they use my funk for their discotecas

i think it's a moment for philosophizing for example, 

"why?" or "the hell?"

but feel i need a gentler tool, so not 

which bad choice, which horrific and all-powerful system

for example, must one coax oneself.

or should personal hygiene just occur naturally.

these are questions i can touch with my beak right now.

like an anteater i can 

daintily taste test a single wriggling assertion

or fully tongue the entire org tree including

subterranean levels

those are the ones that house the rankest

tank thinkers mercenary blowhards social

wrecking balls inciters of chaos paralegal

vengeance servers of cause and means

sinister laundries of earnest curiosity

but just one taste is all i ask and i'm tasting

real. sky bitch. musk.

they want to come up here and take that

and not because i'm dirty baby

they use my funk for their discotecas.

think i'm dying for cucumber essence.

claim their fashions suit me best.

the answer and the proof are in my nest.

Ks fly spread eagle!

"Ks Fly Spread Eagle"

by Peg

Rally opener

Daughters of Mthyuh March of Destruction

Highchank 

The Crack is home to a billion holes

They say The Crack is home to a billion holes. Pilgrims, daredevils, and lost hikers alike will never be able to predict when and where they will come out. 

The Community College of Cement's entire Chang K. Chang Chank campus is dark except for a few pools of security lighting-- and the strong yellow bug lamp which illuminates the Crack Door Event area. Jan's mom Jan Jansdaad's steaming underwing fat flap is all that's keeping Jan and Lloyd from falling hundreds of feet into the parking lot below. 

Jan lands as close as she can to the bug light, which is there for the air conditioning unit attached to the bookstore next to temporary mobile classrooms B-D. Most campus employees, students and visitors walk around the air conditioning unit instead of trying to duck under it, which could cause them to end up in sudden Crack-related peristaltic shock (SCRPS), and besides now being invisible, their associates quickly begin to forget they ever existed. In this respect, SCRPS can affect an entire community from one instance only.

Lloyd is trying to keep up with Jan and her mom. As the odd group rushes across the moonlit baseball fields, plumes of white chalk dust spray from below Mrs. Jansdaad's three-clawed feet. And then they have crossed a short span of black top, and then they have reached The Crack. 

They might sound a little like disco when they're running, but when they stop there's nothing but funk, says Lloyd.

Disco nausea

time seems to be standing still

not sure how i'm sposed to feel

i'm smoking to help stand back

but i keep ending up in The Crack

my hatred for you is all i need to keep going

any time that i think of your face it keeps flowing

you reeled me in like a sweet candy striper

taken in by the expressionless mask of a viper

 

it started with just us the two

then another while i was at work

then while at home with the flu

it was easy to guess who you pork

 

 

 

 

by Donna

It started millions of years before disco

As time progresses, 69 keeps getting colder. How is that possible?

Hi. I'm Dr. Donna Thong, it's 1:25 PM, and I'm not only not done with my morning coffee, but more so, I'm also not done with my more morning coffee. And I never will be. Morning Coffee All Day is an initiative I've decided to embark upon instead of Christmas.

You notice fluctuations in temperature and thermometer accuracy when you are stretching out a traditionally very limited chunk of a day into an unlimited paradigm. Unrestrained. There is nothing that doesn't get by you.

Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm going with the way the coffee may or may not restrict your body's ability to warm itself-- that along with restricted movement and blood circulation while sitting and sipping coffee at a computer for hours. There are also calculations ripe for having in terms of how a sun moves against a brick building and any interior responses to that or lack thereof.

Now, as for K blood, I've devoted quite a lot of reflection toward it and those, including K's, who carry it. I am now confident in asserting that it's not a "mutation." Referring to new discoveries as such is as insulting to the phenomenon/ life form whatever as it is telling of one's own ignorance of one's own ignorance.

It should also go without saying that the substance which, yes, has a faint purple glow even in daylight and creates a rhythmic pulse aura which sounds to the human ear like a drum, there is not even the slightest biological link between so-called disco music and K blood, K's themselves, or any carrier of K blood, biological or artificial.



by Donna
"May they always fly spread eagle."

