My favorite rant ever...
Rev Carter
Man"
Be forwarned, it's about six pages long...
-Rev Carter LeBlanc
Rev. 11D Meow!
pages
yuhhhhhhm
- homer simpson
"Rev Carter" <rex_...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
news:1131053857.5...@f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com...
Rev Carter
schoolteachers whack you with the rulers and the worms eat the corn;
they are mounting mgs on tripods and the bellies are white and the
bellies are black and the bellies are bellies. Men are beaten simply
for the sake of being beaten; courts are places where the ending is
written first and all that precedes is simply vaudeville. Men are taken
into rooms for questioning and come out half-men or no men at all. Some
men hope for revolution but when you revolt and set up your new
government you find your new government is still the same old Papa, he
has only put on a cardboard mask. The Chicago boys sure made a mistake
busting the big press boys on the head - that knock on the head might
get them to thinking and the big presses - aside from an earlier New
York Times and some editions of the Christian Science Monitor -
stopped thinking with the declaration of World War One. You can bust
OPEN CITY for printing a normal portion of the human body but when you
kick the editorial writer of a million circulation newspaper in the ass
you better watch out, he just might start writing the truth about
Chicago and everyplace else, advertisers be dammed. He might only be
able to write one column, but that column might get a million readers
thinking - for a change - and nobody could tell what might happen
then. But the lock's on tight: when your given a choice between Nixon
and Humphrey it's like being given a choice between eating warm shit
or cold shit.
There just isn't much change anywhere. The thing in Prague has
dampened a lot of boys who have forgotten about Hungary. They hang out
in the parks with the Che idol, with pictures of Castro in their
amulets, going OOOOOOOOMMMMM OOOOOOOOMMMMM while William Burroughs,
Jean Genet and Allan Ginsberg lead them. These writers have gone, soft,
cuckoo, eggshit, female - not homo but female - and if I were a cop
I'd feel like clubbing their addled brains myself. Hang me for that.
The writer of the streets is getting his soul cock-sucked by the
idiots. There is only one place to write and is ALONE at a typewriter.
A writer who has to go INTO the streets is a writer who does not know
the streets. I have seen enough factories, whorehouses, jails, bars,
park orators to last 100 men 100 lifetimes. To go into the streets when
you have a NAME is to go the easy way - they killed Thomas and Behan
with their LOVE, their whiskey, their idolatry, and their cunt, and
they half-murdered half a hundred others. WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR
TYPEWRITER YOU LEAVE YOUR MACHINE GUN AND THE RATS COME POURING
THROUGH. When Camus began giving speeches before the academies his
writing died. Camus did not begin as a speechmaker, he began as a
writer; it was not an automobile accident that killed him.
When some of my friends ask, "why don't you give poetry readings,
Bukowski?" they simply do not understand why I say "no."
And so we have Chicago and so we have Prague and it's no different
than it has ever been. The little boy is going to get his ass beat and
when (and if) the little boy gets big he is going to beat on ass. I'd
rather see cleaver president than Nixon but that's no big thing. What
these goddamned revolutionaries who lay around my place drinking my
beer and eating my food and showing off their women must learn is that
the thing must come from inside out. You just can't give a man a new
government like a new hat and expect a different man inside that hat.
He's still going to have chickenshit proclivities and a full belly
and a complete set of dizzy Gillespie ain't going to change that. A
lot of people swear that there is going to be a revolution but I'd
hate to see those people get killed for nothing. I mean, you can kill
most people and you aren't killing anything but a few good men are
bound to go. And then what do you end up with: a government OVER the
people. A new dictator in sheep's clothing/; the ideology was only to
keep the guns going.
The other night some kid told me (he was sitting in the center of the
rug looking very spiritual and beautiful):
"I'm going to shut off all the sewers. The whole city will be
floating in turds!"
Why, the kid had already told me enough shit to bury the whole city of
L.A. and halfway up into Pasadena.
Then he said, "got another beer, Bukowski?"
His whore crossed her legs high and showed me a flash of pink panty so
I got up and got the kid a beer.
