Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Covered in what's accepted as amygdalar care these days, one can take the therapy and writhe against it at the same time. This is an intimate interaction. If you are symbiotic with your interlocutor, there is a dual yet pure inter-protrudence we would like to introduce. Results that suggest indisputance, even in cases of inappropriateness: pubescence, any sign of leakage? These wd exceed natural license. Tho we a fiction house.
Hoolie wind, unwind. Bound to introspection, by the shiv, which was within. As the Twist is to the twisted, it's a way to work things out.
Way out would will more wild, could be involving major wiring, or a whole nerve bio-mesh quadrant retiring.
They say a shank is your last tank, Shane. Yud need a 3rd-A-Genda Witcha-Dokka. Name of Wayne.
MPS, MPS love, MPS name.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
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
Saturday, December 19, 2009
where palace charnel begins
its wet and glittering course,
I offer my fingertips,
blind and pendent ministers
of last-moment innocence.
There in pierced forgiving skins
blood charges your perfecture
and can whisper a promise
while hours press beyond my lips.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I, conversely, felt nails through my insoles.
Maybe pothos shoots trying to get in.
Life to a woman requires a fine screen.
Only songs make a magnet of the floor.
Was your question no more than repartee?
Look, you, stud, spaceman, spelunker of holes.
We can make a bed with thousands of chicks.
Sign up the throngs in your gism as pets.
When can I make room for your steady love?
Children have rattles, and so do your lungs.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
a random, unvertiginous marker.
in lieu of a beacon, hoary barbed wire.
vandalists had no imagination.
you paused and asked me, “What kind of babies?”
a farmer’s wife walked towards us in the dust.
a tiny goat hung pressed behind her arm.
liver and tripe rocked in my cavities.
our knees bumped along with the potted road.
the highest peak in the world was a dot.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
But the money stopped with a red dream
And chop, chop. We put a drop-in center
For the third gender made whores of, but
They mothers started showing up. My son,
You told me you went for bleach, shaves.
Sheaths. This is where the rice thrasher's
Dogs and chillun play Carom with poker
Chips. The neighbors came round with
Sticks and chrysanthemum paste. There
were fights, but now when we see goat heads
In the street, we can say, here, I brought
Some money. Internationals need batteries.
No more swatting; you must say hi to me.
I am Hoolie
Friday, December 4, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Mechanical creatures and slime can rest in my weightless curls with room for your life and forty more. I love you that much to communicate my post-feminist claims so you may rest in my jatamandala while I shriek in carnal crime and despair.
My terrible living makes me pigeon, street girl to stars, but to compare, you are just a tiny ovum saved by chance on my vajra tip. You suffer sharply. But I am there. When you hear the cloying screech of a suparna, you feel me.
Your Peggy, Our Pegyuh
Friday, November 27, 2009
Peggy, daughter, godlike
horror; I miss dangling
from yor claws
Don't you have even one arm
on reserve for yor father?
you can hold onto so many
chakras, tendons, memories.
at yor birth as an adult already
we stifled our vomit be-
cause you were ourz, woma,
bird of technology:
your talons carried me,
so were a part of me, my
migration into yarns,
lies, wintry buff salad of
fur and cries, wild and
concern with pre-history,
peggy... peggy... peggy...
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Well just don't take to the skies, my love. And walk behind me.
Nothing like a brisk and life-risking stroll t'the hotel after Thanksgiving with the savages.
Do you refer to the motorcycle dodging?
And the blackout and the open pits and filth piles.
Happy Turkey Day, Tom. If yor lucky yule get eaten too.
Did you catch the framed photo of the dumpy colonists and dead tigers?
Hideous. One lain atop another. Lifeless as rugs.
And what about the way they announced our consumption from the minibar to all the other guests in the lobby.
You are ashamed?
There's such as thing as discretion.
In drinking or in collecting drink's wage?
Bastards will gouge you with their handlebars to avoid a stone.
Or maim a dog.
But we've come so they may see, remember.
Or for fear there's nothing for us anywhere.
Yor maudlin as a milk-begging cripple.
