tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-101203052024-02-06T23:58:39.822-08:00maid awake never so well inosculatedFor Every Tib and Tom CatCarl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-1709841054359725612009-03-22T11:34:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.202-07:00flocks of geese, flocks of stars<br><br><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br />How well do they mix, the flocks. Of geese amongst stars. All together they seem, don't they, they seem to be writing purposeful letters ... T ... V ... X ...<br /><br><br><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_eAnHarLN2gDsjsDIL6QRHEgngBqIAMn7KFAzpC-KJ1J6T6UmNjddOsCfGAtLNpiFzQStagJSzudCYji83lMQRDY6CBMbtLOtSN-rXxF-t2Qg_QD_8G9ZbGr5S7CnnFY-vEV/s1600-h/cel_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN_eAnHarLN2gDsjsDIL6QRHEgngBqIAMn7KFAzpC-KJ1J6T6UmNjddOsCfGAtLNpiFzQStagJSzudCYji83lMQRDY6CBMbtLOtSN-rXxF-t2Qg_QD_8G9ZbGr5S7CnnFY-vEV/s320/cel_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316082718011179554" /></a><br /><br><br><br><br />Am I reading things? Am I reading PYX ... VEX ... STYX ... ? <br /><br><br><br /><br><br />Who am I vexing by DIPPING my pyx into the styx of the sky?<br /><br><br><br><br />An adverse wind blurs my eyes.<br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-63900431390368239222009-03-20T19:10:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.203-07:00exhibit<br><br><br /><blockquote><br><br><br><br /><br />I saw that sky on the sky only the other evening – light’s obscene exposure...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBGvy7xBGwkNw1SlnwkPFaQ5I8D0urVxlxM-OT_iWsuwH0y80DplNBBMYfIedOCbrh-E0_zOMlDfv1sxcO2sVdc5DG8pd8rWNg559e_23OF847lotGTtOaVQEP-q4FtJ5_U17/s1600-h/cel_3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBGvy7xBGwkNw1SlnwkPFaQ5I8D0urVxlxM-OT_iWsuwH0y80DplNBBMYfIedOCbrh-E0_zOMlDfv1sxcO2sVdc5DG8pd8rWNg559e_23OF847lotGTtOaVQEP-q4FtJ5_U17/s400/cel_3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315458044262218114" /></a><br /><br />for our astounded grateful eyes to feast on.<br /><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-51445347670478082352009-03-09T11:32:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.203-07:00Serving<br><br><br /><blockquote><br><br><br>Serving now...<br><br><br><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1UsVovszePg5X4cXm7_mvG46645cJKd18gV9eSEnZgGeAHfsPBxf-kci4i4077OotesrPy8ZB5lK_txCmAmtMmVooFj_Ld1oQQQWwjJ9R8ElJYlc4eSoe-LnA17FzGmA-84k/s1600-h/20031008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy1UsVovszePg5X4cXm7_mvG46645cJKd18gV9eSEnZgGeAHfsPBxf-kci4i4077OotesrPy8ZB5lK_txCmAmtMmVooFj_Ld1oQQQWwjJ9R8ElJYlc4eSoe-LnA17FzGmA-84k/s400/20031008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311258075795640482" border="0" /></a><br /> a platterful of stars.<br /><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-7784191380909585182009-02-18T12:03:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.203-07:00ragout<blockquote><br /><br /><b>plastified droppings from the candidates - subterranean funfairs</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Thou anew with thine fair ticket aloft (for the return trip)</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Tidying everything before I'm gone<br />Something to remember me by (I thought)<br />And now it seems they remember me by<br />The endearing sobriquet of "<em>the tidy guy</em>."<br /><br />Picked up all the papers<br />Piled them up in tidy mounts<br />Picked up even all the discarded underwear<br />From the secretary girls dirty after their parties<br />And saintly debaucheries.<br /><br />Now I was loaded with my goodbye packages<br />The street a bit slippery<br />The metro station the wrong one<br />The corridors dark<br />Some of my little suitcases misplaced<br />The funfair underground labyrinthine<br />Its shops darkening and almost deserted<br />And the criers not even bothering with the shadow of me.<br /><br />Luckily I met a friend of old<br />Who hadn't given up<br />He was back at work hard as nails<br />And he put everything to rights<br />With a sad face though<br />Because I was surrendering to pressure again<br />Bailing out retiring to pastures green<br />Alone and naked and empty-pocketed and so on.<br /><br />Little consolation he gave me a few mementoes<br />For my collection of trifles and worthless trinkets<br />From the city back at home in the sticks.<br /><br />Took from his pocket a few electioneering badges<br />And match boxes (three or four)<br />That he'd found on the floor<br />As he was walking today and he'd thought<br />About me<br />For which I was very<br />Very touched.<br /><br />We said goodbye there at the dark platform<br />I see still his hand waving goodbye<br />And gesturing showing which way the right way<br />To get to the good station that would carry me<br />To the station<br />Where the train would carry me home.<br /><br />Such perfection of organization the world<br />I was so touched<br />My fingers still smelled of the girls' crotches<br />The train was lulling me to sleep<br />I had a slight erection<br />Peaceful pastoral home beckoned<br />And my trinkets joyfully tinkled<br />What a perfect world indeed.<br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>clues on the angular walls</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Angular walls of the fortress hotel checked for clues</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ah yes the hotel<br />Well it was full and we were bound to stay by the window<br />Looking at the snow<br />The hall was teeming thick with breaths and smoke<br />I told my son as soon as you see snow anywhere<br />Scan the landscape<br />Wherever you are in a train a plane a coach a hotel<br />And be light-footed enough so that you take your place<br />Near the nicest available girl<br />The more well endowed with chest material<br />And ass substance the better<br />For the hours shall be long<br />And nothing warms a heart or a body as a nice big chested big assed woman<br />Son at your side.<br /><br />Keep your ears pealed she'll tell you soon such intimate details<br />As about the time she pissed herself and had to hang her underwear<br />Well wrung on the racks of the communal bathroom<br />Or... But you get my drift - as I was saying substantial stuff indeed.<br /><br />The wind was blowing outside<br />The snow afloat<br />The trees surrendering<br />The bears hungry.<br /><br />Scheming or running<br />The runners and the cheaters were scurrying in and out of doors.<br /><br />I told my son never you fret<br />Morning comes always soon enough<br />Often your are caught by its light even in the middle of your endeavors<br />And you are puzzled and amazed<br />And you scream to the forces unseen that hey you weren't even half finished<br />With you secret delicate nocturnal chores<br />For only in hypnagogic vision one guesses enlightened<br />That there is truth and that there touches one reality.<br /><br />I remember now in the tundra<br />When we were stationed in the abandoned mine<br />The frozen torrent had to be dug up in order to find some of the soldiers<br />That had died during the previous war<br />And had been buried in there though nobody knew exactly where<br />At which point all along the intricacies of the stream<br />Buried in sewage buried in which type of taxidermic reptilian sands<br />Or in which sludge I mean or slurry rather<br />That their moving corpses shriveled to weirder shapes<br />Than when they were just tidy dudes aching for action<br />In the dancing floor of the massacring grounds.<br /><br />There then where the fortification at one of its banks ran in zigzag<br />Arbitrarily letting in inlets or contrariwise encroaching on the trench itself<br />The immemorial water had drawn into the rock<br />There we dug and well look never mind<br />The conditions were infinitely worse than now.<br /><br />In fact of course everything evolves always to a better stratum<br />As stuff adds its modifying thrust<br />The outlook improves<br />And the definite glory you know what it is?<br />Is dying<br />Dying when your work has then been done<br />Once and for all - ah then yeah the sighing the blessed letting go...<br /><br />Meanwhile though our hands were so frozen our arms so stiff<br />That we had to feed each other<br />We soldiers paired face to face with our stiff arms clumsily fishing<br />Into the gritty pond of frozen food<br />On a plate all told in front of us<br />And then we lifted our arms and the fellow in front<br />Of you fed you with his stiff arm as you fed him with yours<br />The frozen muddy dollop of incongruous potato at the end of your glove...<br /><br />And then almost of a sudden<br />Wouldn't you know!<br />The Sun would always explode<br />Everything unfroze<br />The torrent flew the dead exited disguised and unstuck<br />Their lids unclung our arms jumped alive<br />The flowers popped all over the field<br />The birds were ubiquitously heard they had resuscitated<br />We started to sing songs much as oarsmen do<br />We joked we slapped our reciprocating backs<br />The cook danced a jig with his ladle aloft.<br /><br />I never forgot those days<br />How could I and how could you now son<br />Look the snow is the page where all is written<br />Indelibly don't you agree?<br />Forever extant and the Sun explodes only in order<br />That the page be renewed<br />Where another episode of our epic should appear<br />Splashed in such magnificent clarity<br />Our eyes at the beginning smarting<br />And we rubbing in consequence our lids with some alacrity<br />So that the phosphenes should add a few more protagonists<br />Disfigured and all to the queer proceedings on the stage.<br /><br />Then the snow outside turned red<br />Arson is the fulcrum where snow finds its leverage<br />Is also the setting in where the incubi delve<br />They are blushing as their alibis are shot<br />They are accused to be accessories to asphyxiation.<br /><br />Beneath the old soldiers smolderingly slumber<br />But do they fume? Only when the Sun's too keen<br />Its explosion unwarrantedly muscular<br />The processes meanwhile push on the landscapes puff on<br />The rampant smuts offer their syllabic gambits against the eroded walls<br />The ramparts become flatly synthetic if bizarrely stained<br />With a language I don't understand.<br /><br />Every entity this side and that of the glass gets imbued<br />With the fiery madness<br />Macabresquely prostrates itself.<br /><br />It's too cold again<br />The son's trying to disentomb the father from the snow<br />The father unfound<br />Unfound as yet and surely for evermore.<br /><br />Useless frostbitten undertaking son<br />Scan rather the apparatus that suddenly takes off<br />A revival of sorts<br />At it then courageously.<br /><br />Virtuous after such debauchery wallowing<br />My eyes not clinging unclogged<br />Under masses of snow.<br /><br />But why the elegiac tone?<br />Scan scan the landscapes<br />Now<br />The protruding forms behind the wondrous<br />Angles<br />Do though take care it doesn't pay to scrape one's shin.<br /><br /><br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>At the nudie camp, strange happenings</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>In a world of miracles, cannot everything happen...?</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In the nudie camp we had invited the non-nudies - I remember I was sitting on a table with not too many others, joking about the weird stuff that happened in the world.<br /><br />Then other groups of people came and started sitting themselves around the same elongated picnic table - a woman sat at my side - I looked at her it seems at the same time that another of the fellows already sitting down stared (perhaps too intently) at her - so she went into a rage of sorts, ejaculating in high dudgeon: "<em>What! What's the matter! Something wrong? Why the bloody pernickety stares?</em>" - all this glaring at me. I replied, with an apologetic smile: "<em>Just a roving eye; sorry</em>."<br /><br />Then it started getting too crowded, the wine flowing, the sandwiches jumping along the table; I felt trapped, so I got up and searched with the eyes a route of escape - the best way was to get on top of the table among the food and the drinks and the bouquets and the hands, and run for it to the nearest corner in order to leap then to the floor, free; only that when I got up, my underwear (the only item of clothing I wore) got caught on a sliver of the bench and as soon as I got over the table I had to hold and hide my balls (my shorts torn and hanging down to the middle of my thigh) - so I said, laughing, especially to the lady at my side, a non-nudie mighty interested now: "<em>Just a wandering eye, indeed</em>," but everybody was already making fun of me, so that I ran to the end of the table and leaped to safety.<br /><br />I went to the meadow to look at the sky with the others. The seals (so you'd swear they were - same shape, same sheen, same impression of ponderousness,) the seals in the air were still talking among themselves. The sky was a spotless deep blue, the "seals" all black, with fins that looked like rudimentary hands. It was utterly amazing. <em>How do they do it? How do they manage to... And they look so intelligent, stoichiologically surmising and all... Balancing their words, or thoughts... What..., what kind of uplifted animals or celestial beings are those...?</em> Mighty puzzled, we were asking all kinds of questions. They had appeared in the sky a couple of days ago. That was the main reason we had invited the non-nudies of the neighboring camp up to our domain. To discuss and comment about the wonderful apparition of the shiny magical beasts conversing by themselves up there, and aloft. Such miraculous situations. But now lo...! At last the "seals" seemed to have arrived to an understanding of sorts... No more weighty conferences atop our wondering heads... They had started drifting away, only that now there were millions of them drifting in the same direction - opposite the sun that had started its slow descent... The seals were "flying" (without wings) higher and higher and faster away; only that now, come from all the corners of the firmament, there were many, many of them, and their shapes were not identical to those we had come to know; some of their shapes were a bit comical even, almost cartoonish, grotesque... And yet, the whole, how imposing, daunting, stirring... The wife of another fellow was at my side, we embraced while we looked up... She was a beautiful woman, bronzed, strong, with short hair... And now we embraced still tighter... The sky was changing into astonishing shapes... The forms the sky was conceiving were now mainly like enormous, heaven-encompassing peacock's tails, with chiefly brown and white rhomboids, but also rhomboids in other iridescent tonalities... <strong>In a world of so many miracles, why should anything, at the end of the day, be impossible...?</strong> I remember commenting - and she holding me tighter.<br /><br />Unfortunately a superannuated plane appeared now very low, licking the trees, its motor making the sick noise of giving up its ghost... We were afraid the plane - all black, and heavy, all of metal often rusted at the seams - might fall upon us. But it fell a bit off the camp. We saw immediately a thick plume of dark smoke. We rushed, she and me, only that we were by now a bit far off. And then we saw two naked young women get out of the plane, no too much the worse for wear, a few scratches and bruises and stains of grease and coal - they were wobbly, but who knows from what, if from fear, or shame, or too much of an intoxicating substance brewing inside them... There was nobody else inside the wreck. The women were both very embarrassed; nobody bothered them much. There was no fuel left in the plane; it didn't really burn, but it looked like a pile of junk.<br /><br />We walked, the other's wife and I, deep into the fields; we sat down among the rows of recently planted oats; we kissed; we decided that we were part of the miracle - the seals in the sky, the odd images sketched in the firmament by the conjunction of the elements, the planes that fell, all those signs of life and of mystery hidden and manifest - who knows what's really (really!) true. Everything might be possible - the return of our selves - the return of we as we really are under these disguises of flesh... "<em>We might see ourselves again in a world undreamed</em>," we concurred. Nothing has been discovered as yet. So many possibilities ahead...<br /><br />And then she got up. She went, so marvelous, a goddess into the sunset.<br /><br />At length I got up and went into the opposite direction. I found on a lame chair a pair of trunks that I got into. I walked past the camp. I gathered a few bottles of orange juice that were unopened; my intention was to carry them to the fringes, I didn't want that they should spoil, go to waste. Only that, lost in thoughts, by and by I had walked into the wrong camp. There were some steep steps in front of me, a stairs difficult to climb. Also I saw that there was a mechanical ladder working not far from the stairs. Loaded with the dozen bottles of orange juice, I started climbing the stairs. A fellow was atop them, dressed all in yellow, in a sort of military uniform, with a pumped up cap like those worn by generals. He started shouting. Actually he was congratulating me. "<em>Magnificent work, citizen compatriot!</em>"<br /><br />Then he was talking (shouting) to somebody behind him. "Behold, soldiers, a pure clean fellow, a legal local citizen, a man of our kind, climbing the stairs!"<br /><br />Now I saw that behind him he had a company assembled - about twenty young fellows all dressed martially, in yellow, all of them I noticed holding in their right hand, not a rifle or another weapon, but a bottle of milk (milk, I assumed, for the liquid inside it was all pure white, as the liquid inside my bottles was pure orange.)<br /><br />I had stumbled into a camp for blossoming right-wingers - a camp that I knew to be not too far from ours (about thirty miles, I reckoned - that must have been the large stretch along which I had gotten stranded.)<br /><br />The commanding nut was haranguing his troops: "Then they will say that only the dirty bastards, the tainted immigrants employ the stairs - that we real McCoys are too degenerate to climb stairs, that we consider it beneath our station... No way! Here you have a hero! Not only a properly hued person, build like a demigod, and loaded to the gills to boot, but also a man of quality: observe how fine his hands, behold the classical shape of his nose... He looks to me like a rare product of the heavens... And he climbs the stairs like an immigrant...! He doesn't take the easy mechanical way. He takes the hard bitter heroic way! We are able to be strong and earthy too, my dear purebred clean-blooded fledglings! Not only them are able to endure; we can too!"<br /><br />They were looming huger and huger, a gigantic yellow egg about to burst. I was in the middle of the stairs and the general, after effetely glancing and smirking my way, gave an order: "<em>Let's meet the hero halfway!</em>"<br /><br />The yellow boys came to me as an avalanche. I feared for the bottles. I put them down one by one. And now I had to be embraced by each of the boys. The general, from the upper rung was paternally smiling; very straight, and proud. Now he gave another clashing order. "<em>Climb to the bottom and up! Let's show the hero that we also can!</em>"<br /><br />The yellow blob went down and up in an exhalation. A quaint demonstration at once of bearable stamina and acceptable coordination. Then they stood behind their "general," in correct formation. The boss told them to be at ease, and they started drinking eagerly from their bottles - I noticed that their bottles carried now my orange juice. I peered down at my bottles - they had been all violated, they were almost empty, or filled with murky milk. I left them there. Silently I retraced my steps..., headed back to our nudie camp...<br /><br />The night fell while I was still lost in the fields. The stars were so strange. The sky was a complete snake with many eyes, many refulgent eyes - <strong>What am I but a possibility</strong>, I said, trudging along, bombed.<br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>3 filing fast</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Three clownish departures</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>Funky guy Fred</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />He tries so hard, he carries on trying... The agitator, wielding his monkey wrench. Cernuous, headstrong, corpulent, burning like lit punk, choking with rage. To harm, by word or deed, as many people as he possibly is capable of laying his drawn talons on. The vixen and the jackal, his mother and dad, unworthy, cursing the failed cornucopia from where the firebrand sprang, shocked, went up in a plume: they had gassed themselves in their kitchen which forthwith exploded anyway.<br /><br />The earthenware pipkins therein, you got quaint fragments of them up the roof of the church's pinnacle, and some humbler bits of their skulls stood on raining over the village, scantily enough (now a sliver, now another,) for months on end. Or that was the pious belief, at any rate.<br /><br />Blurry science, oratorical fifing, plus philosophical and moral expositions and discourses - sermons mostly - expounded for years, after expanding on the plight of the perjured parents, the rude-rife theories about the generation of a monster such as this. Engendered, it was said, by retrocopulants, one of which with a prehensile phallus, and so on, products of nystagmatic frenzy, dreams of rutting stoats and retting stinkers and rotting cunts. Where the contorted arms of a swastika turned into two persons of the same sex going at it like damned acrobatic stick devils.<br /><br />He looked almost always sullen and quite severe, even a little bit frightening, though at home he often loosened up indeed. He'd mix suet and creosote, and stripping down to nothing, on the buff, he'd skinny-dip and flip and slide on the unbreathable fatty rills on the floor. He, inherited from his mom, who had still a denser tuft, sported (always vilely smeared) at the end of his spine (guarding his beguiling asshole, plugged by the prehensile doodad of his genitor, it was rumored afterwards,) a tuft of thick hairs where his tail had been meant to be. He had such a tantalizing address sliding on the fetid agar-agar on the floor of the living room, as to seem a golliwog basking on the brake.<br /><br />Parsimoniously, for the scents were dear, the poor engenderers spread, through a spraying receptacle of which they had one each at hand, attar and other flowery oils - for, as it was notorious all over the neighborhood, the infant (and then the youngling and later still the youth) stank, in perfect mimicry of the skunk who basks in his own shit or the hoopoe who on a manure pyramid ass-wise nudges her fledglings to the least chafing areas of dung.<br /><br />He's eaten plenty of pungent rubbish for the oblique length of his existence. A succession of infectious highly pyretic outbreaks was his lot as he grew up - he should have been a runt, but he throve on filth and became a giant. Terrible corruptions of his innards ensued after his basking on the shits. His teeth and bowels rotted away. Now he is aware of the reaction (the flanges of the vents on everybody's noses cannot help but flail in disconcerting agony) on the part of his supporters every time he unwittingly vents the worse of his guffaws, and therefore avoids to show, for as long as he is able, any kind of merriment or public enjoyment.<br /><br />Funky guy Fred and his conceivers for a while had a pact, how d'you call it, an understanding. He had to bring some kind of funds for his keep - that's to say, if he wanted to crash and grub in their nest, he had to make some kind of coin clink into the kitty, ok? So he haunted the subterranean metro stations. He'd hide behind the piles of slag with which the engines were fed, and he would suddenly appear, very aggressive, maybe with a female companion or two, also malodorous, also ugly, also criminally bent, and they would raze the platform, they would stick their hands into the pockets of the bewildered patrons. Shameless, obnoxious, repugnant beggars, they would claw at the insides of every pocket while the people so attacked couldn't react in time, too befuddled by the stinks and the aspects and the ferocity of the raiding party. Plus each of the assaulters carried old umbrellas, with very pointy, honed, rusted tips, very akin to spears to spear people through with. And with those coins he lived for years comfily at home, in fact until he was thirty plus or so.<br /><br />Then, as that bogus fellow Christ, he went it alone. Alone with his disciples, of course.<br /><br />First, most of his pleasures he had to savor in private - alone, poor little old liar - for his parents would literally smell any single one of his putrid pals, and forthwith kick her (or rather him, another of those bloody pogrom-prone catamites most likely,) out with awful remonstrances. Then, one day, as his dad stumbled, by some inadvertency, upon one of those rare girls, who was, at the moment, oddly bathing, and as the dad saw the grime of the erst haggard nymph now thawing out and he grew consequently fonder of the spectral apparition by the second, and as his prehensile phallus was up to tricks and the girl faked to be up to playing with the repulsive snaky staff of the oldish fellow, he (Fred) played instead the appalled, enraged, upright citizen up for the defense of a maiden in distress at a solitary crossroads where on the sly an ogre was preying on a rape-suitable patsy, and voilà, he gave his dad such a correction that the unfortunate cripple never could engage his prehensile handle again around any of the sticks that held the panels of coruscating signs offering directions to all vaginal travelers.<br /><br />Since then the vixen, Fred's mother, never felt again the jackal's snake rummage up her siphon in search of awkward or secluded spots, for unknown coves and unreached beaches. Her womb, now become an antechamber of frozen cadavers, withered. Naked to their worst incompetences - their skins ragged ravaged canvasses through which peeped crossbones - Fred's parents despaired. "<em>Our bones walk us,</em>" they moaned, shufflingly stalking one another, down the encumbered boulevards their house was now plagued with - for the disciples had come in droves and all their plunder was discharged pell-mell - Babylonian piles - at the first empty or semi-empty location they happened to stagger upon. They were there (destructive anarchists) to acquire new curlicuing decorations from the dangerous acid of spit plus other goos inaugurated from the mouth (and spouts) of the gifted haranguer.<br /><br />In the fateful kitchen, ah, the winter steamy gas of pyrotechnics! Bomb building a must. All was there for them alone. "<em>Buildings apocalyptically fuck the fields,</em>" they were told. And they didn't want the erstwhile pristine fields any longer fucked. Those buildings had to jump. And jump spasmodically indeed.<br /><br />The doomed conceivers in the meanwhile found themselves marooned among mountainous scrags of revealing, reverberating moraines. The advancing glacier of the squatters' appurtenances would soon have swallowed them whole. "<em>To our great detriment, every crag of our countenances had become a screaming denunciation,</em>" they would've written had they found with what (other than a infirm turd and a mirror).<br /><br />Fred sent his disciples (females or female-impersonators all as it happened) on sticky missions. She (the terrorist girl) is careful in arranging herself to the quiet surroundings so that nobody can catch her red-handed in the beautifully spectacular mischief. She does this either by going there under the cloak of darkness or by providing herself with some ironclad excuse as to why she could be found precisely that second at precisely that spot so mournfully walking by herself, brimming moreover with all kinds of unwarrantedly guilty self-exonerations. Then, this instant when she is absolutely sure no animal alive is able to watch or even surprise her while she is mired in the thick of the felony - in other words, when she is confident nobody will witness how she is committing her marvelously cowardly action - then is when she rapidly juggles the writing on the walls.<br /><br /><br />This she wrote:<br /><br /><br />"<strong>My peruked ambition</strong><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><em>Guarding.</em><i><br /></i><em>But what. Guarding something big, walled. On the thickest side.</em><i><br /></i><em>Guarding a castle, a palace, a museum. Old stuff, not too alluring.</em><i><br /></i><em>A far unimportant wall with nary an opening.</em><i><br /></i><em>I'm taking long pisses, I'm always retiring, past the corner,</em><i><br /></i><em>To the dark. I'm reading long novels on the sly. I'm</em><i><br /></i><em>Strolling leisurely, watching the birds, the leaves,</em><i><br /></i><em>The snowflakes, the petals, the butterflies...</em><i><br /></i><em>I'm dozing with a shoulder leaning on the unflinching wall</em><i><br /></i><em>The remaining of my allotted... Passing the time in peaceful</em><i><br /></i><em>Useless anonymity</em>."<br /><br /><br />A subversive poem the merchants can't stomach. Who could, such a horrendously unpalatable& Such a counterindicative pill of maleficent unpoisoning. And what a frontal attack to their values of non-reticence as pertains to spending for the sake of such. The tenets of what they hold most sacred mocked. It disparages acquisitiveness and ceaseless consumption of worthless, maliciously created necessities that choke the gristles and deaden the living tissues of the mortified bodies that would free themselves from the strangling vice of acquiring for no other purpose save the fact that they were cunningly instructed to, bunch of dickshit zombies. "<em>Worst crime committable,</em>" they wring their long-nailed hands, and pull their hairs in agony, "<em>is an anti-advert of consequences most devastating; imagine in terror the pains of withdrawal a naïve youth would incur if heaven forbid should follow the diabolical injunctions and quit shopping for garbage. Schooled (since his first breath somewhat drawn) in the addictive, drug-fiendish frenzy for purchasing</em>."<br /><br />The clandestine versifier will be tortured, and forthwith shall die a most a propos death. Impaled atop de lit beating pictograms. For all her misleading indications, and garbling of clues, for all her unhealthy infection of minds up till now so contented, she...<br /><br />"<em>Burn, barn, burn!</em>" - they puerilely chant, the businessmen killers, anapestic, getting rid of the antimercantile pest, "<em>burn, barn, buuurrrnnn!</em>" And that's what they do, they burn the old barn (and later they'll impute the feat to the terrorists,) with the slowly impaled poetesses inside, and all those by her so much loved animals, only the too exhausted, for a fact, though, of course, the too exploited, the burned out - can't extract a single stunted egg more from them, so now they are tortured once again yet, sacrificed in the worshipping temple of greed - only god the hucksters acknowledge, though hypocritically they (with their prehensile dinguses of a tongue each, each couple coupling in the swastika position indeed) pay homage to the cruel self-righteous gods of lying priests, their accomplices in the selling of nothing - nothing, and yet so dearly paid by us - we clowns thus claim - with our warped from infancy, messed forever lives.<br /><br />If you find a vandalized panel full of coarse pleasantries, you will only ignore it and follow your way, but if an arrow in a panel has been deceptively turned around on its wrong end, or a warning has been removed, or a single letter has been put upside down, and a word that faced left now faces right, so that "<em>no way,</em>" has been distorted into "<em>on you may,</em>" or better: "<em>one may&</em>" and you follow it to your death down some abyss, you've been had again by one of those brilliant ubiquitous ads.<br /><br />How were the executioners to strike the hearts' jaded chords with proper wit and humor, supposing any (stab at humor) was left untapped in a world without secrets, brimming instead only with awful verities everyone was manifestly eager to flee from&? Hum, here was the sparkling rub, indeed. What to sell furthermore with the images of the barns burning. The sheer swelling, the continuous flammulation of the blaze inspiring maybe the last tumescences left between some moribund's flaking thighs... Again the acceptable parliamentary harmony that convinces the mob the most far-fetched imbecilities are what is imprescribably desired... Where to find, both serendipitous and dogheaded, the oomph needed to operatively elevate the highly transmogrifying verb of the flames, yeah? That spume of elegies which very iridescence spelled such passionate self-assurance, oh, talisman of credibility that one day had enhanced, soul by soul, the whole ascending chamber of listeners...? How... How to repeat the irrepressibly irreplaceable&?<br /><br />This they were plotting, while Fred there he kept, ensconced, by himself, in a narrow land of hopelessness that was fast becoming storm-eroded. A flick of metasome flew away, as flint percussed. His bed of reduced linen and muslin smelled of recent cinders now. "<em>The boss is also burning,</em>" he heard the concerned voices at his withering ear. He felt himself being felt up, as if he were just a beginner, a young professional, craving for preferment.<br /><br />His liquefying pool was peopled by creatures still propelled by pointless conspiracies, by paltry collusions of pedantic prides, a dreadful cocktail of sundry enemy twins wallowing in boiling water. "<em>The small boss went up to her rip and roamed along the caves, wherein he neatened nothing, just browsed, as lamas and moa love to do; hand it to her, she never gave out a chirp, but now, that almost thirty years have gone by, and the small boss is retiring, will she be so craven as to recriminate upon him for what he did&?