Good Ol' Triple-Six and the Eternal Drive-By - Part 2

- 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!