No Chance Not to Love You

You give me no chance
Not to love you dear
I lose my resistance

Your shift at the grind
is the only time
I have my peace of mind

But then you return
Back in my arms, you're
A victory unearned

CHORUS:

No chance! Not to love you I'm so
Helpless! All that I can do is
Love, love...love, love... [bells]

REPRISE:

No chance! not to love you darling,
No chance! not to love... [repeat]





by Missy
Shiv at First Grafting

4 classifications

Hey Sylvia

Spotted you out in the CCC parking lot this afternoon snapping clouds with your long-ass lenses and your convertible looking cool.

Your story: world is divided into following classifications: annoying, agitating, exasperating, and upsetting.

Yet there you were maybe grooving or maybe gathering evidence.

And then those of us who survived
realizing nevertheless how sluttily
chilling in the dez on mandated recreate

Remainder of world gaydom reeling
but seasonally flooding the pool
may they take home some flavor

of days when men roamed live
like it was life's last laugh
every night a glowing surfeit

alcoholic firebrand drumkits
there was this was a counterculture
so many soft-cotton swaddled dicks

everyone a similar golden color
workers were crowning paramount
unlimited beer and cigarettes

now freeze dried forever, a residual
fanciness, snide or glassy earnest,
not flannel or denim in that sense.


Love, Tom

gay disco bouncer

Even this innocuous posting was targeted for removal by the Mthyuh Preservation Society. FUERA, CERDOS!

We bring you this instead: Juniper responds to a fake-fur xmas stocking and having to wear it. [click image]

Empty pool

Mike's Swimming Blog Vol. II, #6

Rcvd from Donna this am:

There's no swimming in jail. That's how we made the most of the low chanks, isn't it? Your beautiful nips, my statue of liberty in the deep end with a glass of wine. Or you and was it Ken? standing on the bottom with hoses for the winter drain, resurface and tile fests, echoing bitchiness.

No swimming and no love in jail. They say one's lips grow thin. I remember waking up with you beneath a surgical gurney in a sea of boxes of No-Shiv. The treatment worked on you. Miss the glowing and bumping tho. There was a chick we let out in a cove picked up violin melodrama by Chausson and St. Saens. We think its how they interact with the Filter now; they are receivers and interpreters more like bats than fowl. If you had allowed yourself to develop fully you could be clawing, right now, through the bars on my window.

I don't expect you to get back together or say you will just because I'm here.

D.

Pins n' Buttons

Tom wears a home-sewn vest over every plaid shirt every day. It's covered in commemorative pins and slogan buttons. Even as he lectures, its beige suede rocks against his arteries. His half-naked students find it obscene, but a heart on his chest puts them at ease during drills and bloodletting. K chicks will often leave purple stains on their seats.

Missy is out on suspension for off-limits vittle. Every re-creature must be protected extra much because they are most likely to be eaten with the smallest pang of conscience. Because they come back, because they must, it seems a venal abuse.

Tho flakes are other matter; academy classmates even graver. Flakes are food for bloodsac only; the grrl in the next seat is your sister in pain. Had Connie stepped in The Crack? Were her tertiary characteristics driving her onto the waiting list for shiv clinic and guided skeletal bursting? Had Connie in fact been a casual associate of Reptily among the rotting alfalfa bales of the Low Chanks long before the filter and the MPS? We measured time in WD then. But it lied.

Imagine all the singing night birds before wide feeding. Now there is only one, and he mocks. Fecundity only breeds more episodes: thumping, wailing, spines. Flakes disappear like soap. Soon only those who rule the skies will have a strip of land. They are proud and unsentimental or grieving. They have paid with burning; they have paid in change. They are tired of thieving, of treating. Now we are their petri dish. Death is a privileged doctor.

Phyllis
Lit-Crit Contractor, Embedded
for Sports n' Sex Crimes Bugle

Salty

If I have cash and I'm willing to pay up now, would you let me offer them a bit less than your mass-mail quote..? No it was personalized, but by a computer printer, that's all. Say 18 percent of the new total including interest..? You could fax me the agreement, and if you'll accept a card tied to my bank account, we can settle this today. What is your percentage, sir..? Because you know if I claim 13, game's over for us both.

