MK Ultra: Words





		John Dean Death's Superstar The Sick Rose Far from the Fishes The Lesser Beauty The Post Office Bomb Twenty Seconds That Strange Flower the Sun Strike Another Match Birds Don't Know the Names of Notes Song of Songs The Swollen River Mona vs. the Argentine Joseph of Arimathea Crimson Spider John Dean John Dean, how ya been? Ya looked a little shaky on the tv. John Dean, how'd it feel when ya broke with father. Were you reborn or forever torn? Brother Gordon's gonna get you, 's gonna bust your luck. Brother Gordon's gonna nail you, says you set him up. Maureen– is she the key? Maureen– is she the key? On the door, McCord put a piece of tape. Was McCord sent there to set you up? John Dean, how ya been? Ya looked a little shaky on the tv. John Dean, how'd it feel when it all fell down? Are you forever torn? Brother Gordon's gonna get you, 's gonna bust your luck. Brother Gordon's gonna nail you, says you set him up. Death's Superstar Zodiac, they never found you, even though you left 'em clues. I wonder where you are; you're death's superstar. Zodiac, they found 28 out by the lake, it took 'em three days to ID her face. The primal pulse can be dangerous. (I miss you) (I miss you) Zodiac speaks: And the ones who breathe peppermint, when they ask for change in the laundromat, they will not be missed, they will not be missed. And the lovers with the mawkish laughs, the ones that stare as I pass, they will not be missed, they will not be missed. Zodiac, mystical murderer; corpse as performance art. He gets into your blood- he starts and stops the heart. Zodiac, I think of you tonight as I walk on the train tracks, I'm not hiding from anything, I'm not changing bad weather. The primal pulse can be dangerous. (I miss you) (I miss you) The Sick Rose from William Blake’s Songs of Experience (1794) Oh rose, thou are sick; The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. Far from the Fishes In the Spring I lost my mother, so I went out to find another. I found in the dirty part of town a girl who could waste some time. In the Winter I lost another, so I went out to find my source. Hoping I could find some permanence, fearing I would find discord. Found myself on the dirty river, drifting along, trolling my hand, trying to find my long lost brothers. Far from the fishes. Far from the fishes. I caught in the dirty water, a glassy-eyed elder sole. I stared into his dim mouth, into my salty past. He said: "Don't look back, mother sea will swallow you whole. March on! into the sun." Far from the fishes. Far from the fishes. The Lesser Beauty I stand in America's fields, wheat sways, sun sets, sun bleeds. All is healed: the children sleep, the pigs bled, cows been fed. I cannot stay here, out in the fields. This wealth doesn't quench my thirst. But that's OK–I've directions to a pool of clear water, where you can drink till you burst: Out past electric fences, truck stops and frozen trees, where the freeways end and city lights begin. Pass through crooked streets, locked doors, whores and leathermen, empty bottles, empty bars, empty pipes, black-outs and pointless fights, walk south of the steel mills, to Fergus Park. You'll find a shallow pool in a meadow of apple trees. The meadow reminds you of fields. You drink your thirst. Over there in American fields, it's too vast, there's no contrast. Fergus Park's bounded by dirty streets; I'm happiest where opposites meet. The Post Office Bomb At sundown, grab your gun and C4. I've staked it out. We're gonna bomb the local post office. We'll fight for our father's original intention; Here comes the bloody revolution. At sundown, I'll set the bomb; when it goes off, we'll be in Canada. I'm sick of dreaming of the better days: Paris 68, Rome 70, Chicago 68, 1917. Small bombs are better than none. When Jefferson returned to Monticello, and the railroads and banks had moved in, he cried: "What we feared is happening again." If it was up to them, they'd suspend the constitution and all deviants would be high strung. This I call treason. At sundown, kill your nerves and say goodbye to who you were. Leaving trains are all the same. Gotta move fast, gotta think fast, gotta move like the minutemen after the bomb blast. Twenty Seconds Her perfume smelled like pine resin and her manner took me back to the days of stone wash and Trans Am but she was buying. The last time I stood face to face with naked flesh she was behind a glass window. A quarter only gets you twenty seconds... That Strange Flower the Sun adapted from Wallace Stevens Strike Another Match words lost Birds Don't Know the Names of Notes Have I heard you forever, but never listened? I remember your voice from when I lived in Africa. Little bluebird, your tones fall around me, it's the most complicated melody I've ever heard. In the West, Pythagoras divided the octave into intervals to stave off chaos. He defined fourths and fifths, and invented the chords; he did his work on a string nailed to two boards. You sing me anarchy, I'm tempted to fall into the dionysian: nature's chordless swamp. I've got a stone in my throat, I play guitar on a sculpted tree; if only I could sing the distance between you and me. I don't envy the natural singer. Birds don't know the names of notes. Birds don't know the names of notes. Song of Songs The song of songs, which is Solomon's, I sing to her. She has eyes of doves washed with milk, teeth: flock of sheep. We will break the garden wall and lie down in the grass while we are still young. The song of songs, which is Solomon's, I sing to her. She is high as the moon, clear as the sun and terrible as an army, approaching banners, the sound of breaking bones. The Swollen River In spring, my sunken eyes opened to find a girl too young to launch a ship, but old enough to walk with me to Rivertide, where sunlight, filtered by the slouching oak, casts shifting lights on blooming, weedy ground. We took the path along the ragged coast, it winds around so lovers can't be found. She laughed and sang as if she were alone. We found the docks and sailed a blue canoe; beneath a bridge, I stood and hit my head; she braced the boat, and then she held my wound. Pure virgin youth was stained from where I bled. A hummingbird flew nearer as we kissed: my love returning: hungry, tentative. Mona vs. the Argentine In my mind, there's a street where the honeysuckle grows and the swollen sun filters through rows of oak trees. On this street, Mona lives in a blue house- she smiles as I come up the sidewalk. I look at her and I breathe through love's transparency. In my mind, there's another voice that rises up against these pretty dreams, it duly screams: "These are not my needs." "I don't give a damn about Mona's street. I would rather join the Merchant Marines- half-crazed, on the deck of the Argentine." I'll set off in both extremes. Find the place that calms the ache: Mona, Marines or another escape. Returning yearning would be a mistake. If I don't return- for my sake, celebrate. Joseph of Arimathea Joseph of Arimathea was an honorable counsellor, a faithful disciple; he wrote history: he saved the savior. Joseph of Arimathea begged the body from Pilate, wrapped him in a linen cloth, laid him down in a fresh tomb, washed the body of spit and blood. Joseph, Joseph. Nicodemus brought as hundred pounds of aloe and myrrh. I say, he and Joseph packed the wounds and stitched his side. They rolled a great stone to the door and sealed the tomb, three Mary's waited, crying in the dying light. On Sabbath eve the tomb was unsecured. Mary, Mary, Salome, returning Sunday, found the stone rolled away; pale son in the doorway. Crimson Spider Crimson spider, you walk across my hand; you must know me, you understand that I, unlike any other man, would not crush you: I stand above you. I left your web alone. Are you running a slaughterhouse? There are so many carcasses strung up on your lines. Are you afraid- or is it my own hand trembling? Crawl up to my lips; bite me slowly, your stomach I'll gently lick. If I praised you, would you blush? Or is human-lacking just wearisome? Can you see through me? I'm the master's errant son. You shame me: you always follow your pulse, you always wound to kill.