Yes, everywhere cows roam free, and yet...
Here we are.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
blue walls of sea green
jungles or trees at least
where tigers could be
grey ceiling flat
yellow road scratches
white casting black shadows
farmers dig out
just look like keratoses
patches dabbed at
muddy river red and green
then a bellhop in full uniform
bearing orange Koolaide on a tray.
Friday, November 20, 2009
- a wild forest of desire under her housedress
- usually amenable
- sorrow of captivity
- "We have to wade through a stink water river of suffering humanity, crippled dogs and burning tires just to buy a damn nail clippers."
- "Don't forget it's for the church, dear."
- she whispers praise the lord as they fuck
Morning in the Terai
- Big red sun on a 3rd-gendered temple
- Tom and Sylvia in silouette
- suitcases full of eyeglasses for the clinic
Thursday, November 19, 2009
against the horror of All,
sleeping in a plasm of snakes,
Cali rises in my face w/out your
touch, brief soul smiling:
i exploit yor dumb balm.
we can ride on fire back
to my place, a dingy 4-star
hole. Shab, my accompanying
dog, whose eyes glow, is mad.
Peg, manifestation of estrogen,
can take you down town, and
yor clan will grow old wondering.
Monday, November 16, 2009
My partner in the hard-plastic cask where we were buried alive in cellophane sheaths and cables and I took an airborne beat to contemplate what's now a rural legend: how the Chama was sucked through a grapefruit-sized hole in the pressurized cabin when the stainless steel flap suddenly gasped open at the bottom of the commode. In an instant one is there, and then not.
She was a goddess and could sprout again in a dirt lot. He was a prototype for Asian-American goobers. He kept hocking snot into napkins and stuffing them between our seats. He was scanning a spreadsheet and operating three electronic devices while tongue-rolling a toothpick in a baseball cap. He slept hard with his knees bent "indian style" and upon waking had already cleared the virals he'd been farming.
Monday vanishes over Da Nang. It's not ended because it never happened. Throngs phase through their generations as Archie characters in fresh skins. Freckles appear from nowhere into their rightful industrial age of error. In Spain, they called it edad de pavo. Big-headed, pencil-necked beasts. They are miserable and potent and giddy with loose beaks.
Chamatilly birthed as the earth turned her up: back, shoulders, arms, scales, and having been scattered to the winds, desirous of integral flight. It's everyone's problem when a queen takes a spill. Now she swoop in bald headed with piercings and claws and craving easy hot nutrition in tiny disposable dishes.
Thai Business Lounge, BKK
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Plumb sorrow, and regret.
But if we all can connect over stylized flowers,
Stencils of the same design in different colors,
Commodities will be cheap for everyone.
You havin a party, we havin a party.
Spread yor fancy plumes-- nirvana costs the same everywhere.
Here's our lucky day: don't have to worry at all a good
35-80 hours a week. It's a hypnotic supply chain.
Bring me yor backs, yol. You should be doing good, not begging.
If all I see is asses, I am Lord. You are selves frontal forward,
Trusting me. That's how we have fun signifying one another.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Was it Hysteria? Tiny Gun Toter? Envious?
If I had to choose, ventures Charlie, in a pinch? It's Devil's Clit. Devil's? challenges Chet. Charlie: You betcha. Chet: Clit? Charlie: Yep. Ok, just checkin, Chuck. Charlie: Yeah, I know whatchur thinkin: 'The Devil's Clit never choked a man's speech like the coaster over at Chank Dhubbabera.' But it was the cheddar curls, not the attraction. When the commissary cooked 'em crunchy, they cheered you good.
Then they made us colonize Chang K. Chang and opened up the longest ridemall in the wurl. On the Vagina Root, you could have some hairs pulled or catch a load of someone's spittle on your chest; coming off the Lesbian Stem, everyone would be dizzy and hurl no matter what. Yeah, Vagina Root, Lesbian Stem and the curio store, Prosthetics Whore, were all perfect for a second or third date as well as kitty-corner from the bar.
