Bullshit Artists

We like to sit for hours bragging
Razor blade tongues wagging
Slashing balloon animals,
Chopping snacks for cannibals,
And sloppily tailoring
The latest fashions' failing
Into tattered rags
Worthily shunned by mags,
But never gutter punks,
Hobo monks
Riding cocaine rails
Right on Liberty's tails --
So wasted they see two of her,
Never still, in a motion blur,
Headed in opposite directions
Yet always with some connections
Keeping her from getting too far
From herself -- we're in a bar
Talking about our appetites and genius,
How we've touched forms of Venus;
Anecdotes about Satanic goats;
Renegade robots ignoring remotes
Commanding stop,
And when we made the beat drop.
The beauty of scars comes off tongues
Powered by smoke filled lungs
Shifting the air
With mercurial flare
Reciting every recollection
Who's truth defies detection
Because no one can see
What isn't there, though how readily
Minds repaint the past
With a CGI cast
Taking the stage we set,
Never worrying who may vet
The details -- We're kings,
Queens, and Emperors of all things --
The show goes on as if this fiction
Has St. Aelred's benediction
Ensuring the integrity
Of the dramaturgy
Informing the actors how to present
The intended perception sent.
Last night may have merely been
Hours wasted draining poteen,
Staring at the same chipped wall
Until falling in a drunken sprawl
On a neighbor's lawn
Until dawn
When the sprinklers come on.
Instead claim to have met Khan,
Kubla, Genghis, Noonien Singh,
Or any famous king
It doesn't matter which
Because the real pitch
Centers on a quest --
We were sent as the very best.

Crossing French prairies peopled by tribes fueled by blood orange wit, we ventured to star-cut immortal jelly with a cookie cutter.  Prize in hand, we decided to bring it to Goose Island for everyone to enjoy not just the arrogant bastards keeping the joys of delirium to themselves.  We traveled a half acre a second it seemed, and soon hit evening when we paused to dine on dogfish with the three Floyds sent by the alpha King to guide us from the evil twin imperial city, New York reborn by The Sour Left Hand.  Not sure we're getting where we're going, but out of Anderson Valley take comfort in the perennials, the like minds, the sunspot feeding the green bush.  Later we'll be aquanauts braving the oceans.  But for now...

For now, we're just bullshit artists
Doing our damnedest
Reading taps, labels, and prosing
Whatever drunk conscious is composing.
As the stream flows
The story grows
With no honesty to fetter
From the better
Until it eclipses the truth
Sinks a saber-tooth
Leaving a mess of gore
The lie lives to legend forever more.