falling on our swords, or forever gritting teeth
This mundane, mute arena would be our new home
In strange days long past, we were promised war trophies
But war trophies can’t shine beneath this ceaseless grey

We were armed with our dreams, and electric guitars
We stormed into battle, but we didn’t get far

Photo by Peter Balonon-Rosen

Like a monument to ecstasy
Prone and flawless, picturesque vision
Carnal vessel of my destiny

I can almost feel her next to me
Body heat whispering to my dreams
Like a monument to ecstasy

Quivering hands assess the density
Incredulous at what they have found
Carnal vessel of my destiny

Our divine, sublime debauchery
Spells cast just before the dawn’s breaking
Like a monument to ecstasy

As I gaze, she lies resplendently
Self-assured and at peace, at long last
Carnal vessel of my destiny

Still haunted by her sheer majesty
So nearly felt, but gone from my sight
Like a monument to ecstasy
Carnal vessel of my destiny

Chief of Police, resplendent in Blue
A facade propped up; a soul snuffed out
The weak-willed horde, forever on cue

Swaggering shit-head, so tried and true
His nightstick’s length is the Gold Standard
Chief of Police, resplendent in blue

Lesser pigs insulate him from you
Grateful, for he beats back the Other
The weak-willed horde, forever on cue

Negroes and homos and filthy Jews
Their fate is well-earned; Hail the Just God
Chief of Police, resplendent in blue

Bootleg copies assemble his crew
A porcine shield; impenetrable
The weak-willed horde; forever on cue

He won’t much like what we’re ‘bout to do
Out on the streets; in bed with his wife
Chief of Police, resplendent in blue
The weak-willed horde; forever on cue

Come All! The Desolation Ball awaits
As the yawning concrete fields lie fallow
We lust after joy in our dire straits

We’ll shine our shoes and then pick up our dates
A knockout in blue, but she’s a real pill
Come All! The Desolation Ball awaits

Here, as our desperate mass coagulates,
On these sullen streets that lie cracked and still
We lust after joy in our dire straits

We saunter on through the festival gates;
Past eager cops with guns and time to kill
Come All! The Desolation Ball awaits

Here, the cigarette butts accumulate,
In this sumptuous gutter that flows downhill
We lust after joy in our dire straits

The downing of drinks and sealing of fates
This luxurious ruin is hallowed
Come All! The Desolation Ball Awaits
We lust after joy in our dire straits

Kaleidoscope of smoke and light,
Forgotten souls and dollars spent
Turning, burning into the night

We fade to black and fade from sight
Stones and dreams set swiftly ablaze
Kaleidoscope of smoke and light

Done so much wrong, still don’t feel right
Back-alley trysts and woozy dawns
Turning, burning into the night

I bark and bark but no one bites
In search of thrills too big to fail
Kaleidoscope of smoke and light

We’d trade our lives for unseen heights
Ecstasy beneath the high-rise
Turning, burning into the night

Joyfully, we give up our fight;
The city looms, immutable
Kaleidoscope of smoke and light
Turning, burning into the night

It’s Friday night and you’re ready to cut loose. You jack off and blow your little load. You don’t feel a damn thing except a cold, wet spot on your comforter. Transcendent ecstasy haunts your memory but drifts further and further from your grasp. All you’ve got is a cold, wet spot and a video of some pilled-up collection of curves getting gangbanged; a lifeless assortment of pixels shoved together on your iPhone screen, just as cheap and base as your little loads. The synapses in your brain can’t feign excitement anymore, much less satisfaction. If you waited another month to jack your dick it might’ve actually felt like something. Another missed opportunity. Like that time you dropped out of college. Like that girl you should’ve married, but chose to sidestep because her tits looked too droopy and you didn’t wanna spoil your friendship. Like that nice car you totaled. Like that guy you should’ve punched, because any red-blooded man or just God would know damn well that he had it coming. A heaping pile of missed opportunities and they all add up to a cold, wet blemish that you’ve grown quite adept at ignoring. A sprawling expanse of wasted time. You let it slip right through your fingers, grubby little dick-beaters that you stroke up and down a half-limp member until… nothing. You’re nothing but a shameful splotch on another man’s sheets. Soon you’ll dry right up, and not a soul will remember you. But at least you have your Friday nights. On Friday night, you get to stay up late and watch your favorite videos. You don’t have to work until Monday; plenty of time to relax, and to be alone with your thoughts. It’s nice, isn’t it? You’re a lucky man. As you drift into slumber, you’ll have that cold, wet spot to keep you from feeling lonely.