Pandora was just a gaping humid cave with a fog machine, but everyone went in there to pee and avoid the perverts in the Ladies' Room. For some of their ideas, we blamed Perpetratoress, which always had the longest line, and once inside, things just went wild with lists of suggestions on what to do without getting arrested. The only way to exit the Perp tricked you onto the street as if the whole churning circus had suddenly become disgusted and attested, "Yor toxic!"
dirt while a pit viper dogs its barrier,
wife standing by with a needle.
Isn't she regal in the torn screen
chatting on a land line? Aren't pretty
hands wasted swatting at dire straits?
We thot we'd at lease have some
body art to show for our aches as
opposed to a paucity of bike parts.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Shaded information bar insert, p. 15.
Chapter 4: "Dogshiv!"
My Boys and their Bitches
Dr. Donna Thong
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Corporation: OK well I'm the great big corporation. Think I can do what I want? Well no. I'm just a hallucination: you are me. The individual. Without your support, I'm nothing. Never heard of a Thousand Holes that are Tight? It's everyone pulling together to co-sign my Right to Plow.
Individual: Ooo lookie me I'ma little diddly noo-body who can't even pee without buying a contraption from some kinda capitalist. You'll arrest me if I just let it flow. You say I'm gay if I don't have a mug with your pig logo.
Hoolie drinks a lot of wheat juice and tries to explain getting fired to what's left of the disciples.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
In my fifties, bare aesthetics will turn to hungry assault.
I'll have less self-control, in proportion to attractiveness.
At a salad bar just the other day, a German tourist near
-ly brot me to my knees on the plastic runway protectin
-g the rug. I was on my first beer, but I could have slain
his frau and drug him home by the hair with a second m-
ug. I vow to haunt art walks, retrospectives, book fairs a-
nd lame conventioneers who are paid to stroll their carne
between miracles of the marketplace and crudités variés.
Dr. Thong's 10-Minute Day, with No Workout
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Peg just home from Pharmsupply Focus Group would squat and pee if you even touched her collar. We finally got it and threw it out. She seemed liberated. Our reign would be one of logic. At first a butter-soft Gucci leash gently looped behind the neck did the trick in that she limpingly obeyed as in mock Stations of the Cross. It was Pathetic.
Now all Syl needs is to loll the thing against her thigh and Peggy knows what it means. To bed. To your den. In a cave.
She'll be back to fully verbal soon, and on to childbearing. We feel she wants to whisk the ones she's got off to a cliff nest and wish them well. She must be stopped.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
All still welcome at the fortnightly Endangered Foods Summit and Pot-Luck.
Mthyuh Preservation Society HQ, Ritual Death Salon, Partition IV.
1st and 3rd Wednesdays.
Peg heard herself remark as she woke up on her fancy hovering cushions:
"That's the first time a living bone creature in my hand ever proposed marriage."
Crisp sky blue sheets were her universe. Without the kids, life was a cockpit.
Raiding villages in her flying F-suit brought flakes to their knees.
Her turds boiled in outdoor mess cauldrons fetched a hefty consolation for the burns.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Tri-Tip Toaster Oven Cookout
bottle of chili sauce
1 lb meat chunks
many bay leaves, whole
child's fist full of cloves
head of garlic: teeth are cut free but unpeeled
at least 1 hr @ 300
better yet, crok-pot it with a whole pork roast and more of everything, 4hrs high
squish the garlic teeth onto the roll before the meat
do not use the bay leaves out of one of those xmas laurel wreathes
mush the roast into the sauce with a potato masher whatever right there in the crock leaving a variety of chunk sizes for slopping into fresh bread. Makes you want zin on ice.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I ask as the world, not myself.
Sneaky? Guardian? Lovely?
Yor expectations go this far.
Ambling, I may swing my fists.
Will you be there?
Nipple, chest, font.
Ship. Net. Ribs.
Together, we're a knot.
Two are untrustworthy.
I'm on my own now.
I'm seeking another body.
