And now I'm just going to read a couple of new jams
that I've been working on.
So these are selections from something called the "Glock
Chorus."
And the idea behind "Glock Chorus"
is that all the dead of Iraq, and by all the dead of Iraq
I mean, US soldiers, US contractors, also
Iraqi citizens, Iraqi soldiers, insurgents, murderers,
bystanders, everybody, everybody who died in the Iraq War
conflict, and who continues to die, I suppose, because of it,
is in a kind of heaven.
OK, this heaven is like a gold lame shower stall,
and it's electrocuted, because you
may remember that Halliburton built
us these wonderful bases in Iraq with shower stalls that
were not properly wired and they electrocuted US
servicemen, like 19 servicemen.
So that's the kind of heaven I think we deserve.
We, those of us like me who kind of let this war happen,
I guess.
So at any rate, this poem is about--
it's a series of poems where different people and forces
involved in this war just stand up and speak,
or sing, actually, because most of this is sung.
So you get lots of different perspectives,
that kind of thing.
So I'm going to read you just three or four from this,
and then that'll be that.
So the first one is the "Do It Duet," the do it duet,
I should say, the do it duet.
So just do it, and duet.
And this is spoken in some contractors,
and this really happened, where some contractors were
sent into the green zone where the normal American paper
pushers were just pushing their paper, to exterminate all
the pet cats, because for whatever reason,
it was just decided.
Like there was just such an omni-necrotic mood
that they decided to blow away the pet cats
one day in the green zone.
I read about this in a book, apparently it's true.
So this is in the voice of these pet cat exterminators
that your tax dollars probably paid for.
So here we go.
I mean, it wasn't even Saddam's cats,
it was just some folk's an Iraqi cat.
Here we go.
"The Do It Duet."
So you have to imagine these two voices like eerily in unison.
"Smart as Sophia, thick as a dome, thick as gold Byzantium,
two chromosomes as thick as thieves,
adrift in liquor like a pair of leaves.
Thick as flies at the old folks home, thick as commanders
in the corp squadron.
Iraq rap no cats, no cats in the dome.
We're hired rats.
We find them all, ferret out the milky dishes
where they fed those cats.
They spent their liquid wages on the paperwork,
on vaccinations to repatriate their cats, on kitty
tranquilizers to cart them back but
like outrageous microwave-us we got there first
while all the moms and daddies were still at work.
We lit up all the trailers like July the 4th.
We dragged out all the kitties for a kitty [inaudible]
with a mouthful of snuff, and a plug
in its ass, how each cat did jump when we made it dance
did the dead cat bounce on its very last legs
like a dirty politician on his last campaign.
Spun in all directions like a weather vane,
pussy turn to the east side, turn to the west,
lurch to the creator, now lurch to the beast.
Pantomime the crater, now pantomime the blast,
now shake for the one that you like best."
So that's what the evacuators say, the eradicators.
And then there's a part where, OK, so then
there's the part where the last Marine climbs
up out of the ocean, but she's also
kind of like a mourning mother.
She's a woman, she's Iraqi, she's a Marine, she's animal,
she's human, she's everything, just standing up out
of the ocean.
And so of course she must also be like the beast
of the apocalypse, too.
She's everything coming back for vengeance on itself.
And her name is "Avarice Reverie, USMC."
And her name changes a lot as this goes on,
and it gets like witchy and crazier.
OK, so there's only two more, this one and then one more.
And this is like truly embarrassing to read.
But I feel possessed by this woman
and I have to read her poem.
Here it goes, "Avarice Reverie, USMC."
"Reverie, Reverie, and the last Marine was Averine.
When the last marine climbed from the scene,
her flanks were gilt with Averine.
Her cheeks were cut with Averine,
her checks were cut from Averine.
Her irises were rhymey and they went woop woop.
The closed eye of the camera went woop woop.
The brain's black Camaro went woop woop,
tossed off its pearly lightning like a two piece suit.
Eyes turned white as a consulting room.
And owl's eye ate up all the marrow of the room.
And then the last Marine climbed out of me.
Her locks were cleaved with Averine.
Her locks were struck with Averine.
Her teeth were thick with Averine.
Break the doors round their hinges.
Break the very hinges from the doors.
The corny twang and neural niches
of the girl who went on swinging as she swore.
Oh Averine, how I wish for gold, Oh
Averine, how I wish to hold in the caldron of my human hand
a goblet from your treasure hoard.
Like a spit in the tress or the trees in the dress,
oh Treasurine, how I list for thee.
Oh Treasurine how I lisp for thee,
and pour my cargo to the sea, and pour my cargo into thee.
Treasurine, and here's a hit for thee, and Treasurine,
here's a lip for thee.
Treasurine, a harelip for thee.
Treasurine, a hip flask for thee.
Treasurine, here's flak for thee.
Treasurine in the gut of thee.
The boot is a clump and it goes clump clump.
The wrist is a gauntlet, the clutch
is the gut to the gut of the woods.
I hump my clump in the gut of the woods.
My hump came up from the gulch of the gut.
I worked my well clutching it's gut.
I docked its tail.
I docked its pay.
I read this tale.
The big metal bird went woop woop woop.
With my blood it was wet as it went woop woop.
A girl in the tread, and a girl on the blade,
a girl in night vision, and a girl in night raid.
Did Philip [INAUDIBLE] Did Philip [INAUDIBLE]
till she wears her martyr's dressing
like a coach wears Gatorade."