Tuesday, August 7, 2012

The Old Drunks

Human Culture is R. D. Laing.
Any Language is R. D. Laing.
Art is R. D. Laing. Poetry.
Sculpture is R. D. Laing.
and Science, too. Medicine,
arguably, will still be very
R. D. Laing, although, it seems
it may be self-countering, or counting
down to being, in the end, R. D. Laing.
Religion is R. D. Laing. War
R. D. Laing. Love, well, love is
poetry, but poetry, Poetry
is R. D. Laing. Sex is R. D. Laing.
Nature R. D. Laing. Matter
itself is R. D. Laing. Ideology
of every kind is R.D. Laing.
Famous, then, Fucked.

Getting drunk.
Researching and Developing Language
only to find that, all in all, it's all
'an unworthy vessel', that's like totally
R. D. Laing.

R. D. Laing is like, here it is, here is this bright,
wonderful, progressive world, joy the hub, no, it's drunk,
it's the same, awful stupid world it always was,
and whether you're smearing shit, or kiffing off
to language's efffervestal yoni, in the end,
the old drunks win: Dionysus, Saturn, Whoever, Venus, maybe.

Who stands in line
to see a psychiatrist? In Spring?
Life is a mind fuck,
and death, the universal

Rest in Psychosis.
or Burn in Hell.
or Research and Develop!
In Difference, is sameness, in sameness, difference:

In Media Res, The Arch Devil Loping!

Art lain in generations.