pathetic attention grab

He ventures a stab at the oblivious hand of the blurred passerby, a smear in his artistic hangover, a ripple in the puddle that reverbs his heavy life, soaked in blue gravity, rich in ringing tragedy, horizontal and on the concrete of a busy street, waking up groggily, how else would it be? This first person voyeur likes to watch himself in third but is horrified when he lays eyes on his dying self. He's fresh back from Mandrake's land of hellgames and simulations of diabolical dealing. Cosmopolitan to the point of being unable to communicate the time of day to his unenraptured brethren, he goes commercial and starts a cult, but he has competition. Cultox. The pox developed in the DuPont labs. A sort of psycho-fertilizer to be distributed among the fields that grow the mass of minds mined in agricultural schemes of vegetative spirituality. It's the pharmacological template for the cultivation of cultization. A molecule. They sprayed it over the ashram air, they slipped it in the stranger's drink - they sold it to a flaky american state on the west coast. Created a market, supplied the demand. And the rest is tragedy. And then farce.

The day is a slur of delirium, dream, and live action sitcom. He rises to his knees and blows his nose on a damp pantleg. Then he sees the corpse he really is, imploring hand stiffened and petrified in the tan utopiopolis cleansing atmosphere that wipes out all memories of the previous slaving day. Every citizen a king who only has to whore during that teeny tiny little smidgen of waking life known as the WORK DAY. Only half your waking life, only MORE if you're lucky, you big earner you, you go getter, gaining your gluttony with gusto. Get while the getting's good. That's what we're into, there's a place for you at the table, you got INTO the club my good man. No gringo in your own country, amigo.