The Junk

The dream has vanished, dumped in a river of suicidal deficiency; they have swum with the lobsters and danced the tangle dance with the cement shoed shysters that were whacked just to be whacked. In a climate of oily residue and overripe fish shit the answers at the bottom of the river of life are safe with the sheep because they don’t even try to swim. Their fate was long ago determined by forces unknown; forces that are far beyond the grasp of the latently homosexual Sunday school teacher who ties a Bible belt tightly around his scrawny arm. Yes, the same mainlining, fantasy junky that spikes the hardest junk of all into his cowardly arms. The very junk distilled from a little book of Machiavellian lies called the Bible. Oh yeah baby feel the rush of the fairy tale, that there was this chick named Eve and a dude named Adam and they started it all in a little lab outside their trailer home. They cooked their junk right their in the forest and I’ll be damned if they didn’t hook half the world into believing they actually existed. There are is no such thing as dinosaur bones. There is no such thing as love. There is no such thing as reality unless they say so.