ORGONE LYRICS

1. Pizzaro

David Schlossbern brings the boy a bowl of melted chocolates to save him the mess of a retail bar melting in his stubby fingers. He downs it like one of the incan princes that he read about in Mr. Walton's social studies class. Because that's what he remembers: all of
the tasty cocoa they drank in goblets, before Pizarro compensated for his small silver phallus with a faulty bronze cannon.

David sees human history in the frankest terms: ambiguity. An anti-tank mine thrown into the wedding reception to push the spear into the elephant's heart, deeper. He strolls with pleasant Mary until he sees that:

Now the stem of plants have bloated from the oil find, revealing lucrative tension. Children drinking from Donald Duck's tree of orange frozen concentrate and garbage fills our fields of wheat. Birds of rust carry letters of an infidelity from the garbage dump, back to
the cheated mothers who dance in the field of plump....sour bananas and coupons of divorce.

David frowns at the noose trees: his uncle owned a plot of Pennsylvania where lynchings were held in the forefront of the forest. The noose burns in the tree limbs, slices of enslavement that keep the owls' hooting muted.

In the grove he leaves their Coke bottles filled with fireflies by the trees as harsh torches of glowing piss light to insult his uncle's tomb. David doesn't bother spitting into the center of William Franklins cheesecake or crushing herbal laxatives...

2. Marijuana Prophet

...into Marilyn Duchamp's sandwiches. He just hides his tips in a shoe box and admires his younger brother's earwig collection. He watches the old women sink, when the temperatures drop, exposing their marrow in the markets.

At his father's house... It's crows versus the great black raven, who caws at his father before his half-maker drinks discount rum from the wife's mean flower vase. The conclusion is that all of life is shame.

At the museum gift shops, he looks at Cranach the Elder's "judgement of paris" and sees that their necklaces are forged golden ovals that look like BULKY restrictive chains. Leading from the foreground of the piece to the the tips of his tennis shoes to him... here...
snaking against his cheek...golden and cold and ancient and sacred.

When he and Mary pass the recruitment center on Saturday's after the 7-3 shift, they hear the cadence of the trainees: "What makes the grass grow? Blood!" They see the engineer saluting his son at the shopping center and Mary thinks of Matzareth's eels, fattened by
slipping into the horses head, fattened by feeding on the soldiers left at the battle of Skagerakk.

Mary asseses the world: launched like a tugboat caught in a river of gruel. We disregard the reverberations of our predatory moves. Occupying a tower of secret drawers. With each level we ascend, a travesty revealed.

3. Accumulator

Level one: the marijuana prophets on the handsome Iranian rug and the privilidged white slime with a harmless attraction to banana republic. Vanity manifests itself into self-glorification. The rich in the convenient costume of the homeless. Party and preach and float on
the great barge, into the tops of the overturned smokestacks. Fueling the industries so vocally despised. Your life, burnt like a blunt into oblivion, meaning essentially: nothing.

Level two: fat cats with forks for arms, poking at the sub-levels. These are the janitors and horses of the great house, toppling fragile ecosystems with laidlaw hooves, assaulting the planet with the stewing vomit of complacence, a call for stillness and nook-building.
A seventeen dollar Christmas tree, made in China, suffocating your children's digital fire trucks (the ones which shoot the most potent sense of economic security). Aids abound in Zimbabwe, Botswana... but now assured by the appointment of an arrogant puppet in
Liberia... She's sweeping the crumbs of presidential finance into a cumbersome blunderbuss shot as a storm of neglect at the Earth. Death stalks every continent, so we purchase bottled water, wait on porches, and visit all of the tremendous nations. A mile from the
sunshine resort is the gang of machetes and it wants you to visit.

Level three: the promise of nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, satisfying your petty senses. Mite operation, microchips to speeden and enhance our lives. It translates into more dysfunction, incarcerated by a multimedia collection and a phobia of life...

David interrupts Mary and boldly asks, "Should we completely detach?"

Mary says "In twenty years I'll have a child, I'll sit in a box and I'll never breathe, then one day they'll find us embedded in ice."

David goes to the restaurant, constructs wooden walls around the tables, to preserve the notion of permanence and value. Until finally, there is no room for business and the hall must close. Because no one wants to eat inside a tomb, David.

A room with boxes of prepared meals linguini as it it will never be the new Egyptian riches. Outside, the sun is turning into a red giant beginning.







ORGONE LYRICS