</em>" The parties of politesse colossal, of conceit limitless, the flowing nankeen robes so auspicious for the perfidious feel, the confident contemporaneous set listening to the demeaning hymns, rumbaing to them with miens ecstatic.<br /><br />And Fred, his burned lungs splintering, his splintering ulna up his rectum, an enema of sorts, the splinters of bone razing the lining - huge groans heard - wanly latched on to them with ears withered, while the partying set is jamming underneath, senile devils, their elderly parents with them, the pointy elbows whacking around for room, the aromas something else, perfumes of agony - in order to own some of our most spoiling gizmos the set must monkey the clients, do as the clients do, singed lungs and all, insane shrieks and all, trade names that are sky cries of rallying of the faithful, less..., adjust the gears, the gauges, less, I want to hear less... I want out of the jolly reunion. And yet why am still I howling for morphine...?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />88~~~88<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Second departure</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Whisper it truculently as if the gleam of a pearl has been usurped<br />That the apocalyptic prospect of a protruding tumescence<br />That randomly splinters into corneas, retinas, and spasms of sneering<br />Tangential philanthropy, while you are ceremonially brained<br />Is the intimate consistence of complete silence<br />That notwithstanding all our tacit ovarian longing<br />The previously seen eagle was but a slice of tomato flying askew<br />That the subsumption of the symptomatic is akin to<br />The insidious cud never even met, and yet sworn as<br />Graphics to the blind clue.<br /><br />Doomed to prurient pretense, to pretend indeed at competitive bids<br />Thrown at greedy, misrewarded counterparts of a somewhat opposite<br />Sex, let's say, for the idea's sake, a dreadless half-dozen<br />Of vapid nymphomaniacs whose survival depends on a few<br />High-strung platitudes, everyone of them another banal ally<br />Eager to give a shit, rolling her sleeves up, each with vast cinctures<br />Of resourceful bliss; nothing debunks such a mood<br />If they are up to the job, and you fondle and ride them<br />At appointed trysts.<br /><br />All this preempts easier encomia<br />Only the brittle loci of envy and jealousy now to climb out of.<br /><br />Insofar as this calculated comportment evokes also the evolving<br />Redemptive moltings of the reptile, all disapprovals dissolve<br />Into what's "natural," "normal," "current," "vital," "organic,"<br />In a word "female."<br /><br />You've saved yourself an awful series of sessions where<br />You were reviled to irrecoverable lengths, plus were exposed<br />To quite an array of pernicious beliefs enacted by toughs that now<br />Really got sinister, as those patrols of the skies that rain death<br />On you all, another population terrorized by the fucking virtuous<br />Before you've reached the cumulative grueling ontological temptations<br />Of sweet senescence.<br /><br />Sweet senescence, indeed, and its unsexy temptations<br />The engines of metastasis.<br /><br />All the sardonic haggling, with "<em>honeysuckle that</em>," and "<em>don't be</em><i><br /></i><em>Such a tease, and do your sheer gorgeous routine this,</em>" and "<em>be petty and rough</em><i><br /></i><em>When trampling on my archaic turgidity, please</em>," abandoned as the<br />Tormented moths of love.<br /><br />The rusting nails of unscrambled rapport<br />The moldering craven levity of two hearts of molten cheap tin<br />Drowning in the wells of frustration.<br /><br />You do relinquish all congruence and approve instead<br />Of almost anything, any old crap that now enthralls you<br />The weave of a nastily pubescent felt hat<br />A prestigious non-verbal dexterity to turn clichés<br />Into impish idling wit, the proof being in the constructing<br />Of now mental aridities: "<em>Look at the weave</em><i><br /></i><em>Look at the weave, the waft and web, the woof,</em><i><br /></i><em>The grain, the nap...</em>"<br />Turned yourself into a regular fetishist indeed<br />"<em>Of that nastily pubescent felt hat...</em>"<br />A clownish fetishist who struts hilariously insipid<br />Down the aisles of<br />The aisles of<br />The aisles of bone hidden in the cancer epigrams.<br /><br />What's that? A tinge of hideous hisses at the end<br />As you grieve and simultaneously<br />And simultaneously<br />And simultaneously vigorously root<br />For the mean tricky virtues to finally<br />To finally<br />To finally screw up the totality, screw it up<br />And here comes the whole crew<br />Shout once<br />Shout once again<br />Again<br />They haven't heard<br />Obey all, you all<br />Mincing choir of wincing grubs<br />Obey<br />Obey all.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />88~~88<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Third departure</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Stochastic, fragmented steps towards the exit. To the moldy stacks of books where disappearance is sweet. Ah, being leafed by the odd virgins' clean thin fingers. My life slowly burning in the thrilling Lenin kilns. Relics of exotic languages skipping over the gray waters of my cooling back. Every book a livid beige of dried pulp. Moths in abundance, or flakes.<br /><br />Ah, the bliss of going under - then, underneath, ha! - flummoxed by the humorous gait adopted by the clusters of offal - somehow militarized into battalions - leaves pulverized underfoot - the proceeds from the circus in my deadened carcass - raucous laughter - the payment in excess of what one certainly expected - far from the sobbing conflagrations vomited by fools - all that gruel oozing now from the rickety counterpane, by clonic spasms grieved - my sore talons sorting among the crumbles - drawing arguing petroglyphs on the rubble - with sharpened nails...<br /><br />This time I'll go deep and I'll fetch the cold slimy heart that aches at the end of my lost traffic under the wet heavy counterpane - this time the cinders shall take shape, and the slug of my soul shall emerge clenched by my crippled claw. An invading criminal flock of grasping clutching cranny-pecking birds - that's the last item I shall feel merging with the burning moths of my closing blindness.<br /><br />Despondent structure of the nightmare - forlornly spinning as I rode astride the spluttering worm whose heels trip on the wavy ropes of yawning limbos - and falls, splattered, and falls, scruffy, bedridden, bathed in snowflakes of curdling incense turned fetid - the macabre quilt tinged with shriveled fickle phlegms that figure ominous armies subsumed in the dusk behind the cliffs, where the embers linger, ravens and banshees lurking at the threshold of the ravines - the bamboos fluttering fringes, mangy tassels, inky grisly silks worn by ugly revengeful strumpets whose dreamvoices upbraid the abject botanist, a thief sleek as a sloe who roams the ditch and steals the choicest books, the tenderest flowers, the herbs miraculous, the hypnotic weeds that once taken, you sank into oneiric crack-climaxes that brought rapt metamorphoses - the gruesome aesthetics of the dream patching like glistening flak the cuirass of your peeling skin.<br /><br />Long-leafed laurels overhead - while scanning their headlines - "<em>postcoital colliders, particle chitchats</em>" - the blundering rings on my skeletal fingers start to reciprocate - with which irksome acuity their energy fields impeccably battle - the capsized funnels of my late sanity inaugurate the bromidic eidola which my catatonic self blithely sows - worse: vomits - sons of bitches, I am a regiment of nystagmatic clowns - damn "funny" weaklings who peddle their Levantine crap gambreled as tattered empty puppets from a clothes hanger, insisting their debts to society are both "slight and speedy" and that their is "no compensation available in the dismaying void of our disrepute."<br /><br />With the fast ebbing stamina of a cripple whose effort at mending the unrepairable helm ends in a sprained core of disease, it is my ultimate folly to rebuff the crutches and...<br /><br />Crash.<br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><br /><b>Agape with the boss</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Conversations with the machinist</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Well, of course, though he had not a penny in his pocket, he went inside the house. "The lot must go. All as marked. Furniture and wieldy items priced individually." It was already the last hour, so the throng had thinned. Any thing at all worth anything must have been snatched long ago. "Downstairs, everything in the drawers goes for a dollar." "Middle level, everything in the drawers goes for a dime." "Upstairs, everything in the drawers, a penny." He climbed to the last floor. The drawers were practically empty; still he rummaged where everyone had rummaged before. He was tempted by a keyholder in a corner of a bottom drawer. Not to buy it, mind you; just to stealthily slip it into a pocket. But what for...? He had no key to attach to any keyholder - it would have been just more dead weight. He took off as light as he'd come in. Three Polish ladies, though, had come out rather loaded with stuff. One of them smiled to him. "Are you also going to the bus stop?" She asked of him, with a heavy accent. He lied: "I certainly do." "You wouldn't mind helping me with this two little parcels, would you? A strong young fellow like you." He, of course, agreed; acquiesced, so willingly, adding a few little reverences with his head. The lady gave him two big packages. A chocolate cake, a box with just-worn-once shoes inside. Traudlclitza her name was, the blond plump white fortyish lady. Over the bridge Traudlclitza noticed her two friends, that had kept on walking as she was negotiating with him the carrying of the big parcels, noticed them down by the river, with their skirts up, cooling their legs and thighs, their parcels on the shore, at hand. "Oh, let's!" said his lady. And he had to carry all of the parcels, lest she should slip and fall, as they were carefully trundling down the bank. "He'll watch all the packages," Traudlclitza arranged. And so the three ladies could go inside the middle of the river, where the water was deeper, without fear of having their goods stolen by any slithery thief. None of the three wore any panties. Their skirts they held with one hand above the navel. Her three cunts talked marvels about the miracles of nature, and their white plump asses shone like three beautiful moons. His cock was shooting for the moon. They were going to miss the bus, though, crazy broads. They put back their shoes, they were, they said, thoroughly refreshed. Now they walked fast, he loaded more than ever. Traudlclitza carried not an item. The other two, somewhat miffed that he couldn't carry any of their parcels, kept apart, all of a sudden lagging behind. He wouldn't hear the spikes of their shoes resounding behind him any more, he stopped, and gyrated - yes, they had gone, through a sidestreet no doubt. Traudlclitza said: "Never mind the bitches. We'll go to the station, to catch the train, too late for the bus." At the station, she pays for her ticket. He accompanies her to the car. She installs all her parcels on the rack above her seat; the chocolate cake, starting to melt, he wraps an antimacassar he swipes from another seat around it, tells her to discard the wrappings under the seat once she arrives at the station and her husband picks her up. Now he kisses her cheek. "See you, Trau" he says, "I'll try to reach your point of destination, I'll see you there again if I manage." He has no money to buy a ticket himself, but the woman likes to flirt, perhaps he'll get lucky, once he knows where she lives, say tomorrow, when the husbands leaves for work, and he knocks at her door... He climbs to the tender, he lies down among the chips - it's a wood-burning locomotive still. He tries to doze off but two thieves climb to the tender also, pursued by the police. One of the thieves tries to become him, while he must become the thief. And the police shooting helter-skelter already. He refused to become a victim, paying for someone else's crimes. He slips off the tender through the other side, and runs. He runs fast, he carries nothing in his pockets, no ballast, no dead weight. He walks along the rails. If he walks fast enough maybe he can arrive with the train or a little bit before? A rampart grows suddenly on the sides of the track. It's a parapet or a wall that starts small but becomes so high he is afraid. For he's started walking on top of the parapet but now he's afraid of falling into the chasm where the tracks run. He decides to climb down and walk along the side of the tracks, inside the wall, that now is more than six feet high. Either they had repaired the parapet recently or they had even built it anew: the cement at the foot of the parapet is still wet. It's becomes more and more difficult to advance. The feet sink into the mass. He wants to go back then, but now the train is coming. He's trapped, he's bound to get crushed by the side of the sweeping train. He watches the wall for traces of gratings and scrapings from the excess metals at the sides of the cars of the train. His feet are sinking. He's a statue that could nonetheless lay that side or that, where the scrapings on the wall are less obvious. He knows he's dead. The locomotive's showing its ferocious lights. He waves, he flounders, his arms white semaphores. The machinist guiding the fuming locomotive seems to have seen him. The machine noticeably slows. It stops at hardly the distance of a span from his naked chicken of a body. "What's the idea, bum?" asks the steam engine driver.<br /><br />Well, you see, and he starts rhapsodizing about a hidden treasure and he on a quest... Counting his steps, losing count, losing notion of place and time, too enthused with the mystical, stony, philosophical hounding... Socrates, the engine master, says: "Spare us the shit, get your ass out of here fast; I'm on a schedule don't you know."<br /><br />He's feet are stuck, he's sunk up to his knees almost, already. "Give us a hand," he pleads. "What's in it for us?" the driver wants to know. "Haven't got a sou," he answers.<br /><br />"Well, I'm fond of eyelets."<br /><br />"Eyelets? You don't mean the malodorous ones thereabouts where the bodily sewage taints the underpants...?"<br /><br />"Flawless reasoning thine, mate," said Socrates.<br /><br />He was rescued minus the shoes. His feet stuck now on the platform, he was irrumated while the train uncoiled. The starveling scalawag was given afterwards a slice of rough spelt bread, while the appeased machinists ate the Polish lady's chocolate cake. Their tongues forgot thus the bum's bum's taste.<br /><br />He had sucked instead some water (otherwise destined to become noble steam) from the spout near the gauges, while they, Socrates and his discolored pal, had strong wine from tanned pouches that they squeezed like teats of Polish plump ladies.<br /><br />Something he said, too gravely probably, about the strange complexion of Socrates' pal, made him the laughing stock for the nonce. Then he mistakenly enquired, too jocosely probably, about the ambiguity of their vice. He got rebuked and execrated, then almost asphyxiated, and was told about: "What about his own vice for being poor...?", before he was finally kicked out, as the train slowed going up and there wasn't any parapet now, just meadows in the dark. The fire had departed straightway. He was alone, though his eyelet was well cleaned at least, rimmed, double-rimmed clean, cleaner probably than the Polish lady's, even if she'd had that erotic bath with her two friends in the old river. Mocking cries of night beasts couldn't then discourage him from masturbating. He wouldn't want to remember the coarse tongues of the machinists, no, not those infamous tongues that... But he came remembering the tongues. Next morning his desiccated milk was smelling bad; he quickly found some aromatic herbs to erase the marks, he said: "Lest a pack of lubricious hounds hasten towards me... I wouldn't want to be eaten raw and seasoned only with the aromatic herbs that wiped my desiccated milk that the tongues of the drivers elicited all because I followed the dream of the Polish grace whose clandestine chocolate cake didn't manage to pass muster - much like my sorry trip."<br /><br />Barefoot, he then walked. Morning had broken. He spied roundabout, peering at the several horizons, in search surely of habitation. He had to make his mind, again.<br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>His presence eventless</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>His presence eventless</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There's death at the knocker.<br />He comes in relentless.<br />Don't answer the fucker!<br /><br />Fed up with the stalker,<br />So slimy, not scentless.<br />Here's death at the knocker.<br /><br />Takes us for a sucker;<br />His knocking be endless,<br />Why flatter the fucker?<br /><br />Vile bothering mocker,<br />Cajoling, but friendless.<br />There's death at the knocker.<br /><br />Life, he wants to pluck 'er<br />Roots and all, consentless.<br />Don't let in the fucker!<br /><br />That should be a shocker:<br />His presence eventless.<br />Yeah, death's at the knocker,<br />Let's ignore the fucker!<br /><br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">All ends in shit</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="8" cellspacing="3" width="570"> <col width="546"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#22555b" width="546"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><strong>Indecisive death</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Wont to be outweighed by circumstances,<br />Nonetheless the crucible where I'm cooking<br />Or half-cooking or where my heart cooks<br />And that I carry on my back, makes me bow<br />So that I'm smelling the squills above my own<br />Tomb. Too shrewd to shriek that "<em>All ends</em><i><br /></i><em>In shit</em>" - adept that I am at scatological eschatology,<br />Nonetheless I shall tense my thews<br />Against the forged enmity of what ails,<br />Hidden from view, as a rat in the pantry<br />Of my guts. The kitchen knife shall<br />Be apt enough...? Oh, that an arrow<br />Not of Cupid but of an Indian behind<br />A rock suddenly did me in. Perish the<br />Thought that wracks my selective demon...!<br /><br />Latch onto the bawdy flesh, nemesis,<br />And disdain all gross subtleties<br />So that my engines might blossom.<br /><br />Let my shimmering woes outshine<br />The wellsprings of the dilating sponge<br />That as a toiling gargoyle spews<br />The bloodless blood webs my heartbreaks.<br /><br />I've been absorbing lately wonders galore<br />Plus a wealth of other cosmic simulacra<br />That foreboded perhaps a change of character.<br /><br />Saps the anemic juice of my courage<br />The pectinate claws of death as they start<br />To scavenge - appetizers on the plate<br />Of my chest - sipping at the clogged<br />Little wells in the spare starving hollows<br />Whose hairy little haggard tentacles<br />Find themselves besotted with a sense<br />Of dutiful hospitality. Instead, deep down,<br />Am all for jumping off the cable, unscathed.<br /><br />Seeps in, slantwise (the staggered bawdy<br />Flesh dwindling, half abolished, rigid,<br />Or suddenly treble-thrilled, abuzz, a-tremble,<br />Bickering, vindictive, with a zest for healing,)<br />Seeps in the clammy coldness of her bony<br />Hands. Oh, heart, no key shooter shot you,<br />But as cotton wool untangled with<br />Shivering smooth bony fingers smuggled<br />Within - stanched sponge, thwarted,<br />Unable to pump, you wrought havoc<br />Into the woof, the web, the nervous<br />Fired mesh of that structure now crumbling.<br /><br />It's me, the superstitious man, then sounding off?<br />I would have never believed it! Only that am<br />Besieged by omens so dire, the kernel riddled with<br />Worms of certainty so toothy, you'd need<br />To be a surly, unwieldy, and inborn type of an ingrained<br />Piece of vermin indeed, a damned fool all told<br />To ignore the decay of the frayed warp<br />With at the center that deadly dying spider: you.<br /><br />Addled honeycomb of my gangrel brain,<br />All this time you knew all and did jack,<br />Now you have no scobinate clue about it.<br /><br />What to do...? If you belonged to Lenin<br />Or to some other pontiff never loath to<br />Pontificate, geared by a supreme off the radar<br />Power for the instant quelling of the wealthiest<br />Of wrangles over choice (snuffle that dumb<br />Demon of selectivity!) and ready instead to<br />Plunder on, as an exploding shell, over<br />The stressed voracious fortresses<br />That waged any kind of abiding resistance<br />To what's to be on, you'd abide no contradiction<br />You'd hew to the bindweed of your enveloping<br />Clear thought, and as the raider that<br />Splinters the gaps, the switch of your thought<br />Would vex the dowdy, wed cheek by jowl to<br />What strangles them while they dwell on<br />And stake their bets on without feeling<br />Other pang that the pang of losing, of<br />A sudden, it all.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>landscape sans horizons</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>A Beer and a Loaf and a Kipper Cunt</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />What else but a beer and a kipper<br />Cunt in the soft breeze of the shade<br />Of the mighty tree, seasoned with bread<br />Bitten with appetite?<br /><br />Kipper cunt, tasty smell, probably<br />Nutritious, as the sheep and the hens<br />Bundle yonder under some pretext<br />Rather futile.<br /><br />For the weather is fine, a vintage<br />Type of weather, where the grapes<br />Are spun in sort of a strobe-lighted<br />Mottled projection from above.<br /><br />The haughty Sun stumbling meekly<br />On the leaves of the tree of late August<br />When the seedy straggling wormwoods<br />Disperse, smugly smuggling their seeds.<br /><br />How apt those names "worm" and "wood"<br />As the bread is eaten with the kipper smell<br />Of the ripe cunt, a snatch diseased none<br />At all, just slightly unwashed.<br /><br />The city is gone, mausoleum for snobs,<br />Never seen for the hills and other pastoral snags<br />Where nature's creatures straggle to struggle<br />Smelly and rather lousy too.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">Committed !</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="18" cellspacing="3" width="596"> <col width="552"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#555555" width="552"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><strong>Committed to bumpfing it on.</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So, that was it, I'm walking, and a short truck with two rednecks inside stop asking for directions to a house where something of a certain value might be in sale; I said that I might have heard about such an address but that I didn't think I rightly remembered offhand; maybe moseying on I would find it but out of the question inside a vehicle where I certainly would lose all sort of coordinates, that if they cared to wait there at the pumps' snack bar, I'd be with them in a little while telling them if I had found the house or not.<br /><br /><br />Actually it was easy to find: a spiffy mansion behind a grove with pecan trees. So I was going back to the pumps' cantina, when the rednecks' truck was coming up the road against me; I made some signs with the paper on my hand. Even when they had bypassed me, they stopped and reluctantly it seems then backed up to where I stood, bathed in yellow dust. I said I had found the thing. They looked rather morose and pissed, brooding and spiky-egg-sitting, with some sort of grudge against me annoying as I say their shithole sphincters. I climbed into the rear of the cabin, and sat down. They continued their converse in total ignorance of me (inconspicuously ensconced at the background.) I had pointed toward where the house was, and now I never opened my mouth again. Their converse was fascinating if only when considered in its unaccountably high degree of stupidity. It seemed that some shitty princess from one of those little shitty states of shit with princesses still and shits like these, a princess in Asspain, was pregnant and nobody knew who the fuck the father was, the princess being nothing but another spic asspainish whore. But then the two rednecks, what would you know, there and then they solved the big problem for the rabid tabloids. Slowly, they arrived at the conclusion that only one of either of the two commoners more at hand during the critical period when the whore could had been impregnated, namely: the cupper or the kipper, could had been the culprit, the guilty party in fecundating the whore's stinky spawn. The kipper either being a mispronounced or badly spelled keeper or just a kipper-fisher or a kipper-canner, or both, or else who the hell knows, not me, being a fucking foreigner besides anyway, only that does it matter, no, I wouldn't think so either.<br /><br /><br />The point was at the end that only the kipper could be the engenderer, I mean, there it was, too obvious, at the bottom end of the upshot the kipper being the dad, for, get this, the cupper was in fact a woman disguised as a cup-bearer or what have you. And the confirmation of all this is in the letter U of cUpper, that shows a vaginal hollow, or plainly stated a cunt with all its back-hanging machinery; while the I in kIpper is a cock, and not only a cock but an erect straight-backed cock, and the punctuation at the tippy top of i the jizzm fiercely spurting, you bet.<br /><br /><br />Congratulations were in order. They were patting the backs of each other's vast powers of reasoning, I mean, actually banging each other's scruffs of the neck.<br /><br /><br />Hey, and with this we had arrived. They went through the main door while me I went again through the gardens behind. Soon I heard the truck going away again, with the two rednecks probably contrite, their tails, their crooked shrunken i's tucked inside their festering thighs, for having dared to go so much over their heads - and me meanwhile freely rummaging across the rich rooms; robbing nothing, mind you, cause I'm no robber; just a nosy quiet guy. Rounding a corner, some of the rich invitees even taking me for one of them, asking me to reach for some towels for those ladies at the pool's brim; and me complying graciously, you bet. Then I smelled the perfumes, I touched the diamonds; the tampaxes were pink and green: the green for the greenhorns, the virgins if any...? Who knows.<br /><br /><br />Spineless mole beholden to no one, whipping its way here and there, among the blushing spawn of the rich; since I've never been steeped in rancor for them or for that matter anyone else (I hold everyone in the same embers-like steady-fire contempt,) the orthodox liturgy I go through when meeting any of them, even in their tenderest years or even in their doddering old age, as with the rednecks, all being a matter of tact, they remain convinced that whoever penetrated their intimacy was a frayed dream of a little nondescript guy who would never recount their silly stinky cunt shenanigans to anyone anyway. (But maybe to some ass-wiping bumpf nobody'll ever read of course.) As if who would listen to him, let alone remember him or whatever the fuck he said, mostly in his native language: a mumble fleetingly elapsed. The yellowish waning fainting afterimage of a transient humming hobo bee...<br /><br /><br />As I exited, I did it through the front door, heavily guarded by German guards and slavering dogs. I greeted them with a another mumble of my own, in what they thought might have been German but was my native language: spoken now but by only a select minority of sneaky lizardly fuckers, indeed. And no one the wiser, not that it mattered a whit, then or now, I'd say.<br /><br /><br /><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><b>let my neck my ass how heavy...</b><br /><br /><br /><strong>(a prose poem for my dear wife Vera Baratinsky)</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As we were getting out of the pub, with my wife already out of the door, talking to somebody, me still inside, a woman came to me with a lipstick on her hand. She'd been talking to my wife. Now she told me: "Here you are, a cocoa-cream lipstick... For your wife to fuck your ass with..."<br /><br />I said: "<em>Kam pènjon!</em>" (which roughly translated means: "Let them hang me; for I can't believe I'm not the luckiest man alive!")<br /><br />Smiling, I took the lip-rub, the chapstick of cocoa's fat, and went outside. Now I understood why they were laughing and looking toward my side, the woman and my wife, while I was there listening to the deadly boring explanations of a deadly bore about platonic ideas and the inter-atomic sub-particles... They were talking about me and my delicious pseudo-perversions.<br /><br />As we were walking home from the pub, I said to my wife: "Look what your friend gave us."<br /><br />She laughed. "I told her how you lately like it for me to fuck your ass with one or two of my fingers, and how your asshole suffers so from the friction of my nails, while I mutter into your ear how my lovers can fuck me for real in the ass (something you've never been and never will be allowed to do,) and how they talk filthy to me while they do, the nasty insults they hurtle at my head while with their big pricks (five or six times bigger than the little shit you call a prick) they hurt my ass, and how I enjoy their fucking though they hurt me, and how you enjoy my fucking and my repeating to you the repulsive abuse they throw at me: <em>You like this, don't you, you fucking whore...? I'm gonna fuck your shit out of your eyes; you are nothing but a sorry twat eager to be fucked; I bet this little shit you call your husband would love to see you now, swallowing my come till it comes out of your ears, you disgusting bitch; what a dreamt bounty for the cuckquean</em>...., you know, and so on."<br /><br />My ears were all red. I was so proud of her. And the woman in the pub (how deluded) pitying me (I hope she tells about my enviable plight to as many of her friends as she can.) Nothing excites me more than my wife's wild teasings. I was fumbling with my tiny appendage through a pocket of my roomy pants... She's so masterful in dealing with me, I'm her puppet, her marionette, the strings limp as my wrists... Me following willy-nilly, at a distance, the strings never so taut: she never pulling me nearer than a mile when she's in action, not wanting my impertinence to sidetrack her target-centered pleasure... And yet, she knows, over there I'm her lap-doggie splattering with eager saliva at the mile limit (or more when she travels abroad,) waiting, at her blessed head-bursting return, for the mistress to let drop a drop of her delicious crumbs as they crumble from her overfilled quim or the tiny panties soaked... I'm panting after her stretched holes... I love her smell indeed as she comes back from another tryst, her panties a source of bliss while she snores upstairs and I'm rummaging in the hamper where she's tossed the underwear upon arrival... Ah, and all those months that she doesn't allow me to put the cuckoo cocky anywhere near her, while her holes are all aflame with the fucking of her vigorous fuckers... But then... The great reward. All of a sudden, as is happening this last week or so, she becomes so charitable, and for instance, as nowadays, she seems to enjoy fucking my asshole with her sharp nails, and deigns to repeat what the fuckers tell her, and how together they occasionally laugh at me...!<br /><br />She was a bit tipsy tonight. She wanted to go to see some cinema; the three o'clock a.m. session down on the village. We fell asleep on the seats. The music was deafening. The voices carried into our dreams. At five something we were out. Dawn had broken and we were still walking upon the park, a slope it was, full of brush and bushes; I found a drinking pumpkin made of green plastic, with suckers all around the sphere, same sort of sucker you find on the legs of a giant octopus. What we called a gurdy (assuming that the hurdy was the "handle" and the gurdy the "pan" o "pumpkin.") I sniffed inside. I said: "Ugh, the smell! Wouldn't drink that for anything in the world; who knows who's pissed inside..." But then I remembered how I always pestered her when she was just back from some lovers' tryst, begging that she let me drink the dripping jizzm from her twat or her ass, before she went to wash it off at the bathtub, and how she always refused me. So I tried a little blackmailing then: "Unless you let me suck the come from your asshole next time you come back from a fuck with so-and-so, I'm going to take a sip of this..." And I held the pouring tip of the gurdy to my lips. She knocked the gurdy off my lips with a slap. She said, enthusing: "Look at the landscape of the sky! The skyscape, yes... You remember the film...? That wide sky with the spread of spare clouds...? Look now how it interlocks with the actual sky we see from atop here...!"<br /><br />Panoramic, the semicircle of the sky seen in the film, could be found now here, as if superposed over the actual sky, with the other half provided by the actual sky, as I say, finishing the circle. I was amazed. How do they do that...? All those men, such great technicians! That's why they are so cocky, so confident; they know how things work, the sky, the cinema, the world, and their pricks are commensurate to their knowledge and savoir-vivre, and that allows them to fuck around, the wives of the deprived chiefly. What do I know about how to do anything...? My cocky is terribly small, my knowledge nil, my technical prowess a blot on any echt engineer's diploma. Of course my wife fucks around, of course she hardly allows me to smell her twat when she's had her fill outside. What's a poet good for, worth at...? I said: "There they intersect, the two skies! I've discovered the seams. Over there, the cut on the right, just perpendicular down the magnolia tree: see how the big pale pink flowers at one side and the other of the intersecting line don't rightly fit...? And to the left, the long falling live iron of the thunderbolt, how it twists at one side and the other of the overlaying line in a wrong pattern, the elbows all askew, as belonging to different remote storms...?"