Revolution sounds very romantic, yo0u know. But it ain't. It's
blood and guts and madness; it's little kids who get in the way,
it's little kids who don't understand what the fuck is going on.
It's your whore, your wife ripped in the belly with a bayonet and
then raped in the ass while you watch. It's men torturing men who
used to laugh as Mickey Mouse cartoons. Before you go into the thing,
decide where the spirit is and where the spirit will be when it's
over. I don't go with Dos - CRIME AND PUNISHMENT - that no man
has a right to take another man's life. But it might take a bit of
thinking first. Of course, the gall is that they have been taking your
lives without firing a bullet. I too have worked for dismal wages while
some fat boy has raped fourteen-year-old virgins in Beverly Hills.
I've seen men fired for taking five minutes too long in the crapper.
I've seen things I don't even want to talk about. But before you
kill something make sure you have something better to replace it with;
something better than political opportunists slamming hate horseshit in
the public park. If you are going to pay through the nose get something
better than a 36 month warranty. As yet, I have seen nothing but this
emotional and romantic yen for Revolution; I've seen no solid leader
or no realistic platform to ensure AGAINST the betrayal that has
always, so far, followed. If I am going to kill a man I don't want to
see him replaced by a carbon copy of the same man and the same way. We
have wasted history like a bunch of drunks shooting dice back in the
men's crapper of the local bar. I am ashamed to be a member of the
human race but I don't want to add any more to that shame, I want to
scrape a little of it off.
It's one thing to talk about Revolution while your belly is full of
another man's beer and you're traveling with a sixteen-year-old
runaway girl from grand rapids; it's one thing to talk about
Revolution while three jackass writers of international fame have you
dancing to the OOOOOOOOOOMMM game; it's another thing to bring it
about, it's another thing to have happen. Paris 1870-71, 20,000
people murdered in the streets, the streets as red as blood as with
rain, and the rats coming out and eating at the bodies, and the people
hungered, ravaged, no longer knowing what it meant, coming out and
yanking the rats off the corpses and eating the rats. And where is
Paris tonight? And what is Paris tonight? And my buddy is going to add
shit on top of this and he smiles. Well, he's twenty and mostly reads
poetry. And poetry is just a wet rag in the dishpan.
And pod. They always equate pot with Revolution. Pot just isn't that
good for Christ's sake, if they legalized pot half the people would
stop smoking it. Prohibition created more drunks than grandmothers
warts. It's only what you can't do that you want to do. Who wants
to fuck their own wife every night? Or, for that matter, even once a
week?
There are a lot of things I would like to do. First off, I would like
to stop getting such very ugly people for presidential nominees. Then,
I'd change the museums. There is nothing as depressing or quite as
stinky as a museum. Why there hasn't been a greater percentage of
three-year-old girls molested on museum steps I'll never know. First
off, I'd install at least one bar on each floor; this alone would pay
all the salaries and salvation of some of the paintings and the
drooping sabre-toothed tiger whose asshole is beginning to look more
like and 8-ball side pocket. Then I'd install a rock-band, a
swing-band, and a symphony band for each floor, plus three or four
good-looking women to walk around and look good. You don't learn
anything or see anything unless you vibrate. Most people look at that
sabre-toothed tiger behind all that hot glass and just slink by, a
little bit ashamed and a little bit bored.
But can't you see a guy and his wife, each a beer in hand, looking
at the sabre-tooth, and saying "god damn look at those tusks! A
little bit like an elephant, huh?"
And she'd say, "honey let's go home and make love!"
And he'd say, "your ass! Not until I go down to the basement and
see that 1917 Spad. They say Eddie Rickenbacker flew it himself. Got
seventeen hun. Besides, I hear they got the Pink Floyd down there."
