The cats Mary Mary… standing on the port side with a drink in her hands. Shaking, not stirred in a James Bond daydream of every seaman jockying for position…
Mary Mary drunkenly dunking balls in a full court circle jerk. Crap piles on… longing for the good old days and her old black and white kinght on hands and knees when she was pretty and pimp fucked regular. Longing for those long nights of street corner companionship and 20 dollar love songs.
Que forms to the left. Expediancy; no nods to political leanings even though she considered herself more of a social creature than a socialist. There was not enough time in the hallowed hallways of Academia gathering Foucoult and Lottringer thoughts on a Phd. Everything works on paper she says. Arrogance greed and fallability are getting in the way of a good time. Intangables have doomed the project from the start. There are better thoughts in chaos theory. A clusterfuck of cause and effect. The Ripple Effect; observations from Port side.
Rebirth. Reborn from the ruins of an old Egyptian. A red letter day in blue warships. Call for the gods and false prophet icons. Mosaic windows of stained pain reflecting on the agonies done in the name of the gods. Prying eye informants and turncoats watch over the watch guards and parrishiners queing… who will turn a brother or sister in first. The final walk up those steps wins.
Mary Mary from port side views…carnage and mayhem…the crap pile of her ruins. Such a long time ago. Remeberance day for her prettier days. Reflecting; deflecting the stinging barbs of passing carloads… drunken students, naieve Phd’s who just don’t get it, advocates who want nothing less than a conttinuation of the contamination that walk the streets and populate run-down coffeee shops where danger lurks behind every dumpster. Roaring idiocy, raging on street corners preaching to the great unwashed unforgiving purveyorssof the alleyway trades. Backstreet abortionist’s worship at the alter of the unclean teary eyed egyptian gods kneeling at the base of thye basest emotion. Religion and violence…The sacred and the profane.
Mary Mary knows more and sees more ruin from policy than disease…or misuse. Silly girls wander aimlessly about the stained alters of the other’s false gods. A soundtrack for the ages old. Screams echo off the visages carved from stone…faces from some other red letter day and the winner goes sacrificial. 22 steps too pyramid steps. A crumbling decay. Ravages of time abuse and theft. Pre-history recorded in alien forms of flapping open reels, parchment tapestried monsterous alters. Decapitated and dedicated to icons and interwoven genetics.
Altered transmissions…Mary Mary reads from the book of Amduat… That which is in the underworld…Memphis (Tennessee or Egypt?) Mary Mary watchs from the cliffs edge disgusted and disturbed. Hordes of rampaging archaeologists on a tear ripping up through the dusty corridors and exposed chambers of Deir el-Bahar. Mentuhotep would shed a tear if he wasn’t on display in a Cairo Starbucks beside those fast talking boys. Speed kills..,spoken into the ears of silent passers by as they place vulgar latte’s on the glass top case…that’s respect and gratitude for you as the boys drop dead in their latte foam.
Busloads; mummified and purified future archaeolgy exhibits sit around the display cases jabbering, incessantly poking and proding the royal remains. Drool forms at corners of mouths…talk too fast…must make a point before someone interjects.
Redneck managers appears to clean up the mess. Archaelogy types make up funding shortages…can sell em canoptic jars but have to keep an eye on them, they’re always causing a disturbance or distraction so they can slip one into a valise without paying.
Mary Mary mourning glory…glory glorianna. Say the sacrements of false gods and idols…clumsy locals look in the book. Words remembered by rote. Syllables roll musically over wagging lolling tongues. Sit stand again. Control by the reverand puppet master… shove the right poles into the right holes damn it.