Tuesday, January 12, 2010

I live like Ninja Turtles in the Sewers of Manhattan, NY, USA.

Ever awaiting Shredder in the Technodrome,
moving fortress affixed with eye atop it,
panic erased by patience and partying.

Episodic intrusions of disharmonious violence,
subterranean skateboarding, cement surfing, all
cowabunga, dude, radically bodacious. Eyes wide

under mask with the sensory wonder of it all.
The scent of methane mingling with the taste of pizza,
the sight of brick walls and barred waterways,

the sound of pipes and footsteps through puddles,
I can hear how cold the water is. I can smell age
in the wood and the chain of nunchucks

as they’re gripped between two fingers and a thumb.
But I am no hero in a half shell. I am not even amphibious.
I am ready to put myself on blast. This has all been a lie.

Suburban, blundering beach town baby, barely able to Ollie.
No stealthy maneuvers come midnight, can’t even eat cheese,
and no sais to shield this thin skin of a psyche fragile, exposed.

No lean green fighting machine, more likely found
in Dostoyevsky’s Underground’s dominion of obsession
and spite, no Giri: no honor, no duty. Still more assassin

than samurai, yet more burrito than Bushido. Hedonist sloth,
watashi wa namakemono desu. Oblivious to oblivion’s pull,
arbitrary arbitrations settled in the coded language

of the supposedly well-read walking dead, academics reveling
in the agony of their own dissatisfying obscurity over coffee or beer.
Deluded in deluge, a rogue’s rouge coloring their faces frustrated.

Disinterest, the castrator of notoriety, gestates. Ripening the need
to delve into tangential digressions on ‘88-’89’s mutant mania
for peaceable pleasure, for the fantastical pandemonium

of being cool, but rude in the wake of nobody giving a fuck.



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Bigmouth Strikes Again