Dark Summers at Naciemento

How he hate you why and let him tell you wonder:
for every staring stupid picture now and then he thinks your scene is warbly
and a very detailed obsessive order scrubbing wash off earth that you did
with a hair cut stirring jagged in night air
remembering missing voices and missing people that do serve slaves that aren't told made but surrendered in straw

Then let him pontificate it say mowed or summer dream it that rendered by the lake would cry you to unknown tears
still a wonder that anything could get done around there
and too docked for swimming overtime on blistered skin never got to hatch the nothing said the eggs before they counted
and just not enough time to be taken matters so seriously
do apologize

The Snake to the Magus

It's always a scorchy day on the great eve of whatever-the-heck it was or did seem was to be been
have gold.
Gold! like the drops of dew from the Moon on high be it blue or bone white, with a face that looks down on dawn or very small men by the millions walking her almost lonely and only illusionarily sullen surface
Gold that spurts in clear phallic sugar
only romantically coaxed
too tuglessly tickled and seduced by Her sex

I do say Sheila! You take me too tyrannically...
(but actually she's not really making a fuss, but ignoring him, looking in the mirror herself and powdering her chest, pulling tight that V-cut for just the right shape of cleavage-- good girl, my witchy warrioress)
She's all too swollen about the right places in
places in space and
Who would have figured with that smile and even
sometimes you know it's just there's an anyhow
and second thoughts
I don't know for myself if she does want it really or just likes that lost look in his eye

Burn the winged sun upon my head!
Oh Sheila, if it be in you to do so and at the end you
she did manage to disintegrate back into the aether though
and you know it was about time that
I mean about space that (and the infinite stars thereof)
she was at the end you
(she too must come to pass)
The day was darkening and the sun swallowed by the sea
(though he burns on and on ever unconsumed by the sea you see)
And nothing ever sad but thinking made it so sorry
that even in sorrow and death I'm in love not
with her but with Her and let
me do talk about that Horned one

It comes first in dark robes, the men in black
And red triangles
And blue triangles in temples
Until it seems best to prove:
"Most people never understand anything
They are like the soil of the earth
They form the basis of life but are themselves lifeless."
And there's a voice laughing in broken crackles in crackwhip dancing distortions over the intercom and a god to rise over landscapes of geometry grinning jauntily until Holy Terror sets in and
Comes slowly at first, the Horned silhouette stomping down a dark hallway in
thud... thud... thud...
Thud Thud Thud--
Crash! of crystal glittering glass shards spread by a wealth of good shenanigans across cosmic eternal night sky and smoke and a face of galaxies with smeared hollow eyes and a grin of death that spans unmeasured lightyears...

Still
You come home and Sheila is there to greet you in her favorite
red as imagined blood that
fills her lips and lips
parting to suggest parting,
"may I raise your Snake, but droop not it's head?"
That's just how she plays it:

Praise the Life of Lucifer Luckystar

They think I he was called Lucifer Luckystar, not for sake of earth or jam or Jam or Jupppppiter jumping frogleap across bountiful bodies of beautiful night sky (Nuit, Her name means...) One must get off that way on the imaginary terrors of Evil all fire in flaming fucking refulgent jets spurting out a volcanic cock just oh oh OH! what a Holy Terror. And--
Who put all this blood in the bathtub?
Oh, do apologize, I only had to go to the Bathoryroom. Yuck yuck! But the Gods do promise the eternal fire...
And?
Up he was sharp went down he (because they shall fear thou art Fallen, forget misunderstandings and all the sad sadistic saints who went to naught but Hell and all the victorious but vanquished who went to naught but Heaven (waiting all the while waiting while the demonic wretched worked their wilesome ways) but to the Adepts whose feet trampled Hell and whose heads hung in the mists of Heaven:) and a sword all about him a Red Flaming sword all about hims haloed head
Because one well trained tyrannical truant too many had had his way with this fair land, but alas we do come to laugh at your dead and to rape your virgins (mmm... those fairgame virgins and all the while let the Blood be dedicated ever to Her)and to spit in the eyes of your fools and pinprick your little penises and to penetrate your pussies never pity and not to console your pathetic and now long dead and bloody weak, but to pardon your pedophiles and philander with your filthy and disintegrate with your drunks and laughing always laughing
And we will get away with it because it's all for the laughs...

Baphled

Don't make me chase that rat cabbage or you'll
Regret it? You were about to say--
To to hell with your blimey Baphomet!
Out out out
out with him!
(Silly, the old sagging ladyman saying so, saying while solving, not coagulating)

222
hahaha

Up one goes while saying not in
Silence
(Black is not a dirty place;
love Her for she is All and Naught)
Down we never go
(unless we like sucking, oh boy oh boy!)
White what direction takest thou?
White what direction?

