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   /\                         THE CHRONIC!                              /\ 
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   /\    Issue 4                     Acting Supreme Editorial Mistress: /\ 
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   \/    April 2005                         Absinthe                    \/                    
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          The "Let's just shut the fuck up about the Pope" issue:
In which we say very little about the fucking asshole and leave it at that. 
                         


                                Featuring:
                           To a Prophet by Tapmo
                           Bird Bones by Absinthe


   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Introductory Attempt ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
   
You know what pisses me off? The media. The fact that the death of a religious 
figure gets so much attention that one could base a drinking game off watching
the news and doing a shot ever time someone says a word that starts with "P"
and ends in "ope" (kinda like hope, but a lot more oppressive), but countless 
other deaths don't even get a passing mention. If a person dies, that person
dies, and all this hero worship and fanfare when a famous figure dies is total
bullshit. People are people, and no one person is worth that much attention 
unless we all are. 

Wether it's Jim Morrison, Terry-what's-her-face, the paper boy, John Lennon, a 
drug addict, a nun or the homeless person on Main street that you walk by every 
day without really seeing, each death is as important as the last. If you pay 
more attention to on death than another, you are admitting that some people are 
better than others. Guess what asshole? They aren't. You matter just as much or 
little as anyone else, and to ignore a death you are undermining your own as well. 

Pull your heads out of your collective asses and think about that.

-Absinthe    
     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




"to a prophet"
<Tapmo>

you're a prophet afraid of the truth.
the truth is that you're no prophet.
there are no more pure nights
upon which you stretch out bare,
as if ready to be the calm
supplication of a cross, or waiting
for the hemlock to kick in
and begin eating up through your feet.

martyrdom is done like these lines:
it goes on a long time before you see it,
and ideally, goes on after you're done.
most of all there are times when
the stones do not gush water.
you just wait like a lonely fool
writhing with rage in your
desert sand sleeping bag.
you're not ready for those times.

realize it's not about your eyes and hair,
it's not about you at all, you're about it.
and besides, the key feature is not
in the wild eyes or tangled hair, it's beneath
your skin, where your blood charts
the cosmos and burns like haoma
and honey and bloody bees going down
and every night is grimy and inflamed.

       












"Bird Bones"
<Absinthe>

Assorted, every possible ridge juts
out. Malnourished the attempt to escape from

Her, renouncing an unconscious pledge 
to the magazine goddesses fair,
florescent perfection. A display, all
moving beneath once supple layers,
now a violent membrane
of translucent skin.

The bedroom (now she's) so very
naked, stretching, proud. The prominent
showcase of a cage, an ample
rival to the curve of the breast.

Baby bird bones, hearts
fluttering as your voice would,
confronted with pronouncing 
Caesar or cinnamon.

The invasion of spectators
through curtains, gossamer.
Given to due horror murmuring
"this had to be wanted"
so loving.

Hollow cheeks grown vacant. Veteran
given no leave since ages one and 
three. Blinded en route to the 
battlefield via beauty tips, 
she closes the open shudder, 
as not to catch a glimpse of
some unknown thing beyond
abstract expectation.

The unnoticed cry was blatant.
That of a man (an' a womyn cuz'
that's where we cum from) when 
waves were tasting. The 
mouth, ocean: opening.

A swallow.

   _____________________________________________________________________
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   By the way, all this stuff belongs to the authors, and cannot be sold or 
   stolen. Failure to comply with this simple request will result in Absinthe
   hunting you down wtih a chainsaw and her unholy rat army rat army of the night.
   Or maybe just suing you. Let's leave that one as a surprise.

   On that note, feel free to print, email or otherwise distrubute this document,
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