But the Revolutionaries are going to burn the museum. They figure
burning answers everything. They'd burn their grandmother if she
couldn't run fast enough. And when they are going to look around for
water or for somebody who can do an appendectomy or somebody who can
keep the truly insane from cutting their throats as they sleep. And
they are going to find out how many rats live in the city, not human
rats but rat-rats. And they are going to find out that the rats are the
last things that drown, burn, starve; that they are the first things
that can find food and water because they have been doing so for
centuries without help. The rats are the true revolutionaries; the rats
are the true underground, but they don't want your ass except to
nibble on and they are not interested in OOOOOOOOOMMM.
I'm not saying give up. I'm for the human spirit wherever it is,
wherever it has been hiding, whatever it is. But beware of the cowboys
who make it sound so good and leave you out on a plateau with 4
hard-core cops and eight or nine national guard boys with only your
bellybutton as a last prayer. The boys screaming for your sacrifice in
the public parks are usually the furthest away when the shooting
begins. They want to live to write their memoirs.
It used to be the religion con. Not the big church con, that was a
drag. Everybody bored, including the preacher. But the little
storefront places, painted white. Jesus, how they carried on. I used to
go in drunk and sit there and watch. Especially after I was 86t'd at
the bars. It beat going home and beating my meat. The best religious
con places were L.A., followed by N.Y. and Philly. Those preacher were
artists, man. They almost had me rolling on the floor too. Most of
those preachers recovering from hangovers, bloodshot eyes, needing more
$$$ for something to drink or maybe even a pop, hell, I don't know.
They almost had me rolling on the floor and I was pretty cool and
pretty tired. It was better than a piece of ass even if it only caught
you halfway. I wish to thank these babies, most of them Negroes, pardon
me, blacks, for some entertaining nights; I think that if I have ever
written any poetry that I might have stolen some of it from them.
But now that game is fading. God just didn't pay the rent or come up
with that last bottle of wine no matter how much they hollered or got
their last clean clothes dirty on that floor. God said WAIT and it's
hard to WAIT when your belly is empty and your soul don't feel so
good and maybe you can only live to be 55 and the last time God showed
up was almost 2000 years ago and then He just did a few cheap carnival
tricks, let some Jew outfox him, then blew the scene. A man gets g.d.
tired of suffering. The teeth in his mouth are enough to kill him or
the same same woman int the same same small room.
The religious con boys are moving in with the revolutionary con boys
and you cant tell asshole from pussy, brothers. Realize this, and you
have a beginning. Listen carefully, and you have a beginning. Swallow
it all, and you're dead. God got out of the tree, took the snake and
Eden's tight pussy away and now you've got Carl Marx throwing
golden apples down from the same tree, mostly in blackface.
If there is a battle, and I believe there is, always has been, and
that's what made Van Goughs and Mahlers as well as Dizzy Gillespies
and Charley Parkers, then please be careful of your leaders, for there
are many in your ranks who would rather be president of General Motors
than burn down the Shell Oil station around the corner. But since they
can't have one, they take the other. These are the human rats of the
centuries who have kept us where we are. This is Dubcek coming back
from Russia a half-man, afraid of psychic death. A man must learn that
it is better to die with his balls slowly cut off than to life any
other way. Foolish? No more foolish than the greatest miracle. But if
you are caught in the trap, always understand what it is that you are
trading for, exactly, or the soul will give way. Casanova used to run
his fingers, his hands up the ladies dresses as men were torn apart in
the king's courtyard; but Casanova died too, just an old guy with a
big cock and a long tongue and no guts at all. To say that he lived
well is true; to say that I could spit on his grave without feeling is
also true. The ladies usually go for the biggest damn fool they can
find; that is why the human race stands where it does today: we have
bred the clever and lasting Cassanovas, all hollow inside, like the
chocolate Easter bunnies we foster upon our poor children.
The nest of the Arts, like the nest of the Revolutionaries crawl with
th e most unimaginable licecovered freaks, seeking coca-cola solace
because they can neither find jobs as dishwashers or paint like
Cezanne. If the mold doesn't want you, the only thing to do is to
pray or work for a new mold. And when that mold doesn't want you,
then why not another? Everybody pleased in his certain way.