<br /><br />She said: "Boy, are you full of shit."<br /><br />We had all Sunday before us. I cooked us a hearty lunch, while she had a shower and a nap. I was stirring the ratatouille, and started thinking about that chemical oddity: the spontaneous combustion.<br /><br />At lunch I was asking her: "Spontaneous combustion, you know. What do you think causes it? Which kind of mishmash howler must provoke it: a clash of which chemicals, you know?"<br /><br />She sent me a withering stare. I knew she was in a bad mood. Better to shut up. No sex today, no nails up my asshole, no endearing words from her abusive males re-laid to my eager ear. I turned into a maggot. I went into the zombie mode, assuming my robotic situation, a matchstick figure walking to the gallows. I washed the dishes. I spread plenty of foamy antiseptic upon the rugs. I gawked at the birds on the yard with my pirate's spyglass.<br /><br />I heard the phone. I waited. She was in the bathroom. I picked up the device. The voice of a man, a lover. "Is she home...?"<br /><br />-Certainly, sir. A second, please.<br /><br />-Give her a message. So-and-so is waiting for her at Bla-bla street. She knows.<br /><br />-Ok, thank you, sir; no fear, I will, sir, thank you.<br /><br />She was glad when I told her. In fascination, I looked at her getting dressed and painted for her lover. I was fumbling with my pesky midget across the threadbare lining of a pocket.<br /><br />That was the rest of my day. Fumbling and dreaming. Waiting for the early hours of tomorrow, when she'd be back, so exhausted.<br /><br />There were the poems building themselves in my mind. The fluttering lines... I took a paper. I wrote some of them down.<br /><br />-<em>Assuage with the pomade of your tongue the fistulae in her asshole</em>.<br />(The pomade of your tongue, the words of the poem...?)<br /><br />-<em>Clearwings kittled the cullions of the corpse</em>.<br />(I picture myself dead and the ash of her lovers' cigarettes falling on my exposed penetralia: so insignificant, so laughable, and now deservedly burned...?)<br /><br />-<em>Slimy weave... Woven like lace from her asshole, splendid rivulet of his semen</em>.<br />(My tongue a snake's, rehearsing the words of the poem in honor of their love...?)<br /><br />(. . .)<br /><br />I had dozed off in the middle of the poem, its embrionic state looming as another child in the womb of my wife - whose that time...? And bound for adoption by whom...? Hm.<br /><br />(. . .)</p> <p class="western" style="margin: 0.49cm 1.27cm;" lang="en-GB"> [last chance in my life to see them win<br />and they blew it.<br /><br />they fucked it.<br />oh ah.<br />no appearance in the annals<br />no show even in tomorrow's tv:<br />they would let dangle this bit from the program.<br /><br />my old playful wife saying again and then again:<br />"well, they fucked up<br />they really did."<br /><br />last chance for them to appear in a program<br />our grandchildren as the starters<br />and...<br />"they fucked up, fucked up..."<br />her voice trailing,<br />and then everybody's;<br />the whole public joking on the bleachers:<br />"they fucked up<br />fucked up, fucked up..."<br /><br />so that now the whole hour of the program<br />was precisely that:<br />the whole stadium shouting "fucked up, fucked up..."<br />no use delaying the program,<br />nor eating just a fragment off it,<br />for the entire program was such a kirmess<br />of fucked up wallowing.<br /><br />that was the fun<br />until the end of the hour<br />of the swimming championship<br />where our grandsons swam<br />so badly, oh, so badly<br />so badly, though<br />a disaster.]</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />(...)<br /><br />What was that...? My dream. Something to do with all those wasted spermatozoa...? Each with a face, each its temperament, each a biography...?<br /><br />The night fell on my head. I was haunted by my customary spirits - the grotesque devils that you can only see during that dark interregnum that bridges sleep and fright. Stochastically dancing, those shady monsters, on the inner wall of your lids. Or worse: on the walls of your pitch dark room, with your eyes feverishly opened, your pupils penetrating like sharp spikes the utter darkness until they crash into their misshapen suddenly lit forms performing their sick shenanigans...<br /><br />I screamed no, no. I called my mom, my mom.<br /><br />It was Monday morning already. My wife, whipping herself up and down, dressing for work, letting some florid oaths fly by.<br /><br />-Dear, I'll do your breakfast. Baloney and cheese...?<br /><br />-No time for that. My plane's in an hour.<br /><br />A week later, she told me that, among the crowd of her lovers (for she also imitated the manners of Faustina,) she had found a man so well endowed that...<br /><br />Despondently I said: "Can't compete with those guys."<br /><br />She said: "Would you believe it? In the cold of the winter night, the guy complains about the quality of the bed - sheets and mattress - about some clothes or stuff bunched together, anaphrodisiac bumps, he calls 'em... A bit disappointed, he is."<br /><br />I said: "Which guy was this guy...?" (for I didn't know there was a new one.)<br /><br />She said: "Oh, nobody; one I knew at the convention. He wants us maybe to hitch up together."<br /><br />I thought: <em>Married away...?</em> I shriveled altogether inside my clothes. Such an insurmountable bereavement I was the victim of.<br /><br />I said: "Insurmountable odds. Can't compete with such gifted specimens. I know I'm a poor substitute, but... who else would serve you so well as a simple scansorial implement, and as a contubernial comrade, and as..."<br /><br />A defiant flash in her eyes. I crouched: "You don't want to hit a nun!" (Only that she probably did, as who wouldn't.)<br /><br />I was jealous of him. No for his cock, for I loved his cock. But his flair, his fluidity in dealing with the public. "He's another James Bond," she had said, under his spell.<br /><br />The injurious rays of the silent tv, the smoke, the clop-clop of the horses' hooves... I felt dizzy. "Will you have the house de-polluted from me with a high-powered hose...?"<br /><br />She said: "What?"<br /><br />-Sorry, the poison of me, I meant, not really the pollution, if the word incommodes you...<br /><br />I saw behind her the frames of the two gigantic doors leading to the temple of nothingness: it was one of those types of temples you find sometimes in the middle of nowhere. You climb up there, and there you remain for moths, in a space not wider than your body, flat on the lintel of the stone door; you eat the grubs and the insects that crawl around the ivies and the mosses, and you drink the water of the rain that gathers in the depressions of the stone...<br /><br />How are those monks or buddhist in Nepal called...? Wouldn't it be fine to be one of them? Oh, see... Here I come, to the stand in the bazaar, a hot bishop at 87, selecting chocolate bars with his daughter and friends; affably buying tigernuts at a booth in a fair; neither bloodied nor hooded, chewing gum not grit, subdued, at peace, unhurt, rebounding beautifully.<br /><br />A sampler of twats. As long ago, of yore, his wife-that-was also happened to be such a sampler of cocks. He's done well in the publishing world of Nepal and thereabouts, he's the editor in chief, the bishop who nihil-obstats the full amount of stuff comes to the offices of "<em>The Gyneco-Religionist</em>" - a specialized magazine - "<em>All About Cunts</em>." How the quims stack up against each other. All types and lasts and shapes. A triumph at the newsstand: plenty of oafs leafing at the numbers: stammering approval; their lengthy, delighted oinks inarticulately speaking of unequaled success; thronged, spellbound, seething herds oiling their rusted articulations, dusting the cobwebs off their soaring eyes... How well one feels doing good!<br /><br />That's it, quit dreaming... No more the handle of her to hold on... Gone the cushion of your legal wife to fall on... She bailing you out every time... In front of the immigration officers... In front of the thugs at the borders... "Ma'am, are you sure <em>that</em> is your husband? How could such a classy beautiful lady as yourself show such poor judgment in the choosing of one's mate...?" I'll have to find a real job; the jig is up.<br /><br />"Well, sir, your honor," I'm telling the judge, "you see, is like that; though I am not a homosexual, that's what I've become by dint of a major force, if you get my drift, your honor... Now I'm one of those well-intentioned nice boys who suck cocks for the photos and the films; some of us instead have to give blood for money, your honor; you earn your life with what your capacities and what your circumstances decree; there I am, all agape, and when the jig is up I'm down on him; he discharges profusely (in the capacious vagina of my mouth no less); taking milk beats giving blood, your honor, at least accordingly to my admittedly scant wits; they love, all those oafs leafing through the magazines, all those oafs at the picture show house, they love indeed all those milky sperms, or semina, streaming from one's mouth. So poetical, it seems..."<br /><br />"No, my honor, no!" But he throws me to the dogs.<br /><br />Here I go, out again, a writer beaten up, who nonetheless vows to continue writing in the sky his quaint novel about key personages (supreme judges and such) in key positions across the teaming cities of the east coast - with their tacky flavors, pleasures, exotic dubious gleams, revealed - roman à clef where as soon as the larcenists' crimes occur, they are written up in a sky language - only the initiates can comprehend its intricacies - no projected letters, just fake clouds stuck with words, later released up to the welkins... Released in all their lambent, lambasting intensity. Everybody with a knowledge of the rules of skywriting can read the exploding balloons filled with sundry stinging revelations - the exploit of the writer in his prompt cloud-sending is also lauded universally to the skies (by the common people, of course.) The sky's the target for the eyes of those that want to have a handle on what's what. Its letters a boon - a bedazzling miracle indeed. And now we really realize what's happening - (everyone is saying) who's shafting us, and how.<br /><br />In the throes of guilt, my guts tainted with the bullet lead of ubermenschy impunity..., in the guts of the quilt, my throes, as I bemoan, and croak and groan, stabbed by the self-punishment I'm shoehorning into my soul, for how could I be so callous as to... No; even Hercules yields to odds. How could I go against the world...? I submit. I apologize to all and sundry, my honor, I take back each of my inhumane stings... All in a knot, pleading in bulk, pledging my oath... Never to be again so self-derivative...?<br /><br />And she, meanwhile...? After marrying that successful sadist of a creep; damned impostor; not a puppet, a puppeteer. Slapped, unfree... At home, taking care of the kids, wiping the floors... The girdle stained with indelible blots... Where have all those hot big shots available at every homely trip and every convention abroad gone...? All those James Bonds with their cock at the ready for thee...? Au contraire... Contrary squalls. And with the cold breath of time at the tattered sails of her large, long skirted behind... Alas, now she is a frail grandmother propped with a cane, as a scrawny crane on a high branch: "Sit here and don't move, granny;" but she leans, she falls, she splashes... She's down and no one near. And here's the gray roof of the sky falling on her. Those darned inventions of those young damned Chinese scientists! With a machine to lower ceilings, they've done it, reached for the stars; reach all you want and then pull back, yes, shit, and what do you get...? All the spiders, hanging, teetering, titillating on your head, millions of them - the shouting, the terror...! The immobility from the paralyzing fright: the attack en masse from the hairy beasties... Your neck under duress, torticollis; your plight wrongly pegged; your haggard, worn out, nagged arm groping in the emptiness, flinching from a nefarious lump of... What's that! It's that my molten hip...? Feels more like a big turd. Age's lamed me, it always hurts like the devil... Woe is me, so low and deep I've fallen, without him, my prop, never malapropping, haven't I...?<br /><br />And the old house, vacated by the old dame... Who would now buy such a shit? Everything disguised as working and moderately clean, but once you start digging into the grime, worse grime appears, and nothing works: the faucets once opened don't ever shut again, the fetid sink hole is stuck, the shelves fall all over, there are mummies of little boys crammed into the recesses of complaining closets; all those mummies never went to school, they have been sleeping all those decades in filth, with rats and cockroaches; poor mummy boys, never could wash, unless the flooding filthy waters soaked everything; could never have breakfast, with the shelves all collapsed, the food splattered on the floor, feed, fodder and bait for the toothy rodents and the chortling coleopterans...<br /><br />Let instead the house burn - like next hotel - vacationing, conventioneering - trying the photo booth for the elevator - whacking the buttons to no avail - the floor boy telling you: "It's the photo booth, ma'am, sir."<br /><br />-Fuck, you are right, and we two adulterous galoots taking the flimsy contraption for a fucking lift!<br /><br />Frustration circling the swamp of your rotting relationship like a hawk in no conciliatory mood.<br /><br />-Sorry, I'm frightfully superstitious today. Where's the throne? I have to eschew therein my backbone, the backbone with which once, long ago, I throve; indeed, I once thought it was even sprouting wings...<br /><br />Was I crying? Indeed, shut in the bathroom downstairs, bawling my eyes out, sobbing into the startled trite specters of my utterly depressed handkerchiefs.<br /><br />Ah, on the wavy meadows above the hills, a quasi silent congregation of all the inhabitants of the surrounding towns - the girls to identify the molesters - I know I'm bound to be one of the fingered; doomed to be shown out - I must smile during the whole of the proceedings, I must put myself as one of the many, incognito, another nobody, mixed among people of my own complexion and style, confidently to the fore, a body is as good as the next, and what the fuck know the silly brainless girls anyway...? Harsh I must become, obscene, specious. Void of angst. Tough as another of those gangsters dare fuck the bourgeois women, and kill the pleading craven husbands into the bargain. Undiscovered ever, were it not even for a gangrel body who has nothing to lose and talks...<br /><br />So I called one of my goats to me, for I knew them all, and milked her into a wooden bowl. Ah, to swim in milk, like a champion fly...!<br /><br />I remembered, didn't I, how I found my wife's whole family rummaging in my room; at first I was sympathizing, friendly enough... But then I ordered them all out; what if the wife had a tumor...? Her gangrel body, yes! Her gangrel body of a gangrenous body aching and hurting all over - she'd mowed my garden to bold places - and left naught - all my odorous plants dead or razed... But she had nobody but me to care for her oozing wounds... Who but me with my artistic taste could chose a better wig for her bald scabby skull...? The fashion in hair topics at the time had to be observed, and to top it all what if it happened to be something as weird as having one's hairs in shags thrown behind, and, on top of the head, a badly shaved half void, in tatters, as if mangy everyone...? Everybody looking repugnantly enough, and smelling hideously too, thanks to those fashionable perfumes...? Well, who better then than me to chose, as I say, with my poetic nose...?<br /><br />It was me now who rummaged their chambers. I have the old pictures of your mother spread-eagled. Who took them? Either your father, or a previous lover, or the fake agent who pretended she had actress or model potential, of whom she always spoke dreamily afterwards, saying (ever I heard it) that carrying you as a fucking fetus marred her figure for ever more...?<br /><br />A pall of purple suddenly fell, engulfing everything; the little bits of wan dough-people melted in the unwieldy murk. Afraid to the core, I was shouting for my mother.<br /><br />My wife forced the door.<br /><br />Top citizen of earth, emeritus meritorious shapely one, daughter of god, immune to the frothing glitches beleaguer us commoners, mired in dread. Bestow on this finicky flunkey a modicum of circumspection, so that he'll be able at least to beseech thee with his obnoxious dull verbosity stilled somehow... Would that I could add some interwoven songs of the linnet withal...!<br /><br />And forthwith I acted, I compelled my abject woes to meekly be dislodged from the festering corners of my mouth.<br /><br />She said: "What's that?"<br /><br />I said: "A charnel-house habitué hasn't seen more horrors than I saw during those two last nights that your were conventioneering in frozen Geneva. In ravenous dearth of tepid company, I rattled like the dying snake of my strangulated neck."<br /><br />-Your what?<br /><br />-Are you gonna marry this enormously endowed guy...? Are you tossing me into the inbred garbage cesspool of nevermore?<br /><br />They laughed! They laughed, and I knew their quims were therefore soaking wet; women's quims humidify the more mightily the heartier the laugh - crying obtains the same result - the fact is I love it when they cry; the wilder the tear, the more productive the lovely vaginal secretions: all so mish-mashing, the cunt wet-tissimo, and the stewing, the taste, the smell!<br /><br />Hamstrung witling, I smiled, my homespun ears a chintzy red, knitted in a motley of foolish tatters, stewing themselves, fuming with inklings of revelation, sworn to boomings and beyond, their edges nibbled by alternating squads of the heathen mice of friskiness. I'm a little naughty boy. My asshole itches, wants to be slaughtered by the grumpy nails of the crucifier, the punisher, the great fucker goddess herself.<br /><br />She was showing me the cream of cocoa lipstick. Who'd be so damned daft as not taking the cue? I dug not in, but vividly I leapt and flew, my trousers down to my ankles.<br /><br />-Coo-coo, Jack Cuckold; coo-coo, Jimmy Wittol, look what I've got...!<br /><br />The magic wand from the pub fairy godmother shone enticingly from two of her strong long-nailed fingers. I was spying from a chink among the layers. I was buck naked, shrunken under the sheets.<br /><br />She screamed: "Come this instant!"<br /><br />And I almost came.<br /><br />She said: "We might, I thought, be passing over the surface of your anus or some other far bizarrer smooth planet where sin had never alighted, and therefore no fucking redeemer, thank god, had to either."<br /><br />She repeated: "You like that, don't you, fucking whore...?"<br /><br />She said, more or less, or else is the poet in me slightly elaborating: "Indulge, my racy pet, in the smooth pleasures of this nutritious little dildo. Wince in lucid fondness at the vicarious ordeal for soon all your coy comfy universe will crumble into an outrageous cataclysm, and you'll be ravished in whole pageant by the forked scepter of the aggressor - same, alas, as your poor virtuous wife does suffer daily the cocks cuntwise, and this most underhandedly, for when she feels best at ease and utterly and rhythmically contented, the steel crested cocks, without warning, turn evil and bristly, and pierce asswise, flanked in their savage attack by the foul thunder and fury of the blaspheming gigantic devils their lords, bent on mayhem, and who, as I was saying, fuck her hard they really do do, boy, and how!"<br /><br />She said: "Does it hurt enough, greedy little shit? Is your cunt stretched as wide as it can get and more now...? Should we rake a little harder, filthy dirty whore, with the steely crests leering at the fore of our forked fingers, and cruelly bent on paining the fuck out of your non righteous rectum...?"<br /><br />When out of smutty ideas, huskily I gave her pointers. My vocabulary being vaster.<br /><br />Until, demurely, I only piped: "Ow, ow." So gratefully.<br /><br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">agape upon my casket</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="18" cellspacing="3" width="590"> <col width="546"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#111111" width="546"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><strong>this the brothel had: an orchard</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />the brothel had an orchard,<br />the tarnished dusk saw the tarts<br />agape upon my casket.<br /><br />i was rotting inside, I know;<br />the casket swathed in murky dusk,<br />on stilts of a sort,<br />in the middle of a clearing<br />in the brothel's ordinary orchard;<br />on stilts of a sort, as a wart,<br />a tough bristly wart,<br />with me, the body, a nauseating<br />lump dumped inside.<br /><br />the irreverent bitches<br />razzed the irksome squirt,<br />buck naked, no shoes.<br /><br />"-even in his last box<br />his wanting last stands;<br />here he glibly struts, stationary<br />though, with his humble straw<br />erect, bridging the domains, linking<br />the realms of death and life."<br /><br />"-we must burn this, sisters,<br />a bonfire should be afoot, is already on the cards;<br />then the ashes and the mishmash<br />shall help the orchard's chances."<br /><br />nobody meanwhile had seen the appearance<br />as a conundrum of any sort.<br /><br />the worthless bastard,<br />erst so tight with his purse,<br />desiring now perhaps to be honored<br />by his "family," the last rites performed<br />by the priestesses, the attentions of whom<br />he had profusely craved<br />every other crummy day of the week;<br />dying to sink his crooked little straw<br />into the sacred fountains of another cunt,<br />squeezing out a wad<br />that never amounted to spit,<br />then quelling his thirst at the current fountain,<br />sinking his nose in the asshole of the whore,<br />warming his hands at the lambent stove,<br />clinging to his scant wealth<br />as a sick skunk to his stink clung,<br />a theft of which would have betrayed<br />his weakness, and imperiled<br />his chances of ever again drinking<br />at the priestesses' sacred fountains<br />of tomorrow and who knows how many<br />other days.<br /><br />now he is dead,<br />waiting for the fire.<br /><br />bleak wart on the orchard, ignite!<br />throw up your flames!<br />withdrawn no longer in the rotting shell<br />of your disgusting flesh!<br /><br />throats smothered by the smoke...<br />are they suppressing a sob, a growl...?<br />have some whores felt left in the lurch...?<br />i doubt it, though it is a fact that<br />i hear some of them singing encomia to the bastard;<br />they don't any longer nurse the old aggravations;<br />looks like all has been condoned,<br />paid with the corpse;<br />they are now as the vestals in communion<br />grieving and mourning for the fallen<br />inchoate project of a hero.<br /><br />their lengthy shadows -<br />phantasmagoric<br />whimsical<br />witchy<br />priapic<br />sycophantic<br />carnivorous -<br />wild dancing maenads of an olden bacchanal -<br />their shadows thrown all twisted up on the walls<br />that surround the orchard of the brothel<br />closed for once.<br /><br />something snapped<br />and i knew i shouldn't be that exposed.<br /><br />the world came crumbling down -<br />an overwhelming sound as of wolves<br />baying at my ears, and on my face<br />the unbearable breath of a<br />terrifyingly opened furnace.<br /><br />had they stopped singing,<br />was the ceremony over...?<br /><br />tell me: do i already<br />belong...?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">Notes on Being (1)</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="18" cellspacing="3" width="536"> <col width="492"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#faaa52" width="492"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><strong>Notes on being</strong>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That's the insight: To be or not to be is the fucking same, for there's but being. There is only being - sometimes disguised in our minds as "being" - the second being (= "being") is the fleeting illusion of the first. When the illusion dies (evaporates,) the being is still there - for it cannot not be - only that is not acknowledged through the naming of the illusion.<br /><br />Let's say there is a frog called Andrew - called Andrew by me. Let's say the frog somehow learns for an instant that his name is Andrew - "I'm Andrew," he says, "a being" - and the next instant forgets. Yet, both when it knew and when it didn't, the frog still was the same frog, and the same Andrew to me, and objective watcher of the proceedings.<br /><br />Same thing with being. Being is - and the illusion of me knowing that I am being lasts more or less as long as the instant Andrew knew he was a frog (and named, no less.)<br /><br />Andrew is as much of an illusion as I am. A total illusion of being - named but for an instant.<br /><br />Does Andrew suffer more when named or when not named...? Suffers exactly in the same measure.<br /><br />Would he suffer less if somehow managed to learn to know that he is an illusion - a piece of being named (either by itself or by me)...? No; to be (even faintly) conscious of living means to suffer (in a certain degree.)<br /><br />For being sometimes hurts. Hurts during the space in which that piece of being acts (named or unnamed) as a unity.<br /><br />Unnamed I might suffer less...? True, I might, but how do you un-name yourself. Some "crazies" seem to suffer less than the "sane"; on the other hand, other "crazies" seem to suffer somewhat more. It is all a matter of degree.<br /><br />Why being chooses (or is impelled) to suffer by acquiring fleeting masses of unity is beyond my ken. Being is what there is, and what there is cannot not be.<br /><br />So don't ever tell me again the words of that idiot: "To be or not to be," for that is not a quandary, that is a non-sense. And I am above dealing with nonsensical phraseology - I've other fish to name.<br /><br /><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">gone unstoppable</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="18" cellspacing="3" width="590"> <col width="546"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#555555" width="546"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><strong>further manifestations of what's gone: unstoppable after a while</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'tis true enough, the brittle orphan came snooping<br />through the door, trailing the daft dog, sorry mutt<br />often enough returning with garbage and roadkill<br />hanging from the remaining of his stinking teeth.<br /><br />the orphan, it'd been crawling through the thistles<br />and its fair tender skin bled in sundry undreamt-of areas.<br /><br />the sky was blatantly rumbling from thunder<br />the haze, that had been lurking for hours, now lurched<br />daringly forward; the blossoms all faded, the blades uncombed<br />the air erst sheer and diaphanous become sleazy and yucky.<br /><br />the orphan opened its mouth, a depth of distress<br />but the puritanical bitch still begrudged it<br />the bloody dumpling, wouldn't release the fucking morsel<br />for a prayer, wouldn't accommodate the bastard<br />for nothing in this world, crazy idolatrous slob.<br /><br />i got up, disgusted; i lit a spliff and puffed away<br />the smoke making me frown upon the vision.<br /><br />i'm not a builder but i bet any structure that sustains<br />such steely pounding from the wind must be<br />okay, nothing to find fault with, at least as i said structurally<br />-wise, a roof that withholds such onslaught without<br />needing afterwards not even a spare tile, shit, i want me one.<br /><br />the prairie had become rougher, missiles wheezed past by<br />whirlwinds of a deepening strength now dwelt on<br />certain locales, as where the graves had stood frozen<br />for centuries - how often indeed i'd been over there<br />in a stupor, lost in necrophiliac reveries, or leering<br />up the skirts of the stone angels that guarded the dead.<br /><br />now i heard the shackles around the ankles of the phantoms<br />awake - the hurricane surely had weaken the hold<br />of the stones covering the tombs, or even had broken<br />'em it two or three o many pieces, smithereens, so-called.<br /><br />uninhibited the limbs must have been peeping up<br />and what else had the wind dredged up?<br />a crowd of chummy cadavers, ugly mummies forsooth&<br />my memories harkened back to those blessed nights<br />of my necrophiliac reveries: allies, i said, with the fake<br />voice of a staid citizen, a general, a preacher, a barber maybe.<br /><br />allies, stream on down and save the manikin<br />who now is starving under the roof of the puritanical bitch.<br /><br />i fumbled inside my pocket, searching for the tresses<br />i had stolen from my first corpse - a young lady of about<br />twelve - i devised on the spot the devilish trick<br />of planting the blond tresses on the lousy illicit little hungry ape.<br /><br />i thought surely the puritanical bitch now shall mistake<br />the tiny bastard for a neighboring peasant little girl<br />and feed her with the dumplings and the fat of our late<br />claustrophobic pig - he who languished in existentialist<br />angst for most of his& but hey!<br /><br />i saw upon the chaotic prairie the blurred spread<br />of bodies alive - those bottom-feeders called worms<br />and other clever names that now escape me<br />clove to the bodies, so that the bodies looked aesthetically<br />speaking a failure. i strangled with the mucus of my own<br />brain melting from shock; the mellower of my teeth<br />became hard; i declared a halt upon the marching<br />army of the dead. i spurred them to stop - can't get<br />along with you creeps, i'm really sorry i called you forth.<br /><br />fuck the pitiful orphan and his sodding frothy hunger<br />i peremptorily forthwith cut off your renewed<br />live lines - let's say it was all a despicable error<br />of clerical proportions, only your aspect already<br />exacts an awful toll on my nerves, i'm getting back<br />inside, i hope the puritanical bitch hasn't cooked<br />the pretty guiltless orphan tike&<br />i'll toss it back with you folks, okay, and forgive<br />and forget my silly haranguing, i'm not really much<br />of a general, or a merchant, or even a staid citizen<br />just a poor fucker lives with another puritanical bitch<br />and now and then, ah, ewiges, ewiges&<br />ewige schicksal weibliche wiederkunft<br />dreams about the most terrifying freedoms<br />on the churning grounds of those isolated<br />graveyards where the angels show some thigh<br />up their skirts, and necrophiliac reveries veer toward<br />the piquant with dames all livid from centuries under<br />the turf where the rabbit fucks.<br /><br />and now i hope the storm wanes and in its waning<br />at its wake you follow and disappear back from whence<br />you came - all those impromptu götzendämmerungen give me<br />the willies, and the little orphan, please, keep from now<br />on an eye on those awkward wastrel frothy kids, will you?<br />thanks.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p> <h1 class="western" lang="en-GB">books flung over the icy</h1> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /></p> <table border="1" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellpadding="18" cellspacing="3" width="590"> <col width="546"> <tbody><tr> <td bgcolor="#faaa52" width="546"> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>All those books flung over the icy shiny snow</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Waste the pulp: dawdling the hoodlum<br />Numbed by dint of crept ecstasy: proud badge of the inflictor<br />Beetle here on sufferance: unransomed<br />Ironclad contrivances: gates to supernal injury<br />Skyrocketing rage: blood sped<br />Exhort patience: only nag the bristling cripple<br />Lecher in lingerie: quaint longings unveiled<br />The black devil and his ashen flunky<br />Passionate commitments: tinged<br />Thighs unlocked: puttering over the goal<br />Unrequitable whilst unguerdoned: thus adumbrates the afterlife<br />Foam of foresight: fled<br />Molten inkling: scheming resolve<br />Neutered: of sufferance great<br />Scattered proof: his pinnacle often rapt<br />Shabby crutches where alight the flies: flown<br />Life or death wager: lost<br />Peevish gold trickling: conflicts fed<br />Havoc lavished: dumbstruck<br />Spiders in the hollowed woodpile: dug for: culled<br />Soot reaped: cherished theme: blight kept on<br />Meager gains: contentious: wept vexed jerky<br />Gliding moth: to the body led<br />Howling reprieve: the trespasser spurts<br />Starved atrophied twined: stealing over<br />Cringing in disarray: distraught ambushes<br />Scowling stranded begrudging: vowing revenge<br />Roster disrupted: glassy hubbub: its demise<br />Chores out of whack: cheeks under the hooves<br />Disfigured staggerers in narrow splintered shelters<br />Sap borrowed: tackled: etched geared to be notched<br />Huddled entrenched ossified<br />Honed shrewd aim: wrested from myriads<br />Slovenly burganets in surrender: split<br />Heels recoiling spinning over: won<br />Waning scopes<br />Throve the insights: trusty threat: unheeded<br />Surreal cornucopia: baggage sophomoric<br />Tautology hammers the brain<br />The brain raped: religious poison: in<br />Oh yes: the scybala in the asyla: hard<br />Ax exhibitionist: pointlessly grisly<br />All about twats: taut<br />Pluck her feathers and flee with glee<br />Frisk the rabble giddy<br />Gnaw the gristle boiled: pestle the crumbs<br />We cease to die by dying: said Webster<br />Haunt my solitude<br />Ashes felt of monsters: into the wall bled<br />Lukewarm phantasmagoria<br />Wizardly shapes: seen<br />Ace sunken: unleashed<br />Coral clasps trustworthy: undersea<br />Swimming with my father: upstream<br />Ride of leagues and leagues: astonishingly glad<br />Reef: the fangs the flapdoodle the harvest: a-titter<br />A submarine fraught with sniveling fondlers<br />Eel coos the rafters as they linger<br />Unflinchingly suffer the fraud in silence: baffled<br />Pip on the Pequot gashed flogged: flinching<br />Thugs: their slanted milks: bull's-eyes<br />A commodore's pennant: its capacious accommodations<br />Tamed ape apes the harsh witty itch<br />Bullfighting is for craven creeps: unwashed<br />Bells tolling for another bore: bade him long ago to get lost<br />Quarreled over a dinner bill: never spoke again<br />Waggyings and fumets (just shits from foxes and does)<br />Children are terrible squeakers: squealers<br />Tousled they squat in their utmost dampness<br />Whitsuntide gesundheit<br />Gypsums flaunted: pelted astray<br />Philosophical convivial prosopopoeial disposition<br />Silkier core of conviction: stroke undreamt<br />A cat's paw: scathing<br />Ensnared swift scarves: threshing<br />Bereft of tough thought: engendered by sheer keen kin<br />Loathsome zeal turned lethargic: a dowager<br />Bewildered: mild watershed<br />Hoary fog where the accursed bud<br />Withdrawal of the sheaved: begging<br />Agreed: twin cornerstones: musty confrontation<br />Bashful scare easy: shirking the law: yanked<br />Outspoken growler: wobbles as rubber<br />Sleeping rough: vacuous spoils: ruffled<br />Meek knobby in the ocher of the stolen doze<br />Gristle clung to shriveling fins: doctor she's gone<br />Contempt deemed: spoilt grievances: blatant ferocity<br />Overcrowded: tight: overlaid with pioneers<br />Pampered with wages sky-high: at the helm mistrust<br />Thrust the trigger: quilts a-throb<br />Assorted homilies: mottled scattered chrysalis: throng explodes<br />Grueling fodder: trouble in a runcible knot<br />Take up the slack: chasm<br />Ravenous growth: eschatological<br />Thrifty threshold: trigger-happy gumption<br />Sneer at the unraveling: tidy splinters: a stickler while he whittles<br />A profound portrait painter: berated<br />Ugly: at least prosopolepsically speaking<br />Gives a wee inch and takes a mighty ell<br />Well and what else have you been finding...?