Revolutionary Bullshit

Tlage mich zum auto und ich fahre dich nach hause.
Doing this.

Doing this.

Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch by Diane Wakoski

Pardon the poor formatting. It’s not one of this medium’s strengths.

God damn it, at last I am going to dance on your grave, old man;             you’ve stepped on my shadow once too often,    you’ve been unfaithful to me with other women, women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think I might    ever be put in the same category with them; you’ve left me alone so often that I might as well have been    a homesteader in Alaska these past years; and you’ve left me, thrown me out of your life often enough that I might as well be a newspaper, differently discarded each day. Now you’re gone for good and I don’t know why but your leaving actually made me as miserable as an earthworm with no earth, but now I’ve crawled out of the ground where you stomped me    and I gradually stand taller and taller each day. I have learned to sing new songs, and as I sing, I’m going to dance on your grave because you are           dead              dead              dead under the earth with the rest of the shit, I’m going to plant deadly nightshade on your grassy mound and make sure a hemlock tree starts growing there. Henbane is too good for you, but I’ll let a bit grow there for good measure because we want to dance, we want to sing, we want to throw this old man to the wolves, but they are too beautiful for him, singing in harmony with each other.                    So some white wolves and I will sing on your grave, old man and dance for the joy of your death. “Is this an angry statement?”                             “No, it is a statement of joy.” “Will the sun shine again?”                             “Yes,                             yes,                             yes,”                             because I’m going to dance dance dance    Duncan’s measure, and Pindar’s tune, Lorca’s cadence, and Creeley’s hum, Stevens’ sirens and Williams’ little Morris dance,    oh, the poets will call the tune, and I will dance, dance, dance on your grave, grave, grave, because you’re a sonofabitch, a sonofabitch,    and you tried to do me in, but you cant cant cant. You were a liar in a way that only I know:                You ride a broken motorcycle,                You speak a dead language             You are a bad plumber,             And you write with an inkless pen.    You were mean to me, and I’ve survived, God damn you, at last I am going to dance on your grave,    old man, I’m going to learn every traditional dance,    every measure, and dance dance dance on your grave                                                     one step for every time you done me wrong.

Sometimes, it’s a little unnerving how deep I can find myself. Even more so, it’s a little creepy how I don’t try to get back to the surface.

Oh my god this.

This is a public safety announcement from Revolutionary Bullshit.

momentofmoore:

Alan Moore Motivational Poster

Tehehepffpffhthfhfptphffphtpfpfphfphthheeheheetehe. ha.

momentofmoore:

Alan Moore Motivational Poster

Tehehepffpffhthfhfptphffphtpfpfphfphthheeheheetehe. ha.