222
hahaha

(on a very interesting sidenote sidenoting in sidetones self-referentially, the androgyne in question or phrase did have or once had or is having or has and will always have a heavy career as a punching bag, a pin cushion, a horses hide (and hide and hide and hide oh!), a saran wrapped fish, a homunculus for homicide harborers, a plague upon the poor pornographed menstruate mistresses of Minnesota, Indiana and California (down and up)...and on and on...until a gimpy little green man in suit says "okay okay okay hiccup hiccup hiccup")

Jessicascent ascending unending
Jessicascent where are you!
She's floated off into the blue clouds of Ches--
Stop your bickering over that damn dame! She's a dirty slut she is! You seen the way she dresses, practically staring straight up her hooch with her
(VA's not listening, just counting the feathers on his wings and counting well one-one-zero)

222
hahaha

Baphomet don't be baffled don't be broken or battered or brained
keep us Beth Avenued, balanced, breadthy and sane

And look on ho! There's Jess just now
(dressed right well for the occasion in a red flowing dress that she likes to pull over her head or tie to her waist like a naughty girl revealing black stockings always black black and a pinned green rose given her by a gimpy green man in suit, lips and eyes to die for oh Jess! and tits galore)
Reaching floating ascending so suddenly
It's the it's the its the-- oh ah! saliently
She soars
on wings she soars
Yes it's the, it's the, ah me, it's the
(she still can't say it)

Word!
222 burst so powerfully into the room that he knocks several species of small furry animal in many magnificent omnidirectional ways
(only after he left everyone swears they have no idea what he looked like)
Grin grin grin

But from which cosm do you come, sir?

And 222, in trying to answer the little boys pointed so fucking pointed question, stumbles a bit smashing his shin into a sharp table
Limping ouch limping he must, he must
222 away!

actually he was a scientist

Howdy ghost oh
went howdy because and I can't remember (can't remember)or did you think he wasn't a scientist?
question mark
Or as it has otherwise been stated (somehow stated) in large patterns
patterns great in scale
in scale
felt that they wouldn't really like hanging around Craig anyway
because
It was like piano music on
or did he say wire?
Or
did
he say
Grunger went badly so they thinked what pinked
what
no question mark
For it's the wrong inappropriate time to be timing an appropriately inappropriate act?
(don't answer that)
But here comes the
comes that Sandy girl all sandy on beaches reading a reader read
a red dress very proudly of
womanhood
Go around the back!
Always knocking goddamn knocking for nobody ever
why did he believe what the backdoor said?
was mahogany okay?
Or the beach or because and I do mean well that is to say
is to say scientist very loudly
scratch very proudly the lion or it was or as they did imply with their best thinkers thinking thoughts foot forward that (did he say Walt Disney?) would especially expect a white
a very bleached white
what was it?
labcoat!

Madness the Scientist

End breaker the thief the theft breaker he pronouns until get your damn hands off of me!
Liquid dissolve she I solvent for never tangible elsewise a rainbow ride
By the arrow
Then again we said it
Then an egg you said it
For rib I don't get won't get hard shell bent don't fresh don't get it
Elsewhere acid
elsewhere broken beaker theft don't off the table won't fabled as it goes that madness the scientist went broken
Hop hop a bloody foot
Sharp incidents do hip happen
do chirp captain on the where for tarnation did the pirates come from?
We won't know unless a swan

Van der Graaf Generator of the Pants

Collie Lasson, smoking vigorously from what seems to be a potted plant with a hooka stem protruding from it and unassuming leaves: "Well well well so so so officially it is the Word and amen to thee brother Manuel."
Contact Manuel, kneeling solemnly in a heap of broken glass: "Do tell, for I don't want to hear it so..."
"Well you see," puff puff, "it's all in the flick of the wrist and contrition openly dismantling the effort the worst of our best minds have made in their most reckless moments for it is true as the ants would have us say with kite strings attached to our limbs, 'this quantum technology is utterly useless.'"
Mr. Manuel fidgeting a bit, arms still limp across his knees, "yes...but what of the giant ones, that guy Scruffy who swore that it would all happen in the collisions, in the minutia of the sub-atomic particles?"
"Blast! Your giants are impoverished-- just look into the Book of Jasher, the Nephilim, yes? No no no! Be damned with your, uh, what's he called...? Uh, Jehovamajig."
"You're being overly cautious. I can feel it. I know you too well, this is a mirage. This mirage is making me feel like I'm delusionating. Did you say that? I mean did I say that. Wait a moment please. Stop that, the nouns are shifting again. Deixis!"
Puff smoke, puff until the plant turns a crimson red and collapses of it's own volition. "Okay, just call me out on the seaweed act! I mean, it's not like I intended to get you into this state-- but don't do that, that thing distracting from the matter at hand. This is important goddamit--"
"It is! It is!" Struggling up from the ground, spots of blood sprinkling about. "The problem's just in the way you've framed the issue, see. That Mercury fellow can only lead us so far before WE have to abandon HIM. He'll keep leading. Don't talk down to me, no..." stroking blood across his chin, "I have seen the vast expanse of the universe displayed in the mouth of a child, under small stones that turn up in riptides, behind that sheet of paper that you reach for thinking it's only a financial report (and indeed it is) but containing so much more, in small things, yes..."
"Alright. Fair enough. Then let me re-establish the borders--"
Except that Bjork is staring him down from across the room, bidding him in that way she does with the eyes and head so still, so perfectly still, 'don't you say a fucking thing. Don't give it away, even if all things are apart...'"