If you can imagine your own medium, what you breathe so to speak, doubling as armor;
If you could see in every direction only by manipulating basically the optic nerve alone;
You would begin to resemble our homegrrl, Amygdala Jones.
You might feel bottom-heavy, like you want to scream, "Don't pick me up!" when he greets you at the airport, knowing yud break. And it's hard to move 2 pair of lobster claws across a polished marble floor with so much weight. Some would call you paranoid. But you're misunderstood.
When yor skin is soft as a toad, the body a shapeshifting load, and your interface, peeled grapes on noodle stilts, is all over the place, you begin to crave solids. Like vasa deferentia, you may only be able to make a difference with a second opinion and the help of additional fluids.
Cumulative parables such as these beg the wisdom of unconditional evolutionary confidence. Amygdala Jones couldn't help putting feelings at the top of her tdhu list. When you haven't any lids and there isn't a drink in sight, one can only hope that tears are general throughout the hood.
Fragment, "To the Student"
Sin-Gaberra Ms., shards 6a-d.
Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same
Monday, October 19, 2009
Our own planet's outer persona was being popped open and violated by too much light.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Phages sweep by and recognize exactly where you've folded the antennae.
Apoptosis is even more horrifying because everyone just stands by smiling.
They think they blebbostatins, panaceas, can contain yor diasporic flotsam.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Skin and Clay goindu a morgue. Clay: I am the flowerpot he left behind, spun by the contours of his hands. Skin: I am his orphaned leather backpack, flesh colored, ink stained. Skin and Clay [together]: Are we museums or are we raw materials?
Clay and Skin weigh time against moral capacity. Skin: I'm the one who can go bad. Clay: It takes me 10,000 years to neutralize yor shit.
Skin and Clay go to church. Clay: He who's got a blessing's got a curse. Skin: An both those guys are better off than you.
Clay and Skin decide to commit a sin. Clay: What do we do first? Skin: Nothin. Clay: I am doomed.
Skin and Clay become filthy lovers. Skin: You are a little gritty. Clay: That's hot, Skin.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Ken's rash note to Mike after the final swimming blog entry
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Did she never become that buck-tooth, saddle-shod shooter from whom we all long to flee?
Was her rearing not overdetermined by scripture, her apocalyptic destiny given us to slay?
With safety in righteousness, patrimonial soil, swarm this story for your spleen, worker bee!
She shall be known for whatever it is you call a curse which is a name: Malediction?
Since she is technically a goddess, leadership nomenclature splatters out of her everywhere:
"I hold out both my hands, like giving anal polyps: fingerless but ready, fertile, present.
"Imminent, I hold you in my balls, which are fists. My arms, living tubes, can be dicks to you.
Sighing, Peg took off her ridiculously large and fake sunglasses frames, palm rolling a sweaty 7/7 across her forehead for clarity. Listen to that clinking. Sears is going to be here any minute. Shd I try and cram in a nap and say I'm just groggy from dreamin? Or might I go ahead and ride this current/wave of Violade like a Mayfair lady in a white sateen and foxtail cape?
Partial Ch. 4 and notes.
Sin-Gaberra Ms., shard 4c.
Ass-assination of Amygdala Jones: Princess or Goddess, It's the Same
Saturday, October 3, 2009
- puddle olive oil
- big red onion, chopped or whole
- washed and sorted bag of blackeyes
- meaty red bell, cut big
- cumin seeds
- celery seeds
- white pepper
- cayenne, but a lot
- gurgle of vine
- any kinda sausage or wiener
30 minutes, high.
Meantime, we made brown basmati with butter.
Leftovers: (x2days) broiled crisp under CA sharp cheddar.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
An agent of anything steps into your life and shows time for what it is: a lie.
Let's take the bullet holes along the side of Ken's sedan.
Pick any vertical line to indicate "now" (Her). Let's say the long crease of the driver's door.
Punctures to the right and left are future and past, for a lack of better tautology.
Inside each dark opening, poorly-captured moments flicker.
On the left, they are ripples of attention. Starlene's prism black lights the steps in hot retrospect:
- Oh what a pommeling he gave that love. He was brown nosing fate.