<br />None but some old sisters in an old maze<br />Flock guilt: having aided imperialism in: enormous hoax<br />Pimp gypped: interrupted coitus<br />Nothing to do with the elderly: I shun them<br />Well-connected woman feels guilty about provoking the accident<br />Museum of slimy dingy halls difficult to exit<br />Indeed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /> </p> </td> </tr> </tbody></table> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.42cm;" lang="en-GB"><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>field of words - ploughed</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>field of words - ploughed</b><br /><br /><br /><br />they all sing and recite while being fucked<br />atop a transparent bed<br />at the bottom of which<br />the camera works.<br /><br />serious work indeed -<br />a heavenly anthology of song and recitation<br />while the interpreter is thoroughly<br />fucked - so refined, oblivious, anestrous,<br />excelling at the <i>other, more real</i>, task at hand,<br />almost far aloft, notwithstanding the grim<br />circumstances, each of the goddesses<br />in their artful absorption<br />impervious to lubricity,<br />for the flesh perishes,<br />the flesh indeed, when confronted with art,<br />by it is bound always to be excruciatingly<br />vanquished, exhaustively<br />crushed.<br /><br />it is a given: the flesh indeed, by art<br />being always shamefully transcended.<br /><br />and now in fact a glut: cohorts of singers<br />and diseuses, the best around the world,<br />Chinese, American, African,<br />the most famous, the prettiest,<br />or the fattest, and the thinnest,<br />ponderous divas and flighty burlesque grisettes,<br />all prone, and lubricated,<br />ruthlessly, under martyring attrition,<br />in earnest performance fucked,<br />with their tits and mouths<br />splashing on the diaphanous coverlet<br />across the slight clear water mattress<br />under which the camera steadily<br />artfully unblinkingly rolls,<br />and with nary a clatter rolls still, until<br />the recital’s finale orgasms through<br />the cramped layers where the soul<br />transpires.<br /><br />art defeating the vulgarity of the act<br />as the spirit discomfits the mud, the dust,<br />the carrion of the filthy vessel that<br />carried such wondrous riches,<br />the poem, the tune, the song…<br /><br />I’m so full of it, so pleased<br />with my crafty work,<br />the tatters at my back feel<br />like multicolored wings,<br />the sweat on my brows<br />the product of the skies<br />where ethereal angels slobber and drool<br />in their enthused paeans<br />against the dark infinitudes<br />of the unseen backdrops.<br /><br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>sentient sententious</b><br /><br /><br /><strong>r.m.'s b.s.</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Said professor Reggie Morell, the famous aphorist:<br /><br /><br /><br />"-There are some assholes full of cant that equate Bush with America. Their betters of course equate a bush with a merkin - sick paradigms of another faltering cunt."<br /><br /><br /><br />"-Who'd be stupid enough to try to export a "democracy" who produces as its head honcho a bloody bully of a baboonish cunt such as Bush, his mandrill behind prodded by a sinister vampire who seems doggedly determined to die with the earth itself...?"<br /><br /><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br /><br /><br />Said the famous aphorist, professor Reggie:<br /><br /><br /><br />"-When shit equals bush, nothing else matters but your sanity.<br /><br />Nothing really signifies anything; everything just happens; bush happens; shit happens; and that's it.<br /><br />Shit never ceases happening; get used to the idea.<br /><br />Now scram, bums; and make yourselves useful; (&); amend that, make something useful, not of yourselves (what good would that do in a world where shit happens and will keep on happening, willy-nilly, in spite of all your efforts and more&?,) but for yourselves."<br /><br /><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br /><br /><br />Said the famous professor, aphorist Reggie:<br /><br /><br /><br />"-I'm extremely shallow - three goals I'm only after: the continuance of life, the enjoyment of liberty, the pursuance of happiness."<br /><br /><br /><br />"-There's the fuckers and there's the fucked. Both despicable failures as trials go - as trials for the well-adjusted organism that nature seems to be trying to produce. And then there's the gray people - they only think about fucking each other - like doves."<br /><br /><br /><br />"-See above the waters the spectral specter crossing the spectrum. It is an idyll of the minnows. Brief interlude. After the orgasms, steeped in grudges, she slunk along the curb, the coughing ghost of a sick bitch."<br /><br /><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br /><br /><br />Said the famous Reggie, aphorist and professor:<br /><br /><br /><br />"-As soon as you hear the name "god", you know already they are talking bullshit."<br /><br /><br /><br />"-Next with a yawn I happened to gulp a spontaneous thunderbolt: distasteful."<br /><br /><br /><br />"-I went under the olive tree<br />I had my wine and my bread with cheese<br />And I started daydreaming<br />Under the warmth and the dappled light<br />And I entered<br />Into the delicious hallucinations<br />Where paradises abounded and bubbled<br />(&)<br />Until it was time to go back home<br />With my dubitative step<br />Down the country walk<br />Thinking what a well replenished day<br />And yes<br />Yes<br />All in the line of a day's work."<br /><br /><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br /><br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Gaze till they to madness run</b><br /><br /><br /><strong>Gaze till they to madness run</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />I’m the omnipotent investigative reporter<br />Who uncovers the totality of your life<br />The paltriest of your secret dark caves<br />Is invaded by my steady all-seeing step.<br /><br />I’ve got every detail down pat on my pad<br />To the salient facts I’m adding the deepest buried ones<br />Painstakingly I’m adding and adding down,<br />Nothing escapes me, the joys and the sorrows<br />The extreme disappointments above all<br />The strange silences, the odd lulls where you<br /><i>Or is it even you<br />But the crumbling shell of your waning gargoyle shadow?</i><br />Walk on a void.<br /><br />Got them all, the smacks of fate<br />The leaks of unbeing<br />The deadening jolts every time<br />That you realize you amount exactly to zilch<br />Or rather to even less than zilch, and you doubt<br />Do you even exist in any kind of measurable<br />Level of exist... <i>Hey, silly boy! I’m telling you...</i><br /><br /><i>Hide this, ok?<br />Unless you want to zap me to hell<br />Cover - and fast - your murderously radiating insignia.<br />I can’t abide the shine on my too sensitive eyes</i>.<br /><br />Little shitty fellow<br />I can express you like a piss-vessel<br />As a bladder, yes, or as a pig<br />A piglet squeezed out in my gigantic Jovian hands<br />All the wine, and food, and thoughts<br />You ever had...<br />Come pouring down from the old<br />Holes and the spanking new ones.<br /><br />No sweat.<br />Not a ripple the prowess of my prowling prow<br />Draws over the scum of this old blood<br />To which the few stale drops of your miserly<br />Worthless nothing of a body, empty<br />Bag of fluff, scantest of hefts,<br />Fleeting nugacity, bring but a<br />Remote never-noticed shading<br />On the faint shivering<br />Of a non-descript stain.<br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Through the dances to the stillness</b><br /><br /><strong>Through the dances to the stillness</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Murky world.<br /><br />Walking in a park adjoining my home<br />I’ve found some stamps<br />That now abruptly somebody deems valuable<br />For with his son he is obdurate on recovering<br />Them from me, though I maintain that I never<br />Found the fuckers.<br /><br />They say they’ll fight me to death<br />They’ll burn the house down<br />Kill all my plants and birds<br />Unless the stamps are handed over.<br /><br />Which stamps…? I walk along the park<br />With my stick and I try to keep the path<br />Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly<br />Garbage, what do I care about little squares<br />Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.<br /><br />The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone<br />Once underway a hoot no doubt<br />I see it already: such hilarity.<br /><br /><br /><br />Murky world.<br /><br />And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.<br /><br />After I’ve tried as well as I could<br />To hang up the long wet carpet<br />Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –<br />Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…<br /><br />Roils the cold still air the passing tramway<br />Where our last trip shall commence<br />I can make up words of rhyming verses<br />With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…<br /><br />The jerky witty dance indeed<br />Is underway in my head.<br /><br /><br /><br />Murky word.<br /><br />After the eviction<br />Following the crisp roads<br />Toward the mountains yonder.<br /><br />With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress<br />And some deep blue pillows<br />I’m trying to make it across the country home.<br /><br />As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank<br />And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach<br />I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress<br />And onto the bike itself.<br /><br />After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking<br />At the sunny courtyard<br />I notice that the bedding of the mattress<br />Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows<br />The thin brown blankets.<br /><br />There are customers on pillows, true<br />There are resting workers<br />Lazily stretched along the shadows<br />The building provides<br />But I’m gaffing continuously<br />None of the deep blue pillows<br />Upon which they lean are really mine<br />I’ve got to apologize every time after my query<br />And in a good-humored way.<br /><br />Sounds of the same music again.<br /><br />Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.<br /><br />Murky world.<br /><br />On with the farce<br />And the arrival again postponed.<br /><br /><br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>J.V. Foix...</b><br /><br /><strong>J.V. Foix’s Song of Doubt – (1948)</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />True it is and not true – the heart’s aflame<br /><br />With burning hopes, but the hostel’s alone<br /><br />In a background of noise of dance; to one<br /><br />And all I’m asking what, only I’m too tame.<br /><br /><br /><br />Outside I defy the blizzard all the same,<br /><br />And with wild gladness in nights of white stone,<br /><br />While running after whom of me complains, the groan<br /><br />Of the wind soothes me, unseen, with no aim.<br /><br /><br /><br />True my love; true also, oh, god, the untruth.<br /><br />I’m foot and asphalt; evil’s my climbing stool<br /><br />Upon which the good I sing, angry and uncouth!<br /><br /><br /><br />All’s so hard – please help; I bathe in the pool<br /><br />Of beauty – at it you are banned, and I’m in ruth.<br /><br />I see gloom shine bright; gold’s my hunch of the fool!<br /><br /> </blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Nothing like dying clears the lumber</b><br /><br /><br /><strong>Nothing like dying clears the lumber</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Yesterday, over the deafening blasts, in my mind, I was bidding: <em>Goodbye, you gooves, I mean, you goofs, goodbye</em>…</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />There was the airliner, greedy god, giant totem bathing in the shiny pool of its own spunk — edgily milling around, surrounding it (inside the permitted boundaries,) some of us plethorically salivating, others dry-throated, we all intimately worshiped…, entreating, beseeching, begging to be worth to be allowed (mentally allowed) to have a fulfilling tongueful licking up of it all, the uptodated goodies, the magnetic stool pigeon, the monstrous divinity, its cascades of coruscating sperm… And then, underhanded, clandestine, left and right, the sacrifices… If a man, your sacrificed your cock; if a woman, your clit.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />I was so confused. Split between allegiances, you might say. A walking tribulation lost among the runways. One of my grown sons going toward one of the ready planes, wife and baby going toward an opposite one, another plane, in an opposite tarmac, to an opposite destination, bound for an opposite locale altogether…</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />Damned. Splintered, splattered, dispersed. A jumble inside. I know that you know the whole of my whole… Wallowing in pituitary juice, the little man me splat, I mean, split up, and swam ashore… His double life… Their respective… On both crystal-clear horizons… Over the muddy ramparts… Two beings not too apt to… His lives flashed before me — a splayed, badly spliced phenomenon at the end — telling me maybe that my job was done; the next generation already in command; that it would take exponentially longer than the whole life itself just to try to put a few floods of thoughts into action… This is another paradox, that many of the most critical injections and suggestions in a plane’s eyeful head flash through so fast, that clocks collide in battle, it seems. Time we all live by has so little relation to the sort of linear lifetime one spells out to oneself as he runs from platform to platform, trying to adjust, just trying (hard and never quite succeeding) to spell out the contents of even a single fast right word.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />Every iteration uttered above the din roused from the frightful grunts of the huge idols and the shitty imprecations of the worshippers seems totally unhinged, out of any regular sequential pattern. We all seem to go around trying to grab the pigtail of a chronological series of feebly understandable gestures that willy-nilly should add up to a nanosecond of sense, but it never does.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />Between you and them, and among these and anybody else, paradoxes rise like barriers — the moment you subside, exhausted, they call the roll-call of their lifetimes. It’s really like that — the best way I can imagine to cope of with the repetitive quandary, would be never to try — better even to un-try… Everyone happens to use words, but all what really matters goes on without ever being said; you try to convey to those so-called loved-ones what you are thinking, and you find out that they're thinking exactly the same: deep down we all are thinking the same… Unfinishable! What a fucking travesty is it all, and when will it be over!</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />Move the gods in unison. We are panicking, fast, huge, unhooked, a lack of words in a torrent of words. Barely sketched on the reflections of the surfaces, there are the outlines of most of the sacrificial silent underhanded self-cripplers. One tiny little piece of me given to the god, so that he might obsequiously concede me the keeping of the rest — the rest of that body nonetheless incapable of expressing shit — or other than shit. I won’t put up much longer with any further part of it. No. At any given instant, my internal head-speed might go into overheating. And whatever my ideas, memories, hatreds and desires might impel me to do even faster, the crash, by the way, would nonetheless be still a sure thing.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />Exponentially more and more discombobulated as the shot flying god crumbles to the rough surface of your ominous thoughts, you’re dying, meaning your urine is like caustic whitecaps on the shore of the burning brain. I’m thinking piss or bust… Meaning maybe that it’s as well if I die or they do… And how fast and, farraginously over meadows, o ruinously over neighborhoods, or stinking wet over the ocean, who cares. The doors to the crapper fly open as my scrawnily screw-taped deliberations and associations can fly through the airport’s thunderous sky — uselessly querulous. You can be in the middle of a ravishingly tiny rush, and yet start sliding back, technically, to the years of your infancy, when dying was what was coming next whenever anything at all happened — so that as a fact the chestnut about all your (good) seducers and (nasty) abusers flashing before your mind’s eyes (if any) as you’re finally reweaving, I mean, relieving and re-living yourself, isn’t all that crazy. No.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />The cups, plates and platters rattle, as does the lid, as do those trinkets they sell, as does every pane, and it turns out that that’s what the worshippers were waiting for — a discrete cheer — usually it only happens once in a lifetime, but today it happened twenty-three times at once. A finite instance of sequential brain-pounding, as though you are being banged about by a bunch of thugs in a filthy ring strewn with rusted cans and dead cats.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />The way I think of time while they are alive, plus the way they think of my receding shadow as they create those slow mind-numbing balletic steps out of thick smoke, what an exuberant flirtation of promiscuous misunderstandings…! Who the fuck knows what’s really going on. At the most basic level, I suppose is fear all around, masked with yet the same misrepresentations — who can imagine entities larger or more meaningful (or with a mind more powerful) than those, who indeed picture in his infantile fancy something as beautifully hideous as a train or a plane now aware of those alluring expanses called ocean, desert, firmament which moreover they are bound to realize their destinies never tire to call them over to, as if it were to the final resting place of home, home, home…? Hum-hum-humming home all the way home, my motors, my body. Homing machines, yes. No, but, when one of those dumb divinities is up to something as reasonable as giving up the parasitical ghost that had them in thrall, does it then, finally, realize that, although their whole life…, its whole life had been for all apparent purposes some kind of unity, with a starting point and now that hysterical crash, that in fact there turned out to be somewhere else foggy bigger meanings, bigger terms of reality, and that their lives as my life weren’t even close to what words and chronological pitter-patter, really a sequential thing of some sort, where first you are borne in the arms of a creep, and then you’re up with enough material to rush through a complaining door on your way to become a drop of piss in the pan of a universal latrine, can for an instant convey with any sense of accuracy…? Not a zillionth of a fraction with not a zillionth of a fraction of…? Your head might just explode in little silences.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />For when people are looking over their quietly bleeding stumps and waiting out, to see if there al last happens something more exciting than the intoxication brought by drink or by any other means which would tickle the hormones, always prone and eager to disorder, there you might talk and say as if you know what the fuck you were about to… but deep down… not at all possible to, no.</p> <p style="margin-top: 0.49cm; margin-bottom: 0.21cm;" lang="en-GB"><br />I was benevolently smiling through both ends of my schizopodous lips, and then, of a sudden — flexing, feeling my muscles, my face settled, no longer in pain, budding, breezy, an odorous flower waiving off — I was outside, alone, somewhat exhilarated, pondering that, indeed, dying clears your mind of so much dross and encumbrance — for a little while at least — till next one — before falling into the pattern, and then again, there you are, thinking, as always, those other obstreperous thoughts — or worse, hey, or worse.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><i>Voiceless</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>can’t bark, can’t bark</b><br /><br /><br /><br />here, projected, is my body…<br />what a roaring scent,<br />what a roaring scent it lets fly…!<br />is dead…,<br />is dead and rotting…<br /><br />in its murkiness,<br />a sparkling maggot<br />scoffs at my swift<br />deterioration…<br /><br />calls me a rustic,<br />a no class churl,<br />no finesse whatever<br />in the liquefying arts;<br />such a crying, such a bore,<br />such a boor, such a crying<br />inability to render oneself,<br />or at least to render<br />graciously oneself<br />back to the clean humus,<br />such as one always<br />certainly should…<br /><br />and now in her smugness,<br />she shrieks…<br />a corpse beetle<br />lands in her field.<br /><br />the sparkling maggot<br />bristles most aggrieved.<br /><br />fetid quills are crossed,<br />the fierce adversaries<br />disregard the juicy meal<br />of my body…<br />rotting fast.<br /><br />lugubrious, the victor<br />the vanquished devours<br />as any mother would<br />her gutsy abortion.<br /><br />as the sparkling beetle<br />now flies away,<br />my body, a derelict,<br />a sinking deserted wreck,<br />melts with…,<br />melts with the sea.<br /><br />the sea, a juicy…,<br />a juicy meal<br />from a bigger corpse yet.<br /><br />the sea harmonious,<br />the warring…,<br />the warring oceans cacophonous,<br />the blue, the blue…<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><i>Hats (or, as the wind commands)</i><br /><br /><b>About hats severally worn by the born</b><br /><br /><br />(1)<br /><br /><br />these are the hats I wear<br />the hats people forget<br />at my side<br />whenever I’m sitting<br />at the brinks<br />of abrupt<br />precipices.<br /><br />these are the hats<br />nipped and scratched<br />often too deeply<br />just maybe as the people<br />who wore them<br />and gave them up.<br /><br />those are the exhausted<br />supernumerary hats<br />I find after the people<br />who forgot them behind<br />suddenly up and decided<br />to jump<br />or else<br />step leisurely<br />into the ravine.<br /><br />those are the hats I wear<br />as unwearable maybe<br />as the people<br />who left them behind<br />people who up and marched<br />with a will toward the abyss.<br /><br />those are the hats of people<br />some of whom were allowed<br />to descend flight by rough<br />and jagged and craggy flight<br />to their uppermost bliss<br />while others were forbidden<br />the luxury<br />and had to leave behind<br />(with their derelict hats)<br />those excess years<br />and riches and felicities<br />and their droves of children<br />in a spasm.<br /><br />those are the hats I wear<br />as those that wore them<br />up and disappeared<br />down the chasms<br />and forgot them<br />near where in his secluded niche<br />the surrogate wearer waits<br />and waits…<br /><br />as the master winds<br />blow up the world<br />as the master<br />blower blows up<br />a crude bottle<br />where the scene<br />could be<br />before shattering<br />condensed…?<br /><br /><br /><br /><b>(2)</b><br /><br /><br />before my stunned eyes<br />a hat blew in the storm<br />I was disoriented<br />strange city<br />heavy rowdy traffic<br />blinding gaudy lights<br />I had been eating grapes<br />with the friendly inhabiters<br />of a crumbling house<br />deep pools of rain<br />where the rats wallowed<br />but now we needed bread<br />to eat with the remaining grapes<br />and I was so disoriented<br />emerging into the busy artery<br />I didn’t know where to turn<br />the smells were injurious<br />the lights hurtful<br />the dislodged hats blew around<br />and about<br />whirlpools of incongruous objects<br />in eddies of splintering hats<br />the crazed cars<br />rammed down dogs<br />and pigeons<br />and tykes<br />and left those unspeakable messes<br />behind<br />so that new cars rapidly<br />passed above<br />and with a vengeance<br />trying to obliterate the hideous<br />soilage<br />the revolting outrage<br />I was utterly disoriented<br />the offensive smells<br />the garish neons<br />the clattering stabbing hum<br />I submerged myself back<br />meanwhile<br />and when even without a puny loaf<br />underarm<br />I reached again the dilapidated house<br />new lodgers were busy about<br />and worst<br />putting in new shiny appliances<br />were<br />the rude bullying servicemen<br />who chased me away<br />like another grubby<br />discarded<br />putrefying hat.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Book of Life [only two chapters]</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Book of Life (one chapter)</b><br /><br /><br /><br />My mother, my father,<br />my daughter, my wife,<br />they were all talking<br />and marveling<br />at the big monument.<br /><br />I said: Excuse me…<br />And so fast, and almost<br />unacknowledged,<br />I was gone.<br /><br />I went directly opposite<br />their way,<br />traversing streets and roads<br />chockfull with people and cars.<br /><br />I had to go steal a book…<br />Couldn’t let pass<br />the opportunity.<br /><br />When I came back…,<br />they all were dead,<br />my father, my mother,<br />my wife, my daughter.<br /><br />Now I’m trying still<br />to read the momentous book<br />I stole on that occasion.<br /><br />While I wonder<br />was it all really worth…?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Book of Life (another chapter)</b><br /><br /><br /><br />Borrowing and substituting<br />is my way of being.<br /><br />My way of being, meaning<br />how I exist on this selfsame earth<br />the reader is supposed to exist.<br /><br />I’m borrowing the combs of others<br />to see if with their special,<br />toney, tawny, wide-tined combs<br />my bald spots don’t populate again.<br /><br />I’m borrowing also the sauces —<br />Often I feed on sauces alone;<br />other times I only need to add<br />a bit of bread…,<br />borrowed,<br />or found someplace,<br />or even bought somehow.<br /><br />Substituting is the second endeavor,<br />as important as the first.<br /><br />When my friend Bledso<br />went to town to steal a book,<br />and it was Halloween time,<br />I asked him to substitute whatever<br />book he was going to steal<br />for this one…<br /><br />I said: Bledso, please…<br /><br />And I gave him (taking it from<br />my pocket with a flourish,<br />for I was sure it was a very surprising<br />book,) I gave him a book<br />enveloped tightly with the mask<br />of a goofy Dracula.<br /><br />I said: Bledso, please…<br />Would you slip this on the window<br />of the bookshop, prominently,<br />you know, on the window<br />of the bookshop where thou happenest<br />to go for to steal a book…?<br /><br />He made a moue but took<br />the unfrightening book<br />to inconspicuously put it<br />conspicuously under<br />the eyes of the amused passers-by.<br /><br />I remember (I was at the time involved<br />in the fond process of supping by<br />dipping some sops in the sauce<br />on the counter) when he came back.<br /><br />Alles in Ordnung…?, I also joked.<br /><br />Bledso answered: Yeah.<br /><br />I said: Show us then which book thou hath<br />for thee for the nonce appropriated,<br />knightly Bledso, chivalric chivalrous<br />chevalier of mine, please, huh…?<br /><br />He said, nonchalantly showing<br />indeed the scant volume:<br />Just “A Small Tract…”<br />(or “Treaty” or “Treatise,”<br />now I don’t rightly recall;<br />let me rephrase it…,) he saying: Just<br />“A Small Treatise About Ovarian Cancer.”<br /><br />I said: Sounds interesting.<br /><br />As he forewent the opportunity<br />to reply, I thought I needed to add<br />to the praises of his choice.<br /><br />Promises to be a wad of fun,<br />I echo-chambered<br />in the empty cage of my trunk<br />trying, though benightedly enough,<br />to guffaw. And then I said:<br />Would you please, Bledso,<br />lend it to me sometime…?<br /><br />He was rummaging about<br />in some deep drawers<br />where previously I had rummaged,<br />but I believed then as<br />I do do believe now he kindly<br />nodded his assent…;<br />awfully nice chap, Bledso,<br />if swallowed whole and<br />unseasoned, as they say.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br />Through the panes, transfixed<br /><br /><strong>Through the panes, transfixed</strong><br /><br /><br />Frugal love links of the everyday,<br />I awoke and peered through the panes<br />At the long acres of cultivated trim,<br />Those strenuously conceived<br />Paradoxes of commonplace creativity…<br /><br />At the critical orchids that often create,<br />Under the breeze, such brittle melodies.<br /><br />Ah, yes, simplicity; mine, no doubt<br />Very much like that of other<br />Humble gardeners whose orchards,<br />Above over yonder,<br />Also drift in waves of curious solitude.<br /><br />I peered at tilled fields, mathematical<br />Sequences of aspects hidden<br />To the reasoning mechanisms.<br /><br />And saw next, near the rough wall,<br />The bland covetousness of moderate lizards,<br />Joyful in their other world.<br /><br />The beasts’ techniques allow the empty,<br />The empty like me and my empty eyes,<br />To marvelously relax and dream.<br /><br />Mixtures of grease the hoe mixes in the creases<br />Of her ancient goddess skin, earth.<br /><br />Blasts the volcano its lavas,<br />Over which the fire fishes<br />Erstwhile so deftly swam.<br /><br />Like them, I’m telling myself, put up a fight,<br />You lousy lazy creep.<br />Your dough is elastic, and hers more so,<br />Vow then to rip her lingerie…<br /><br />Even the thought, brings you enough<br />Exhilaration as to be able to…(in a jiffy,<br />Had you only taken yourself outside,)<br />To saunter over the manifold bird’s nests<br />Of her hairy treasures.<br /><br />Rewards that shall be yours as the same<br />Paradoxical library of commonsense wit<br />Encountered while digging for other<br />Injurious worms.<br /><br />Think: Labors a plenty,<br />Labors so wondrous, reality is tossed around<br />In mindlessly rational straightforward fashion.<br /><br />Stay. Bother to listen to the feet of the lizard<br />As they take purchase over the rural quiet,<br />And as they steal with ease the ease,<br />The uncostly ease of earth undone.<br /><br />Eliminate the acquired knot of enwrapped<br />Sentences, and maybe freedom is deserved.<br /><br />Vowed now to unstinting attachment<br />To fewer places, exploit the wasteful<br />Clouded less-ness of superabundance.<br /><br />Suppose the cheapest and the highest findings<br />Are both equally doomed to extinction.<br /><br />The cheapest and the highest priced,<br />Those extravagant sisters who clearly and<br />Chastely require the tasteless characteristic<br />Of picking yellow laundry in the hope<br />That their lizard feet in clarity and vividness<br />Will follow their stealthy model to the vacuous<br />Small refuge of the infinite.<br /><br />As the length increases, and thence the plurality<br />Of spending, bestow rather a scattering of<br />Further elegance on the cheerfully unbidden<br />Juncture of sudden death.<br /><br />Nothing is codified nor edified.<br />An agonizing whinny originates<br />In the healthy chest of a slave<br />Bought in prospects of gaining<br />Insight into the clandestine.<br /><br />A merely elongated leek is the nearest<br />Thing to the bread of thought.<br />It requires a vast planting outdoors,<br />Where the intelligent of yesteryear<br />Taught the hallowed topics,<br />Now grown disgustingly sour and stale.<br /><br />No hindrance to the expansion of its hair,<br />Its leek-y hair, the subtle emanation<br />Of all earthbound tears.<br /><br />A grove pristine in birdie mirth<br />Shows nonetheless some weaknesses.<br /><br />Fewer distractions are available<br />In the far-fetched maximum leisure<br />Of redundant, mutually assured hostility.<br /><br />I rose that morning beholding success,<br />And of course such a surplus,<br />And yet my oversize aptitude for idleness<br />Frittered away all those (soi-disant<br />Worthwhile) hothouse remotes.