a wide gate around it

a crusade of broken watches
watches us and a whole bread crust
really

though not to poke a hole in your maybe all too planned out situation but
and i do mean it with the utmost hospitality that
well its just only just that i
so anyway as i was saying

then she trips and falls on her face
no joke

it was the uh
they were laughing at me and i still dont know why i was in that kitchen
i wasnt in the kitchen actually but it seemed like i could have been
(we murder our appetites with whores)
they were all sinister somehow and i do begin to believe that something bars the way
at the time it was a dog
but eroticism will eventually decrease the horror

nobody really wanted to hear his attitude
so they just asked the angels to help out
yes it was fire
yes it was air
and everything else you expected at the time
ah yes those were cold golden days
the ones that crept by in a senseless haze
too much sense for this old sinner
(sin yes as it is to miss the target but what was the target)
and tanks rolling in from off the southern hills
and holy guardians gazing guardedly
i was your sam samuelsonson
believe me

but nobody does
they just go back to eating their anchovies

z joBB for aries

Love aways yieLLdeth

So anyway, I don’t go into the kitchen anymore because the wife just stands there and beats more and more eggs all day, just stares off into oblivion– though she’s still very beautiful especially when the sunlight peers through the window in heavy sheets. Then Gary inevitably comes by with a head of lettuce and a bucket of fish guts that he always get angry about and dumps all over my carpet even though the house is on fire and smurfs keep sneaking in with the cutest little fire hoses to try to put it out– those smurfs that my son likes to stomp and collect up into a blender to make ungodly beverages to impress his bohemian friends by.
So anyway, the wife’s lost it and the other girls don’t talk to me even when I strategically place my bulbous and delicious cock in plain view and tell them truthfully about my past homosexual relations and the best way to avoid the spread of disease such as the Tango Lessons, the Moppy Hair Virus, and especially the Spontaneous Suspender Regrowth. For the most part they just avoid me even though I’m a genius who howls poetry at the moon from the top of the highest ant hill in my backyard while regurgitating fragments of fish that I’ve carefully slurped off the floor. Spongey Walters always tells me it’s not much of a courting gesture, but what does he know with his moustache, his mullet and that ugly fucking mint green flannel that he wears over his head half the goddam time.
So anyway, as you may have inferred the wife and I don’t have sex anymore and she’s been in that kitchen going on five years now. It has been expressly stated in very long paragraphs in very small print on single sheet documents that if she dies by fire, by smurf infestation or meteorite collision that the full possession of her eggs shall be passed to me. So I just bide my time under remote bridges, below the surface of lakes (where I can’t breathe), somewhere in a large pool of beads and, when I’m incredibly lucky, in Keith Moon’s bass drum...

If the Wind Would Stop Flocking

A Sincere Warning

May explode on contact without prior indication and without rational cause
May hang droopy ears at the teasing rain
A slow blink of the eye
For what?
Yes uh thank you
But how did we arrive at this problem in the first place?

Shouldn't this be Cause for Rejoicing?

... between lust and melancholy
One bundle of neurons constituting a nervous system
The Rhythm
A shark
The rhythm
A shotgun
Thanks again, but I still don't understand the problem

Because!

It seems so serious where four-elemental space converges

Tongue-Penetrating the Hottest Whore at the Babylonian Prom pt 1: Lessons in Strategic Mopping