- Showers ruined the yard sale. Now we know why he sought that.
- Must have been some undercurrent make him call his mom the next day: eddy pull?
- In less than a year they've got him surrounded at the Club Martinique-- surprised?
Monday, September 28, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
She took him easily, mercilessly, like a retarded kitty. His spine implants and hours squatting proved no match for sequins and bottomless limitations. Even so, her painted zygote fingers at one point tried to claw at heaven for more success juice. Her wizened silhouette, thrown unflatteringly there against a disintegrating wall of memorabilia, besotted life for him, starting then, both back and forth by calendar.
Or had they form changed by trading lyric go-go cages at the height of their passion as a way to be truly all over and up inside one and with the other?
Saturday, September 26, 2009
First, two bombshells of 14-- opposite race, but like twins-- receive him in the palatial Atrium of Thinkers. They show him the way to his cot, freshly splayed, between two metal filing cabinets hanging obscenely with padlocks and combination cylinders. It was the medications.
Dinner that night includes an equestrian-themed ice sculpture and cruise-like buffet for 80. If you had recently fired yourself for wanton / self-harming behaviors or gone truant from one cinderblock apartmentchank nightmare to the next, you could still join in song, partake of the table, and be limited to no special fruit. Of the few punishments allowed, money and higher society were two.
Tho one night a red-headed, wide-pupiled chick or twink, ruddy with astyptic bloom, play hooky big time in the apt-4d sugar shack of latest re-hiree and retired pro-baller remembered for having pulled in to the compound with bullet holes all alongside his Charger. Ken, until now, has never been identified as either black man or monster, except while toying with himself, among characters to whose points of view we've not been privy, and by his own mother.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Alternately, I stand and piss a long and dirty fable, as I am unable to abandon all the crammed-in tackle I've been pulled into an angle with: there are those who need me.
Unhooked, some fish with ripped lips just truck upside down. Ery tam a gal stand up an shake her fleas, pups come crying with concussions and they bobbing requirements.
cause 150-ft turbines crank their shells and
spill friction into every living room and den.
Their howl is an avian or canine call, a harm-
ony of inter-special gaiety. The low one drones
to all: "Hear my prolific growl. Take my free
issue." Others ring shrilly, morbidly inviting.
Jangling crickets tamber nature's consent, ig-
norant. All-night criminal traffic now wafting
in from the 10. Bitches stretch in the sand, ne-
ver yet having met up with a scorpion. Lit ho-
opties creep by to the petrol stand, buffeted.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Fire bear come flying over horizon.
Insects, reptiles click, split.
Now tell me is or is not,
considering nutrition, a dried apricot
as good as its flesh-fulfilled cousin?
Because everything they wrote
can now only be found in the bone
chalk of those scratched letters,
crystal, canvasses, silver, china.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Their vision started to benefit from the clarity of Strong Hormonal Bathing. The first moment of beholding a phallus will always make the humidity rise to what's necessary for mucous.
Chama imagined herself as the Veined God, and how it turns out to be Her Chrysalis.
Ilyn felt exhausted just thinking about the amount of blood that would be required to attain that level of determinacy.
They stood and stroked the rippling folds, stretching, but not quite able to reach its crown. "We will see Luck or Scorn; it's the paradox of this deity," The Chama intuited.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
apparently the blind find me goodlookin;
the unsighted obviously think aighm hot.
just when so many naked people are against me,
aigh need people naked against me, and thayr not.
with a witch's fingers on my scalp,
i can travel to new ages as a scab;
before demagnetizing the last few nodes,
i enjoy a robot's timed sense of moving on.
Hoolie, from Birth of the Mthyuh Preservation Society: When K's Gave up Living and Volunteered for Manned Flight.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Its tortured evergreens at 40-60, the cabin hurtled steady as a hard careening bubble. Insulated by and from force, The 2 would sleep like refugees.
Crickets were screaming in the garage to keep up with the momentum of the howling. Not much living could hold on outside. Yet there were security lights.
