Johnny Rotten and Prince Kropotkin vs. the Spartans 5:29 a.m.
Johnny Rotten and Prince Kropotkin vs. the Spartans 5:29 a.m
by quasimofo
After the passers-by ate raw cookie dough and their mouths
foamed with coke and chocolate, my stepdad approached in echelon
waking me up in the middle of the night to point out minute
particles and grains of Brussels sprouts from the kitchen sink
that had been neglected in cleaning after supper.
The certainty of the world broke me into a contorted fetal position
shaped like circular shrink wrap mowed lawn dotted with a disarmed
array in the sock drawer.
Phalanxes of white little kittens {let’s call them ‘whitees’}marched,
stepped into 12,000 different cat litter boxes, and laboriously
dug, sniffed, excreted, scratched, covered, stretched, breathed,
and climbed out marshalling to new havens of popular low-IQ
understanding.
The same arbitrary quip possessing some to read no further than
page 60 had laid an underground foundation for eventual days
of dead pop reckoning.
“There are none wiser than Lydon†sayeth the orifice….
….I still bet he can’t tear his paper towels neatly along the
perforation….
And while the 300 punks at Thermopylae, ebullient with archaic glare,
hold up hordes of foreign polluted visages of ideas, the mob’s
weak acceptance of fine wine finds the narrow defile behind lines.
Bread is conquered and regurgitated to the masses.
But did Elvis succeed because he was white or because he could sing
and play like a black man?
In tie-dye bikini underwear I have often jumped around playing my
lotus guitar purging the stench of dead inferences and conclusions
brought back on their shield.
Wind a string too tight, it snaps; too loose—it will not play yeah yeah yeah it all sounds the same with distortion!
Peloponnesia sank when Mrs. Hotchcraft told me I could not draw
stick figures in 2nd grade;
yet I crossed the Hellespont in 1982 and became the City Park
Hoola-Hoop Champion.
Such is the energy of timid aloofness when you have rigid corporate
vegetable theological seminary crammed up your complacent
made-by-the-media Ass!
The Press: “How do you feel about the death of Kurt Cobain?â€
Mr. Rotten: “I don’t give a fuck about Cobain!â€
“purging the stench of dead inferences and conclusions” strikes me as being a particularly accute way to put it. Hell, the whole poem strikes me, period. Made me think of sid vicious singing “I’ll do it my way” – ridiculous and strangely meaningful all at once. Nice one mofo.
Impressive. My first response, as a reader who writes, is to label Quasimofo’s latest entry “a thick hodge-podge, deconstructive meditation of pop culture and ancient civilization as informed by media-controlling corporations”. My second response, as a dumb-ass mass media consumer, is to label it “just another incendiary rant disguised as creative writing”. I’ll be reading it again, chewing on it for days, weeks, months… Thanks!
Thanks, you guys should comment more cause you have a lot to offer in way of literary analysis which can really ‘jump start’ the poetic passions. This poem was in archives from 96-97 i think and i was reading Lydon’s book “No Dogs, No Irish, No Blacks” talking about punk and the movement (I got to page 60 which is in poem) talking about how many thought the clothing fashion of punk started from ‘A Clockwork Orange’ when it began with raucous football games. Anyway, i was sorta surprised when the whole ‘300’ thing took off which is incorporated into poem and thought it would maybe make more sense to readers now than then.
Anyway, glad you got something from it.
I just bought you a subscription to “Nestorius Step Dad Appreciation Quarterly”. My local chapter of the group meets September 31st. A glorious celebration is had by all who can attend. We’ll swap bitter stories of how badly we were treated by resident men that only pretended to be our father. There’s coffee cake too.
You’re invited. Hope to see you there. {RSVP}
Hey man, how are ya!?!? I will anxiously be awaiting my new subscription to “Nestorius Step Dad Appreciation Quarterly” as I am a huge fan of Nestor! I’m working on the 31st though but will be there in spirit. Whenever i think back on my dystilled childhood and ponder the meaning of existence under step-dads and even heavenly step-fathers, i wonder at the lessons to be taken and applied and what wisdom i’m supposed to have in lieu of nasty disaffection. hmm. Life is long and arduous yet fleeting–so many sections to give it the will-power zen-ommm existentially dialectic combo! I’m not much for a priori, but i’ve learned how to arrange a posteriori logically. Take care! And remember to never sunbathe topless at villa resorts!