EMERGENCY REPORT ON THE PRESENT EPIDEMIC OF

AUTOPORCOPHOBIA

c 1987 Tristan Winter

Fellow Slaves!

In these glorious times, when people awake clawing down scree, when the consumer has been put to sleep stamped product, poetry must no longer be mistaken for mere oral sex or religion.

The battle for lyric veracity is crumbling around our ears. Time itself is counted in human lives, not minutes. But, first, a few words about Mama (remember Mama?). Modern man cannot reasonably expect anything but lies from his fellow drones, so mendacity has become the sole reality. Anyone who dares mutter the truth about anything must be a vile fabricator.  And all your assurance comes from a culture formed of fear, and a society whose functionality is in fact an infantile myth.

(Oh, shed a tear for Mama, and your own incontinent gutties)

Now, tied to the complete bankruptcy of western culture, the very concept of self has disappeared, and you cling to the one desperate idea left, which is of course, Prison Culture. -Tattoos, paranoia, bad food, and cheap sexual fixations define your entire existence.

Of course none of us are as bad as all that, you think, fearing the worst. (remember Mama and the wurst?)

Why should we even fight it? You could, perhaps, put a poet in a sack and beat it (the now anonymous sack) as vigorously as possible, until the corresponding noises cease to haunt and compel you (remember Mama in the sack?) but this, we figure, will murder an average minimum of 10 minutes of your -YOUR- precious time.

But perhaps, you all spring up to say, this is a special case. (remember Mama and ‘special’ you hardened against life’s pangs little parasites?) But what could be special, since your only choice in life -from chromosomes to national citizen- is to be either a dildo or a sociopath?

Looking out tonight on this sea of ricotta sardonica, I can well imagine (remember Mama and ‘imagine,’ you comfortably tumescent, nightmare-ridden, sucking for satiation old offspring?) how easy it will be to absolve yourselves of all blame when the war against falsehood is lost. But first, a few words about Mama.

(remember Mama, with the worms all in and out of her?)

With only months left in your doom, you cling to the very last and most infantile attempt to retain any power at all: the refusal to communicate. And where does that get you? By this point in your pointless lives this non-stop hypocrisy has reached the level of clinical insanity as you cycle around in circles, both chasing and escaping your hope of identity. Around and around, spinning out of control, and we’re proud to announce that it’s hell on wheals!

There are some parameters though. For your circuit is confined to the small rubber rooms, where you play with yourselves, and pray that no doctors are watching. ‘Freeeeedom,’ you moan, and ‘oh my GOD what’s that HOLE?!!?’

Cowards and cunctators, we sit here tonight, like every night, tending our gashes and picking our sores in the romantic hope of infecting our neighbors. (remember Mama washing the crackers?) Cheer up, folks! The whole world is just waiting for you to surrender. It will be over with soon. Meanwhile, let’s gather round the camel guts and take another vote!

-Thank you, and remember each night to brush your teeth and praise the lord for another day of moral failure.