<br /><br />Unyielding and specious as any other<br />Coquettish novice, I shunned the tree<br />And its poisoned fruits, and removed<br />Myself to where the lizard had gone,<br />Or thought it had — the hot naked<br />Unsteadily dangerous rocks<br />Of sheer unproductivity,<br />As the burning rain unwrapped<br />Its coruscating pyrotechnics.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Sorry old machine clinkering its last</b><br /><br /><strong>Sorry old machine clinkering its last</strong><br /><br />On a whim, I had climbed the old narrow stairs.<br />Back from afar, I had returned to the city of my birth.<br />I was almost sixty now.<br />Fancy, over forty-odd years already that I had not seen all this…!<br />I was climbing up to the small terrace found on the roof.<br />There we used to do, as mere tykes, our calisthenics, under the supervision of the livid, bloated, screaming teacher.<br />I wanted to see again the lost landscape of fifty years gone.<br />At the top of the stairs, on the landing before the door to the terrace, in the dark, I heard a voice…<br />—Who’s that? Is that you…?<br />—No, I answered, it’s me. I went to school in this same building, I just wanted…, out of curiosity…<br />—Oh, but of course, come all the way in.<br />I did so, with a certain trepidation. As though a monster were to lurk therein, or maybe worse, the same stern old teacher of yore, cadaverous now, it had to be, mummified, eager to punish me for an ultimate, definitive time, for a more unpardonable sin…<br />But no, thank goodness, it was his pretty daughter who opened the door to the Sun.<br />She had a bottle of schnapps with her.<br />She was only slightly older than me. Still gracious. She offered me a sip of her odorous bottle.<br />The terrace, I saw, had been totally altered.<br />All in white. Blinding.<br />Also the cityscape you saw from the terrace itself had nothing to do with what I remembered.<br />The big blind white wall of a neighboring house barred the view to the river beyond and the lovely undulating green and dun hills that often used to be filled with gatherings of white bleating sheep…<br />Or with gypsies tethering horses around an improvised fire to warm themselves as they waited to sell the scrawny animals.<br />The terrace was also dangerous. Gone were the safety railings at its borders. The impingement of the swallowing edifice nearby almost making the railing superfluous. And yet there it was: a strait, a canyon, a narrow chasm that would open in between the two houses, pointing down to the same busy commercial street underneath.<br />The approach to the brink was therefore nonetheless perilous indeed.<br />Actually the small terrace seemed to waver in fright, choked and squeezed, cornered by the huge walls of the new houses surrounding it.<br />If you wanted to inspect what was nonetheless still seeable through chinks of unchained buildings, you better did it from the center of the little terrace, lest in your dizziness you should fall straight down, the whole length of ten or eleven stories, as a dead weight, fortuitously tossed, and now witlessly caroming through the uneven walls of the descending funnel formed by the walls and balconies of as much of the more and more proximate sides of the leaning buildings as their randomly acquired shapes presently afforded.<br />Trying all the while to keep your balance, the terrace wavering worse and worse and you in danger of falling down and rolling to the brink and to the almost sure prospect of your bruised body finally dead and smashed…<br />Splattered on the pavement.<br />The same pavement you kept on looking at, faintly suicidal, all those long Summer afternoons when almost everybody kept themselves inside and only the man with the long hose would splash the dusty street with cold cooling water…<br />A cleaning hose for your blood and crushed pasty bones now again maybe…<br />I turned, urged by the burning of the little hairs at my nape, and looked at the lurching old woman girl of my childish erotic dreams…<br />She was laughing an ugly laugh without teeth…<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>J.V. Foix's Fictions</b><br /><br /><br /><strong>J.V. Foix’s “Bru i descofat, i descalç…”</strong><br /><br /><strong>(Fictions) (1936)</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Barefoot, hatless, tanned, in aimless pursuit<br />Along the empty shores of a day overcast,<br />Walking alone, and imagining sharp casts<br />Unnamable, sheenless, drawn in mud and soot…<br /><br /><br />I happened to see a row of odd galoots<br />With heads split, facing their tombs, standing aghast,<br />Mycelia of blood crossing their shadows fast,<br />Brute idols cut against a sky destitute.<br /><br /><br />My mind I questioned, sighing, mystified…<br />Did I see right? The awful representations<br />Arose off me, or from the stormy outside…?<br /><br /><br />Even now I’m pestered by those ruminations.<br />Do fictions — and they are my life! — roughshod ride<br />The mind, or lift it to the heavenly stations…?<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><i>as the mood dictates the quality of the colors on the painting so the consequences on the canvas of the skin</i><br /><br /><br /><br />as the mood dictates the quality of the colors on the painting so the consequences on the canvas of the skin<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />When she was good<br />I was allowed to lap up<br />The glaze upon her buns<br />Left there by the others'<br />Thicker longer<br />Sturdier brushes -<br /><br /><br />When she was bad<br />The labile slender pencil<br />Of mine got punished<br />Into being banned<br />Into having its nose<br />Blocked for days on end<br />Deprived of the nurrishment<br />Of their glaze.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><b>Caught in amber</b><br /><br /><br /><br />Tiberius Ieye didn’t realize that he was just that — an eye with legs — until the day his friend the killer, Garrison Buffoon, a fag who nonetheless had also a honeybuns of a wife named Penny Mile, showed him the eye of an antediluvian sparrow caught in amber…<br /><br />Said Tiberius Ieye: “Is that a mirror…?”<br /><br />Said Garrison Buffoon, the killer: “No, silly; it’s the eye of a very ancient sparrow caught in amber… You want to know how old it is…? I’d guess no less than a billion years old or so… If not older still.”<br /><br />—Somebody gave it to you…?<br /><br />—Found it while I was on the job… [Why he was killing somebody, understood the Eye.]<br /><br />They were bathed in penumbrae and squalor… The Killer Buffoon and the Eye had gone to the city to acquire — through any means necessary — a book Penny Mile wanted, about “<strong>How to atone serenely enough for one’s crass errors at metempsychosis</strong>…” Or some other learned volume approaching this title…<br /><br />She’d tried and tried, alike with herself, and with his dear husband, and his most intimate friends — with whom he’d have orgiastic sex in the gun-logjammed den while she brewed both tea in the kitchen and, over the crucible in her lab, some incantatory formulae of soul transformation… She’d tried with all her circle of acquaintances, and especially with her husband’s… All flaky fishy soft-wristed malleable fags. But the results, anyhow, left always a lot to be desired.<br /><br />The Eye was maybe a consequence of her tinkerings with the leaping trips that souls (if too prodded on their behinds) often feel obliged to take from body to body...<br /><br />As the process was uncalled-for, with neither the souls nor the new recipients of them really ready, horrid creatures ensued, with forms you don’t want to be too clinical in describing lest you provoke yourself into vomiting and loathing.<br /><br />Once a jinxed sparrow was passing out her window and received the soul of the maid. The maid becoming nothing but a little bit of carbon with the shape of the maid. Penny the Mile had the little carbon maid later engraved upon an amethyst set in platinum and she used it often as a love-charm to entice other girls which were later also subjected to the same indignity of unripe transmogrification…<br /><br />The bookshop held nothing of any kind of interest inside — just rubbish, just garbage, just fluff… The Eye and the Killer, dismayed, thwarted in their last-ditch expedition, finally hobbled by tiredness and life-purposelessness, started running for the hills. Back to the sticks where weak weedy books didn’t poison the air.<br /><br />The Mile was waiting home. As she knew Catalonian perfectly, her incantations packed a truer ring than did those of most (if not all outright) of the other more helpless, hapless charmers. And thus her degree of failed success was much greater than that of the rest of witchdom… Many women of the neighborhood had been put to death accused of witchcraft only because they were ugly and surrounded by monsters, but the Mile was free to run crazy and on the raw by night, without fear of being assaulted by corpse-hardened killers, for she could convert at will, becoming a gigantic thrip who smugly could twiddle with anybody’s crotches and them none the wiser, or a firebug and mix with the sparkles of a drink of warm liquor as the knights and lords discussed at night which witch go out and burn…<br /><br />The knights and lords would gather nightly and under oath and with short brusque squabbles, resolved instantly by the barking of the skin of the shins of each of the squabblers by the great boss with a big stick, they would decide the nightly victim… And the Mile biting their balls, ferociously, when their idea was wrong enough to direct itself to the whereabouts of her home and the Killer’s, and in consequence instead of opining, having to swear devilishly and bang at their own balls… By the time the wrongly inspired knight tried to intervene anew about which witch to bring to justice, the veredict had already been agreed on.<br /><br />The weirdest type of zoomorphism as a startling new phenomenon didn’t start in their soap-operish homeland till the Catalonian Mile had appeared a shiny day on the sunny, thimy side of the hill leading to their hiding place of a little village. Most of them had seen her as a sweet lagniappe coming of itself, on two pretty gazelle’s legs, both for their enjoyment at seeing her burn, and the more delicious faggoty drudge and grudge that went on while selecting a new sacrificial cunt every night on their Columbus Knights lodge where the sanctimoniousness-weary devil willy-nilly presided.<br /><br />There were tigers and amphorae and crucifixes on the walls. Buddha was absent, of course. They could transform into hyenas and other beasts of prey in manners quite peculiar. A society of castes which was held in deep contempt by the rest of the untouchable population… [Untouchable except at the time of setting them on the pyre to burn alive, of course, especially the women, the witches so called.]<br /><br />The Killer was of the opinion that: “<strong>Only the irregulars can win the battle against the deadly regulars</strong>…”<br /><br />The Eye agreed. He beat an eyelid in assent.<br /><br />Upon arriving to their village, a nasty surprise awaited them. They had been declared “off-kickable.” And in effect they had been kicked out. “Why the fuck…?” They inquired, pissed off to the max.<br /><br />“—New rules apply — no access now!” The soldiers paid by the caste society of witch-burning knights and lords haltingly answered, and their machine guns gleamed menacingly.<br /><br />As the bullets flew, the Eye and the Killer ran. And ran and ran. Nights, days. On the roads, dodging the mortiferous road blocks…<br /><br />The Mile, prone to infatuation — or getting fat on a wrong idea — now without her killer honeybuns, felt cheated at life.<br /><br />Idle in her palace, wasting away the day, thinking only of pseudonyms for her new forms, she suffered first a wicked rebellion of the organs of the body, then an incapacitating stroke; then her father the great master law-giver in the lodge, the wielder of the big stick to bark shins’ skins with, became entangled in the fight of his life — the others unanimously wanted to shorten his name — in effect depriving him of his whole personhood…<br /><br />Also, the redneck peasants, the most overwhelming of whose passions was thrift, had stolen another of his daughters, and didn’t want to give her back… The great exarch moaned, writhed, his losses climbing…<br /><br />The Catalonian Mile, her daughter most loved, the witchiest woman in town, pot-bound by her cord-tightening disease, couldn’t help him. Her hair in thrums like tentacles of doom, she, ill-mannered enough, grunted and whirled in order ultimately to rip free from her sinew-slammed paralysis. Her tongue knotted and wedged, prison-pent in an impregnable electromagnetic fence of molars grown like vacuums of distances so daunting that might as well be interstellar… Her world-altering spells reduced to sibilant syllables only attractive to wasps whose squirming nuptials of dances and whimsical stingings caused her to laugh and tremble like an addled chrysalis…<br /><br />Indeed, her rump on the bier-like bed lay like a chrysalis from which Psyche tried to rise… The Eye had seen the Japanese showing how the souls get out of the assholes in men and off cunts in women… But if now he could have seen Penny the Mile he would most assuredly have popped.<br /><br />For an instant Penny Mile became a moth, engendered from the carcass of her own frozen rump… She unfolded her wings, hovered above her discarded chrysalis of a hebetated body, cast a forlorn glance on the old slough… And throbbed for action, predisposed to fly posthaste to save her sister…, or the Killer…, or to talk evil obscenities in next night’s sacrificial witch… after this first liberating, very fanciful gig…, when…! When the swarm of wasps took her of course for a handy insect host and, at one fell swoop, the lot of them got rid of their parasitical eggs, eggs with legs pretty soon and immense mammoth mouths, by injecting them in her plump feathery dusty magical disgusting lymphatic drunk faltering body…<br /><br />The peasantry, meanwhile, storm-swept, ripe for mischief, hearing the end-of-days banshees riding the sneering winds, disabled the innocent daughter… They parboiled her in thawed yolk of written-off menses. In mirth they drank the pith, while flirting with the falling, devastating bolts. Temptation must be always heeded lest we lose our humanity… The evidence in chief of the manifestation of this verity was under our very eyes beneath contempt: the younger sister, the daughter of the great khan of the clan, while sizzling, gloated. Hmmm! That was mighty strange. We nudged the cartilaginous mass she was becoming and streamers of most untherapeutical steam flew up, and bubbles very mean and pestilential burgeoned from the burned ends of the caldron to hug in a lethal embrace the more punishment-deserving amongst us. When the malign fetid waters ebbed we realized we had been purged of the worst elements of the tribe. Had we not yielded to temptation at the beginning, now we not only would have a still more powerful witch amidst us, but our society would live in deadly jeopardy clandestinely truffled with plenty of traitors eying to harm our coming prosperity…<br /><br />Waylaid, the grieving Killer was also horrendously killed. Unseen, the irrelevant Eye, wielding a magnifying glass, was let alone to study the mosses and lichens and the monstrous tiny gigantic beasts thriving therein.<br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><br /><i>Me again and again the cuckolded jerk</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Me again and again the cuckolded jerk</b><br /><br /><br /><br />Oh blind woman, my wife, missus Becker,<br />from the jolly high town of Stecker,<br />she thought every nose was a pecker.<br /><br />Also reversely—<br />So often, verily,<br />whoever wanted, merrily,<br />to outrageously make ‘er…,<br />did — he certainly, most cunningly did<br />— what a jerk, wasn’t she; and what a jerk,<br />me, the cuckold, and what a jerk every jerk<br />made ‘er, my wife, missus Becker.<br /><br />Swindled and tricked by almost every feller<br />came her way and pretended to be, handwise,<br />temporarily, a no-trekker:<br /><br />“—<i>Would you blow please me nose<br />and its hyperventilating nostril,<br />du meine süsse Schmecker</i>…?”<br /><br />—they’d ask most politely,<br />and this, lest their otorhinolaryngologist later<br />should find ‘em, at the end of the day, yet sicker,<br />and so they’d sick ‘er, thicker and thicker, and seek ‘er,<br />and tease ‘er, and strip ‘er, as their nose got bigger,<br />and bigger, and as they muttered —<br /><br />“—<i>Indeed, sweet sister,<br />for my otorhino…, my otorhinolaryng…,<br /></i><i>my otorhinolaryngologist is such a stickler</i>.”<br /><br />“—Blow yer nose, he tells me, you pickled prick prickler,<br />or it’ll become a damned gangrenous tickler.”<br /><br />“—<i>Plus also, as long as you are at it so deep,<br />you deliciously cowlike mischief-maker,<br />strenuously lick it, and lick it, and lick it,<br />like the block of salt it is, and milk it, and milk it,<br />with the skill of the fabled udder-lass who mistook<br />the udders with the bull’s genitalia…, ah-ah, ah-ah,<br />with care you there, you motherfecking faker,<br />aren’t you the rascally malkin, look at me merkin<br />(I mean me beard,) smoking as if on fire,<br />and yelping for help as a forsaken whelp;<br />no, you motherfecking faker, you milk it,<br />and lick it, and love it as though you mean it,<br />no meanness here, then, ok, you motherfecking faker?</i>”<br /><br />Variations of such obscene smears followed,<br />from the filthy mouths of ‘em that had<br />their nether nose eagerly blown,<br />and then you heard ‘em (true, with a hard-on)<br />forsake ‘er, and break ‘er, and brake ‘er,<br />you heard ‘em quake ‘er, and wake ‘er, and wreck ‘er,<br />and you saw ‘em neck ‘er, and deck ‘er,<br />and finally they invariably, with all their might,<br />you saw ‘em thoroughly feck ‘er, and feck ‘er,<br />and feck, and feck, and feck, and feck ‘er,<br />my lady, my wife, my missus, missus Becker.</blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-39610798111278054322009-02-13T22:26:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.204-07:0041. grotty<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><b>we saw Plato or somebody in there yes</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />chagrined that the phenomenon disappoints:<br><br />through a translucent fault line <br><br />inexorable chimeras were supposed <br><br />(amid the uneasiness of other presaged bagatelles)<br><br />to usher some salubrious tides<br><br />tenuous glowing signifiers<br><br />that should’ve exalted our enviable sensorium <br><br />should’ve focused our mind from the root<br><br />of earlier predictions to suggestions of imaginary time<br><br />lit with layers upon layers of aesthetic ghoulish nonsense<br><br><br /><br />true that some of the stranded corpuscles<br><br />testifying to the shrill omission<br><br />seemed here and there to limn untimely disharmonies<br><br />a paltry crystallization of fruitful eccentricities <br><br />a few coils of lavish blithe saucy smoke and so on<br><br />but it must have been all in our heads<br><br><br /><br />the cave meanwhile was turning into some makeshift ocean<br><br />the worst worn spots unwitting spigots<br><br />from where the clumsy wheel of unflattered fate<br><br />vomited the awful disarray of eviscerations<br><br />scum from suddenly swollen athletes<br><br />that exploding ceased to circle<br><br />around the depraved circumstantial slaughterhouses<br><br />grown instantaneously like poisonous toadstools<br><br />and that now were disgorging<br><br />with priapic skill and mock gentleness<br><br />a crapload of luminescent surely corrosive brine<br><br />plus the sound they made copied<br><br />that of a scabrous enough moving of the feces<br><br />or the macabre scattering of other lachrymose stuff<br><br><br /><br />we saw then not the brittle windfall of insolent sundogs<br><br />and triumphant forces accelerated<br><br />in a sick shortcut to the pristine origins<br><br />but a wreckage of crippled imps<br><br />shaky inklings at the bottom<br><br />through the clouded flesh of the surface<br><br />an irretrievably zoo of buffoonish forms<br><br />a crude amusement of indignities nestling pell-mell<br><br />in a fog of antipathy<br><br><br /><br />the firewood too clammy<br><br />even the wooing crickets and bats rendered lethargic<br><br />but not the mouths of the filthy scions<br><br />the regimented chiliarchs<br><br />oddly following still their dull pecking order<br><br />compelled now to exude rueful unsuccessful avowals<br><br />of profligate goings-on and a rotten insanity of murders<br><br />cataloged in a momentous staccato of squeals:<br><br><br /><br />“we were yikes evildoers<br><br />fearmongers unscrupulous swindlers cutthroats<br><br />insidious scathing eye-gouging assholes<br><br><br /><br />the plights of fringe martyrs left us<br><br />neither surly nor agitated nor weak-kneed<br><br />not even numb just awash in opulent blood<br><br><br /><br />in egregious remorse we confess<br><br />insatiable qualms and deathbed renewals<br><br><br /><br />the wellborn bonuses sinecures<br><br />made us nutty heroes<br><br />touchstones to the handsome counterpoints<br><br />and confidently hygienic charitable lavatory surgical<br><br />as we were the lightning-rods of all the malignity<br><br><br /><br />ripened our fatherlands thanks to those shabby thrills <br><br />we provided for the multitudes<br><br />we were conspicuously deluged with foolhardy approval<br><br />by all and sundry and regardless<br><br />braving the horrid bloodletting we wisecracked<br><br />with glee and tenacity <br><br /><i>breathe brethren breathe</i><br><br />while we broke a few spines”<br><br><br /><br />the faster shimmer of that last loss<br><br />the panicky epistolary crisscrossed glimmerings meaning zilch<br><br />the juxtaposed stilted constipated sarcasm of the resurrectionists <br><br />the risen murkiness turned into a fervent summary<br><br />in the last hundred broken manageable initials<br><br />uncials and all<br><br />of the disjointed mechanics of what we were never really weaned of<br><br />the stampeding fragments <br><br />the inching waves<br><br />the wounded bristles<br><br />the thunder receding as we receded<br><br />tactfully tiptoed to the left of the stage<br><br />no convictions required<br><br />forget about all that stomach-pumping<br><br />escape trumps truth<br><br />our climactic recession all in all a wonder<br><br />of posthumous digression.<br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-4591005405684950852009-02-13T22:17:00.000-08:002009-09-14T19:01:18.599-07:0041. <meta equiv="CONTENT-TYPE" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <title></title> <meta name="GENERATOR" content="OpenOffice.org 2.4 (Linux)"> <style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { size: 21.59cm 27.94cm; margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" ><b>we saw Plato or somebody in there yes</b></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >chagrined that the phenomenon disappoints:</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >through a translucent fault line </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >inexorable chimeras were supposed </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >(amid the uneasiness of other presaged bagatelles)</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >to usher some salubrious tides</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >tenuous glowing signifiers</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >that should’ve exalted our enviable sensorium </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >should’ve focused our mind from the root</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >of earlier predictions to suggestions of imaginary time</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >lit with layers upon layers of aesthetic ghoulish nonsense</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >true that some of the stranded corpuscles</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >testifying to the shrill omission</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >seemed here and there to limn untimely disharmonies</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >a paltry crystallization of fruitful eccentricities </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >a few coils of lavish blithe saucy smoke and so on</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >but it must have been all in our heads</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the cave meanwhile was turning into some makeshift ocean</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the worst worn spots unwitting spigots</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >from where the clumsy wheel of unflattered fate</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >vomited the awful disarray of eviscerations</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >scum from suddenly swollen athletes</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >that exploding ceased to circle</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >around the depraved circumstantial slaughterhouses</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >grown instantaneously like poisonous toadstools</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >and that now were disgorging</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >with priapic skill and mock gentleness</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >a crapload of luminescent surely corrosive brine</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >plus the sound they made copied</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >that of a scabrous enough moving of the feces</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >or the macabre scattering of other lachrymose stuff</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >we saw then not the brittle windfall of insolent sundogs</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >and triumphant forces accelerated</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >in a sick shortcut to the pristine origins</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >but a wreckage of crippled imps</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >shaky inklings at the bottom</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >through the clouded flesh of the surface</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >an irretrievably zoo of buffoonish forms</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >a crude amusement of indignities nestling pell-mell</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >in a fog of antipathy</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the firewood too clammy</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >even the wooing crickets and bats rendered lethargic</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >but not the mouths of the filthy scions</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the regimented chiliarchs</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >oddly following still their dull pecking order</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >compelled now to exude rueful unsuccessful avowals</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >of profligate goings-on and a rotten insanity of murders</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >cataloged in a momentous staccato of squeals:</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US">“<span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >we were yikes evildoers</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >fearmongers unscrupulous swindlers cutthroats</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >insidious scathing eye-gouging assholes</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the plights of fringe martyrs left us</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >neither surly nor agitated nor weak-kneed</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >not even numb just awash in opulent blood</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >in egregious remorse we confess</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >insatiable qualms and deathbed renewals</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the wellborn bonuses sinecures</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >made us nutty heroes</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >touchstones to the handsome counterpoints</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >and confidently hygienic charitable lavatory surgical</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >as we were the lightning-rods of all the malignity</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >ripened our fatherlands thanks to those shabby thrills </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >we provided for the multitudes</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >we were conspicuously deluged with foolhardy approval</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >by all and sundry and regardless</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >braving the horrid bloodletting we wisecracked</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >with glee and tenacity </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" ><i>breathe brethren breathe</i></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >while we broke a few spines”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the faster shimmer of that last loss</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the panicky epistolary crisscrossed glimmerings meaning zilch</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the juxtaposed stilted constipated sarcasm of the resurrectionists </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the risen murkiness turned into a fervent summary</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >in the last hundred broken manageable initials</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >uncials and all</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >of the disjointed mechanics of what we were never really weaned of</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the stampeding fragments </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the inching waves</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the wounded bristles</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >the thunder receding as we receded</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >tactfully tiptoed to the left of the stage</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >no convictions required</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" ><span style="">forget about all that stomach-pumping</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" ><span style="">escape trumps truth</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >our climactic recession all in all a wonder</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><span style="font-family:FreeSerif, serif;"><span style="font-size: 22pt;font-size:6;" >of posthumous digression.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm;" lang="en-US"><br /></p> Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-18770413887348916312009-01-29T18:41:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.204-07:0040. crimson shade<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><b>a voyage round the dead space of my fading projection</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />in detail one thrives, in stale encapsulation, in spiritual shortcuts<br><br />in health oaths, in void journeys, in risible scripture: “<i>toil, slaughter, evil whispers...</i>”<br><br />in the veil of disdain for strength, for growth, and for other paltry oozes.<br><br><br /><br />I stood outmaneuvered constrained deferential, my ink blood<br><br />in woe, with erratic breathing, I told myself: how can you ignore<br><br />the gullies, their suddenly beaming eyes, and instead chew alive<br><br />the cloying width of undulant nonentities albeit properly geographical?<br><br />no, no; what matters dwells in caves, caverns: weight, momentum, booming room<br><br />lurk therein, and decay and blooming risk, and excess and the ghostly beasts.<br><br><br /><br />I had taught myself thoughts, inchoate mysticisms, initiations to<br><br />polluted astonishing scholarly analysis steeped in liturgies and spirals<br><br />rather belonging to the ticklish realms of the philologist and the hypnotist.<br><br><br /><br />emboldened in my linen clothes I followed into more inflammatory thicker<br><br />pearly spawns, indeed into <i>almost bold</i> carnal intuitions<br><br />I argued that fakes alleviate the better omitted polemical stutters of distress<br><br />that coincidence roughly only insofar as it is redemptive rises above nonsense<br><br />that reluctant nitwits, their remote flashes of genuine epistemology<br><br />are ontological masterpieces of busy sophistication.<br><br><br /><br />those reams of parody transiently dissolved for me the <i>d</i> of “<i>death</i>”<br><br />and the remaining “<i>eath</i>” became a lisping existential echo<br><br />a defiant hullabaloo against the elite corps of the spinoff <br><br />and the emaciated demons of the tilted yellow overgrown noontime speed.<br><br><br /><br />sleeplessness and coffee plus gawking at the wayfarers to and from<br><br />the cemetery shared feathers with the thin edges of my silence.<br><br><br /><br />the mood was often repellent, I was afraid of assurances<br><br />of cocky females, worse I disliked the deteriorating departure of my toughness<br><br />my rapacity, through the tangents of caricatural remorse.<br><br><br /><br />prolific adventurers of whom I’d heard the prowesses stunned<br><br />fascinated the underpants out of me and the erudite documents<br><br />the gems of keen soliloquies that bore on the unexplored, the utterly pathological<br><br />did nurture the encomiums on my startled no longer flaccid lips.<br><br><br /><br />I took as vapid nuisances the bathetic fondles of stinking castrated phallocrats<br><br />whose rusted skirts dropped as a flight of dusty moths<br><br />over the damp squib of my sourly scoured codicil.