A Suburban Dream
Sep 28th 2008
I want an idealized interaction with people!
A courageous funkfied battle through suburban muckery.
Accordion and floral self made short shorts waving around percilating the dulled senses.
I want proclamation of death, defication and over exuberant joy to be strung up to every hardcore strip tease mall using tons of acid soaked string.
“Take me down”
In sticky notes slabbed onto the front.
Store owners and self diefied coppers your reward for counterattacks is enlightenment itself.
I want idiosyncrasies to scurry out of their dark recesses of K-mart to be well armed
(following their 2nd amendment rights)
In fact, I want militias of strangeness, uniqueness, novely.
A militia of overextended model train basements.
A militia of unmovable pasty eyes glued to fantasy baseball scores in hopes of some distant illusory unmimicable feat.
A militia of self flagulatory, buried in deep recesses of sub/self conscious, screams:
“I need to get into a good college”
amidst McDoland crumb textbooks.
Of course the leader of this militia would be the over infuriated hypo-extended soccer mom.
Her neurotic self concern for the health/wealth/welfare of self/others has bubbled and festered over.
If the sublimated denial of egoism is at core one of the ugly hearts of the suburb, this soccer mom’s neuroses has reaches a final idealized level of self recognition.
Perhaps her children died of some horrible water intoxicant overdose.
Perhaps her Suburu caught fire causing divine winds to blow ½ scorched pictures of her nude, drunk and high at some AE? formal across the hall of suburbia for every house of denial to see.
She would of course need to be thought-fed the new vibrant vigilant values.
4 weeks locked in a dung and daub hut full of cheap art whittled by Portland artists.
5 TV monitors playing weird experimental 1970′s art experiments.
6 meals a day of a cupful of raw food and kambucha.
7 daily mantra incantations of self help meets aging anarchist meets saturday morning cartoons.
With a few months of training and preparation hidden amongst slums and hicks we would be ready to march against mediocrity.
Of course it would be no formal, overblown, old world, husto gusto battle.
Guerrilla warfare of course.
We would work out way into the psychotrope infested sewer system immune to their drugs from all our overdoes, trips and mushroom ballets.
We would infiltrate the air raid sirens and play trippy backtakes of Britanny Spears doing Coke and sucking Cock.
We would take shopowners children for ransom returning them on the condition that store airducks are outfitted with thousands of projectile flower pedals.
If we encountered noncompliance we would take their wives (have our way with them, which of course means subjecting them to week long marijuana haze post-music-improvisational sessions)
We’d then force the store owners to reinvent currency.
Plastered on the windows would read “NO DOLLARS EXCEPTED”
“If you’d like to buy that scented undergarment fragrance dispenser made of porcelain you will have to give 3 parcels of dignity and 5 parcels of self respect.”
“If you would like to purchase that rare umbrian olive oil made of casks soaked in blanched pigs feet you will have to act like a schizophrenic nutjob and burn your underwear on a foreman grill.”
“If you would like to get that new video game Subruban Man Slaughter IX you will have to ask a girl out cordially to a waltz and write a 3 page essay on the supremacy of Masai culture of American society.”
Soon the suburban culture will topple. In its place we’ll establish new mediocrities of Urban and rural proportions. Skyscrapers of discontent. Appalachian hills of irony.
Formal business wear masks of sexual hunger.
Overalls that go under and below high expectations of self.