Rosenbush Café

Queen's Fire in the Infinite Schism

If there are regulations mustn’t there be illogic behind necessitation for existence? An illusion of the self-deluded mélange that encompasses the malleable colorless finite matter beneath the hairline is unimpressed with that cardboard skeleton that calls itself humankind. Migraines fomented by toxic residue; too much heavy metal for the soft palette and embedded code briefly soothed by Grand Marnier and sautéed hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Sigh.

All things pass that come too good.

Respect? Antiquated word, alas it is true that the only respect is for the drive by shooters and even automatic weapons are fired close enough to scatter cats to the four boroughs of Arcawind and well one can smoke a Dannemann indoors instead of on the candle-lighted patio.

So with all the drunken misanthropes why not courses at uni in drinking; they would all pass. Staggering like spastic fantastic, A; vomiting on shoes, C- because vomited on date’s shoes, too; and driving on the sidewalk, minus 5 on their driver’s license.

Your next Congressman.

Driving. More like auto racing without the tedious circle. God damned Autobahn in WestAla; even the electric cars are running traffic lights; WTF?

Oscar Wilde understood, with profound vulnerability, reputations through sentience: “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Beat poet Allen Ginsberg observed, sadly, that he “…saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.”

Madness is now the normalcy and not only confined to the rapturous south; fortunate or not, the once proud, albeit confused, lunatic fringe of the sixties and seventies is now drinking dirty martinis at Planet Sardis City Java Jibber Jabber Jive Joint.

And nirvana the twain shell meat:

Mark Twain and self-aware amusement: satisfaction germinates within; its emergence significance cannot be contained: “A man is accepted into a church for what he believes and he is turned out for what he knows.”

Parsimonious may well describe the man who stoops to pick up a coin change from the double yellow line on the traffic active state highway but sanctify him that have such vision as to see thirty two cents gleaming the westward sunset on Highway 216.

He must be crushed beneath the wheels of the Escalade. Balance restored in the decimation of the midlife class and George Carlin was correct; the poor are around to scare the shit out of the rich!

What’s grammar? Sumthin’ to do wit cracker?

Syntax ain’t that for smoking, drinking and fuck toys?

No, I believe that might be sin tax, but what the phoebes do I know? I have a degree…

A degree doth not make right your condescension toward thy unwashed, unintelligent milieu but nonetheless truthful display of cherished illiteracy.

Cognizant of his position in the order of chaos, Simon offered his bus seat to the nubile coed in ugly long Crimson Tide t-shirt and matching RED shorts, who has not the time to thank the stranger since she is deeply engaged in a texting with girl friend Barb about what a bitch her professor is, and whom has not the time to see her devourer; she properly vanished into the maelstrom of psychological parallelism. Guess she did not see the dark matter above and the black hole below.

Simon sat down and after the next bus stop, offered his seat to a dirty-jeaned Napoleon-pale-complexioned weasel. Sorry, an unkind cut to weasels.

We named breakfast cereals after typecast gay-themed cartoon characters engorged on sweetie diabetes and wonder why the homophobic ecosystem is polluted with irrationality so as to deny true love, even if it doesn’t exist, which it doesn’t, to any couple so they, too, may enjoy the agony and pleasure of your company. Stay single; fuck the bigoted system with the same double-ended armored dildo that pleasures so many to take back the sanity of the 3rd Century.

Oh, sorry.

Not the best of times.

Never take marriage more seriously than the latest sale at Wal-Mart. Treat affectionate feelings with chocolate chip cookies and Marzipan from Aldis; if you can find one.

Senior citizen discounts should never automatically qualify the elder for a flexible loan on a fixed budget.

The truck did not slow down for the femme jogger, odious neighbor retrieving his green box or the mating swallows who wished they had never left Capistrano. The roaming felines take up a collection, and pay Blind Dog to maul the driver, in his own driveway while his wife looked on in relief.

One wonders how many died during the Black Plague not stricken but marginalized by the time travelling intellectual superstructure of Scholastic philosophy that enhanced metaphysical dualism with a random disorder for the odd apéritif.

Blushing illumines then conquers the fear timidity propagates and without heartache one shall never be assimilated from the murkiness of the self aware psyche to transcend their darkened theater of digitally enhanced faux individualism. Sun-drenched rainbows drench the delusional privileged procrastinator masturbators, high on pot and Ketamine, confusing Lewis Carroll “It’s large as life and twice as natural” with their contempt of generosity. He was trippin’, assholes.

In the realm of the Queen’s Infinite Schism one finds hypnotic pleasure in the pain of gamma-radiated cantaloupes the size of antelopes. A forgotten smile may lead to remembered tears but for a simmering nanosecond it was, after all, a smile, which is more than the inverted frown of lyrical legends; oh no, it is the penultimate gesture of sentient solidarity. The Queen takes the King and the Bishop, randy bastard, takes the remaining Knight’s Horse and chases the Pawns off the board.

I am your aphorist and while you may disagree you are free to pretend you understand.

eXisTenTiaLNihLisT; you were expecting Marcel Proust? He was expecting a Marzipan.