Today the best books of our civilization are being roasted
in the holy inferno of neglect by the preachers of propaganda
who, worship the radical ideals of their own hazy foresight,
who in the factories of success, make ticking brains that explode
under normal atmospheric pressure,
who for innocence of choice and choice of innocence manipulate moons
to fill their shops that sold dull twinkling stars,
who menstrual blood of radical feminists drank
as they spewed shit about social reforming and burped
nonchalantly when a raped girl pleaded for help,
who in marijuana induced torpor, talked communism, Mao and Stalin,
yet kneeled prostrate in front of
America, at the demand of exotic literature.
I pity these "best minds" of my generation Allen!
As they scribble about rats in their city, living in a different country, dreaming of red flags,
moaning comrades during coitus, eating morsels of capitalist spaghetti, looking smug in their
khadi visiting their coal mines to create diamonds
that break when hit by their hammers of education.
I see them fore-runners of neo-literary cult, dancing on the tunes of
sensationalization, around the bonfire of texts full of knowledge, feasting on the
barbeque of hearts and brains of those who dared remain neutral.
They create hells reserved for them, Dante!
Acting as connoisseurs, of music, of politics, of cinema, of literature,
contemplating unemployment, poverty, prostitution, terrorism, rapes and murders
while sipping off their red wines, made from the testicles of the respective victims,
in a protected environment, forgoing their
cannibal past, when they ate the flesh of those
in tatters, showing them dreams of castles
in the sky, while building palaces on their land.
They plant invisible beans for an invisible beanstalk, Jack!
Oh Jane! Oh Emily! Look how smug they seem, as they rip the fabric of sense, criticizing her legitimacy, romancing in reality shows, watching television for those shows, downloading porn on their laptops, yet creating censors against artistic nudity, condemning child molestation, ignoring the pedophile within them.
These scholars, these philosophers, who threaten to abandon ship,
when situation seems fucked up.
On a night, alone under the harvest moon, they threaten us
with pitchforks as you and I make love my dear Oscar!
They burn you Oscar! With those books;
They cook you till your flesh becomes soft and your bone-marrow melts.
In a ceremony where they've gathered all of their kind, fussing on Shakespeare and
Kalidas, praising some no-name local author
who licked the saggy balls of their propaganda and collected the shiny gyzym
in their books what'll become new literature.
They piss on the huge bonfire;
the closet homosexuals reproving homosexuality,
them perverts who've fucked art like a housewife responsible for her own orgasm,
them with tattooed foreheads that scream hypocrite every time they smile in their
fake Norman dialect. They feast upon your baked flesh and fill their
chalices with your piss.
And in that avaricious stupor, your spirit escapes to soothe
my aching soul in my final moments.
It is done Pablo,
The pages of all world literature are now digested.