Too Fucked to Drink (track #7)

Album   Marker and Parker
Artist   Marc Zegans
Written by   Marc Zegans
Length   4:04
Mood Ironic Manifesto
Theme Answer To Howl!


P(un)k Poets
Too Fucked to Drink

At round end of no corner bar
Me and Ripper backs to stage
Grab filthy glasses in plastic
Polynesia, tilt bottom shelf,

Exhale and converse.

Behind us, shirtless, gobbed,
in maggot wriggle, Jello
admonishes black and stinking
pogo crowd to be republican

never thinking

that one year hence, kill the poor
will find happy embrace in red
states more scared of welfare
than war, and tuck sunny Ron

in Washington

where healthy school lunch
is six french fries
and ketchup, not rotting, 
is a vegetable.

I remember the cop cars
burning that Dan White
night, but more I remember
the sidewalk outside Twin

Peaks, corner of Market

Home to freaks,  long before
San Francisco urban chic
and ENG, new to me 
pushing and shoving

starting a riot.

That's the story never told
about that San Francisco
But I saw the news crews
Spiking rage as spilt Milk

Mayor of Castro

And de-centered Moscone
were shoved aside, TV slap
at gay pride, and twinkie
excuse, kernel of conservative 

of human rights, now running,

thirty years in low-tax CA
waiting for the day 
when limited Government
would metastasize.


Short eyes
has become
short lines
the times 
not Whitman

a pressure 
hard clash
words short
text words
no space
for air

fk u

the times 
not Whitman

Shall we
give way

or do it early.

The times
not Whitman

Spondee on

bent light
facet play

a flash

The times
not Whitman


Is it our work now to surrender long lines, to Howl no more, clicking faster, clicking faster, clicking faster, till letters
are too much, too much information to see; till we pixel click our way in a vaster, faster space of small screens isolated
but accessible.   Is it our work now to surrender long lines, to turn the dirt on Allen's grave, to give less and less and send
more and more and more.  Is it time to drop the analogue growl of John Lee singing Boom, Boom, Boon, Boom, Howl, Howl, Howl, a different kind of howl, a wolf moanin' at midnight.   Is it time to to gate that mouth, to muzzle the grit, to join
the raft of bits?  Is it time?  Is it time? Is it time?  Is this any more a question?  Can time demand?   Can there be a moment
on a virtual raft?  "A moment?"  Not moments!   Not any moment!  "A moment."   A moment to move, time justified?  

Nooooooo!  Howls the clown prince.
In a world without foundation, not even time,
not even these times, not even this moment
can announce anything.   The times don't 
don't give us an historical curl.   We cannot
surf anymore to shore on "the times".  
This time, it is on us.   The times demand 
nothing, but what will we demand of ourselves?