The first thing a magician must do is learn to mop.
-Lion Low-Key

Cuz you never know when a contraption might fall on your head, embrace your face, suffocate you in mechanical grace until the days disappear in an unambitious haze. That’s when he realizes that everything must be done without lust of result as he tosses penny after penny into the lake without making a wish. Then the vision comes on him, looming at the height of his forehead: cleavage! Oh yes well I am horny thank you very much. Though he prefers pussy, who doesn’t like cleavage? Just let the serpent rise, wrap the Chinese statuettes in bright yellow and red and blue and purple silk scarves, take the pigmy dinosaur by the leash and go off in search of the next cosmic egg, the next nipple at the edge of the glorious goddess.
There’s a dwarf trying very hard not to say “hiccup” but keeps saying it anyway, rocking back on his heels, thumbs ‘round orange suspenders. He finds himself surrounded by animal people talking to cellular phones “like totally and I was like oh my god you know” and dudes all dressed in the same baggy shirts and pants which is all very depressing like a frantic alienation fit rearing up to scream “hiccup” in the collective face but any inspiration to do so having been stomped down by the ever present and uncalled for “whooo!” Fun is never really fun with a pingpong ball in the face, with a pitcher of beer, with a forty dollar bill from the coach to the tarot reader to tell who’s going to win the game, the sacred pingpong game that so very much rides on. So very much.
Back to Rachel Twostep and his darling little T-Rex named Rufki who only inspires endeared “awww”s with his “rarr.” They’ve reached the top of the highest nearby mountain, totally almost 100 feet, where he carves out a circle to sit down and meditate for eight hours, can’t find the means to wander into every remote land to explore every crevice of Her body (as though one could ever endure infinity). At the end his body’s grown so stiff he can’t hardly straighten his legs but managed to slurp up a good pentagram because he knows he is god and his number is five. Rufki is chasing butterflies next to the dwarf who is crying as he looks out at a burning boat heading for the mouth of Scorpio knowing it will never arrive. And a poet comes walking on the water, arms outstretched with an open chest cavity, doors swung inward, and a bright light blinding therein as he chants,
“I come to die in November’s abrasive arms
I come to love and do no harm
and forgive the animals my little brethren, my sisters
With a crack of thunder, with a rustle of feathers
I rise asunder from the earth, reborn by the wings of the Eagle
I rise I rise I rise”
Everyone is in tears that take on different colors and shapes as they fall and coalesce into one big stroytelling pool. They clap and call for an encore while Rufki is blowing fire out his nostrils-- ha ha, I didn’t know he could do that. The poet’s still standing out on the lake, ready to do an encore, only it hasn’t been written yet. He improvises with some tap dancing he picked up in Jerusalem...
In broken English the pool of tears is singing like an open-minded bigot that people have no right to get upset about its having oppressed countless minority groups. Then suddenly and with two hours warning it tells a nice anecdote about Lessons in Strategic Mopping:
Trish’s cousin wrote a whole book on the matter. You see the trick is to make the mop head out of noodles at midnight on a new moon– no, I’m just joshing you there. But it is to use flat noodles so the mop doubles as a weapon, just a sloshy thwap across the face and then thugs gonna think twice about robbing the janitor. Like I was seeing a guy in the news came into McDonald’s dressed as Ronald McDonald himself, robbed the whole damn place with a gun and a machete. A machete’s good, I always told my brother, not only for clearing away brush and vines, but all the clutter in the head, see. When I don’t know what’s what, I mean when I’ve really got no fucking guess, I just get in there with a mental machete and chop away. But as I was saying about the mop, you’ve got to start with big sweeping strokes what the book says. Of course remove all broken glass, cats, spark plugs ahead of time; roller coaster parts, panties, sombreros, even yachts and dinosaurs. Bob Mulligan used to give em to me on a deal, the plastic t-rex’s by the dozen for all the kiddies. Which reminds me, always teach em to mop young, like no older than four or five so they develop good technique. The first problem’s always identifying when to mop. Some people like to use litmus paper, check the pH of the floor. That’s a bit sterile, too scientific for my taste. I just bend over and knock three times, wait for an answer, then ask, “hey, you need cleanin?”But you gotta develop good inner hearing, you know. Fact, that’s the only thing I think was really lacking in the book: I would like to have seen something in there about spiritual mopping and floor yoga. You can’t always do it like a barbarian, soak it down in alcohol and toss a match in. Like that song by– what’re they called– Swans, “I need alcohol, it opens my blood.” From the top of the mountain you never need to mop nothin there, then down we go into the fertile bush of valley, overwhelmed by creeping snail trails and holy holy when you return cleaner than angel pussy. Cause when you mop it just right– and there’s ways in there to calculate from the dimensions and layout of the room, how to avoid mopping yourself into a corner– then you can rise steady and true, never a lizard brain. You’ll understand when you’re dead. But the floor joke in that tea industry is that they put all the tea on a big screen like, shake it back and forth, and the crumbs all fall out on the floor get swept up and bagged and sold in boxes. My grandma was an old bag, actually died mopping, trying to clean the blood stain from a dead deer grandpa dragged in one day with bleach and ammonia. The best mopping strategists will always tell you not to use either one. I don’t think her conscience could have handled it if she did survive– used to break into choking sobs if you so much as slapped a fly...

That Most Critics Would Say a Shark

I’m a living miserablometer. Like this: look here and find the greyblue night clouds bouncing urban lights and Gaea power off their soft heads. But Crunchy Man (known as such for the way he stays crunchy in milk) kneeling down in the silty clay keeps thinking he has to dig rotten hearts out of this patch of earth by the bay shore with nothing but a shark fin, just a way to distract him from his brainwash addiction... Always used to come out of the shack at the edge of town, the one hosting the radical speakers, spouting some propaganda about burning the fucking Jews one week, then the horrors of a central government wearing nihilistic black the next week, until he finds himself arguing over the intense relevance of wheat grass in a diet– didn’t matter what so long as it was someone else’s rhetoric-- because the words were so much stronger than him until “they” burnt the shack down and where will he get his fix now. So he digs away with his organism abused by the profound sadness of the sopping hearts until his salty eye wetness foams white in the dirt so sickly he can’t breathe reminding him of a good ovulating pussy such that he has to scourge himself for dirty thoughts. And blast it all to hell, this fruiting garshdarn Pythagorean mud is so full of ricks BALL!– oh hush child, the old man now with his hand over his mouth knowing that God is hanging over his head with a long list of Anglo-Saxon words he’s not allowed to say inscribed on a lead plate that he uses to beat the fuck out of naughty little boys. There! You’ve gone and thought a dirty word, a nasty, putrid, disgusting word, a must-be-controlled word of great cosmic importance, a must-be-empowered word that every good misery farm should fear. Just then the old man pulls up a heart all squishy and grey and oozing, turns to me in hatred and do-what-I-wilt fire pointed my direction for the way I’m mocking God there in my huge pink sombrero, a limp wrist and foppish manner. But dearie, where’s the laughter...?
Gracie Starlo White is somewhere promising me new habits with a jar of urine in one hand and a stack of shark teeth in the other, poised to attack, spring with an Anglo-Saxon word. “The modern world is simply predatory, society so deceitful... all about masking how we really feel, who we really are, pretending not to have a personality with a sharkish business smile,” her hand already bleeding. Phew! I thought she was going to say– “Shit! I mean, piss.” Oh she’s gone and ruined it. “The easiest way to make somebody uncomfortable is to tell the truth.” It just now becomes obvious that the radio is on way too loud, speakers distorted from overload, blasting a man’s voice: “Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire. Bicycle tire.” Gracie, relieved at last, lets he guard down, just glad to know what she’s supposed to buy next. Right after the lecture:
“... that most critics would say a shark, but my contention has always been that an Ostrich is much more accurate, most particularly in consideration of the fact that an Ostrich brain is the same size as one of its eyes. That simply can’t be a coincidence. Nature is always telling us that A plus B equals C or that C divided by A equals B or that C minus B equals A; or then again that we are mistaken through and through and that all along A equals B equals C: we’ve been wasting our time the whole while. But to step back a moment, it most certainly should not go unnoticed that the Ostrich, while it can’t actually achieve, contrary to our stereotypes about what it is to be a bird, can run up to 60 miles per hour. With it’s long neck and bulbous center, often idiotic demeanor and surly attitude it can trump the shark every time...”
The bell goes off and you’re standing on stage singing one of your most popular songs, “Go Back to Jeremyville.” The crowd loves you, they adore you, they just want to touch you.
“Cause baby you been kissing those eels behind my back and selling my record collection in a burlap sack...”
You see something in the crowd that you know is not supposed to be there. You try to look down at the moldy stage, hoping it will go away. You look back and there he is, hard to miss in that green top hat and sunglasses at night (only this is no Corey Heart). You almost lose focus on the lyrics.
“... I been shot in the face one too many times, I can’t even make a fucking guitar stand...”
You don’t know who he is, only that he’s not supposed to be there. And it’s true, you realize, the unbearable weight of it, that anything you think, anyone you think about, anything you breathe, anything towards which you direct your attention will be profoundly affected by your Will. Oh the responsibility! Oh the discipline required! That when everything happens. With a flash, ‘bang’ his mouth even lips it with a snap of thumb and middle finger while he faces at a 90 degree angle from most of the rest of the crowd, everything being consumed in white light with an ameboid slurp of bright bulbous things of astral sharks trumped by stupid looking toads who (you know, for some reason) are named Genri and Hagat, such a special disaster as your lyrics fall off the now largely blank page of your cerebral cortex
cuz it ain’t
my fault
the toaster
was
in the
bathtub
and what you can still “see” in the room (yes, because it’s more like feeling with astral antlers) is the green-hatted hero actually splattering paint all over the collective unconsious and splattering what was missing all along, no not the cold rotted hearts or obsessive commercialbots or any given part of the Ostrich, but the ink the ink the ink...