This was an abandoned cove, Turgid with Blowing. Every once and a while someone found a winter renter. It was a hell with its back strapped to a jetliner.
Roaring louder than violent surf, Judgement Hammers might have followed Mistress and Servant to the basics of human living. Now their eyes were Red Sand Traps.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
"You are funny to me just as you are tragic to others," explain Jer.
"Phukyu bitchcunt I pis on you; I cut you," was Ken's retort.
Then they both busted up laughing and allowed themselvz a few moments of cardiac arrest.
Gasping for breath, Jer say to Ken: "You know I hate everyone else even more than us."
"That's coo; me too," sputter Ken, coughing up blood.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
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
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Hot neighbors' sons with shorn hair empty onto
the street and crawl up the block at night, spray paint
the garage. Reptily mom call police. Neigh-
bors complain, "Therz alwayz trubble over thayr."
She knew it was not at the law that they jeered,
but rather marked her as sodomy doer.
And their votes were against sodomy, not her.
She thought of the way shit stink stays in your skin
and wondered whether that was yet another
shame for mothers.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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?"
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Back inee olden days Reptily mom and dad walk her through a foreign town on a phat wooden cart. Instead of arms, they had signs they'd written on with lipstick. The empty tubes rattled on the floor, just as Coral Blush Chum sloshes at the bottom of a War Canoe.
PLEEZE LEAVE US IN PEACE
CUZ THATS WUTWE WISH 4U
You might expect the next paragraph to be Choked with Carnage, but no. Enemy Villagers were just confused or busy and couldn't have cared less even though they would have liked to kill them haddit been Free of Consequence.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
A Man Has to Act
Advisement to Do Nothing
Archetypal Angry Parent
Bloody Poop of Creation
Chaos of the Senses
Chunks of Orange
Circles All Day
Crammed with Grace
Crisis of Being
Dad's Toilet Kit Gaping
Dew on Ice
Dirty White Vinyl Bible
Employees and Stockholders
Escape for Dependents
Every Trade Imaginable
Gaping Lipstick Stain
Goddess of Propriety
Grab Bars on a Tub
Hard Trampoline Highway
Heavily into Rut
Hooptie to Tomorrow
Hush for Cover
Ideal Opposite Gender
Imitation of Christ
Ladies' Barrel Competition
Locked and Parked
Love and Care and Brutality
Makes Time Stop
Middle of a Pizza
Mildly Undermined by Shit
Monkey on a Swag
Muff of Fur
My Dead Posse
Offer of Tobacco
One Crossed Over
Optional Items Now Included
Pair of Masters
Pas du Cake
Payment of Blood
Peek, a Blue Pink
Period that was Misunderstood
Pig 'n Tongue U
Pig on a Lipstick (premium dispenser)
Pink Morning Sky, but Vertical
Pink, and Fleshy
Pins and Velvet
Plinth of Juno
Puppies Smudging Up my Rug
Queen in the Filling Station
Real as Phlegm
Red Light Highway
Ruff N' Buttry
Scene of a Dump
Shadow of Medicine over Nothing
Softened and Empowered
Sopped in Bailey's
Sweet Pie Raisin
Tasteless and Pink
Topless Coal Walker
Two Decades of Feminism: Dual Tank Treads
Want to Steer
Way to Worship
Zoned No Sex Offender
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Second Home was also away from crowds but for the Pair of Masters, the only neighbors, who could see you still Locked and Parked, not gone, on their Way to Worship and from. They may step past in Black, point an umbrella or their Book, and voice concerns. The male one had the Last Say, but She Needed to talk. He seemed both Softened and Empowered by her Gentle Excretions.
The third home posed too easy an Escape for Dependents. They don't think right. In spite of hangdeliers and dripping oil statue lamps, they take you for granted as keeper and wander. The Handy Gentleman showing it off was a little hostile, yet So Hot. You could have reached into His Hat for feelings of Every Trade Imaginable.
