Two guitarists touch an anonymous goose.
The streets are full of smashed televisions
Our heros contort themselves before a legendary dust up.
Someone swings a folding chair

    someone feels this but not this exactly then what? what do you mean the world
ends? I don’t see it. Where do you see it? How does the story
End?

The fearsome trio sets off to slay the — well god damnit they’ll slay whatever—
It was Billy, Jonny, Jerry. Or was it Jimmy, Danny, and Ikue?

Whatever, they set off into the forest black leather
gleaming in the fancy light

and are all swiftly killed

— BY THEIR TWINS!—

Or maybe they set off to touch an anonymous goose, any goose, on a search for the holy goose that stands for every goose… and when after overcoming much adversity they return with the good goose-in-the-sack so to speak.

When finally they return from their quest their old familiar streets are full of smashed records and rabid dogs. Everything they loved is gone.

THE STORY ENDS!

Or when they return buildings crumble, slumping like tired nuns-in-habits; debris and children sail out their windows.
Whatever sails out the window is thrown, and whatever is thrown is thrown by someone, tonight that someone is you, Jimmy, you thought we couldn’t see you, you thought you had us fooled, and you did. You’re the bogey, and the bogey of the bogey.
You’ve let the story tie you to the bed, how did that happen?

So now you’re tied to the bed.

FLASHBACK: By the second night of show Jimmy’s on stage S&M play had turned into something rather different
all of the sudden
something nasty,

Hark, someone is singing:

What child is this who laid to rest?

Look it’s christmas; you give the world what you think it needs; you have seven bottles and break three of them. The four left over hang from the tree empty while carolers sing without accompaniment because the

pianos won’t play anything anymore, pianos cut themselves in half.

PIANOS SMASHED IN THE EMPTY STREETS

On this day a child is born, as it was foretold in the scriptures and he will be called a new disco incarnation of an old hero,
And he will kneel his way from the castle and
into a mire, from uptown to midtown to downtown and across the bridge,
Spreading unfertile seed on unfertile ground. Pianos will mumble in the night
Three homeless drunks worry them with gifts

GOD I’M SO TIRED they always say, the pianos and the drunks,


Meanwhile, the villain walks in with a moustache on his arm
Jimmy strains against the ropes suddenly naked and still
tied to the bed
The villain says: your theory is strong but ineffective…. Allow me to demonstrate. Meanwhile
a golem is crafted in the dark green room by a fearsome trio…
You didn’t think we’d make it back here did you?
The golem is made of
cardboard and revenge
revenge is handed a small bird.
The bird sings a small bird sized song.
The golem whimpers out a first word.

But what happened to Jimmy in the room
Jimmy is still in the room,
he’s got three chances, and this is one, but which one we don’t know.

The bird through the window
sings a small song, and Jimmy feels for it a small bird sized affection
There’s nothing left to be done. As the villain twists slowly a large knob.

Jimmy wakes up with
the impotent desiccation of another hangover,
the knob is on seven and still slowly turning when

Danny and Billy and Jenny and Iggy and Ricky burst in,
Each has a moustache on his sleeve like its a uniform
Nobody wakes up and says it was all a dream except for Berkeley’s
Barely imagined body spinning like a Rubix Cube in Oxford
No, what you say Jimmy when you wake up with rope burns
isn’t about dreams.


O golemy golem, forged in dark darkness backstage, I’m still looking for a way
     to say that in the seasons between this and this that we made it

Hulking on the stoop doesn’t fly, but it went over great.
    Let us get a little conceptual, buy something like a gold standard

moonlit abecedarian, a grim mouthed mute cardboard man,
    smash tables smash futzy chair wood dust confetti careening

america undressing in the library bathroom smash
    any good american knows how to shutter up hot lights though

Wouldn’t figure. Making tiny birds out of hands, the only
    way to cross into blythe absolutism is to open up
        some skulls, by god, and the crumbling bastard industry of

the old world plopped wholeheartedly into the new one, rivers
    of muck that smell like the inside of a garden hose

      waterbeds full of rotting tomatoes every spring mom always
said sleeping on tomatoes an agent, maybe slick nosed and bleeding acid

    some greater circulation, honestly, fluid dynamics of late fascistic avant forget it
how to record that act a leather jacket and eye shadow forget

    pitch but ok what do you expect with corrugated lungs and not much to go on

birds shooting out of his sleeves like tomatoes from a hose, dangerous
    to be in the front row, but they were pretty, right?