The Standoff

It takes a whole brigade of evil ducks quaking along a single file line, trampling down the five-inch blades of grass with webbed boots, snapping unkindly at the sludgy red substance dropping from the sky just outside the porch where Madame Zinger is knitting a new chain mail for general Krag of the Fucked-Up Liberation Army. They try to dodge the splots of goop, but it’s like trying to duck the rain (pretty quaky). So they tuck their heads and shake their feathers as the Madame hums tunes from the Wizard of Oz and Barrows, the lanky washwoman, comes stumbling out stiff-legged and trying to wipe flour from her face but only making it obscenely worse until she looks the perfect image of death half rotted for the open sores on her flesh. “Somewhere over the rainbow!” The Madame can’t help but bellow out loud and more than a little out of tune. Then Billy Saunter, who’s been leading the line, hangs his ducky head and wanders off the path, dejected, unsure of his life from here on out, disappointed with Madame Zinger’s whole garden and sick of this fucking wasp blood! Over the rainbow my ass! Then in response the Madame looks up from her work with a sigh, “I think I’ll retire to the astral next incarnation. I’m so sick of Malkuth.”
The words echo out and resonate in a single blade of grass on which a little red knight and a blue knight are preparing to battle in classic medieval style and a lady bug as referee, though momentarily distracted, mumbling to himself about the spot where he once buried over a ton of baseball cards before heading off to vacation in Ecuador and something about the injustice of being a man constantly referred to as “lady.” The knights are getting impatient, the horses pacing and rearing until the red knight taps Mr. Bug politely with his javelin, clears his throat, “excuse me your honorable ref, but might we be on with this show? The audience is clearly growing weary.”
He barks, “what fucking audience you bloody twit?” Wilbur, surly as ever. But does finally wave the flag and the knights charge valiantly, the red knight with his javelin pointed high, the blue with his pointed low until– oh god I can’t bear to look– crash! Except it runs out the javelins are just made of wet cardboard that go to mush on contact. They throw themselves to the ground and roll around both whooping big hyuck hyuck hycuks, beavers lifted when the blue knight surprises red with the ol’ Hidden Mallet Space Pie Grenade Gotcha Maneuver, whap, right in the face... mmm, cherry of course...
Yes, it takes a whole brigade of evil ducks, intentions bad, wills weak and unfocused, clustering together now, wishing they could destroy the whole damn world, but not even getting to the point of brainstorming on how to do so. It’s a regular standoff here below Madame Zinger’s porch. The Madame grins and has Barrows roll out the General Krag 4000 Multi-Place Computer which she wraps in chain mail and leaves to guard the entrance.
[The following is taken from the journal of a young duck by the name of Mann Hank, translated from the duck by Dr. Alan T. Hazer.]
At first we just blinked at each other for what seemed like forever. [Fragment missing] as though we had to ask it questions. The whole situation I found very disconcerting. There was a dark gloom cast about the whole s[cene...] our ambassador, stepped forward and faced up fearlessly. The first thing he asked was, “what is your will?”
The computer snapped into a hum, then answered. “I do not have a will as such. It is my only purpose to answer questions.”
Then perceiving [fragment missing] asked directly, “can we enter?”
“No.
“Why not?”
“Because you do not have the focus necessary to do so.”
As I looked about our ranks, I had to agree. We were a sad, scattered lot, most of us [not] even paying attention to the answers given.
[...] If I were to tie a piece of fishing line from one tree to another, what would be my chances of tripping Madame Zinger in her own garden?”
“20% with a 3% margin of error.”
“If we were to launch an attack here with, say, frisbees, what color frisbees would be the most affective?”
“Most certainly blue.”
“Fuck!”
I looked back at the pile of orange frisbees we had brought for the occasion. That was it. I mean, that really killed it. We had come all this way for nothing.