Donna leaned back against the tile kitchen counter top in her yellow gauze Charro pijama and farted. A salty peanut shell cracked between her teeth.

No, I'm not swimming in money that's exactly right. All I've got to eat is snack food. OK. Give me a minute to plug it in. I'm a doctor for chrisake. And dog food. Never thought it cost this much. I'm feeding you out of my bitches' mouths, mister.

Dr. Thong had been physician to super shiv-stars and wandering freaks. Now barely able to keep Juniper, La-La and M'Lady in kibble, she wondered if someone wouldn't once slip her a pro-bono, as she had done, on so, so many occasions. Was Kevin on some kind of Jesus trip? He had once, as a walk-in, asked her to put him down. Now he frequented a fiery healing pool.

O' Kev. You could touch my coin purse at least. We bonded on a pill-bottle bed, and that pumping beat. How could I know a lapse of shiv could trigger a random shiv test and set me up to lose my license all for a rotten night of hounding?

Hooded Meatball Face

Christian Giggles

She had Peggy the way she was because the birth occurred in a Crack. Water broke on a reddish brown golf course where giggling Christian children knelt bare-kneed in the dewy Spring mash with their parents and their clubs in a prayer circle. But there was a temple. It seemed a shrine to a hooded, faceless meatball head. The goofy children were giving Sylvia a bad labor, even as she recognized their clothing from a missionary barrel back at Shivchurch. Her guide, Rajkumar, had been a Living Child Goddess, and then become a caddy, then a midwife. The caddy-midwife and Tom made a human rickshaw for Syl and her unborn and carried them into the dark opening of the shrine. All its surfaces were thick with a paste made from human spittle and sacred blossoms of the Tagetes erecta. The ridges were the giant stone elephant trunk whose waviness was deep as hilliness under trees. Peg spilled forth onto these mossy undulations. Something like disco music began to play. Her special features, the spines, scales, woofers and tweeters were like mother of pearl then.

I translate this knowledge from the daughter of Rajkumar, now a domestic I've named "Miss Sprint." It is said as well that the birth occurred in a direct trajectory between the game house of conception and Peak Fordamall Chank.

That temple was a crack as sure as the sidewalk next to the bookstore at Sylvia and Tom's community college is a crack; they know and they sticky progeny are subject to fluctuation. I know. The Pegyuh's brother was my form-shifting, all-night lover.

Dr. Donna "Donna" Thong

Voodoo is The Law

It's very nice to hear your voice again,
and I'm grateful to you for all your help.

I wonder if our love is covered by
corporment or mercenary int'rests.

I save all my masculine energy
for transfer to hot skull shrinks like yourself.

As in one who flirts only with barkeeps,
wanting spent has a safety handicap.

Ref'rence to lucre can cheapen your trade;
I feel so sad to see it end this way.

Sucking Beacon

Donut cloud, crown of thorns, and your lateral, unsurvivable blast: we must all learn, but be far away from. The charm of your beacon is a ring of pulling wanting. Our own livers, our sensing organs, viscerally seek to sate your warning glory.

Disappointing former anomalies, pivotal galactic trendsetters, turn out to be really no more than wood chippers. Matter doesn't "disappear" inside them. Their density is not "infinite." Law of physics: something always has to give. Look what's blowing out their axes.

We astronomers, in bed with our telescoping mirror cones and eye needles; we livers in other realms, of freedom, of caprice and lifestyle mistakes, of blight off season. They put us in prison in spite of our feathered hats. We recant our previous believin'.

Only the bars prevent our final charge on gravity. Suck me, wide one. Beauty is your annihilation of all other meaning. To true is to leave terminating dusts on a vinyl stack of atmospheres, to be creatures who will eat through song for an invite to a place where space bends.

From: "Ode to Black Hole 7"
Reptily, Graduation Day Speech
Hunger Gardens, Low Chanks

Hystadelic Rejoinder

Sylvia: I don't want to put away dishes with you while you're in your underwear.