<br><br><br /><br />the wayward weather and the untoward locus of my renowned shivers<br><br />waned and evaporated as the tribes that erstwhile sailed the skies<br><br />steeped in zest and leftward leanings in the deformed excoriated evening.<br><br><br /><br />but those tasteless metaphors belaboring as the hordes of senescence<br><br />at the arid demesne of posterity at length proved worthless, gave no relief.<br><br><br /><br />I wove, as I still (threadbare) weave, an adolescent dependence to heights:<br><br />the geographical warts that cowardly though solemnly roughly endure<br><br />don’t ever shrink as would a bum cloak submitted to the same abuse of wanton bombast.<br><br><br /><br />in conclusion I’ll say that I ascended full of rigor and gratitude to the estranged<br><br />summits where disagreeable witches mourn even now the destroyed pledges<br><br />that should have clinched the aberrant conflict of their latent ambiguity.<br><br><br /><br />relying like them on weirdness I selfishly, full of vanity, renounced<br><br />in extended snores the earlier flirts with unruliness and disintegration<br><br />and damned if wickedly I didn’t cling now to the extravagant tactic <br><br />of seeing to notch a few sad surreptitious constructive actions of my own.<br><br><br /><br />in ludicrous streams ran throughout the expectorations that I called<br><br />poetry, in revenge against which my ventriloquizing navel lavishly frothed:<br><br />infested deluge of graphic noxious gasps where monkey guffaws<br><br />and plenty other demerits (later blamed on spies and other greasy foreigners)<br><br />grew, with a gently relative ease, at last tectonic<br><br />so that I felt even buried before any catastrophic incident had really taken place.<br><br><br /><br />and yet in contentment is, in fine, my conceit that I was (as I am) <i>chosen</i>:<br><br />an ambivalent closet introverted inner laureate<br><br />whose acute glad obscure schematic keeping-at-it venomous spitting<br><br />vexes in its error-prone nebulousness the eye of no denizen<br><br />my commitment to realize untold infidelities never given<br><br />oh well up until now, a proper, verily plausible, chance.<br><br /><br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br /><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-41379098300717414742009-01-28T19:46:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.204-07:0039. bole perforated<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><b>cheap potshot</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />pertinently unsated with the vivid wakes<br><br />the jeweled variegated volumes that run triumphantly<br><br />toward my untoward posterity.<br><br><br /><br />overnight rapt with the mundane predicaments.<br><br><br /><br />enthralled at the windows, the eyes chronicle collections of bedrooms<br><br />aspects of succulent exception, of superabundant prurience.<br><br><br /><br />but now the sudden fright of the customary monster intervenes.<br><br><br /><br />listening twice to the same thug, the same cancerous witch<br><br />telling me (and the darker barrel of a shotgun pushes at my stumpy nose)<br><br />to tackle manliness, or else.<br><br><br /><br />opulent enervate themselves the chapters of such ornate anathema.<br><br><br /><br />my wood, with the same negative alacrity, the same slow cadence<br><br />always striven for in the unparalleled wood of every tree<br><br />breaths in diminishing prolixity.<br><br><br /><br /><i>i’ll repent tomorrow</i>, I insinuate, too cool, when the bullet flies.<br><br><br /><br />once resonant, my wood, now crammed with portions apocryphal<br><br />sedulously, diligently, cracks, combusts, turns to ashes.<br /><br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-4671549534958831522008-12-17T12:13:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.204-07:0038. bloodied pilgrim<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><b>my wife my harbor</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />for there where syrian television cannot be picked up<br><br />even if<br><br />the hostel master told me “<i>over there, sir</i>”<br><br />and there is nothing that I can find over there<br><br />and certainly not the proper tv set where one can pick the syrians<br><br />that are the only ones<br><br />I was told yesterday<br><br />that would carry the soccer match I would gladly see today...<br><br />there then I’ve been sent<br><br />on my own as if on a crazy goose chase...<br><br><br /><br />and over there is all crowded up already<br><br />and even if from a door a bold strong man<br><br />appeared and he must have heard me<br><br />because he asked me in catalan<br><br />if I were a catalonian<br><br />where I answered beaming in the affirmative<br><br />upon which the herculean man acknowledged the answer with a nod<br><br />“<i>me too</i>” he said<br><br />not dourly just matter-of-factly<br><br />and left me with my right foot in the air<br><br />for I was taking a step toward him<br><br />but he’d already gone inside closing the door...<br><br><br /><br />and then shrugging I went down the corridor some more<br><br />and must have found the other “there” there<br><br />where I must have been supposed to be<br><br />but always so crowded the nook<br><br />and the room I thought was mostly meant<br><br />already with two guys cramming it somehow<br><br />in such a tiny room with such a big mess of thrown things about<br><br />with each of the two not too fine smelling guys flopped<br><br />on two narrow hammocks hung in the middle of the tiny hole of a room<br><br />one hammock over the other<br><br />and no room for anything else<br><br />certainly not for another bloody pilgrim<br><br />and no bathrooms anywhere that I could see<br><br />and me already with the ominous stirrings on my lower bowels<br><br />and their minuscule television set set not on the syrian channel and my match<br><br />but set on mute on some silly varieties shenanigans<br><br />and me saying to the one guy that looks my way<br><br />the other probably too pissed with booze or hashish<br><br />“<i>listen, sorry, but I was told by the steward that this is my room<br><br />and listen, tell me, do you get the syrian television channel on your tv set?</i>”<br><br />so the fellow who could listen jumped over the slop<br><br />a slob over the slop<br><br />and came my way<br><br />pushed me a little so he could go through the door-gap that had no door<br><br />and went directly to the kitchen with me following him...<br><br><br /><br />communal, crowded, and with nothing edible about<br><br />the kitchen was a bigger mess yet and the guy got hold of the steward<br><br />and asked him “<i>was it true were I assigned to their tiny nothing of a room<br><br />already so crammed?</i>”<br><br />the steward saw me as directed by the slovenly guy’s gesture<br><br />and told me forthwith “<i>sir, I told you your room was this one</i>”<br><br />showing me a not too clean corner bench over there on a corner<br><br />of the kitchen itself<br><br />no privacy, no curtains, no bedding, no nothing on it beside filth...<br><br><br /><br />so the slob went back proudly to his shitty room<br><br />glad maybe that my “room” was much shittier than his<br><br />and the busy steward had disappeared meanwhile<br><br />and I was left standing there in the kitchen<br><br />the stewing kitchen<br><br />with children and women semi-naked all and doing<br><br />their necessities, culinary and otherwise<br><br />inside stinking cooking utensils...<br><br><br /><br />I threaded back my way to where my wife had her room assigned<br><br />I knocked softly on the shiny mahogany-colored door<br><br />I pushed in<br><br />she was in the dark<br><br />the curtains pulled over the window<br><br />she was on the bed inside the sheets having a nap<br><br />her bed was quite capacious and the bedding quite well suited<br><br />and I saw immediately that she had in a corner of the neat room<br><br />a quite proper tv set now off<br><br />she was smiling beautifully at me<br><br />I said “<i>honey, can I use your toilet? they have put in a corner<br><br />of the kitchen with nothing about but noise<br><br />and lots and lots of people cooking and shitting in the same pans<br><br />one almost would say indistinctly...</i>”<br><br />her smile a little bit wider now she said “<i>be my guest<br><br />and after you are done come and crawl here inside besides me<br><br />there’s space enough<br><br />and you’ll be warm and cozy<br><br />and maybe you’ll even be able to pick up your match in the syrian channel<br><br />if you don’t put the voice on<br><br />and you don’t get too crazy celebrating the goals of the catalonians...</i>”<br><br><br /><br />my beautiful beautiful beautiful wife<br><br />always the one also with the best room of all!<br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br /><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-60211500848486495662008-10-18T18:48:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.205-07:00another end of the world at early mass with the insidious depravity of dust...<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br />a mob of outlaws... the hilarity... clustered together... breaking taboos... the nastier most ferocious species... frenzied, bewildered, stricken with loathing... loaded... sated... with hatred... their psycho pastor wallowing in adulation... announcing with smooth rudeness preposterous ruin for those that don’t comply literally enough... oblique traitors, their cupidity is usually attributable to the agony of the impeccable infamy of the abyss their vertiginous calamities hurl them in... glacial degradation of their faith in apocryphal arguments when they peruse superfluous haphazard speculations that elucidate nothing while with forked tongues the anathemas rebound around from the walls of their circular prisons... are they themselves frantically shouting...? or those whose shrieks roaringly resound belong to the bestial watchers in their heads...?<br><br><br /><br />what the hell are we doing in church, Lezi...? I hate churches, those ratty leaky quonsets where all is agony... each time again is early mass in another packed end of the world... with the insidious depravity of dust knocking at the armor of your skin...<br><br><br /><br />there’s the melting moon pouring milk on the breasts of the mountains, Elzi... another dawn with cloying wings of sorrow dutifully burgeoning...<br><br><br /><br />felt assaulted every time by the same damned irreversible hallucinations of toothy wincing flying animals orbiting the pecky insides of the shallow sphere... how many times as another overspilled ditched orphan I’ve wept underwater...! while the obsolete unfathomably ignorant magicians, well-manured toads all of them, feigned their dirges and litanies of unbearable scurrility and hatched their deathbed diagnoses as serpents with a foul mood (that one would have avoided above all if at all unpushed by cursed disciplinarians) their malignant eggs of pestilence... a butterfly, crippled, like a taciturn blob of slippery bleak debris, loitered thereabouts, and then was aloft and... it sped, it horribly sped... round and round, like a jet, an airplane with all those rear tubes afire and smoking... and its earsplitting throbbing made me shout and therefore taste the bitter cane and the sanding and hammering of the underhanded blows... where do I start...? “<i>shut the fuck up!</i>” (he murmured, the nasty guardian, and he was pinching my thighs and backside to tears... ravished by orgies of meandering hideous lame dull ordeals...) farther to the left the cute grocery store clerk slept through the proceedings... recently unfrocked due to... too rash mood swings... his mind under strobe lights through gauzy dice... irascible contortions on the tremulous screen... he’s venting his spleen like a blasphemous firebrand... and now he’s insipidly reciting hagiographies idiotic beyond contempt... here he would lift a lizard’s lid, wink, separate his hands over his fly: his cock would fly up to the ceiling... he looked like a degenerate athlete... with saucy truculence... he was unfurling his white gloves as if they were sheets on an inviting bed... his cock, never shriveled, had fangs and a frightening dead eye... the gloves rustled... antsy skittish heady, I saw myself deflowered by a whole shark... its smooth pale skin... milk of a scarecrow under the microscope... <br><br><br /><br />churches, Elzi, I know... we hate all the evil deviltry they represent – gods and saints and intercessors and the rest of the silly figurines – dry shits, turdy coprolites in the shape of malignant imps... promiscuous statuettes, what are they good for if not spying on our intimacies... infectious dildoes often enough... but, hey, say it unabashedly: from idolatry to dolls – no gap – same thing... meaning: idols and voodoo dolls... ha, too funny... “<i>let’s pinprick scour afflict burn harm hammer the hand that hammered them that didn’t belong...</i>” and then... those damned erasures where the secretional spermatorrheic stigmata used to show...! I thought we had relinquished all rights to a sylvan saccharine voluptuous look ahead of desolate ravings in the brazen marquees of heaven...<br><br><br /><br />we had the inbred premonition simmering in the semidarkness that... among the corny slugs bathing in bureaucratic flatulence on the pews, the swarms of yeasty greenbottle flies ran amok... crabbed nagging dreamlike, they hovered like a magic wand whose heterogeneous rusty frailty spelled remorse and distrust... the grocer’s scut gallantly cried in blessed fulfillment... while my heart, pierced by the sharp tool of an obtuse insect, crept, unfurnished, along epochs and chronologies with one spot inside the rank foliage always shining through, though, as if a thaw, a glacier, grew in the middle of the interchangeable jungles... under my skirts a puddle of sown seeds grew... my knees uncloistered... precocious, my singed cunt flew with therapeutic juices... I had turned the tide... my handkerchief looked rather like a tablecloth after some productive debauchery... musks of the slut... furtively, I stuck it in... slouching, I moved toward the lavatories... the senile giggles, the pernicious aphorisms, the sententious disdains, like a raw pneumatic fat mudworm followed me along... pointless rows of random traits on rows and rows of accidental faces... I staggered on, unknown... plummeting, as if drunk, down the sheer descent... a well of pimp scents and mired grimaces...<br><br><br /><br />slurps ill-omened like a gut glut gloating – every virus, deadly – the flood of the faithful, specky, woeful, unfettered flak of twerps peppering the murky landscape...<br><br> <br /><br />the chalice held wine! I was thunderstruck! <i>this</i>, hoarse said the priest, <i>little girl, is the piss of Christ; and you be a doll: a special doll with bones...!</i> we were, I remember, on top of the vanity coffin... the hearse scene had been really nightmarish... up the footpath, the filth and the roots and the loose rocks... gave it an ugly rhythm... it had to topple... the jade couldn’t regain its composure... fell like a lump... the coffin broke among the turds, bees by the thousands escaped from the corpse... <i>damned foreigners; irrelevant, inept, and devoid of shame</i> – the priest swore... <i>and your name, little girl?</i> – he said, wiping my ass. I said, moved by my cartoonish fancy: “Publicilla.” <i>Publicilla, mm</i>, he said to the crucifix, <i>listen, that child’s a whore, and she’s got the name to go with it too</i>...<br><br><br /><br />we’ve come – she sashays – to relocate Satan’s minions... in our evangelical state of grace, the frayed negotiations we’ve lately had with... hospitals, outhouses, nuthouses, jails, armies, bordellos, and cemeteries... have yielded nothing but unsuitable subtleties, mostly the morbid fees of regurgitation... we are within earshot of the yells and slurs and shudders wreaths and birdseeds and barren confessionals (where violence brews, not solace) eject or like stinking effluvia sputter... If the mafiosi disclose their crimes here, why not also the shrinks that would have us shamefully committed...?<br><br><br /><br />what about god who sees it all? – I said, astride the splintered coffin... <i>god sees all...?</i> – he said – <i>and better still, little girl... why what is good for god to see would ever be bad to be seen by its creatures...? especially its special creatures...? the body is the mirror of god – god did the bodies in its own image – so, if you see a body that god sees as good, would you say you are sinning...? how silly could that be...?</i> rogue musings, I thought... “tinkle yer bells when any illustrious naked worm passes slithering under yer deluges or sprinkles and other spittings...” he sang, and the fundamental beauty of his ballast made my eyes thrill... never again would I regret the stagnant gaiety of the castrati... spurred, my throat, wiped clean of phlegm as my very ass, let a fanfare of royal loyal mirth ring to the hilt... the sundered skulls of such cockroaches enhance and heal the flaws, scars, and sundry feuding bumbling borrowed gasps and gulps plague the stupid innocent... their lugubrious fangs inject joy cheer courage... I never went back to the stench of the pews and their shriveled shabby carcasses...<br><br><br /><br />delayed again the onset of the ultimate blaze... the end of the world... a topaz belly startled into a magnificent fart... that clarion fiery scintillating... by the way, did you swallow, Elzi, all of his load...?<br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-65193568202867438962008-09-09T12:50:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.205-07:00on crumbling paper those fading stigmata<br><br><br><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Old text on crumbling paper – Reggie Morell’s biography</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />They brought him to earth and everything went smoothly until he banged his head and notched his skull and his left lobe got mauled. That happened more or less at the same time when he was three and a little brother was suddenly also there, and envy raised its head and bit him with a bite that would endure forever.<br /><br /><br /><br />At six, some in his immediate family came to visit, and he took his two girl cousins into an empty room and he made them strip as he stripped also, and then the older of the girls (she was six months older than him...) he started fucking her on the floor. In the middle of the proceedings, the door flew open and ah, the shouts of horror and so on. Grannies, aunts, mothers, all the crazy screaming, “<i>the obscenity, the viciousness, the boy’s the devil, such indecency, no fear of almighty god!</i>” and he snatched his trousers and, under a rain of blows, ran out the main door of the house and down the stairs. He tripped and fell, and at the end of the run of the steep gradient, he banged his head (the right lobe this time) on the metallic edge of a bascule that happened to stand at the bottom, near the door to the street. Before losing consciousness in a pool of blood, he heard his grandmother saying: “<i>Ah, how fitting always is god’s punishment!</i>” and “<i>Indeed, and how well deserved!</i>”<br /><br /><br /><br />That unfortunate happening marked the end of his shared sexual life for a while. He masturbated like a monkey, though, and using many types of “filthy, abnormal” subterfuges, until when, at just 23, he managed to ask an old banished whore that loitered in a narrow dark alley near the France Railway Station in Barcelona, where he went to stay for a few days for literary reasons, for a session in bed. Where the acquiescing whore got him, in a worse hotel still than the one nearby where he was staying, he mainly acquired a dose of crabs which later obliged him to shave all his hairs (minus those on his head) and continually rub (for a couple of weeks) the extent of his skin with DDT.<br /><br /><br /><br />As he was sent to school, he managed to avoid the official fascist institutions where almost everyone else who was allowed to study (thanks to their parents’ monies) went. The teachers he had, happened to be unapproved Catalonians who, though they taught all their classes (save French) in the commonly abhorred and ridiculed lingo of the invaders, talked in-between classes, and shouted and beat the crap out of the few children they had under their ferule, in healthy Catalonian. Going to take examination in a “free” condition, he passed his grades very irregularly, often having to repeat over, now a whole grade, now a particular matter. The last two years before University, thanks to an improvement in his parents’ fortunes, he was sent to a boarding school handled by religious “brothers”. He saw immediately (and wasn’t too bothered by the fact) that this “brother” business, like most of the religion shit, is just a cover for pedophiles. No problem – though the obvious connection of homosexuality and religion was already intriguing. Now, in this semi-official state, church and fascism interlocking so disgustingly that at the time could hardly be distinguished which was which, he passed all his grades with little or no trouble.<br /><br /><br /><br />He was seventeen when he was accepted into pre-med. That was the year, a little after his entrance into the University, when he realized once and for all that what he had been fed all those years (pertaining to matters religious and so on) was garbage. That what on the surface seemed that everyone believed, was in fact, deep down, only pretense, an ugly façade; that actually nobody believed in any of all that shit about hell, heaven, virgins, sacred offices, gods, souls... that the whole fucking cesspool of sanctity, and reward and punishment in an afterlife, the whole fairytale caboodle, was just a cruel despicable charade. He wasn’t sure up till now; he thought maybe all those faggotty church fathers and beards and sages and whatnot, with their ruffles and skirts, and hats and crosses and miters and shits, with their airs of laughable severity, their ponderous enunciation, their damned phoniness... perhaps... it could be... they could really be unto something. No! He saw that it was all garbage, that nobody really could swallow such loutish criminal filth. He got the shock of his life. An “existential crisis”, so-called at the time, the anguish of living without other purpose at the end that having to die and disappear into oblivion for eternity. He wished he had been never brought into that malignant cage, the earth. Ah, for abortion! To be born into death, what a luxury! Nobody should be brought here who is going to be told all that amount of swill, as if injected or vaccinated with juice of turds from the word go, and then have the truth hidden and forbidden, and being condemned for even thinking about the truth – talk about torture, shit! All the sanctimonious ignoramuses who are allowed to produce litters and litters of little sanctimonious pricks! How nice for a massive suicide at birth! Maybe there would be less of us burning in anxiety. Such cruelty: to poison a child with all that slop.<br /><br /><br /><br />[By way of illustration here’s this little episode that “they” claim to have once taken place. Morell is in the hall where the marriage must be celebrated later in the evening. There’s his son Marc-Antoni. There’s Marc-Antoni’s cousin, the girl that’s getting married later on – she sits on a chair near the table where the plates and cups and glasses and napkins and whatnot are already laid, she’s being combed by a faggotty barber. There’s her mother, there’s her grandmother, both fussing about the table – Morell is eating some scraped carrots from a small bowl, Marc-Antoni is having in another small bowl a few spaghetti daubed with tomato sauce. Now Marc-Antoni, who is only six, takes out his camera and attempts to photograph the bride – ugly and in fact ludicrous with her hair all in a crested bunch. Ah, what is he doing! The screeches of the mother, and the grandmother, and the girl, and the barber – the fucking faggotty barber! They are all trying to snatch the camera from Marc-Antoni. Morell tosses his bowl of shredded carrot into the garbage bin; he tosses also, with Marc-Antoni’s small bowl, the big bowl with the nauseating spaghettis stained with the tomato sauce, and he rescues the camera, and he shouts boldly above the fray. “<i>A faggotty barber telling my son what to photograph or not! Nobody tells a child what to see with his eyes or not. His eyes are for seeing, unimpeded! Nobody tells a child, less than to anybody else to a child, what to see or not, what to photograph or not! No fucking body, okay, no!</i>” And with the child and the telling camera he storms forever out of those stupid peoples’ lives.]<br /><br /><br /><br />Now, with the raking crisis on, he wanted to die. He was a victim, he thought, and no possibility of redemption whatsoever. A defenseless worm: like any other thing alive. Thrown into a passing maelstrom. A blow, and gone. A toy in malefic paws, a discordant instrument blown by vicious death. Soon to be annihilated forever and ever. And, to top it all, suffering. Suffering no end. Why? Why the suffering, only stopped by annihilation? Who wouldn’t choose the shortcut? A fast goodbye to it all... but how? How does one cross over, to total oblivion, to absolute absence? Lurking underground in reeking galleries... do you fall in front of an arriving engine? The shame afterwards. Your body, the bowels, beshitted, all spread; the obscenity, the people gagging, retching...<br /><br /><br /><br />He lost weight. He got dangerously thin and frail. There was no reason he could find that would justify going on living. Nothing whetted his appetite, not even literature, that from very early on had become such a delightful refuge. Also literature now under the sinister pall of death, of transient worthlessness...<br /><br /><br /><br />Everything dying all around. Family, famous people, the animals continually sacrificed, eaten, destroyed. What’s the point? There was no point. There is no point. There will never be any point. That’s it. He would have wanted to be daring enough – commit suicide in a heroic enough way; but that was dreaming; in his sickness not even strength to do away with himself could he muster. He was committing suicide in a slow painstaking way, through inanition, with despair eating him inside out.<br /><br /><br /><br />There was in his town a psychologist who had recently opened a clinic. Reggie Morell went to see him; the psychologist told Morell that he could make room for him and that the single student union, the fascist union, the only allowed, would nonetheless surely pay. The physician filled all the forms, readied all the paperwork. Reggie went inside the clinic a few days before he was eighteen. He stayed there during the whole summer. He underwent coma after coma, nightly; first through a few ineffective, too abusive, electroshocks; afterward through the insulinic treatment, much more successful. Slowly, all his pressing anguishes got erased. Superficially, but the relief was noticeable. Not so nervous now – just the remnants of unquiet underneath – ready to inflame the blood now and then (as soon as some creep thereabouts spouted the patriotic shit, the martial shit, the religious shit, the bureaucratic shit; as soon as some drops of the creep’s sanctimonious, revolting, pap rotted, by salivous contact, the integument of his renewed spirit). On the outside he donned his slightly amenable mask; his piercing eyes, though, vigilant under a serious, rather unmoving, countenance. Birdlike, taking it all in with a fast twist of the neck. Better like a sphinx. No reason to fluster, to ruffle one’s feathers for such piddly stuff. And, after all, isn’t everything just as trivial?<br /><br /><br /><br />As autumn started he came out of the clinic. Everything looked new – the landscape, the trees, the little brotherly animals... And each of them had its own immediate value; all had their right to exist during the short passing span of life to them allotted by the cruel circumstances...<br /><br /><br /><br />Tossing away as molted useless skin the immense vanity of pretending to have a special soul, some type or other of little light different from the little life light belonging per se to each natural thing – a tree, a newt, a bug – Reggie Morell had become a full-fledged atheist, and a convinced communist to boot. From then on, he hated and loathed with all his strength the vile sellers of barefaced lies – the priests, bishops, all the damned hierarchy of malignant clowns turned exclusive representatives of evil gods, treacherous, monstrous gods, on top of whom Morell now defecated (and would continue defecating for the remainder of his life) without any kind of letdown or afterthought, and whom, if ever he’d been given the chance, would have squashed underfoot as the worst most poisonous virus must be squashed on sight. Still worse, still more worthy of rebuke and revulsion he found to be the cowardly so-called skeptics and agnostics. [What is there to be skeptic or agnostic about? There is no fucking god, there is only malice made thing. If there would ever be a god, it would have to be the most evil thing ever by matter devised. Inventor of all sorts of excruciating pains, and of death. Damn the butcher. Know him by the rotten fruits he yields! And pity the poor crushed nobodies tortured and murdered by the religious machine.]<br /><br /><br /><br />Only the atheist is a dignified enough person. That’s why he came to approach the communist idea; as a system, at least theoretically, it sought to right and level the field against the injustices created both by society and nature, where some gained privilege by depriving the rest of a chance at enjoyment, albeit mild, of a life without lies. Communism postulated the only praiseworthy progress: the scientific one, of course – the scientific progress whose target was the conquest of space. With the caveat, alas, in the last analysis, that as with any other political system, it also allowed the usual scum to rise to the top – the unavoidable bullies keen on ordering about the lives of others. So, what on paper looked so fair, once in the paws of the authoritarian and the martially-minded, became soiled, and the injustices didn’t get quite mended, with the bottom-dwellers ending still working as hard as ever, and the top-brass, as it were, ruling and imposing their cankered will. At least, however, communism had the advantage over all other systems that everyone in it was an atheist, and, at least from scratch, could be considered a whole person.<br /><br /><br /><br />For that’s something Morell never quite got. The fact that there apparently could be so many people whose brains were so degenerated as to imagine themselves to be in any thing different from any other animal with eyes on their faces, and bowels in their bellies, and holes to shit and fuck. It was beyond him that anybody could be so foolishly conceited and also so extremely dim-witted as to think himself in any way superior, in any basic trait, to any other animal – saving the fact that humans, due to evolution’s whim, could have a cerebral capacity that could exceed the one had by practically the rest of all known animals – a feature that, properly used, had to be put into function in the scientific discovery of space, and never, of course, in stupid religious ideas in the final analysis only valid for creating new recipes for murdering others – the so-called unfaithful, the unbelievers, the infidels, etc... Ah, unmentionable, the amount of worthless shit!<br /><br /><br /><br />Ah, yes. The horror and the loathing that inspired in him the assholes that believe in books written by a few faggotty fanatics – all the garbage in bibles and qurans and “sacred” writings, all the murderous injunctions big and small produced by the repressing shitty queers! These are books for whom a much better plight would had been if used as bumpf to wipe first thing the asses of the ancients to whom they were recited or for whom they were written – murderous fairy tales; malignant, infectious texts better wasted in the latrines – the lots and lots of mental crises that humans would have been spared to suffer; and the crimes, the piles and piles of crimes avoided!<br /><br /><br /><br />He has it tough, Morell – an atheist, a core communist, an exile. He’s got no place in this world of deceptions – deceptions and what else...? Practically nothing else. And, on top of it all, he’s of the opinion that there’s nothing that deserves to be own. Knowledge, okay – knowledge helps you to get it, is a great help to get by as you go along. But real contact with those humans alienated, already irretrievably poisoned at primary school, steeped in ideas so crazy and asinine as the belief in gods and souls, and fatherlands and flags – in all that vomiting produced by a bunch of fanatical queers that wrote religions and wrote and write national constitutions and laws to bully and control the habits and behavior of the rest of the deluded people, and all based on lies and empty concepts polluted by the incredible stupidity of old farts of old – all this takes him elsewhere, out of reach; he sees behind the masks, he’s already gazing across, discovering the rotting skeleton, deducing from all the shitted shit that pours from all the assholes the ashes of bodies that melt together in infinite nothingness. That’s why he’s got to be apart – a solitary, taciturn, saturnine, awkward estranger.<br /><br /><br /><br />He learns the ways of access, though, also that. He runs and walks, and often without having to take any train or vehicle whatsoever. All machines he hates, he fears them, he flees their smoke, their noise, he thinks they are useless, only invented to annoy, bloody thought-interrupting, lung-polluting machines – all except those that point toward the proper progress – the progress toward space. The worse machines, those used for productivity – “productivity,” what a dirty word, bringing to mind all those appalling obscenities: bureaucracy, lethal numbers, repulsive commerce – spreading the sickness, fostering the deadly vanity.