Phil Barleycorn drove me out to a hive where your fwd view and rear shield look the same. Phil was white and pink with the earnest humor of a man who'd been telling challenging jokes to chillun for all time. Never laid a meal in his own way. He also seemed to be sniffing for lint in my mind as he bragged about sending three zygotes to Pig 'n Tongue U. The rental structure had provided final launching pad for an original pioneer famly whose ultimate jump was remote lordship of these spoils.
"You may have seen it, the death march lot for K's right there at the end of the field, but the wind Never Blows this way," counseled Phil, farting. "They started this hole way back when the chanks were still flush and sweating. Then their heartland became a museum for ugly, militaristic protocols. Everyone who came here wanted badly to be a cog. So they called it God. It's where I'm still living."
Next stop, last rest stop before High Chanks and extremer pointz. RIP!
"Hoolie Roll: Hooptie to Tomorrow"
Sunday, August 23, 2009
In a rat hole for aliens, you see a zeal for life:
lust for children and in cooking.
Tenants, slaves pushed their grime
against caves of linoleum and painted wood
and pipe and pane and wrought iron caging;
they come up to him in church, tap at the rai
-ments, a downtown suit-parlor knock off,
chequered from a couple decades down;
sandy hairs moderate his rostrum.
A sinner with thick glasses, loose pantz,
sprinkle on yor daughter, clean her path,
watch yor blighted son who no one look at.
Weirdo healer prees, closer than a fren.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
multi-faceted, I bet you cd tell me
if this rock, that frame, Any Scotch
was real. bet you know how an Ice
Dispenser in a Refridgerator Door
can Bring Heavy cubes smashing in-
to and breaking a Fifty-Dolla water
-ford Lismore Vessel at the Rim In
the shape of a Gaping Lipstick Stain.
--Gone Peggy: Wallowing in Treasure
Los Chanques Condominium Assoc.
"Dee Loop" [the Mp3]
Monday, August 17, 2009
Ho-- para que me duelen las cachas? Por andar tanto? Se dice que han descubierto por cual razon me caen los brazos, como pendulos; es tan dificil entender? Hace falta el ritmo en manejar tanto peso. Una zanhoria siempre cuelga por la cara, y por eso sigo.
Como dios, tendria que decir que la numeracion sea el pasatiempo que prefiero mas. Como animal, quisiera meter mi fetiche dentro de los demas, servir las criaturas otras. Es posible que me haya creado estos desiguales yo? Cada vez que me giro, la muebleria se reorganiza por la amplitud de mi culo.
Reincarnizada como "esuperstar" monoteistica
As God, I'd have to say that naming is my favorite thing to do. Like a beast, I want to push my fetish into others, serve fellow creatures. Did I create these disequilibriums? Every time I turn around, my big ass seems to rearrange the furniture.
Reincarnated as a monotheistic superstar
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
In the world of English prepositions,
You can see into a flat surface if it
Peeps back at you and corresponds.
You are standing at a place of self-
Regard as if you could step through;
This world is flipped, but most true.
You face where light falls and look in;
Only dreams chart decrease of mind.
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.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Or on the information highway in a cathoid-ray tube?
I prefer to forsake insects, mildew, sorrow
for a measured poisoning by light and booze.
These cancers attack from the outside,
Little Dr. Kevorkians teasing your hide.
These scabs you can't remove but at yor peril.
Death hardens and plugs itself for a while.
Friday, August 7, 2009
"Chama, we know youse a goddess, but can't you put this aside?
"Other people have rights too.
"Yes Chama, I mean look around you; your best thinking got you here.
"Chama, don't you think it's time for a little self reflection?
"Yes, Chama. You can go over how you could make this a better place for you to be.
"You have that power Chama.
No my power is shapeshifting and speaking back across centuries to my younger self. I can hide my back, scalp and neck spurs with alien technology. I can fly in a F-suit or grow my wing. I can lift shiny coins through telekinesis and slight of hand from air pockets in the steady stream of important and influential flakes who cross my sound threshold.
I cannot make this a better place for me to be right now.
"This is what concerns us. You've lost the ability to master your own destiny, and on the frontier, that means mental illness.
Caw deeze mthyuhphkas off.
