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- and, anyway, who breaks wind over double-M, a. k. a. Manson,

Marilyn?

I'll give a ride on my razor any day to

The-Second-Prime-of-Nine-to-the-Sixth,

who was around long before CD's, DVD's, MTV, and YOU / MYtube,

spitting out the healing heat, the wound-cleansing apocalypse

of what some denounce as straight from No. One Brimstone Pl., way

before double-M, way before the Twelfth Symbol,

The Serpent-Wrestler

was kicked downstairs out of sight, usurped by what used to be the

thirteenth,

Yeah, and one plus three is four - rex mundi, mundane king

of only the world,

while One plus two equals Three - sign of sweet Goddesses, of

divinities

and The Twelfth Symbol butt-****ing Marilyn with the Serpent, man!...

... and my razor ain't my father's

road-raging interstate-hog...

... my godpappy, Billy Blake, still loony

out of his goddam mind,

drumming away for Good Ol' Triple-Six with one hand and giving

decaffeinated, unsweetened Jesus an enema of infidel wine with the

other

while howling Te Deum for

uncross-legged, staggering Jesus

failing the sobriety test,

Fallen Jesus! oh my lord, the world must be cumming to an end!

without promise of rescue by the pie-in-sky-hook of empty redemption,

least of all, from Billy Boy with foolish heaven's bees of wisdom

buzzing about his balding pate, stinging his soul even more alive

with fire,

igniting a gnostic explosion to blow the piston-heads

off my father's gas-hog of false gods,

laying a circle of holy fire down the centuries

and giving me the courage to razor-pedal with my own two feet down

that road still on the map

to the cathouses, outhouses, hovels and Isis temples

of court jesters' wisdom under the Twelfth Sign

where everyone has the hope-salvation

of failing crooked judgment's sobriety test,

where Goddesses disrobe the secret of themselves,

of Gods and Everyone to celebrate the Cosmic Dance, Copulation of

Universal Soul,

while William Blake yanks the spigot off the sacred keg

to intoxicate the Serpent

and my razor-wheels right off of me.

Yet, what does it matter I've lost the wheels of mortality?

since - believe it or not - no longer uptight, decaffeinated,

constipated or unsweetened,

a backslidden, paganly born-again Jesus is drunk as a skunk!

like me, on the pulse of Good Ol' Triple-Six rapping His uncouth butt

off in the eternal drive-by of cosmic rhythm and rhyme,

So there, Manson, take that up the ass!

* try coffee /java / a cup 'o joe, brotha, sista!
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