Remember times you were infested with vermin -
You lived in an unfurnished master bedroom. You wintered in a nest of filthy sheets and unzipped sleeping bags. An unfortunate incident shook you from sweet slumber - mice ran across your nude torso. You think it might have looked like veins bulging under skin. It felt like a nervous tickle, like when your lover would run her tongue across your hipbone.
Or, the nails on your right hand were so long, you discovered an entire dead mosquito nestled beneath one jutting claw.
You thought I was the jewel in your crown.
I will not let you number me among your best pawns.
O love, I am numb to your siren-song.
You cannot care for natural humans like dogs shepherd flocks.
I've seen it all before. I've seen it all.
Can I get a witness?
It gets so lonely in the Witness Protection Program.
I know I seem distant.
Like The Watcher, I cannot intervene (sing me your wrath, Galactus). I claim a cohort of false oracles - quack psychics; Bobby Bare's Marie Laveau; fake Indians like Paul Eagle Bear and Peter LaFarge. I heard the swashbuckling Mongolian stutter. Pitiful drunks set my heart aflutter. I saw the best minds of this side brined - floating in jars of vinegar among hard-boiled eggs; chopped and tossed like giardiniera; or simply pickled in brandy. I saw Pokey LaFarge eat an eight-dollar hotdog as a snack. I saw Pierce call Doose-Doose a crackhead. He said, "Get off the crack." Crack like a knuckle, crack like a baseball bat. Crack like an exposed ass-crack. Does it make my ass look fat? Does wearing this hat make me look like a cop? Does this sweater look like a mop? What time do you get off? Every time...
have you ever loved so big it sucked you dry? did it weigh on you like a tumor? are you the husk it left or is that what you wear like a costume? well, I might wear my heart on my sleeve but at least I don't wear my house like a hermit crab. that's no skin off my back. this one's for the losers and the nothing-to-losers. do you feel like, you know, you're too shallow to fall off the deep end? and too scum to come clean? I've scraped tougher scum off my sneakers. yeah, you think you're so tough.
So many ageless vipers stalk these streets. Where is your fountain of youth? Which circle of Hell? Just what did you trade for that youthful face?
And remember when you dropped your phone at the Confluence Point, kneeling to finger a rock - was that current-polished pebble a philosophers' stone?
Sure, you've heard the rumors - "Still Crazy After All These Years," et cetera. Is your makeup running? Maybe you have a bloody nose? Or are you just happy to see me?
But flopping dongs and costume jewelry alone - even decades' worth - would be a pretty empty endeavor. No, this is no esoteric ceremony - it's a calculated strategy. The pageantry is dazzle camouflage.
If Skarekrau Radio is really a cult at all, it's a cult of youth - in pursuit of immortality and a utopian, inter-generational love (not unlike ancestor worship and Hellenic pederasty). Members devote their decaying bodies - loose, hanging flesh - to reclaiming an ideal, youthful virility. Like many nostalgic bosom buddies - they reminisce, shoot hoops, grab ass; and lament a vanishing, lascivious past. For now, time plods forward - friends move away, puppy love turns to resentful co-dependence, lovers cheat, marriages end in divorce, best bros back-stab, the thin get fat and the fat get fatter.
Don't just gawk - surrender. Let the unraveling ensemble unravel you. Together we can stop the clock.
This is weaker than this. I cop more of a buzz off the butts I sniff. Who needs a clenching jaw and the sniffles?
This is the "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain" karaoke mix. I wanna be a mountain. Are you altitude sick? I can't breathe like this. Mt. Rushmore.
This one is dedicated to carbohydrates. Dr. Oz says, "Eat THIS, Never Diet Again." I'm on a diet. This is the Atkins Diet remix. This one's for your favorite sandwich. Egg Salad.
What's beef? I thought this was supposed to be meatless. I'm a dirty laundry panties thief. I'm just the merch guy. I'm Spiderman. I'm a snake-in-the-grass and you've got a grass-stained ass. Snakes and ladders.
The sun shines down on your grievances. This is the Meramec Caverns Knife Fight/Party Pizza remix. RIP pizza.
You taste like a marijuana cookie with ants crawling on it. Passionate kisses.
This is a spectacle. I never wear my glasses. This one's for Libertarians, for the Ying Yang Twins. This one's for idiots. It's symbolic.
Sniffing poppers in a fireproof closet, you nosedove and somersaulted. I've got your soggy card in my wallet.