The Battle of Oh Chronicles vol II

Even white magicians must have days like this, clouds growing thick overhead, stacks of books rendered cold and meaningless, and the heart swollen from the remote pain for a girl I’ve never met. Oh well. It’s too convenient to think that your state of being in the present must be permanent, for better or worse, for a bowl of cherries bartered off the Dalai Lama or a stubbed toesie. If I reach inside often and persistently enough I know I can find infinity where nouns of various shape and quality that I’ve never even heard of reside and how I might run naked in the middle of the road on a hot day, waving my arms frantically at traffic or just lay down, rough black asphalt warm against my backside, and feel the crunch of my head as a tire rolls over it. I am not suicidal, but full of whimsy and wishing for a warm day and blue above and green below and how I might sometime be at liberty to hold the girlie beauties in loving grace, “darling, how I would like to sell you a jack rabbit.” That ruins the mood and she pushes away saying nothing, though I can see the taste of “freak” or “dweeb” on her lips.
That’s what’s really going on in my head when I wake up in the graveyard back in the clusterfuck Battle of Oh, trying to re-establish the warm feel of her body against my arms and wiping away floppy jack rabbit tears from my ghoulish face. Okay, what’s the scene now, as I get up and gaze across the rows of headstones feeling lonely for some reason and affirming that sentiment in my observations. Where was the battle? Where was the party? I head off in what I think is West for what seems like miles of graveyard before I find anyone. First it’s the commander still wasted in a cheerleader skirt of pleated blue and yellow, blond wig on crooked and the dregs of a bottle of vodka in his left hand, mumbling about karate mouse next to a heap of smoking rubble that was probably once some grandfather’s tombstone. The ghosts of innocence cluster around him, scary as shit. I can’t even look them in the face, completely vacant and completely untouchable, ready to reflect even the most subtle hostile feelings back into the deepest regions of your soul. I continue West, then, only a few paces when out of the fog of war emerges what’s left of the party, the farmers and avant-gardists still squared off and taking cover behind dead trees and elaborate statues of hiphop artists and evangelists. They take a few blind shots at each other with bb guns and .22 rifles, enthusiasms burnt out, lust for war gone, really, such that Patsy Booker, the most obsessed of the whole lot, just looks more the buffoon pitching spider grenades at both camps until little Ellie sneaks up behind him with a rope and drags him down by the throat. I intervene, remembering how the story went before, and insist that the proper thing to do would be to castrate the fucker. So the League of Angry Women descend out of nowhere like ninjas and pin him down all force and fire, making burn marks on his skin with cigarettes. I take out my pocket knife, which has grown extra long and sharp for the occasion, hand it off to Ellie– who really should do the honor after all– who only lingers for a brief moment, small fragment of her old compassion, before sheewwrut splat! cuts his nuts right off and tosses them to the Dogs of Nihil. She licks my blade clean and gives it back with a thankful nod. That done, I need only to check in on the Business Camp where I find the lawyers, bankers, politicians and realtors have all been torn to pieces, air choked with fabric of three-piece suits, limbs strewn about a grand pyramid of ribs and hollowed skulls, heads full of pennies, and the Buddha singing, “avarice is the sin of the world. IAO IAO.”

The New Country

Turn once about where you’ll find me that’s not me but some future self who makes wax skulls and pointy sticks for a living in some country called New Shitheadbrook. There will be blood in the soil for initiation’s sake, for dead Arabs’ sake and false passports blurred and obviously Warhol prints of young Elvis passed out to every migrating hipster kid this side of Gaza. I had to lay down on sharp rocks and think about the notion of empire for the sex fiends and Magus men and itty bitty kitty cats upset and mewing with ruffled hair and gashed ears. Oh how I love them all. There’s a girl kneeling in the street, about to get run over by an elephant, next to Nigel pounding cock into her tonsils and– hold on, I’m about to, oh yeah! And wet gug gug sounds spewing out around her lips. “What a purposeless purpose,” says a small girl with a mohawk, frightened and shaking in the cold. Yes, but it’s like eating or sleeping– how stupid and wasteful a thing– like calling yourself captain of the football team or Johnny Rockstar even though you’re a beedy-eyed artless son-of-a-bitch working in a financial office for Howard Co. The airplanes overhead open hatch and drop jellybeans and men with big dicks who land with a splat– parachutes anyone?– all over the North end of Baddadgag. Charlie’s playing standup bass and trying to catch jellybeans in his mouth, though none of them land close enough. Ted joins on tenor sax and quicker than a porn star falls from a plane they’ve got kids galore dancing it up, singing fragments of Elvis songs way out of key. “Damn, can’t one note be right in the whole lot!” I’m still on the rocks trying to solve the problem of a legal system in the context of relativistic morality and a police state where liberty is the rule. Then my neurons snap quite audibly, so much so that a goblin sitting next to me says, “sounds like someone has an idea,” and I leap up like a social Darwinist gorilla hooting and hollering, waving what was once some dead sap’s femur suddenly out of nowhere, trying to say, “eureka!” but vocal chords no longer capable of accommodating. I run up to where Charlie is plucking his bass and make for a smashing assault, only find myself standing erect in an Armani suit, sweating from hours of intense debate and the capacity for thought that claims modern superiority. Charlie claps me on the shoulder, says, “the world takes care of itself man. The world takes care of itself.” We dance late into the night.