<br /><br /><br /><br />To the shit piles with all the vehicles, then. Instead, with nimble strong legs, let’s cross the sudden bridges that sprout here and there and have become handy shortcuts. And he doesn’t stop, on the contrary he increases his pace, sidewinding, like a supple nice snake, he has no patience, no, passing without looking once, he can’t stomach any of those beeches where the indolent roast themselves. And never goes near the hurly-burly of big feasts and big cities. [And yet, it must be said that as soon as he had saved enough, so that he could emigrate; as soon as, after performing a row of “base” jobs (for, medicine, he had abandoned after his stay in the clinic – the sick human body too horrible and anguishing and premonitory to behold), he had gathered enough money, he went to Paris. Ah, liberty at last! In exile, but free. Paris, London, Hamburg, New York. He never returned to the country of his birth, devastated then, as is still now, by the insufferably loathsome invader.] [Never returned to the invaded great city neither (where he had belonged for a while to the few that were the liberating vanguard). <i>Why are the invaders shouting louder and louder, and the mumbles of the locals are getting sparser and sparser, and also fainter and fainter? Why? Well, everything must go to pot</i>.]<br /><br /><br /><br />Literature he enjoys, even from the earliest years, no longer melancholic when he reads. I’ve already stated the fact. (Include here the traumas suffered when seeing his library burn, and that twice – first time, he’s only twelve, his angered father burns his books; twenty-five years later is his wife’s turn to burn, too piffed, his books. Ah well!) The consolation of literature always there, almost up till the very end – reading, the instant stabilizes itself, the brain becomes properly synchronized, the world acquires meaning. He had taught himself German and Russian. He had figured that with “everyone” knowing French or English, some other translations would come his way – thus he manages to set a foot in a publishing house. Translations indeed come his way, also from the English now. Wide opened side doors to literature. And the knowing of tongues – what a blessing! – not to be ever at the mercy of the ecclesiastical and fascist (same thing) garbage the invading castilians have as sole pseudocultural serving! From quite early on, he discovers the fine, enlightened, authors and writers of books sold in the Rambla for the lucky tourists. [Something always did he then possess (for him a grave ethical infringement), a certain quantity of books. But was that “possess”? He thought maybe books counted rather as essential nourishment, and anyway as easily burnable, fungible, as other evanescent staples. And yet it is true that losing them hurt a lot. <i>His sin, no doubt</i>, he jokes.]<br /><br /><br /><br />Besides, as I was saying, there’s nary a thing he considers worth possessing. And less still women, of course. Volatile stuff! You can’t own what flies freely. Ununderstandable any death provoked because somebody sought the exclusive possession of some female! Passions are manifestations of extreme silliness, of a touched brain, of simply unfathomable foolishness. Women are free entities, their cunts are hairy insects that love going from cock to cock, as bees, drinking now from that flesh flower, now from that other lovely flesh flower. You can’t possess such ethereality. And anyway dreary mister death is there loitering with his sticky damned net – he will bag the bug sooner or later. <i>Why the fucking trouble</i>, he wonders.<br /><br /><br /><br />Instead, friendship is the answer. Friendship with loved woman – loved, and free – let’s never forget the “free” item – that’s the secret – let the bug drink wherever the kind wind takes her – the point is to wait for her return. In friendship. And don’t forget to befriend also the sparse atheist and the good communist (never authoritarian, never martial), no matter if he’s to be counted among your kin or not. And keep your friendship with trees and the brotherly animals – they are your own kind also. And be friends with the landscapes – extend your loving gaze over the impeccable wasteland. Never forget your friendship with satellites and planets and galaxies. And that meteorites (and the sundry stones whose history and secrets are all-important) are your friends. That the whole universe itself you hold faithfully in friendship – no silly friendship yours, of course. A friendship renewed with every passing instant – for it won’t last, as you know – death’s loitering, okay? Death’s about to take you away – and they, the animals, the trees, the landscapes, the stones, the women, the atheists, the communists, the galaxies, the universes, all your friends... will continue dying, living (is all the same thing), after you are gone – minus your friendship, them, but still going strong, the memory of you perhaps a fast disappearing indentation and no more.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ah, and all those disgraceful parasites, the fanatical crazy queers that follow the bibles, qurans, constitutions, flags, fatherlands... all those foolish miasmatic specks of tainted dust that delude themselves into believing themselves to be so fundamentally, vainly, unique, with a soul that shall survive no less...?! All that sad ugly spread on the surface... pestiferous, fetid, fungous...?<br /><br /><br /><br />Those...? Nothing; I won’t waste a second more thinking about them – too minimal, too fleeting, an easily wiped repugnance stuck on the remotest bit of skin of a dear old planet. The wind of the years shall wash it away; they shall vanish without a trace – all their lies turned into the flying paltry ashes of an anonymous mummy.<br /><br /><br /><br />Well, and thus ends Reggie Morell’s biography – he died, or had died, or will die... smiling. Everything elapsed so fast... everything elapses so fast. Sidewiping, like a nimble snake, never too taken up with the stuff already learned; sniffing new landmarks... until the landmark became a dark wall where the joke ended, his smile suddenly gone. Bitter now. At the very end, holding some hope, you think...? No, none. Perhaps wishing to die well. He was decaying fast... sicknesses in the blood... Ephemeral, transitory... An old text already half illegible, and crumbling, melting... And then...? Good night.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote><br><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-19578307835425039132008-06-27T14:27:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.205-07:00they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices<blockquote><br><br><br><br /><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />fuliginously silhouetted against the penumbrous corridor, she tells me: a swath of lit Möbius strips arose around my discarded clothes as the doctors made me strip... I saw the obstetricians eagerly hoard some of them... as if those twisted strips were any worth to have or relevant at all anent their diagnostic criteria...<br><br><br /><br />later, they tarried, mumbling amongst themselves... as I showed obvious signs of discomfort... they pretended then to already get to work... they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices... thin bleeding lines on the random fields of my exposed abdominal skin... ellipses mostly, they drew, oddly enough... the axes of those ellipses generated, with the gathering blood, shiny carmine drops that now looked like cones, now like cylinders... or else, as vortexes or spirals now... all the topological surfaces... somewhat polarized... painful medical procedures, all told, that... I found no clue as to what purpose they were having... I wanted to raise my concerns about... the whole set of shenanigans the doctors were engaging in... their tools, for instance, normally used in garages in order... in order to mend automobiles... my brain activity... showing now signs of utmost stress... my reflexes less automatic than... you... might have wished for...<br><br><br /><br />expressions of extreme disgust were, I'm sure, facially appearing... not only facially... also on my whole façade... shifty shades... shifting summits of scowling... of snarling... of nail-baring... subtly demonstrating that... I was perhaps desiring the death of the butchering bunch... they though... kept trifling with my innards... damned interlopers... talking meanwhile their pusillanimous garbage... bland pablum for the abulic... all my bodies in a state... sieged by piddling anomies... nothing to write home about, I thought...<br><br><br /><br />suddenly... a shout arose from the archaeological ruins of my forgotten self: "<b>get rid of the fucking fetus already and quit immerding around...!</b>"<br><br><br /><br />their paws spastic like those of a constipated dog while dropping hard tiny turds on the unyielding ground...<br><br><br /><br />then the blustery blowzy peroxided nurse... massaging with long-drawn nails my anus... she said: <i>it improves your range of inner vision, speeds up nerve movement, increases air flow through the bowels... all of these boost your ability to either battle it out... or give in and compromise your survival rate... the individual organism, whose adaptive value is well known amongst the more cognitive of scientists, fears naught beyond the biological...</i><br><br><br /><br />are there onlookers up in the dark bleachers of the operating theater...? why is she become another arcane signaler...? keeps on wincing and prancing toward the missing audience, I notice from the corner of my right eye... she says: <i>behavior of this sort suggests that the amplitude of both distinctions is one of half a degree if even that much... so, though it matters a lot for the individual's survival, it is on the other hand neither beneficial nor pejorative in the broader world of social and non-social phenomena... (a dimension to take into consideration and nowadays being thoroughly investigated...) that the woman shed or not the evolving parasite that replicates at a furious pace inside her most kernel-like membranes...</i> she mutters against herself... her prattle includes miscues... she's said too much... "<b>the evolutionary mystery of why neuroscientists ultimately fall in bulk prey to the same manias they try to extricate from their patients... are findings that will have to be disclosed at a later lesson...</b>" the surgeons are about to trample her... her heels all scrunched-up already... floored and minced by military boots...<br><br><br /><br />she flees, crying... her sensory functions impaired by the pain and the shame... she doesn't go far, though... dives head first into the whole body magnetic thingamagick... the scanner... whose whizzing and burring betrays its extreme irritation... inimical device, whirring... from idle gone to hysterical gone to insane... "positron turbines..." "raving mad frequencies... hopping on the spread spectrum..." the scanner fries your brains... you always come out, if alive at all, mentally diminished... she probably deems she deserves that kind of cleansing...<br><br><br /><br />lame aphorisms are being tossed about my head... I'm laid out over the moist warm table... my body a swarm of trapped bees... and outwardly innervated with new abnormalities... them buzzing... green-cloaked buzzards feeding on carrion... they kept on jawing, nasally, about spontaneous mutations... rare syndromes... brainstems branching out... I was cool... observing it all from above, unconcerned...<br><br><br /><br />once, twice... here it is again... I remembered the sensation I had being born... I say: here I am, at my birth again... time and again... those trite ephemerides... nonetheless engraved in my old brain... <b>are they, the rummaging intruders, reviving the old groove...?</b> I guess they must... it lends credence to this supposition the fact that I'm aloft yet unsupported... whereas down below... a woman's legs are spread... and a battalion of hands are ramming in down the broken doors that lead, raggedly, to her all higgledy-piggledy torn, tortured, womb... <br><br><br /><br />I squirmed... the bed was creaking... ominously... <b>battalions of crooked, prickly, ripply hands stampeding inside Elzi's bodies</b>... a-quiver, I tossed the quilt; I stickled pugnaciously between the sheets... how to unstick them... took umbrage with the whole layout... rocketed the bundle against the wall.<br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-83746046951160206102008-06-26T21:09:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.206-07:00all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women<blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br />it must have been the worst cognac ever... like licking a rat, I was thinking... and... getting laid, what a waste...! and then, to top it all, that thing, that hellish beverage...<br><br><br /><br />it threw me for a loop... I went... like a Götterdämmerung monkey... fast toward the sink... hilarious... almost broke my neck... I had to gargle something... the fracid water for the tap... much better than the sulfurous cognac... he... that over-male writer, the Stanley Baker type, in the darling film <b>Eve</b>, with glorious Jeanne Moreau as the ur-fatal female... only that, instead of a "bloody Welshman," the stellar oaf was a no less bloody Catalonian... a writer of sorts... "working for the cinema," his words, undersigning his twisted, fancied, productions with that juicy, or maybe just farcical, name of "MM···WW," which must have made, let's say, the curiosity button, of a few potential employers, itch... "what's this MM···WW thing...? is that the name of a machine...?" "no, just a writer... he also wrote for such-and-such... a film..." clever ploy... the guy perhaps not a total imbecile...<br><br><br /><br />now, the fellow himself, a poor performer indeed... getting laid under those conditions, yeah, what a waste... but then, worse... his cognac, yikes...!<br><br><br /><br />I came back from the sink... we were in his garret... his garret, a narrow venue indeed... not ripened into a pigsty yet, but never so clean either... the charwoman herself had been there while we were chatting about "culture..." not a bit too clean herself either... full of blotches, her face... those red and white blotches caused by a state of depression... she came in limping... dragging her heavy shadow like a corpse... she hanged around... with the little skips and dodges of a clumsy thief... she had no success in unhooking any of the jealous grime... faithful, dogmatic grime on the chapped fake porcelains... whipped despondently at the chaos about... carved a few meager scarifications into the dust... smote a few worthless rags into submission... all her utterances were loud sighs of despair... and then she was gone.<br><br><br /><br />said the writer: <i>she was worth a few fucks last year, wait, two or three years ago... but then his family fell apart... a lot of oblique abductions... some obese characters that burst somehow... decimated... an outspoken boy killed by the cops... the sky falling on the whole family concern... the scheme in disarray... I put her in one of my stories... I made her a disaster of an authoress... never managing to sell a line... even to those shitty religious comics... and then she's killed by her religious would-be publisher... who makes of her a quite successful authoress... she manages to sell now many, many books... she's been gruesomely butchered and her dainty flesh is now being used as little tasty bits packed in tiny books... affordable, mock-refined gifts... her flesh turned into choice morsels of bait for fishes... also, as selected treats for cats... she's a scream now... fishes and cats crazy for the stuff...</i><br><br><br /><br />back from the sink, I had an item rankling... in my mind... I said... ah yes... something about the gods... "Götterdämmerung monkey..." he had been showing off... much like the writer in the film... only that where Stanley Baker says: "I love all women - six to sixty," he said: "<i>I love all the cunts, from four to one hundred and four...</i>"<br><br><br /><br />I said "one hundred..."? I said "four..."?<br><br><br /><br />he smacked his lips... he said: <i>those pouty lips on the cunts of the little girls... why would god make them like that... if not to entice the lips of us men to give them moist kisses, and the more Frenchified the better...?</i><br><br><br /><br />I said "god..."? I said "men..."?<br><br><br /><br />he got my drift... <i>ok, or rather not god... that damned usurper... but the goddess, the goddess, yeah... goddess Nature... anyway, why would she make them like this...? if not for us human beings to kiss and revere...?</i><br><br><br /><br />this talk was throwing me off... he must have felt... the freezing settling in... my side to him quite frozen... sending waves of animus... poisoned quills... his creepy words being a deterrence... he blushed bluish... became uxorious... melting into a swamp of effeminate warmth... this fragile plot of his threatening to crumble...<br><br><br /><br />I thawed... he had gorgeous eyes... burning... black.<br><br><br /><br />he was telling me about an outline now... a thriller... a terror thriller... so intensely... very involved... his eyes burning holes in my integuments... seizing power, my throat constricted, my eyes tearing up... he as possessed... so full of passion... <br><br><br /><br />sham passion... but a woman with a wet vagina doesn't have... too keen a sense... about rightly feeling... what is and isn't bogus... she is busy otherwise... no time unwrapping the convoluted wrappers of pretense...<br><br><br /><br />in the outline, all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women... but, at the upshot, the real culprit... the cruel loathsome killer... is a woman disguised as a man... too predictable, I thought...<br><br><br /><br />I was deflating again... he went into some unashamed capers... "<i>darling, our brief epoch will crystallize into a wreath of unforgettable vignettes... with you as a model, my writing shall become divine...</i>" plenty of slavering rubbish of that tenor, caliber...<br><br><br /><br />and then he drilled me... just fair...<br><br><br /><br />I got up and went to fix me a drink... took a morsel from something bitter... tasted of leather... was I chewing on some of his blinders...? I heard him snoring... I drank the cognac... the scream of horror and disgust must have awaken him... his visage betrayed now a frayed exhaustion... as if his skin had become moth-eaten... failure showing through the gnawed skin... but as I was running like one of those monkeys... the failing gods... and stumbled... he laughed... sonorously...<br><br><br /><br />I said... I remember now... something about the last embers... the dying evening of the gods...<br><br><br /><br />"your plots," I said, "all male chauvinist shit... why don't you... become a woman... disguised... operated... and then... make a killing...?"<br><br><br /><br />"a woman...?" he really looked spent.<br><br><br /><br />I spat onto his bundled clothes and, slamming the querulous door, I breathed the nocturnal air, still with a mingy, pissy, taste in my mouth.<br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-933510445130072462008-06-22T12:39:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.206-07:00cruel play: deaf divinities of death<blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><b>males are on the wane</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />we went to see a play in which the dire dictator of that empire had his teams of soccer duly maimed... the field players rendered armless... so that no hand foul could be committed... while the door-keepers or goalies had had to have their legs hacked out so that they could only use their hands in blocking the shots... and scanning around reflectively... the peoples on the bleachers... both in the play... same as those seated near us... looked like (or rather already were) mummies...<br><br><br /><br />we came out of it rather disgusted... all those hissing green skulls at the end, roaming among the vestiges of empire, raving... wallowing in sewage... sewage... its dreadful stink... apparently running like sores on the stage... and the gory mummies, with their perfidious muzzles aflame... coming up to the audience... masked with glowing skulls.... telling each of us on our bewildered faces about what awaits each of us... the hole unlimited... the hole without end of blackest asphyxiating death... death... death... and luridly titivated... like dying whores... stabbed here and there by the slivers of decay... bleeding... or oozing ugly tacky... glaring syrups... staggering among the smokes and the fogs... vitrified notched skulls, green, phosphorescent, telling us... death... death... their foul breaths... exceeding themselves... no man in the audience reacting like a male... a gaggle of geese... cackling... quitting... giving up all resistance... retreating... tails high... taking those excesses up their asses... beyond decency... my nails eager to pounce... angrier by the second... imagine us proper ladies pandering to such filth...! suffocated, Elzi, only yesterday back from the sanitarium, had taken off her gloves... bad choice of show, I thought to myself, recriminatory... she meanwhile... all at once... she moved it up a gear in order to pummel... unmasking the deadly portents... the death portenders... a tigress... she got herself a trophy... a plastic skull sickly refulgent in the sick blinding light... a gangly asthmatic boy behind it... without his shell, helpless, weeping... as if his harpy of a mom were excruciatingly rebuking him again... <i>we won't have no more of your nasty wetsies in your didee...!</i> a scuffle ensued... somebody, a giant, shoved us down... humps in our crania... kicked out of the theater... now rubbing our lumps... disgusted... walking slowly... not elated after having taken action... voided... defeated... all that constant waste...<br><br><br /><br />a deep depression slowly settling in...<br><br><br /><br />home, in our chambers, Elzi, robed as a specter in a dungeon, from mirror to mirror, very self-conscious about her "insect" visage... with that cruel smile that couldn't be erased... <i>with the insight of a knowledgeable louse</i>, she insinuated... knowing more than she could comprehend... while life persisted in its tireless ruthless siege... her gills or cuticles or plaques heaving nonstop... look at the bloods, the lymphs, the goos, beating with an unstoppable monomaniacal... nitty gritty... obsession... again and again... pacy or apace... toward... toward...<br><br><br /><br />I was afraid she would start asking "<i>where...</i>" I jumped, all spruced up, so bogus, optimistic, a triumph... I said, <i>listen, let's fuck, let's forget about the shitty play, about the humiliation of the veins and such, about the horror of the outside...</i> And then I became joyfully censorious: <i>what...! fornicating during daylight! what a fucking sin!</i><br><br><br /><br />she laughed... I was so relieved... I dove into her cunt... I licked the slender topaz above the entrance... sobbing with gratitude... she came in an explosion of giggles and yells... after a little while I heard her snore...<br><br><br /><br />back with wobbly legs from my spelunking junket... I took to speculating about emulsions and emasculations... if... I said... <i>if... a poisoner be the worst sort of murderer... what about the poisoners of our minds... all those preachers of self-hatred... all those worshipers of death... the religious creeps surrounding us like the infected rats of an ultimate plague...</i><br><br><br /><br />I remembered the arcane arcadias elsewhere... how we drove the cattle safely into the mountain refuge... how the trucker told me his name... <i>name's Ac Ac</i>, he said... he added after a pause... a pause pregnant... <i>"ac" means "shit" in our language...</i><br><br><br /><br />perhaps he expected me act affronted or shocked, meekly tickled, sillily ticked off... instead I said: <i>I guess it is as well to be... a double shit... when the rest of us are just a shit anyhow...</i><br><br><br /><br />"I see you are an understanding lady", he said, the mongol guy... he had taken his tawdry worm out for me to have a go at a rocky suck... it is so poignant, isn't it...? women are as dumb as fishes... allured by the luring effect of the wiggling wriggling revolting worm... their mouth waters as soon as they see the soft lurid hook of the pulsating bait...<br><br><br /><br />he was pleased with me... all the mongols in the convoy fucked me afterwards... I said: if scrawny Maura can fuck millions to exhaustion in a day, why couldn't we fuck a few less also with no detriment to our constitutions...?<br><br><br /><br />afterwards their glances glanced off my skin all but reverentially, I'd say, obligingly... kind of shy... with awe... they were all exhausted, etiolated, ramshackle... and I as nothing... as fresh and dandy as a mountain flower just born... a fountain goddess... wiped clean... insofar as the squandering of one's juices went, mine had on the contrary probably gained in volume... whilst their levels had fallen beyond the red line... they felt empty, and somewhat hoaxed also, incapable to go dribbling about... their ponderous tread on the pebbles not arousing the smallest suspicion of a skip or skit or skid or scuttle or... spent... almost dead inside... the cattle meanwhile frowning, unattended, untidy, the sacrificial rehearsal unapplauded, without public... their play of death ignored...<br><br><br /><br />overnight... with a single rolling of the dice that were their balls... I had become their totem of worshiped inviolate flesh... I woke busy... <i>first inning on</i>, I said, <i>I'm hungry... thread the fangy needle of my thoughts and kill me a bull... I feel like a few steaks...</i><br><br><br /><br />I chose the ballsier of bulls... I went to his perking ear: <i>no use praying to the deaf, earless, divinities of death, buster; never any use in the event of impending deathblow</i>, I told him... <i>besides, males are palpably on the wane</i>.<br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-12534606933831458792008-06-18T20:13:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.206-07:00two jaunts through tarry pipes<blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br><br />angry moths were emerging from the dark abyss... I was peering into Elzi's cunt... an intrepid scout enkindled with the thrill of sundry discoveries... all those quaint nooks and coings... and then I sunk deeper yet, fathoming the obscure zone... and it had happened: the sudden fright of those screaming moths big as bats... behind the batty cloud, an embryo... an embryo who, barely skipping a beat, from the size of a polliwog had risen to be at least a mighty prawn... prancing and squirming, the prawn grew to be a hippopotamus weighing who knows how many tons...<br><br><br /><br />at its peak, a womb is a lopsided microcosm where simulacra either gambol happily or scrap by, depressed and half-suicidal, whilst certain quotas of determinate shapes are filled by the sedulous work of the tiny cellular employees whose decline would announce the end of the world as we know it... bribery of acquaintances and mysterious bureaucrats will carry you only so far... the rest is up to you... you alone, my darling strapping tyke, against the uncountable cruelties of the natural world... for instance... try to avoid like the bleeding devil the ravenous hunters... the army and its burly uncouth minions, always hunting, on the infamous prowl after down on the doldrums young bums... poor guys... ventilating with dirty gills, their collapsible ears utterly collapsed... the depressed clueless youth... and the fangy hunters bribing them into becoming legally-shielded murderers... and ultimately self-murderers, of course...<br><br><br /><br />we women so strange sometimes... squeamish about eating bugs and beetles but delighted always to swallow the slimy spunk of a man's spout... a man's spout... an overextended clitoris that, in insectoid bursts, oozes now and then some disgusting excretion...<br><br><br /><br />the dream was becoming silly... we women "<i>unctuously constituted and thus more inflammable for pyral combustion...</i>" – a memorable line, as I perhaps had read last night... women as cunts and wombs always... and fatty subcutaneous flammable stuff under the shiny hairless carapace... eggs in women’s shapes... carriers of an alien massive virus called the embryo... the hype and the upheaval of maternity... but in the end, all said and done, nothing but flesh subdividing into flesh... all that amount of soft pink becoming hard pitch black... a blood denigrated...<br><br><br /><br />or, again, strangling a dick... murdered, bruised... crags appearing along the shaft... vessels bursting... <i>who’ll suck on this...?</i> the grotesque faces of the taunting tantalizing men... conceited hero (he raw)... erstwhile so self-sure down the avenue... and now look at him... rag-and bone, wretched, drenched in irrelevant goo... a busted groin and, in its middle, tortuous, covered in the tacky fuzz of fire-damp, the lame dick... hornswoggled by the scraggy snaggled teeth of a witch...<br><br><br /><br />cobwebs of bile criss-crossing the broken-down lift... flawless nomad, though, I kept hard sledding... ripping across the pinker and pinker wrinkles... seeking the light... until...<br><br><br /><br />but then I woke up... tried to tell Elzi about the dream... the journey up and then down the tube of her adventurous cunt... but I was by myself... I bridled at the thought... but here it was: the truth... begrudgingly, bitter, I remembered the irking accident... “<b>be thou a survivor and thou shalt reap nothing but guilt</b>...” somebody must’ve have said it already...<br><br><br /><br />Elzi wasn't there of course... she was <i>chez les</i> fools... at the asylum for the insane... locked in...<br><br><br /><br />all the fun we’d had...! and now...?<br><br><br /><br />went to the window... looked down at the overgrown yard... a monk was there, standing, his eyes raised to the window behind which I spied... he was old... I payed heed, it behooved me...<br><br><br /><br />I pictured him under the puce uniform... instead of a sphincter a prune or its pit; each cheek a peach pecked at by flees; a navel of novelty sequins and allhallowmas sweets; for ears and nose, cottoncandy and acrid saltpeter; no balls but tealeaves; a crushed and yet hirsute artichoke for a merkin; shins and chin of grape skin; anchovies for lids; the mammilae two resilient bumps of snail spit... the limbs... the limbs of hoods and weeds... and he’s back from the woods on his flowery skis... there he met the morbid dough, keen for treats... he became the creator – again, another...! – damn vice of men... – and the clumsier the more adept to try his klutzy paw at the impertinent game... – he contrived for eyes for the creature two chickpeas; for a loose tooth a bit of onion; an empty rind of gherkin for a wee-wee; black-seeded halves of watermelon for feet; for eyelashes apple parings; exploded mangoes for teats... medlars, toadstools, rotten eggs... with expertise he fashions thus his teeth... a tongue for wibbling made of quicklime and mercury... he strives to accentuated the perfection of his creation with the invention of a mind all of thick smoke... when the pudding’s thought to be as toothsome as you please, he realizes that all along and underneath he’s been seasoning his granny for the beast... it’d been, his great creation, it’d been... another granny disguised as by another priest...<br><br><br /><br />“the fuck you want?” I said, opening the window.<br><br><br /><br />the gargoyle looked terrified, timorous perhaps that I’d be so bold as to bother to come down and... as if I were to come down and ride him... too frail for farther ministrations of that sort... already hag-ridden as by his so-called virgin...<br><br><br /><br /><i>I’d be a mendicant sciolist whose poignant emerods, layers and layers of them that accrete with the seasons, make skating up or down my rectum the scraping of a wound the pain resultant of which the unraveling of the hurtling galaxies could never equal</i>, he said, a glint in one of his eyes betraying maybe a humorous disposition in one outwardly so dour...<br><br><br /><br /><i>is alms you are asking for...?</i> said I.<br><br><br /><br /><i>is that a brothel...? Have many babies been sacrilegiously inhumed in this oddly scented garth of yours...?</i> answered he.<br><br><br /><br /><i>be a good monk and lift your skirts and show us your spinneret</i>, I commanded, showing him a coin in case he acquiesced.<br><br><br /><br />he did... typically, as any doll of his build, he lifted his skirts and his knob, an inch all told, propped up... as promised, I tossed for him to catch the fulgid coin...<br><br><br /><br />also he did, alert enough, with his shambolic teeth (catch it...) then, as he put on his wonted far-away look, so fake... a yearning caught at the crinkles of my hollow... I almost fell for him... but then I checked myself... <i>I’m not that hard-up...!</i><br><br><br /><br />as with a swagger he turned tail to go, though... I screamed, stricken with desire... <i>wait!</i><br><br><br /><br />but again, before he turned his head, I had closed the window and drawn the shutters... now in darkness I brooded... having lost the purpose of my quest... my mind wavered... <i>who creates whom</i>, I wondered, appalled...<br /><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-29978568205053735112008-06-17T15:21:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.206-07:00a motherly teat with a set of twelve hands instead of a set of nipples<blockquote><br><br><br><br><br /><br />we were a bit top-heavy after we won a prize at the raffle... cavorting down to the town at the bottom of the canyon like two amazing amazons... we glad-handed the passers-by we our fake twelve hands that propped out, as nipples on a teat... the strange object we had just won at the raffle...<br><br><br /><br />we were feeling pretty happy... dismissing the ostentatious auguries of an ugly sky menacing to burst... in an allegedly depraved mood, we had been yawing adrift for a few days... visiting the fairs and funfairs... <i>drop me here, would you, buster</i>, we'd say to the peasants who took us for a ride around the dry thirsty plains... we taunted them a bit... rumbles ensued, of a sexual nature most, but one or two obnoxious brawls also occurred... we were tough, though, and at the end not the worse for wear... I had lost a pair of trousers but a good farmer's daughter had some flowery flowing skirts of her that she wouldn't use no more and lent them to me...