"We calling you off, baybidumplins. You hereby denied the right to perpetrate on any of those damaged and frightened neighbors and chankspeople you see before you and shall apoligize for working them up into that level of a froth by your tone.
"And torches costs money.
This is me. This is what you get with me. You brought me into the system. You were following the Law then. This is who I am. I come with crowds. This is what you get with me when you let them in. You found me banging on the door begging for bureaucracy. I thought it was a meritocracy, but chall was I dim. Turns out I am a delivery boy: I brought the Him.
BTW, can I get a square? Can I get paid?
[No answer. No answer.]
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
They said over and over, "We hate everyone; the world is lots of fun if it wernt for the mthyaphkn paple."
They mentioned the number of times they had been raped in a variety of mixed conditionals.
They burped him with a vibrator.
Hoolie began to see the horizon as a search for uncles who were lonely, tired and hot.
- Leave your fingernail scratches on his back.
- Administer substances for which he will return.
- Extract samples, and
- Procure seedlings in vessels.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Connie's first five matches were free. Thinking of what she'd written in her profile made her feel sucking rawness at the hole where her stomach emptied out into her intestines, she guessed.
She was fingering the portfolio of Christian men she'd generated on her new color printer/fax/ scanner/copier. Sipping vermouth, she laid their faces, statistics and claims across a big, dumb vinyl ottoman as a tarot spread.
The printout in the central pivot position was fuzzy because most of her ink had been consumed in the automatic "cartridge alignment" process. She had like a short ream of multi-colored test patterns to show for that.
Smells of "My Contacts"
1) Alpaca spittle
2) Curry n' bile
3) Warm garlic sourdough
4) Lobster balls w/ asparagus
5) Mask of Aluminum Chlorhydrate
Saturday, August 1, 2009
I heard you needed someone, heard you as an African-American. Now I bring you this white woman, freshly dead and off the grid, for it's said you can afford the latest remote muscular decisioning, which triggers the subtlest possible reflexes, all depending on the narrative.
Your sophistication exceeds even the most urbane of the high-chank natives because of what you've seen. If someone's going to be educated while lifeless, it oughta be she, a blonde, a zygote mom, related to dream deities.
Now you see my wing, like a pleather grey cape with veins, which enables me to swing high and elevate. I am, in fact, a sort of bat; my powers are sonic, if anything. Here's what Connie's pre-mortem lover said:
I lyte myself a pyre in yor honor.
My only chance at breath is to praise you;
My singing purges the waste that was ours.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Hoolie last memry of Peg:
"Somewhere in other places there are flakes who feel a little hungry every day, yet continue to read, bike or swim. Or they roll from work station to station wagon to hueco opener and spill out onto a candy-glazed Rascal what could be paid by the corporment. They don't self deny as much as behave like adults, kiddies: They say: 'Yes, I'm quite famished but I will eat tomorrow no prolm. I can ride my desire right on into a fevered dream of red-faced happiness.' Others of our species are glee deities and can never be gluttons because they absorb unlimited richvictuals and calming vines through their smiling lips with no worry nor wonder."
She was pinning homemade voodoo dolls with human hair to wicker tombstones she had made at home with dead Easter grasses and nailing them to trees. They resorted to baser traditions when the kids were around and/or holidays. Everyone would gather up surplus ribbons and scarves and make masks of K guano and fruit paints. They got mud-doo hair. Meet in the public square like freaks. Then someone from the high chanks show up to buy a loaf or some slurry. Now it's a single-file fool parade with jesters with rape whistles, hand bells, mace, car keys, tape, a drum, seasonings, exhibitionism, and the long-nose high chanker led the fray in a grim backward cap. Afraid.
These were alleys and gutters twixt houses that are flat black stones stacked one upon another. In windows, wooden poles hold up the backs of more flat chalk, shale, flint. Chalk Chank Knolls hadn't been up and coming but would forever be a noble culture no matter how destitute or raw. These life forms are weird polyps of their mighty blood predecessors, aphids milking aged meat who only causes goodness to drop by summoning feed from the air with its smell.