Tom (turning toward her in grey boxer-briefs with a sauce pan in one hand and a rat's tail shivknife sharpener in the other): I want to open up some opportunities for you. To talk about what you saw. I know I was all wrapped up in my time experiment, and nothing registered. Not time. Not even horror.

Sylvia: Time lies, you know. It's a liar. Put on some baggy pants and we'll talk.

While waiting, Sylvia stands absentmindedly pressing what seems like her taint against the back of a faux-Rococo dining room chair. It boasts a darkly varnished hardwood patina, and it's downright cocky about its Shorn Crushed Red borganna brusquely shielding all the parts on which one might normally leave prints. Bare-flesh contact with wood, tile, lead causes Sylvia to auto-hypnotize and occasionally seizure. Even through knits, that kind of pressure triggers a not unpleasant hystadelic rejoinder.

Since that first week when Tom began trying to explain his "announcement" about his "Pax on Us" goddess coming to save the middle chanks, it had been over. Now crime was their bond. Tom's agreement with Collie was so strong, the power of his surrender so profound, that they could only dance with the beckoning animal that kept them stepping on. Tom singlemindedly distribute shivplate, stone compasses, Hopinaskipina for his corporment sponsors until his ears bled for lack of Filter of Loathing. Everything was dephallocentri-size now.

Tom: I'm back.

Sylvia (opening her eyes): Oh.

Tom: Are you calm? Why don't you sit on that for a moment.

Sylvia (lowering slowly, bracing herself on the borgana armpads): It was a bird.... It was obscene. You never believed me; no one did, and I lost my job. Now our whole county can't leave, and our essential compositions have shifted dramatically from gaseous to chemical.

[FLASHBACK: Going over the conversation in his mind, Tom recalls a strobe light of important snippets, a bucket of chicken, Patron shots. He squints, and spits. All he can see is her lips talking. What he hears makes him want to make her stop.]

"...one wing, but like a cape. You could say pleathery. White veins...

"...I thought I saw it again last week, but high up. It looked like a letter K. Going backwards. Flying with its legs spread eagle.

"Are you listening, Tom?"

Talk Power

Your fingertips are livid;
There is no control of swear words;
You will only have three hours' sleep.

We relate because our neurons are awake;
By tomorrow, it'll be separate pidgins:
Handy, multicultural spasms.

Give me all yor talk power, chall.
Bad breath is either dental or sto-
mach, and we'll finally iron it out.

Early to Mourn

Way after the violent gnashing of hard drives in public oracle dispensers had become a given, even a homey reassurance, sucking on a shivstick, Peg could often be heard to bleat, "Well I don't want to live forever, growing a two-thumbed ombligo. I'd rather keep the process movin, movin."

It was comments like these from the deities that began to lead certain ad-hoc temporal realizers to believe that the entire concept of time itself was a hoax and a fraud developed during early civilization to compensate for setbacks in the arms race. Each side was complicit because the scam functioned to shield corpornents, goverations, philosophers from skeptics, artists, cretins to whom they could easily attribute skepticism, artsiness, hypothyroidosis.

In primitive terms, shivsticks are a time machine. More moving happens, more activity in your cavity. Yet not so much as to create a tragic instant bygone. Your consciousness itself progresses to a level of acceptance it may take others decades to achieve in a "time" paradigm. They, in turn, learn early to mourn.

High-End Wig Shop

Donna was force fed Jive linguistics in cement school. She had come to respect at least the magic, but could never reproduce the spell, never get past the affective filter of girls with half her education but twice her size fresh in from the diaspora of urban public housing reform. These chicks were ball players and tight with no one but the school mascot, Jesuit. Donna took to wearing big glasses and a checkered Georgie-girl cap, like a cabbie, just to protect herself from their wrath by being her own teen with a strong sense of personal style. Later, headbands that involved dyed chicken feathers and suede, hoop earrings, shiny colored-plastic blob pendants and bug brooches, midriffs and lowriding, dayglo borgana sleevecuffs and shoes with pearls on them catapulted her all the way through pharmcamp and into her own clothing-optional tropical disco resort and snake vaccine consultancy.

