Invocation of the Deadwood Muse

What if the Earth speaks to us to get us to arrange its amusements?

Grit and grime; gunpowder and sperm; entrails gutted on the floor; fucking in the mud.

Man comes forth—whiskey fire and stale stink. From whence did they come? From the clouds or in some type of conveyance? Men come forth in many ways: on shiprock braving leviathan; abiogenesis from uterine scream of already despoiled wilderness; halfmen and blackguards and psalmists molded from the antic clay of American abattoir—an internecine concatenation in the hylic green; screams rise in passion’s muddled breath. Grand Guignol of six-shooter and gold-pan.

Rough men and the beatings they bring: Some don't know better might mistake me for being on the outside, looking in. Then you got your idle snatch readin' scripture. And know there's still hope. Civilization raises its ugly fist, only to find that Arcadia is a worm-eaten apple. A gobbet of rotting goat-meat. August commencement to my administration, stymied outside a saloon next to a degenerate titlicker. The horizon’s alpenglow nothing more than the forge-fires of destruction’s engine. But man’s rage is anfractuous and everthere: lightning fast pistols drawing down and shooting God dead; the site of his corpse gives rise to impromptu dancing in the thoroughfare. Pain or damage don't end the world. Or Despair or fucking beatings. The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back. A country built on tumulus and barrow, unregenerate and proudfaced as railroad and phaeton spread the contagion. Hardpan turns to swampmuck as they burrow and dissect to procure the color.

But they dance on, Chief, however much at home, as at yours and mine, comfort and love await.

My bicycle masters boardwalk and quagmire with aplomb. Those that doubt me... suck cock by choice.