Kephra Space

Planet Earth 2008: It’s a Throwdown Kidney Bean Contest here in the middle of Winter in Montana at thirty degrees below. I’m Frink Watson reporting from channel 93– and I hear this event is being broadcast to over fifty regions in the galaxy... With those words the sleepytime agent jumps into the river carrying on about wooden gates and how there’s always a mystery behind it, possibly initiation into the White Light; only last time it was guarded with a well cast voodoo doll tied by a rope. The agent makes splashy and hits the bottom where the fishies and bacteria are. There’s not really room for him, actually; he’s just wedging himself awkwardly against the side of a hill where the river runs. No fish to eat, no nothing. Back on Earth they’re still finding ways to waste food and entertain the locals. Badly chosen belief systems aid this matter immensely. Like this guy here thinks that keeping hundreds of watermelons on his barn roof will repel unseemly things such as sunlight, angels and aliens. And Loretta here believes that filling her panties with raw meat every morning is just plain good luck. So I smack the raisin bran icon (who ever that is) in the face to do something about this goddam tragedy already. He just winks and tries to sell me on protein and vitamins while posing for the cameras.

..

Okay, we’ve already heard about the things that happen on the surface of the sun, but what really goes on? Things you’ll never understand you ignorant child. Lets say it’s that roundy fiery feeling of a refulgent heart burning shining hallelujah light across the world with beamy open scintillant arms of glorious little beastlings roughly the size and shape photons living out immaculate solar lives of mitochondria. What will really get you are the beetles and things sacred. Kephra, the mighty mighty beetle, comes swooping in around midnight from some Nuit-knows-where outside of Pluto to grasp our great Sol in his buggy pinchers. Boy, NASA didn’t see that one coming. The bureaucrats just drink coffee out of cups that say “solo” while smacking dents into their foreheads as their satellites all bounce off a cosmic beetle. These fucking archetypes, there’s no stopping em. And another thing, why has Neptune been spewing out gamma rays lately? On Mars Crunk Stately, the only person to ever set foot on said planet, is waving his arms in performance of the supreme Martian ritual dance. That’s it, we’ll need no more Scorpio or Aries after this. They can finally blow those constellations to smithreenos. Two down, ten to go and soon those government wet dreams of a blank night sky will come true. Kapow! just like that. If we can’t control ourselves and can’t control the world maybe we can control the cosmos. That was their place: control and chaos. Thank you Miss Jenkins, I don’t think I’ll be going out tonight for the biting cold air full of nettle teeth. But thank you for the words on the dualistic matter... And now nobody can be born under any sign. The astrologers just hold their heads in Silence. The sky was trying all it could, but science only made divination harder while remaining completely empirically ignorant, always ready to say the sign is the same as the thing signified. But that was just right, that was their lot... Thank you Kephra for bringing our sun back home from the war...

..

Meanwhile, the Resource Destroyers have filled a luge track completely with raisin bran. Then Marty Scumtooth gets the idea that instead of pouring milk down the thing they’ll just toss in cow after cow and arrange it with industrial spinning razor blades at the bottom. A Tibetan bicyclist rides in and explains the rules of the game: “Okay, so you’ve got to watch this whole thing without cringing, blinking, or even scratching your head. For the losing contestants will be given the choice of the pit of fire and lions or of darkness and gnashing of teeth.” Darling little Elvisha Parsley comes in with a pirouette and a tutu, bright blue eyes glowing with pre-adolescent compassion, says, “isn’t that a meany-headed thing to do?” “You shut up, we occupy your ass!” Then they chain her up in the dungeon and wait until she’s eighteen to show her what they really mean. Tibetan cyclists, what are you gonna do...? Watermelon John, what they call him now, is mellowing out, reaching an equilibrium of sorts in which he’s no longer wearing the tin foil hats and dying his cows blue; he’s not passing out over fifty pounds of change at a time to the neighbor kids anymore. What he does do, though, is actually find a dead alien sprawled across the Briar path, big black tongue flopped ten feet out of its mouth. When he shows it to everyone, nobody tries to say he’s crazy, but looking at that huge lumpy slimegreen head conclude he must have created it with the power of thought alone. The reporters shuffle into town in abnormally tiny cars from which absurd amounts of them pour out like clowns, shoving microphones in everyone’s face. “Yeah, I ‘spect he somehow done it with peanut butter and masking tape, you know, not conscious like.”
End.