Lush in a Poo

Mike's Swimming Blog: Summer of WD: Endless

I've never seen anything like it: Dr. Thong becomes this water satyr when in contact with water. Earlier, almost drowning herself, she back paddled out to the middle with a glass of vine held high above the surface like a liberty torch. She then to the tune of a number of imagined tom-toms proceeded to execute a series of very geometric, 70's tribal bonfire dances using the grail, its ruby contents, and the tension of the deep end against her musculature as props. An entire victory lap of sorts was then devoted to what she called her "pig-dolphin movement," a super-undulation of great strength, gall, and poor taste. Coming to an abrupt though not unwelcome stop, she had her hands on her own raw hindquarters as if for the first time. "I can no longer bruise my pelvic shelf," she marveled; "my ass is now so big I can't feel any of the bone directly. I have a big ass, so I'm going to use it," Donna continued, still out of breath from her last performance while gaining emotional momentum. "I can... watch this..." Donna banged her hip up against the side of the poo as furiously as she could underwater. "I can throw my ass around and bang it on cement and it doesn't even hurt! I have a big ass. Yeah! It's big." Dr. Thong continued, banging ass violently and sipping carefully from her plastic goblet. Then the wind started to pick up.

One Blessed

Connie slumps as a broken yoga nude on office chair stuffing and horse hair.
Lolling splayed with the public oracle dispenser as primary light, she can see
her role has become guest, prisoner, client to negotiate. They have to keep
her alive. She will always rub their face in that; her loins are still soft enough
to snatch cock from any nest; her brain can scramble eggs on flat rocks; her
love is like a burning hot smokestack. As she wisens into chaff, she meditate:

As the Flounce Girl, I made my fortune young and almost forgot the sufring
of my peoples. We small, blond and humble, not without cultural misgivings.
Out of control with the free breath of living, I garnered envy n' persecution;
there was no one in my tree of friends and famly that could withstand to su
-pport my idle woes a drumbeat longer. When another is illin, you'll explain,
"oh how we make our own way, own troubles." With grace go I, one blessed.

1blesit, the Mp3

Low Star

Low star, pull your pants up
Low star, slippry and dense
Low star, walk the rooftops
Low star, impervious.

Because Kevin Reynolds experienced the miserable smoking child cardiologist as a deity, he overcompensated its malice with allowances, which were tithes. The meat divinity could slip along the gums of the spa mouth, a critical tongue clucking a roller-coasting ticker tape of praise and affront, while Kevin stood locked and branked in one spot twixt therapeutic jets and offered up a stance which looked relaxed (on a commercial for a 900 number or a mustang ranch).

Low star, a mud bottom
Low star, or a searchlight
Low star, banana trees
Low star, not high season.

Kevin looked like a statue in a grease fountain lamp, with stray dog hair, hanging on a chain. Stitching through conversation and anaesthesia, the skin-masked and sterile stethoscope imp had trapped him in a crib of adoration and scorn. The bars were taut suture wire, twisted like candy canes or stripers on poles, down which the serum ran in dizzying regular spiraling drips. A suffering physician took Kevin Reynolds's needful swell under advisement with the assumed entitlement of a faith healer rigging a magic trick or something you could plug into a cigarette lighter.

Low star, where are you now
Low star, surface drifter
Low star, moth ball in pop
Low star, gravid ardor.

When he awoke afloat in four-hundred-thread-count sheets, the message indicator on the telephone flashed like a red lighthouse beacon. There was pea seed in his hair, and the oracle was still ignited, drumming out that morning’s urgent crisis. There seemed to be no air, just a tobacco-y sealant which even caught the future and held it still. The Other Presence had left this disco-cabana world reemed and vacant as a church. Kevin Reynolds was once again a gentleman alone in society, but his manhood was broken in two.

Low star, you were fragile
Low star, melted cupcake
Low star, bloody s-curve
Low star, meanderer.