And so shall you sit. And so shall you be saved from your own responsibilities: thought, action, love, heartache, even illusion. To illude, to cast a spell, one must be willing to lie, which requires thought. In the absence of thought we can be only illuded, never illuding. Always eluded and never eluding. Always alluded and never alluding. And so it is and so it shall be for us here under the eaves of Whitey House on Pennsylvania.
Fucking is, of course, fascinating for all of us. As the wise man once observed, we gain enormous pleasure from putting things into ourselves and putting ourselves into other things. It is, you might say, the function of pleasure, to remind us how nice it is to interpenetrate.
In fucking Whitey House on Pennsylvania, brothers, what shall we accomplish? Let us sing the ways.
International respect? (Fear is more like it.)
Order (Some of that too.)
Let our commander be not so honored. (For we can never do without military hierarchy, you need only look at the democratic squads of the Spanish Civil War). Let him or her not be so honored; let him live amongst us. Let him live without the honorifics and the grand parades. Let him work.
Let us fuck the whitey house, and learn its neoclassical design, as we: as we were born, the newest old, the ancient new, the Greek dream improbably reborn. Let us shaft its shafts and ream its moldings. Let us burn it with fire and with lust. Let it be a monument to our mistakes.
Oh let us begin. Oh let us be brave. For whom do we await?
Would you see its strange flags be flown? International at last? Would you be born, again, like Luther, here on Earth, not through some cosmic reordering but only midst our American bodies, and their everyday orderings, our tasks and loves, our bold fates foreon, onward to these glowing stars?
“I am. I am your President. From Washington and on we serve the public, we serve and we are saved, your secular and ungodly king, the elected Lord of the Land, the Baal you always knew would come again, Apostle Jesus, with eyes of fire and a soft walk, big stick, strong cock, American, world walker and the keeper of our tasks and secrets, I am He, I am She, Your President and let us now praise famous men, and let us now grieve together in consolation for our prize, our ghastly rewarded prize upon our ship’s manifest, destined for our hearty palates and quivering bellies, the Dream American for All, unwon and unfought, forever yours, brothers and sisters, let us pray and stay away from untoward fears and work together for this country ours . . .”
No, no, president. That is not for us, I say. Come out now so we may fuck your house. Your Whitey House must now be fucked, if only for its insularity serene, if only since it is an easy target. Let it be a proud monument to our peculiar arrogant past.
President, come and be our brother again. President, let us preside together. Let us reside preside and forage in our garden once again, organic even, and watch the tomatoes drip off each other’s chins, free of Monsanto and Dupont at last, longingly preserving our chemical heritage in populist basements, lingering into the night over our Fair Trade coffee and plotting the doom of demagogues everywhere, let us be saved, let us be arranged.
Let us spread its glorious white legs and fuck the Whitey bitch of a House, she had it coming, and in our ejaculation let the divine seed of this strange national Man, our Whitman Pony, long hung and long loved, the pony who will leap the fence, who will flee all things we know, whose track is this long winding arm of Justice floating here about, move in our universe.
O, brothers and sisters, can we not be brave? Let us fuck the house and after smoke a cigarette (herbal or tobacco, your pick), let us lie in our broad new century’s bed at ease for a night, for the whirling orb is impatient for us, as we for it, let us bend in strange service to our belligerent sentient planetary mother, let us forefend some monstrous Rome and re-erect the dream we won’t let die, the peculiar freedom we all love to love, that we are still learning what it means.
Fuck the Whitey House with me, brothers and sisters! We’ll toast the President and bring him out for a cigar and a champagne and dunk him in the tank for good luck, the best fuck we ever had. Let us fuck it well and hard and beautifully, and since this is our strange and beautiful perverse era of Internet Pornography let our fuck be televised, let the world know we’ll fuck the Whitey House before God and Man, perfectly consensually, over 18 please, with every ounce of our life. It’s bigger than both of us, baby. We could die tomorrow. We could go off to war. Invite us in, hey?
We’ll love you forever.
Oh America serene! What blue river flows for you? Is it the Mississippi? We’ve nowhere left to flee. We cannot see the territory head no more, you see? How can we light out, O Twain, our son, our son, the fascist gleam has twinkled now too bright! We weep for your moustache. We cry to God! We scream at our neighbors to find the barber shop where you might still be sobbing, Twain, guardian of all that was, that could still be, if only we may yet want to put it in our scrapbooks, the tintype of the future bold, the instagram declaration of our new independence, fastened onto buttons for us to wear together on our steamships sailing north along our muddy Nile of eternity, America, bleed with me!
O open your veins. HIV or no let us wash ourselves in the blood of mutton, our own, not british tea or wool but our own fond sheep, the dream of Lucifer and Reagan, of FDR and Satan, let us pour one out for our homies, Mr. President and Mr. Clemens.
Brother, sharp your sword. Sister, load the gun. You didn’t write, you didn’t call, Whitey House. It didn’t cross your mind at all. In your ways of iron squalls. You couldn’t feel anything at all. Could you find the days? To foul up the ways? To . . . to . . .
My country, of thee I sing. America the wounded whore, the innocent girl, the noble savage, the drunken patriot, the tired spy.
My country, of thee I sing. The land uncamped, for sale. The land we’ve yet to leave.
Forefend disaster, beautiful heart. Your pretty face is not enough! Elbow grease we’ll need, to slick down onto the parchment, to map the Northwest Passage to our conscience, for it breathes yet, in faith, and Whitey House may yield up a sextant once we’ve fucked it, the magic metal sash wherewith to chart our way, and rewrite our Orwellian future in our sanctified miscegenated blood.
America, forefend disaster with our hands. If we can only fuck the Whitey House, and dream our strange Greek dream again together, on our tennis courts, in the corrals and Seven Elevens, we may yet Dream our beautiful incorruptible Dream.
Whitey House is ready, my fellow Americans. She’s taking off her panties, slipping them off her feet. His boxer shorts are down around his ankles. Do it for your sons and daughters. A beast with 300 million backs, not greenbacks but all the colors of the rainbow.
Oh God, honey.
You’re so beautiful.
Come with me.