<br><br><br /><br />now we were on the tricky slope down to the town... I remembered that coming up we had seen that poor old tottering guy trying to put a foot in front of the other, and not managing every time, neither, despite the help of his gnarled stick...<br><br><br /><br />Elzi had warned me... <i>see the creep...? never approach the bloody leper... ebb out of his unlucky shadow like from a shark's threatening fin... he... he used to be a nasty cop... protected by the law of the land, shielding like a brute and a coward behind his shield... he took to beating and murdering women and blacks, hobos, and the destitute, the poor and needy, and the petty thieves... your typical nazi gone to seed... he took to torturing like to sweet drink...</i><br><br><br /><br /><i>keep away from old bastard cop</i>, she said... <i>he stinks... and fragile, they are liable to pin his corpse on you... he's about to kick the bucket, might drop dead with a whisper or a breeze, a draft... wouldn't be near him, no sir, madam... giving away a whiff of death... you can smell him from this distance... gives me the willies...</i> and she shivered demonstratively...<br><br><br /><br />then we climbed to the plains... and looked for the fairs far and wide...<br><br><br /><br />now we were approaching the town... martins flew in and out of their high-rise little octagonal abodes... the rabbits coughed at the door of their warrens... from the weirs wallowed already the whirligigs... the sky roared... its eructations nearer and nearer...<br><br><br /><br />a dirty dust floated about... a storm brewing, no doubt...<br><br><br /><br />and now we realized that the slope near the first road surrounding the town was grown with a new substance... like a growing of tall yeast... a yeasty growth... the footing wavering on it... the ground so slippery...<br><br><br /><br />and at the side of the road there again (or there still) the old bastard cop... still trying to reach somewheres... but with such mortifying slowness...<br><br><br /><br /><i>look, the damned creep again...!</i> Elzi seemed utterly repelled... <i>I think I'll bail out a bit farther... over there... can't stand the rotten devil...</i><br><br><br /><br />and then, as she took off athwart... I saw her back... her back diminishing in the horizon as the veil, unfurled, of a vessel at sea... and me at this thoughtless instant... I slipped over the strange substance... that somebody must have dumped there overnight... a dump of mushroomy fungoid stuff... sandy, gritty...<br><br><br /><br />on the road a gray car passed lifting a cloud of dust... and then the avalanche caused by my sliding down the incline... the spillage of mushy sand caught the old crummy man underfoot and made him flop down...<br><br><br /><br />another yellowish car passed and now instead of dust it splashed that disgusting ocher porridge over the fallen disjointed puppet... I was really sorry for him... a discarded broken doll, full of vermin and shit...<br><br><br /><br />I reached the road and went over to assist the geezer... Elzi nowhere to be seen... migrated elsewhere... I went to the little crinkling decrepit old fellow... he'd fallen badly down, all crumpled... obviously dying...<br><br><br /><br />and then... I heard it... delightful... there was music coming from within his head... through the huge hairy opening of his right ear... he'd fallen on his left side, me gingerly propping him a little with my left arm...<br><br><br /><br />and the music pouring out of the hairy opening... I asked him nicely: <i>what is this music...? is so enticing, heart-warming...?</i> "I hear nothing," he croaked, "don't hear a thing..."<br><br><br /><br />it was a marvelous song... a 1920's crooner's or chansonnier's... a mild and joyous melody... but he wouldn't hear the song in his own head... poor stinking bastard... I was full of pity for him...<br><br><br /><br />so... I had an inspiration... I neared my face as much as I dared to his straining teary eyes... <i>I'll sing the song</i>, I said, raising my voice and enunciating most carefully... and this is what I did: I didn't sing at all... actually I didn't say another word... I just pretended to sing to him... opened my mouth and mouthed the words of the song that came from the hole in his ear, and I added a twinkle to my eyes and I brandished harmoniously my head... to the engaging rhythm...<br><br><br /><br />and then the miracle... he smiled... he heard... <i>I hear it now</i>, he said, brimming, as if illumined... transfigured... for he heard the music from his youth... all the beautiful memories the song brought back landed, softly laden, on his conscience then... and he smiled... he smiled... like in a train... looking out the window... the passing of all the delicious images of his youth... the gentle rocking on the rails... as the music played and the singer bewitchingly sang...<br><br><br /><br />he died in peace... a poor little old man...no longer corrupt.<br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-76343691332301164162008-06-16T12:56:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.207-07:00back from the old carousing<blockquote><br><br><br><br><br />... it was getting dark when we were heading back from the concert... stranded now... after being dropped by the drunk nitwits... and neither Elzi nor I with a penny left... we decided to hit the road and hitch a ride...<br><br><br /><br />a truck stopped to take us... but the guys inside refused to take us both... one is all we can handle, they said, you both look like trouble... I told Elzi to get in... I said: I'll wait for the next sucker... we'll meet back home...<br><br><br /><br />so she went with the two truckers... and I waited, and another truck stopped and the two guys inside took me in with them...<br><br><br /><br />it happens every time... you hitch a ride with those fellows, they will fuck you... we were not properly raped... so tired... after the excitement... the jumping, the quarreling... we knew what we were in for... we actually felt like it... we always do... at least I do, in those occasions... sexy... and then yes, I was ready for a bit of action... felt like having the... delicacy stroked... a bit of getting the skittish pussy appeased... a bit of the good going...<br><br><br /><br />you practically never feel like being raped... not a bit... raping... not a bit, no... a bit of rough treatment, rough and nice... that's ok, fine... goes with the territory... but generally this... just the tickling down there made less... less itchy... and the fact was that... I didn't really know about Elzi at the time... but normally she's friskier, randier, than me... so... so, she probably was also eager to get... to be given the right cunt treatment... the worshiped cunt, that object of adoration, being rained over by the mists and the dews of the worshipful eyes, eyelets, of the one-eyed, monophtalmic, shapely little totems... I mean... the intriguing worshipers propitiating the niggling gadfly guarding with its magical key the entrance to the temple... some masterly thrusts are in order... that's the image...<br><br><br /><br />anyway, my guys, my truckers, weren't what you'd call totally unbecoming... one of them... even somewhat fetching...<br><br><br /><br />while one drove, the other one drove his drill home...cramming his tool... his screwdriver driving a beautiful releasing thankfully long-lastingly enough screw...<br><br><br /><br />the problem was later... the long drive... night all dark in front... downtown still a long ways off... <br><br><br /><br />one of the fuckers sleeping peacefully behind... me blinking, winking with sleep... wishing myself awake in case we missed the right place for me to stop and disembark... and then the guy at the wheel... starting to talk... a sinister tone... a creepy feeling crawling up my bruised spine...<br><br><br /><br />and him somber... darker by the minute... and starting to rant, with a hollow voice... frightening now, really... a nightmare of sorts...<br><br><br /><br />he once killed all his family... the wife, the kids... driven crazy by the night driving... truckers prone to such agonizing breakdowns... of course: all the terrors seen during the night... the specters, the accidents, the dead... the dead crushed... splattered into so many pieces of torn flesh...<br><br><br /><br />and then the apparition... middle of the road... over all the mincemeat, the cadavers... an overpowering foul smell... the rotten archer... blind... his skin in tatters... the caverns instead of his eyes full of pus, oozing, a green rot... his teeth a shambles... the quiver slashed, punctured... the arrow splintered... pointing straight at the eyes of the nocturnal driver... you've got to become crazy, if you have any sense, if you are sane at all...<br><br><br /><br />he arrived home... in the middle of a hurricane... trees uprooted, shutters flying about, babies smashed against the walls, rabbit cages colliding into each other... lost in a vortex of screams... a maelstrom of crossed purposes, frustrations... a raging battle of crossed wills and winds... somebody coming down the stairs... he shouted over the din... <i>I won't be a night driver no more...!</i><br><br><br /><br />he took his rage on all of them... the kids... the wife... tossed them into the storm... see how it is, driving by night... the constant carnage... the constant carnage... the constant carn...<br><br><br /><br />he, the driver, the trucker-fucker fell on the wheel, his countenance one of utter despair... <br><br><br /><br />hear me screeching... worse than the tires on the dead pavement... see me trouncing him out of the way... me pulling the breaks... the truck madly skidding...<br><br><br /><br /><i>I want out, I want out</i>... my voice, hysterical... the sleeper waking up in a panic...<br><br><br /><br />pounding me out of the way... managing to open the door... kicking now the suicidal fucker out of the truck altogether... and now him... the providential substitute choking the wheel... battling the inertia... the momentum... what have you... we were about to fall... the truck about to tumble down... there is... there is... what...? one can't see shit...<br><br><br /><br />and now the shock... the guy stunned... the vehicle dead... the doors stuck... I'm aware of everything but can't really move... the oppression unbearable...<br><br><br /><br />the apparition then... I saw her... it... the rotten archer... the rusted arrow aiming at the center of my forehead...<br><br><br /><br />there was Elzi visiting me, at the hospital bed... as ever, kind to a fault... we kissed... damned fuckers, we said, bad guys, they don't want only your cunt... they almost took a life that time... are they ever really satisfied...?<br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-15504884057724878092008-06-15T11:28:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.207-07:00everybody suspects it's just mild platonism<blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />... but no... it's real love... is like that time when people... people were all in a line, waiting to exit the real swanks' protected enclosure... they were waiting for the iron door to open, so that now that it was a sunny morning they could get to the business district... to... to operate...<br /><br />not one of them saying a word of rebuke... to the fucker... the fucker who kept on ramming Elzi...<br /><br />I went behind him and... started strangling him... hard, hard, the nails of my right hand boring into his windpipe...<br /><br />and he was smiling, the fucker... and I was smiling... and the people on the line... no effect whatsoever... just looking bored...<br /><br />who probably was not smiling was Elzi... Elzi... under the straining body of the massive fucker...<br /><br />... the smiling... his and mine... the smilings going on forever... the queue not moving at all... Elzi under his hardening hard-on... the extreme monstrous hard-on of a dying smiling brute...<br /><br />the struggle... the struggle...<br /><br />everybody who cared to think other stuff besides the business at hand... thinking probably what a mild pantomime... a harmless little bit of "happening" theater... a silly prank?<br /><br />we had... we had entered the rich folk's compound under false pretextes... we had... we had gotten hold of an amphora... we had pissed in it... Elzi and I laughing all the time... nice white wine... and perfumed... <i>n'est ce pas</i>?<br /><br />there was a fat important-looking burgher trying to enter then... we two fast behind him... pink as him if not pinker... and the doorguards mum... we showing... making a show of... the amphora and the very expensive wine inside... entering on behalf of the impressive bejewelled burgher... probably having a party tonight... needing such expensive select assorted wine... as that... that one we carried... our piss... sacred stuff, shit.<br /><br />once inside... the burgher's feeling sick... he excuses himself... wraps himself with a blanket... starts... with scaring wheezings... on the lintel... dozing... while there appears who... his son...?<br /><br />a muscle man... he tries the wine...<br /><br /><br />... calls us whores... that's not a proper wine for a... such a rich exquisite family as...<br /><br />... he slaps me... the amphora breaks... it cracks, really... lets the sacred wine leak off... and...<br /><br />he takes Elzi from behind... pierces her asshole...<br /><br />... he's a jolly good fellow... he laughs and smiles while slapping the whores or buggering them... you get slapped or buggered willy-nilly... in spite of the poor protests...<br /><br />... cruelly... cruelly, he was taking Elzi from the rear...<br /><br />I went behind him and I started strangling him... he was retching... but smiling... and pumping... pumping in his death throes... pumping Elzi's asshole...<br /><br />to our dingy whereabouts we retreated afterwards... two more insensitive money-grabbers added to the exiting queue... the brute's jizzm getting stale in Elzi's rectum...<br /><br />hiking, she and I, down the creek, toward the bullet-riddled walls, the burning mattresses, the flee-ridden clothes, the... vice suburbs... home... where we hid for a while<br /><br />applying remedies... I was... soft creams... to Elzi's rere... so tender... bleeding... I was smiling... as when the strangling had taken place... such a rewarding image now in my mind.<br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-23932563266743961862008-06-14T15:28:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.207-07:00when did it happen?<blockquote><br /><br /><br /><br />ah, yes, I remember now... It happened when me and Elzi were in the bathtub and we were cavorting and enjoying ourselves, splashing and frolicking... when, unbeknownst to us, he had entered the room... like a bloody psycho...<br /><br /><br /><br />the shouts... the fright...<br /><br /><br /><br />he said, the fucker, said, sorry, I didn't mean...<br /><br /><br /><br />but since that day my heart sputters, the patterns of its spitting and its bizarre pitter-patters are worrisome, and my brain... my brain has quit functioning as per regular...<br /><br /><br /><br />and Elzi... Elzi had it worse... now and then me and the fucker go visit her in the crazies' asylum... but I've never allowed the fucker to be seen by her again...<br /><br /><br /><br />his monstruos pate, imagine...<br /><br /><br /><br />I only hope that someday Elzi's as well as me - who, pretty bad as I am, at least I'm better off that her, brain-wise, I mean...<br /><br /><br /><br />so, I was going to add something, I had intended to say something deep, but explaining the reason of my slow going, neurons-wise, I've forgotten what... the... hell... I...<br /><br /><br /><br />ah, yes, the shower and the great fright...<br /><br /><br /><br />no, it wasn't that...<br /><br /><br /><br />it was something else... else... Elzi... the commotion... the bathtub... the fucker excusing himself like the shit he is...<br /><br /><br /><br />no... not there....<br /><br /><br /><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-50453757335904555632008-05-08T12:29:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.208-07:0037. aboard - abort - aboard<br><br><br><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><b>from dusty platforms onto the shabby railway cars</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br />my trips getting shorter<br><br />hardly begun<br><br />and done<br><br><br /><br /><br />my baggage as soon<br><br />nonexistent<br><br />not even a magazine at hand<br><br><br /><br /><br />can death<br><br />– ever the destination –<br><br />be too far now?<br><br><br><br><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-5988467354462769352008-03-19T12:13:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.208-07:0036. tacky fingers and all<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><b>As I exit toward the light</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />does it show – is it too obvious<br><br />my distaste for swarms anthills...?<br><br /><br><br />cast out outcast<br><br />filtering the saccharine garbage<br><br />the parochial sanctimonious fecal prurient rampage<br><br />of snorting blurred shapes<br><br />that scabrous ambiguous lurked.<br><br /><br><br />the angry giggles that snaggedly flowed from the dumb assholes<br><br />the toiling maggots underground<br><br />their meaningless jottings<br><br />their pinguid pigments splattered on the pungent spice of the floor<br><br />as they shuffled and shuffled along<br><br />chatting and chatting no end.<br><br><br /><br />also the girls – their wombs<br><br />their wombs – uttering those excruciating screams<br><br />of weeping sarcasm against the teeming crotches<br><br />and then the blinding objects foolishly deemed to protect them<br><br />those bogus wedges athwart their transpierced chests<br><br />them chorally groaning against the weight<br><br />of so much unuttered script above their thoraxes.<br><br><br /><br />agape and thrall-less their sparkling cunts<br><br />crusading in a barrage of squeals of blasphemy for the ultimate victory<br><br />of their outlawed god.<br><br><br /><br />breathing hard now<br><br />as my polished cock boldly thaws<br><br />all their icy scorn – layers upon frozen layers<br><br />accumulated over centuries of forced burial<br><br />and accelerated spoilage on bended knees<br><br />shivering for fear and...<br><br />for fear and cold<br><br />crushed on the corners<br><br />on the corners of the underground.<br><br><br /><br />fiercely bombed<br><br />we fought with our backs against the ceiling<br><br />listlessly wooing disaster<br><br />tottering tortoises of a doomed world<br><br />speeding toward an exploding sun<br><br />but no<br><br />our wills won – here it stood unscrambled our ceiling<br><br />our dissipated traits<br><br />as though after a too protracted orgasm<br><br />collapsing into the faces of gargoyles...<br><br><br /><br />they muttered first and then openly barked<br><br />fingering my marmorean face that “<i>I’m too willful<br />aloof</i>” the censorious women<br><br />rebuking my stance – their udders steadily pawed during the alarms<br><br />now deflated by safety.<br><br><br /><br />no longer dazzled by their meretricious beauty<br><br /><i>chug along worthless rake<br><br />and lift your cyprian eyes toward the exit<br><br />from whence the sky hangs...<br><br />for there’s nothing else for you to do down here<br><br />now that the bombs have stopped and the women won’t pawn<br><br />their replenishing vitality for a bit of skillfully provided venting<br><br />of their jammed triggers<br><br />the haven has sunk to the sorry sight of levels ordinary<br><br />I’m too bored with normal people<br><br />this subterranean setting<br><br />formerly if fleetingly so exciting now lacks all...<br><br />has no...<br><br />lacks all kind of enticement<br><br />has got no lushness and no...<br><br />goading nor spurring nor</i>...<br><br /><br />I came out of the bombed tunnel<br><br />ran shrill the cats – no longer awed and silent<br><br />and I had left my dad dead<br><br />leaning on a wall of the subway<br><br />he had become suddenly incoherent<br><br />talking about almonds – his rambling phrases<br><br />how it was not entirely proper to eat almonds in bed<br><br />the gnawing the sticky crumbs<br><br />I realized he was dying – I had opened my questioning mouth<br><br />he was looking at me without a trace of recognition<br><br />and as I went to hold him he was already dead<br><br />a lump leaning on a wall<br><br />with the oblivious women crumpled all around<br><br />yearning for hands<br><br />for thirsty eager hands<br><br />and me slithering<br><br />a cat silent and industrious<br><br />to a fault...<br><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-26176946054320296442008-03-18T09:30:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.208-07:0035. wept the wind<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><b>So easy then slipping into the smooth</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br />Behold at the mirror the executioner<br><br />or else stay<br><br />behold instead the bookish fellow<br><br />as he shuffles his way down the plank<br><br />or is it up to the gaping gallows<br><br />or flat and bumpy to the shooting wall<br><br />or is he laid already atop the dying scaffold?<br><br><br><br /><br /><br />He was certainly happier while he wrote<br><br />(what nobody ever read).<br><br><br><br /><br />He sees himself again<br><br />a haste of paws<br><br />tentacles from a morbid vessel yearning for voyages <br><br />the guts of the compass rose rose to face the storm<br><br />the guts spread<br><br />dissolving<br><br />nasty exposed clams<br><br />whose catagmatic glue the melancholy drift can’t keep other<br><br />than asunder.<br><br><br><br /><br />Magnetic were the slumbers<br><br />in the idle darkness<br><br />exhausted regrouped the airy martyrs<br><br />whose corpses such cravings<br><br />erstwhile all exhibited.<br><br><br><br /><br />Crudely folded<br><br />the sails knocked about like papers swept away<br><br />squealing against the ambush of the winds<br><br />shipwrecked.<br><br><br><br /><br />Fading into the lower depths <br><br />while the hypnagogic voices wailed<br><br />no hindrance spooky enough to<br><br />with its writhing tentacles stop<br><br />the everlasting intrusion into the...<br><br><br><br /><br />Squiggles<br><br />“<i>just jottings</i>” – the bookish fellow tells them –<br> <br />“<i>the darling swirlings of the smoke</i>.”<br><br><br><br /><br />To death he clung<br><br />in dark forebodings of death sunk<br><br />forebodings of death<br><br />to whom he clung<br><br />dearest friend above all<br><br />above all his imaginary friends<br><br />in broodings sunk<br><br />doom loomed<br><br />dumb womb of his hammering head<br><br />his teeth ached all the time.<br><br><br><br /><br />Why the heartache?<br><br />people die all the same<br><br />such matter-of-factness dying<br><br />terrifying<br><br />brooding fiery diatribes<br><br />in soliloquies that were damned morologies<br><br />by dint of sheer will<br><br />in his ultimate pyre burned<br><br />while flung by wind-swept hands wept the wind.<br><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-21395795637762725222008-03-16T08:57:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:56:39.208-07:0034. amoebic<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><b>a dearth of stamina in my pushing</b><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br />for want of pluck<br><br />I’ve been abandoned<br><br />and now I’m also lame<br><br />and the two fat women pity me<br><br />and the effeminate artistic boy<br><br />is concerned that my letter-box never resounds anymore<br><br />with the dropping of anybody’s missive<br><br />and I’m told furthermore that the landlord is after me<br><br />his intentions angrily plain: eviction<br><br />eviction for my debts.<br><br><br><br /><br />lack of funds to want of pluck added<br><br />make<br><br />a sorry happy go-lucky marginal nobody<br><br />out of me.<br><br><br><br /><br />with roughly sixty percent of my organs still in sync<br><br />I tell myself: <i>you bastard, enjoy<br><br />enjoy your freedom<br><br />nobody else around can say the same:<br><br />abandoned lame avoided evictable</i>...<br><br><br><br /><br />never now all those lunarian flights postponed<br><br />what a wealth of health<br><br />still to spend<br><br />aloft and elsewhere<br><br />where the storms are less fierce<br><br />the women never run away<br><br />the removal of tawdry veneers as easy as a flush of clear water<br><br />the obnoxious flairs of the knowledgeable easily dispensed with<br><br />and afraid, afloat, the several objects strewn by the roaring waves<br><br />the wind buffeting hither and thither the tacky superfluities<br><br />the moons and satellites hilariously bumping into each other<br><br />the whole wreckage such fun?<br><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-87616475492369997272008-02-21T13:41:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.209-07:0033. Better uncounted, unaccounted<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><b>Count yourself out</b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br><br><br><br /><br><br />Count yourself out<br><br />or would you rather be another bloody darkening figurine waning in that short night?<br><br><br /><br />You see<br><br />power has it seems this mandatory flaw: it’s always falling into the wrong hands.<br><br><br /><br />Only violence solves that grievous problem.<br><br><br /><br />But the powerful kill for less than nothing – a mere stir in their cup of tea.<br><br><br /><br />And don’t you dare intrude into their hunting grounds.<br><br><br /><br />They’ve got on their roster all kinds of cool killers called cops<br><br />and judges<br><br />and priests.<br><br><br /><br />They pay them not too much but enough.<br><br><br /><br />They – those murderers – are told how necessary they are for the well-being of all<br><br />how what they do is approved by society and “god”<br><br />how it is society’s and “god”’s bidding they accomplish – this the more gullible are told<br><br />though there are plenty among them who are not easily fooled<br><br />and do the authoritarians bidding with full knowledge of cause<br><br />with a clear conscience<br><br />deeming – they do – that that’s their lot<br><br />that if their actions are just aiding and abetting the owners’ rage<br><br />so be it – life’s too short to bother splitting hairs too thin and so on.<br><br><br /><br />Should one include the stupid minions of the press among the abettors?<br><br><br /><br />But of course – cops judges priests and propagandists: the subservient operators in the gang<br><br />they do the dirty deeds<br><br />just as told – they are just following orders – the orders must be followed<br><br />the word is...<br><br />the world must have order and law<br><br />law and order – their daunting task is to maintain the fiction<br><br />that law and order bring justice<br><br />when in fact they bring peace sure enough behind the ramparts<br><br />to the powerful<br><br />those whose hands are wrong<br><br />their hands are poor and tremble – too weak – unsteady – at fault – <br><br />and must shoot<br><br />must shoot fast or...<br><br />must shoot before the opposition<br><br />who has a much better hand and is a clean hand<br><br />has a chance to play – the winner must be killed beforehand.<br><br><br /><br />The loser gets the power – it falls as from the heavens into his wrong hands.<br><br><br /><br />The violent the aggressive the choleric the psychotic<br><br />the dispossessed who perchance would want what’s coming to them<br><br /><i>here</i> – I tell them – for I’m their doctor – <br><br />you’ve got two ways to go about it<br><br />rebel and murder and get shot – get even for a speck<br><br />a very ephemeral speck<br><br />or...<br><br><br /><br />That’s what we do here<br><br />We reward guys of your particular type with free television sets!<br><br><br /><br />Unbreakable armored unwieldy and inviolate.<br><br><br /><br />With an unreflective screen – for we don’t want you inside<br><br />or believing that you are yourself inside: <b>that would really be sick</b>.<br><br><br /><br />We tell ‘em – too eager guys of your type<br><br />ready to shoot and get even and so on<br><br />we tell ‘em: “<i>It’ll do you good – <br><br />vent your anger against it<br><br />shout and bang at it<br><br />and shoot the fuckers inside.<br><br><br /><br />Shoot the fucking figurines that swim inside<br><br />all those cops judges priests propagandists<br><br />the patsies of the powerful.<br><br><br /><br />I know<br><br />it makes me a lot of good<br><br />it helps me vent my anger<br><br />it...<br><br />it keeps me alive<br><br />that fucking unbreakable television set I’ve shot so many times already<br><br />looks like a fucking colander<br><br />with all those disgusting dark dead fishes inside<br><br />go ahead<br><br />do</i>.”<br><br><br><br> <br /><br /><br /></blockquote><br /><br><br>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10120305.post-75655876541667110652008-02-12T17:07:00.000-08:002009-09-14T18:56:39.209-07:0032. let the street be for whoever walks it<br><br><br /><blockquote><br /><br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>let the street be for whoever walks it</b><br /><br /><br><br><br><br><br /><br /><br />let the street be for whoever walks it<br><br />the road is steeping up and my father used to be a great decapitator<br><br />so if you got a problem identifying heads by all means ask me<br><br />I’m not even tired and the cars parked at the side of the road<br><br />damned rusted wrecks if you ask me<br><br />I avoid as the devil<br><br />so slight and wired and muscular and fast and lissom<br><br />am I they bother me none<br><br />and if you ask me all those children still alive should be<br><br />more or less safe in some kind of refuge<br><br />I don’t think any of them is capable of such devastation...<br><br />so much destruction<br><br />the beheadings and the mayhem<br><br />are the fruits of a horde if you ask me<br><br />some alien horde that passed this way last night<br><br />as nimbly and rapidly and buoyantly as me<br><br />I’m passing up this street<br><br />kicking heads like flighty balls<br><br />and scoring each time with each trick.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />Step aside creep<br><br />step aside<br><br />care not a whit for the spirits of all those hederated heads<br><br />I’ve swallowed hairy hurdles bigger than those<br><br />of omens forebodings maledictions from the thrones<br><br />from the heroes from the nagging bureaucrats<br><br />the ludicrous prestiges of the rhetoric-choking pundits<br><br />the baggages of elderlies and other degenerated sovereigns<br><br />the tremblings of sentries<br><br />the blunt steel of audacious fetuses<br><br />the rocketry of moot civilizations<br><br />the toilsome tread of monsters and antediluvian beasts<br><br />let me swither about something else<br><br />the void for instance<br><br />those blithely stabbed bodies<br><br />and then their heads rolling like burdens unbearable<br><br />the aim of the intruders<br><br />of that I am devoid of ideas<br><br />indeed.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />I know who did it and how<br><br />but why<br><br />shit<br><br />but why<br><br />that I can’t fathom<br><br />perhaps my dad the old decapitator could<br><br />but now tough luck he’s dead.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />I love the wind<br><br />the swifter the better<br><br />lifts the girls’ skirts<br><br />and with them my spirits.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br />Let the road be mine<br><br />their genitalia such nice whiffs<br><br />such dainty chemistry I’m agog the thingamabob hasn’t been used more often<br><br />as an ambassadorial tool of magical proportions<br><br />so many close shaves so many pins and needles<br><br />agonies vexations griefs<br><br />irksome undertakings<br><br />could have been avoided<br><br />nothing bestows peace as cunts that are clean and eager to please.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br />But now I’m approaching my target<br><br />sob little ladies for the lifeless beaus<br><br />I’ve got more and to spare smoldering in the lessen caves<br><br />where the prisoners were kept<br><br />fists and claws dulled and enfeebled<br><br />sob sob<br><br />sob<br><br />while unavoidably the circle widens<br><br />while I harvest in unease and bathed in afterthoughts<br><br />the fuckers of tomorrow.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />Let every walker claim his share<br><br />stake his won piece of sphere<br><br />call his own the street he walks on<br><br />and as he deems right<br><br />over his hard-earned ground let him rule<br><br />that’s how wars are won<br><br />and let’s hope for the wind<br><br />the swifter the better<br><br />as I sift every trace of reason<br><br />why<br><br />as I sift every trace of reason why<br><br />and the wind teases my sifting<br><br />and perhaps sends it to lands unconquered<br><br />of little consequence<br><br />lands where my reach won’t land<br><br />my scope won’t span<br><br />my span won’t reach<br><br />for I’ll be sleeping the sleep of the just.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br /><br />Nothing to be done<br><br />but to stake my claim<br><br />and stick each head above each stake<br><br />while the ponderous thinking gets done<br><br />and my running’s still viable<br><br />in bursts of sudden joy<br><br />as I kick the heads<br><br />as I score another goal<br><br />between the stakes planted<br><br />by the others.<br><br><br><br /><br /><br />The others<br><br />the horde of alien others<br><br />whose heads I see rolling of themselves as rotten fruit<br><br />down the steep road I traveled<br><br />once upon a time<br><br />and it was me<br><br />it was me damn it was me<br><br />who told the investigators I know who and how<br><br />but not why<br><br />for I had the experience<br><br />my father was the old decapitator and if you ask me<br><br />I can tell you<br><br />only that then they said: <i>Pass!</i><br /><br><br><br><br /></blockquote>Carl Sredgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14871247943119016689noreply@blogger.com0