Yet, old as I am, I am particularly pleased to live in this certain
age. THE LITTLE MAN HAS SIMPLY GOTTEN TIRED OF TAKING TOO MUCH SHIT.
It's happening everywhere. Prague. Watts. Hungary. Vietnam. It
ain't government. It's Man against govt. it's Man who can no
longer quite be fooled by a white Christmas with a Bing Crosby voice
and dyed Easter eggs that must be hidden from kids who must WORK TO
FIND THEM. Of future presidents of America whose faces on TV screens
must make you run to the bathroom and puke.
I like this time. I like this feeling. The young have finally begun to
think. And the young have become more and more. But every time they get
a spearhead for their feelings that spearhead is murdered. The old and
the entrenched are frightened. They know that the revolution can come
through the voting polls in the American manner. We can kill them
without a bullet. We can kill them by simply becoming more real and
more human and voting out the shits. But they are clever. What do they
offer us? Humphrey or Nixon. Like I said, cold shit, warm shit, it's
all shit.
The only thing that has kept me from being assassinated is that I am
small shit, I have no politics, I observe. I have no sides except the
side of the human spirit, which after all does sound rather shallow,
like a pitchman, but which means mostly my spirit, which means yours
too, for if I am not truly alive, how can I see you?
Man I'd like to see a good pair of shoes on every man walking the
streets and see that he gets a good piece of ass and a bellyful of food
too. Christ, the last piece of ass I've had was in 1966 and I've
been jacking off ever since. And there just ain't no jackoff compared
to that wonder-hole.
It's tough times, brothers, and I don't know quite what to tell
you. I'm white but I've got to agree - don't too much quite
trust that paint job - it's soft and don't too much like
softshits either, but I've seen a lot of you black boys who can make
me puke all the way from Venice West to Miami Beach. The soul has no
skin; the soul only has insides that want to SING, finally cant you
hear it, brothers? Softly, can't you hear it, brothers? A hot piece
of ass and a new Cadillac ain't going to solve a god-damned thing.
Popeye will have one eye and Nixon will be your next president. Christ
slipped off the cross and we are now nailed to the motherfucker, black
and white, white and black, completely.
Our choice is almost no choice. If we move too quickly, we are dead.
If we do not move fast enough, we are dead. It isn't our deck of
cards. How you gonna shit with a 2000-foot Christian cork jammed up
your ass?
To learn, do not read Karl Marx. Very dry shit. Please learn the
spirit. Marx is only tanks moving through Prague. Don't get caught
this way please. First of all, read Celine. The greatest writer of 2000
year. Of course, THE STRANGER by Camus must fit in. CRIME AND
PUNISHMENT. THE BROTHERS. All of Kafka. All the works of the unknown
writer John Fante. The short stories of Turginev. Avoid Faulkner,
Shakespeare, and especially George Bernard Shaw, the most overblown
fantasy of the Ages, a real true-blown shit with political and literary
connections beyond belief. The only younger guy I can think of with the
road paved ahead for him and kissing ass whenever necessary was
Hemingway, but the difference between Hemingway and Shaw was that Hem
wrote some good early work and Shaw write completely flip and dull crap
all the way through.
So, here we are mixing Revolution with Literature and they both fit.
Somehow everything fits, but I grow tired and wait for tomorrow.
Will the man be at my door?
Who gives a damn?
I hope this made you spill your tea.
Rev Carter
HellPope Huey
Bukowski was the Wild Man Fisher of ranters: there's some real
brilliance amongst the bullshit, but its often buried so deeply and
under such pressure, its about 3 weeks away from turning into sweet
crude oil. All the same, that's a good'un. Strong scent of Hunter
Thompson there, pardner. If you cut out every other word, you end up
with the plans for a warp drive.
--
HellPope Huey
I feel like a bag of iron filings
in a magnet factory
OW OW, stop PULLING!
I am a person who recognizes the fallacy of humans.
~ George W. Bush
"He that overvalues himself will undervalue others
and he that undervalues others will oppress them."
~ Samuel Johnson
Fresh sonic vittles @:
http://www.beat-factory.net/hellpope/