Sunday, April 27, 2003

The Sunday Night Sermonette                       brought to you by Dr. Omed’s Patented Oil of  Prosody I use my poems like hypodermics, to inject chaos butterflies into the body electric, to shoot up the true black meat (shipped fresh daily from the Republic of Interzone) Some for you, and some for me.   I go cruising De Profundis Boulevard with my weather eye cocked for hopped up, slutty metaphors and big, roomy words ready to pull a train wink wink nudge nudge back at my flop at Motel 666.   I like to queer the pitch, to do my bit to increase the viral memetic load in the precious bodily fluids of the World Wide Wheeee.  So I write my own code.   The world is my petrie dish, and I want add my mite to accelerate the processes of Lamarckian cultural evolution until somebody cries UNCLE.   I do this for sheer joy, not out of bitterness.  I am a Pentecostal Atheist putting on a tent show revival, speaking in tongues and witnessing to the Word of not god but the Mammon of my counterfeits of meaning.  Are you washed in the Blood of the Metaphor, oh my darling?   Just put yourself in the hands of the Right Reverend Omed and let us go down to the Heraclitian River placed in this poem for your convenience and honey take those old things off ‘cause I’m gonna play Doctor all over you like Jelly Roll played the whorehouse piano and you are gonna be something new under the sun when I get thru trust me I am not a doctor.   Dana Pattillo 2003 11:28:09 PM    comment []