An Idle Thought
movingfinger
Posts: 117
Butterflies and Rabbits
I want to write from left to right write from right to left. I want to write up and down bodies and write inside veins and find veins of truth in what I write. I want to float through your body and see why people are religious. You can be my god, and I will make sacrifices. I will build an altar with your gallstones and preach thy word to any cell that will listen. I will make avid followers of amino acids and red blood cells. When the white ones come to crucify me I will plunge a knife into my side and share everything I have with you. And a baby will be born like a flower growing atop a well tended grave. I want to write a photograph of that flower. A close shot of it, I want to write the dew that hangs off of it. I want to write the pureness of the white and I want to write the millimeters of the larger petal and how the other one looks a little chewed. I want to write the caterpillar that is just out of lens, crawling away after a full meal. I want to be that caterpillar, content for once in my life. I want to be in a cocoon and sleep for as long as it takes to grow wings and wake up to be a butterfly out of college ready to fly thousands of miles just to die for my country. I want to land on a tree and start up a hurricane, the wind of my wings changing history forever. Or at the least I could live in memorial, pinned under glass, in the private collection of somebody with less work to do than me. I feel secure dying as a butterfly, I don’t think there are many of me in hell, even if they start wars, or eat babies, or take bed with another man’s wife, or even eat another man’s wife. I just don’t see any butterflies in hell. Maybe if I was a moth I’d be a little more worried. I want to live forever, just so I can stand with my hand against a wall and watch it slowly slip through as my individual molecules arrange themselves against the concrete. It is important to have goals. I like to set mine somewhere above Georgia and below Virginia. It all depends on how I feel on Mondays and the Tuesday a week before last. Or was it a Wednesdaythursdayfriday? Maybe a Columbus Day in 1492 with a smiley face smeared artistically with Indian blood captioned underneath saying “don’t feel bad Tonto—SHIT HAPPENS” and then we take that shit and sculpt it into a Christian crusade capital campaign committee chair member’s only day of the year to go home and masturbate to mental images of Ginger in a coconut bra before his wife returns from a bridge contest. He don’t use no pornography, he don’t use no little Korean housewife’s used dish gloves, he don’t use no red lipstick false breasts blonde wig on surprisingly feminine looking rabbit, cause his wife used to say “What up, doc?” before scraping teeth against his flesh and leaving him down and flaccid and wishing that he never let her drink that last glass of wine and wishing that he never knocked her up or never told her that he knew in his heart that his love would never die. He knows in his heart that his love died the seventh time that Gilligan fucked up the castaway’s chance of rescue happening to be the same time that his dad fucked up his mom’s face for making the record bounce during his favorite part of Chick Corea’s Return to Forever or maybe it was something about work. Fuck Gilligan and Spanish men that clap their hands and play the moog. Most of all fuck work, and wives and cross-dressing rabbits, no matter how much they turn me on. Maybe it was only a Monday after all.
I want to write from left to right write from right to left. I want to write up and down bodies and write inside veins and find veins of truth in what I write. I want to float through your body and see why people are religious. You can be my god, and I will make sacrifices. I will build an altar with your gallstones and preach thy word to any cell that will listen. I will make avid followers of amino acids and red blood cells. When the white ones come to crucify me I will plunge a knife into my side and share everything I have with you. And a baby will be born like a flower growing atop a well tended grave. I want to write a photograph of that flower. A close shot of it, I want to write the dew that hangs off of it. I want to write the pureness of the white and I want to write the millimeters of the larger petal and how the other one looks a little chewed. I want to write the caterpillar that is just out of lens, crawling away after a full meal. I want to be that caterpillar, content for once in my life. I want to be in a cocoon and sleep for as long as it takes to grow wings and wake up to be a butterfly out of college ready to fly thousands of miles just to die for my country. I want to land on a tree and start up a hurricane, the wind of my wings changing history forever. Or at the least I could live in memorial, pinned under glass, in the private collection of somebody with less work to do than me. I feel secure dying as a butterfly, I don’t think there are many of me in hell, even if they start wars, or eat babies, or take bed with another man’s wife, or even eat another man’s wife. I just don’t see any butterflies in hell. Maybe if I was a moth I’d be a little more worried. I want to live forever, just so I can stand with my hand against a wall and watch it slowly slip through as my individual molecules arrange themselves against the concrete. It is important to have goals. I like to set mine somewhere above Georgia and below Virginia. It all depends on how I feel on Mondays and the Tuesday a week before last. Or was it a Wednesdaythursdayfriday? Maybe a Columbus Day in 1492 with a smiley face smeared artistically with Indian blood captioned underneath saying “don’t feel bad Tonto—SHIT HAPPENS” and then we take that shit and sculpt it into a Christian crusade capital campaign committee chair member’s only day of the year to go home and masturbate to mental images of Ginger in a coconut bra before his wife returns from a bridge contest. He don’t use no pornography, he don’t use no little Korean housewife’s used dish gloves, he don’t use no red lipstick false breasts blonde wig on surprisingly feminine looking rabbit, cause his wife used to say “What up, doc?” before scraping teeth against his flesh and leaving him down and flaccid and wishing that he never let her drink that last glass of wine and wishing that he never knocked her up or never told her that he knew in his heart that his love would never die. He knows in his heart that his love died the seventh time that Gilligan fucked up the castaway’s chance of rescue happening to be the same time that his dad fucked up his mom’s face for making the record bounce during his favorite part of Chick Corea’s Return to Forever or maybe it was something about work. Fuck Gilligan and Spanish men that clap their hands and play the moog. Most of all fuck work, and wives and cross-dressing rabbits, no matter how much they turn me on. Maybe it was only a Monday after all.
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The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it
-- Omar Khayyam
Post edited by Unknown User on
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Comments
"I will build an altar with your gallstones and preach thy word to any cell that will listen. I will make avid followers of amino acids and red blood cells."
and this part had me laughing really hard! Talk about the body being a temple!!!
I thought that the mood of it took a turn after a bit though. It seemed cheerful at the beginning but it certainly didn't end that way!
Mitch Hedberg- RIP 1968-2005. your jokes have laughed me through a lot. I thank you.