For Love's Sake

I ask a shower head, “what the fuck?” but he doesn’t answer and only proceeds to get out a pair of scissors and cut down peaches from the ceiling. Fortunately I already stacked the furniture into a pile on one wall where I climb up and try to push the ceiling higher so he can’t keep ignoring me this way. The tiles crack and crumble over my head in perfect yellow shards that get under my shirt and make me itch and bleed. Finally he answer me, “what kind of a relationship did you want?” I tap my face with freshly cut peaches while I think about it: “what sort of love could a boy give his shower head?” And get this, he’s all like, “lets not talk of love or chains and things we can’t untie.” Then I hit the shiny red Leonard Cohen button. “You lose! That wasn’t a question.” Hahahahahahahaha ha hahaha ha hahah aha h ahahah ahahahah hahahah ah ha ha ha ha hahahahaha hahaahahahah haah hahaha hahahaha haha haha ahah ahah....
Outside in the rain a woman’s voice screams in orgasmic delight, “oh my god white T-shirts!”
Hahhahahahah hahahaha ha hah ha hahahah ahahah ahahah ahaha haha hahahaha ha ahhah hahah ahh hahah ha ha hahahah hahahah... so I get tired of this bathroom and decide to grow wings and fly out the door where the 8x8x8ft lead cube is waiting for me. “Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.” I get out my crossbow and shoot everyone in the peach, pulpy juice splattering the walls all about. Then cubey boy and I stare at each other, still afraid of malnutrition until I take a step towards him, hear gravel crunch under my feet and the both of us finding ourselves in the driveway getting soaked with rainwater. I’m still holding up my crossbow. I let it down and hang my head, trying to love, but just sticking a fist through my chest where my heart should be. “That’s the least of your problems isn’t it?” I try to respond, to tell him that maybe he missed something, that maybe that is the thrust of the issue, but my face is completely covered in peanut butter and I can’t even breathe let alone open my mouth to talk. I’m too lazy to try to get it off, so I fall over and die.

Waste

If only the length of these sentences could take me away from the aspects of the modern world I loathe, away from the excessive maze and those parts of myself that need shedding. I could write it away, write off the day, pick apart the puzzle pieces of perception, reorganize, lights here and vampire costumes there. The clock keeps ticking and it too I could write away with a grimace of steal and a pen with blood for ink. I stare into a bulbous butt and with my pen pull down those panties and stick two fingers in just to watch her come. Go away responsibility, obligations! Free will’s a bitch boy. I’m in no mood for wasting my life at your command. Carpe diem? I kidnapped the day and held it hostage. Be damned with your modern inconveniences, pulpits and paperwork. I’ll thank you when you’re dead. ‘Cause the world isn’t strong enough to endure my passion; I get it royally when the Ram extinguishes the water, when the Arrow pierces the ocean, when the Lion drinks the river. I’m still running, not from fear but FUCK YOU. Weak wills and weaker joys– you wanna tell me about life? These dummy mannequin slaves to the tide. That’s carpe diem despite the world, rolling out reams when no one’s looking. Somewhere between here and the end of the page the day squirms away with a half bloody throat from where I held the blade and I find myself a prisoner if not a slave. It’s all material and there’s no helping it. The pins of routine puncture my heart for every X on the calendar until it’s captured low on the walls of this sterile institution. I could write my way out of locked doors if I could find and banish these demons, if I could climb to the top of the Universe to the foot of Saturn’s scythe, if man would stop knocking, if the Bull could keep braying, if the hooked stinger would stop stinging and turn its back on the seven cups. Can I write a fly-swatter to chase off this buzzing melancholy?

Scattered Sun Prayer

We are all white light sparks thrown from the sun, or drifting little glowing worming watermelons or spoons or bottles of clear liquid or dildos or any manifest or unmanifest thing on this plane or any other. Cut, we go rocking, drifting however (as previously said), singing praise to our own sunny selves, always a star that’s a sun that’s a particular path squirmily or elsewise to the brainy mushy pulp matter. What is that you mean when you take, say, an ambulance, toss it into the glass chamber of your mind and perform your crude tests on it? Well it’s really not for me to decide you star, you angel, you phantasmal illusion of my desire and volo aquila and I too only an illusion of yours my deary fear (only not fear– fear of what?). Now don’t cry about green ink spilt across the face of the earth cause as wise ol Tom said all the world is green and pretend that you owe me nothing cause they’se serving fish in the jailhouse tonight. (Daddy O, that cat was smokin so lay some bread on me cuz you bet they was gonna screw the pooch.) Sew what? That’s what we do with our mouths closed and writing in blood across walls of nebuloid brick states and all that jazzy stuff. I think of stars of Irish Catholic sultry Virgo chicks dancing to seduce every man in the room (let her be loud and adulterous and shameless before all men), and stars of old men who drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and paint fine art in acrylics and oils and stars of nineteen-year-old chill ass kids from Cancun who hold their shit together even after a quart of Jameson to quietly walk themselves head high to vomit in the kitchen and stars who may notice, please, that I ain’t really talking about plurals but each beautifully unique flame cast from our very own Helios our natural god glory glory glory. Now take this circle squared and forget not your every move or the Aquarian current (as if you could) where we wander close to congregate, to gather for reals– no false start– and cast our light about each other. Remember this star drawn for love, for Tehuti’s hand that guides the pen, for broken beakers of chemical bonding and Quantum Impossible Probability Factor, for success, for death, for Isis, Apophis and Osiris chanting glory glory glory, I adore thee to every brightly fucking magnificent perfect center of a starry universe. Aum ha! Amen.