Then the boys drive by,
some of them forty, or older,
when I’m jogging in hot August sun–
And I grow my three heads and my one middle finger
Because it’s better to just be the Ugly sometimes.

When the girls come out
and take all the conversation
to their waistline, their bust size, their clothes,
I am too weird to care
or too bored to tears
for my Ugly inside was my comfort for years
showing me worlds that Pretty
never could find.

And I loved my Ugly
even though it’s culturally right and acceptable,
to be meat on the table,
a salted Aphrodite spread and ready as pie.
God forbid she be too thick
too thin or too quick
as long as she buries
her Ugly inside.

I say raise her up, let Ugly come out
believe she is you for a day
Remember the way
your Ugly made you sane
when Pretty pushed you away
Remember the worlds
you were forced to see early,
the way Pretty tarnished what she loved–
only Ugly would stop,
let other Uglies in,
and grow Beauty in the place
that Pretty forgot.

The rain used to begin
with a dance, a prayer
a symphony
My mind is a whirlwind
comprehending
the prophecy
Spoken by the broken ones,
the ones who cracked
the spell, the key
is never found by those bound
to fame.

So I wake in the night, to the wind, the rain
my soulmates, acolytes
in this world of flame
And we collide like code words
breaking open in rage
Where the heart and mind align.

Shambala, Allah, Buddah, Mahdi,
come to me in my timeless dreams
come to me under the skin of things
where walk the sullen shadows
glittering like the rain.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep – while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

iv. Bill Cooper

I. Go on, Babylon
II. The Long Countdown
III. Tune In

iii. Manly P. Hall—Love

IV. School Without Walls
V. The Last Piano

ii. Adele Martin—I Am With You

VI. Must Be Mad
VII. Centerfold
VIII. Instrument
IX. Light in the Belly of the Wheel

i. Josh Reeves—The Revolution of the Mind

X. One Eyed Man

http://thelongcountdown.wordpress.com/

Thanks!

We are not your vaccination test monkeys,
your sympathetic petri dishes,
your lay-down-now-this-won’t-hurt
push pin dolls who drink the milk
that does nobody any good,
(especially those bloated Monsanto cows
with utters reaching to China)
We are not your anti-bacterial
insanitation device,
We are not your hospitals where
our poorest go to die–

And we are not your swine flu.

Is that shit even real?

Do you know ANYONE who has it?

When was the last time you looked in the mirror
and didn’t try and pronounce yourself diseased?
When was the last time you didn’t take ANYTHING
to feel good, to feel normal, to feel healthy?
When did you get off without the blue pill?
When will they cure female impotence, by the way?
Maybe it’ll be the day when they stop raping
our bodies for good nutrients,
our earth for resources,
our children for their creativity,
our animals for their lack of tear ducts
and inability to scream,
our mothers for their desire to
but who silently sit and watch their children take the bullet.

You MOTHER-fucking, MOTHER-killing, diseased minds of
impotent old men who wish their cocks were bigger than the heart of the sky,
wish their minds were stronger than the inevitable march of entropy,
wish their goals were as infallible
as the supernova of a hundred billion latent Sun Gods;
You bitches, and I do not mean to insult the pregnant mothers of puppies,
for dogs are better and more genuine than any pretense of humanity
you suppose;
You whores, and I do not mean to insult prostitutes, for fucking for crack and money
is more noble than allowing a Satanic cock up your ass for power, as you have done;
You, you who say your power resides
in policies of disease, manipulations of science, and the perversion of the word “Medicine”;
You do not get my body.
You do not get my mind.
and you, shall never inherit
any earth I walk upon, so long
as the soul in my cunt screams louder
than any bomb, any shot, any death
brought by the silent pill
the syringe
or the gun.