You have no need of this, my friend; it is heavy
������And besides I cannot give it to you. Remember Rebecca,
The good Christian who knew how to tell if
your next prospective casual lay had v.d.
by testing her genitals with a drop of cologne
������
(if it stings she's unclean)
?
I paid homage to her; it broke her spine.
Did I ever tell you about the band of homeless
would-be gypsies that wandered through the ugly
little tourist trap that had been my home for four
years? They had homage paid to them.
It turned them into
maggots; they began to smell bad and gnaw
on the furniture. Sometimes
I think that they are the real reason
�������
I quit the mountains.
And by the way, all those gilded
shitheads who made theory materialize out of thin
hypothesis,�������������� don't get me wrong, sometimes
I still envy them, but remember
remember
remember what happened when we paid them homage
it turned out that
when we put our minds to it we were more than their equals.
They had shriveled balls and owed all of their real insights
to Aristotle. So don't ask.
Is any of this getting through?
OK. Fine. Big fat hairy homage to you. Is it not enough
that you are my best friend, that I could not live
without you?
That you saved my life so many times? I can
live with the despair of the loss of heaven and the torture
of a burning eternity with you at my side, friend.
Let's you and me take a bottle of cheap scotch and stroll
this scrimshaw reality down to the waterfront and show the world
what a sense of mortality can do for the soul
on a good Wednesday night.
Is that not enough? Should I put
this loathsome anchor around your neck? You wanta
drag it around for a while? No, friend. No homage
for you. You've had enough.