Water u gonna do nex, Goddess of Propriety?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Water u gonna do nex, Goddess of Propriety?
[Here they smack Hoolie hard with a mace upside the head. The mace is made of a stick, some rope, and a punching bag what they hit you with, even though a punching bag usually get hit. That irony is what should eventually egg you to break.]
"Can you really say yor worse off than someone less advantaged."
"You know when we had yor mother sitting in this chair she peed herself...
Can we count on you to make everything right?"
The legend say Ted and Sylvia came a bailout the Pegyuh while she carry the Hoolima zygote and slip her something in a red box.
Hoolie wonder who now gonna come for me.
He could take an attitude "I do time hard time in life; captivity is a spiritual journey where I'm free."
He could try and get his heart around: "You can cause me pain, but will not change my backward generations. My progenitora, a lesbian, needs my screams to bring me to her once more."
Sadly, Dr. Thong was tied up and stifled in the shadows, tears of regret in steaming flow behind her brank. Pharmsupply had tricked Hoolie there by forcing Donna, his co-dependent, to call him up for a check-in.
Donna Thong begins rocking her chair to the tempo of the Disco Years. She knows that Hoolie can receive the sound and be with her in a place, on an evening. The music and colors had begun for the first time at her practice as she unbuttoned his shirt for a totally routine examination of the abs. She had onee ever seen those shimmering metallic tones of purple and blue, apart from Sears, on one squawking, swooping, fitty-pown mess of pre-historic, chank-layin, chall-attackin poulet: the now-extinct monarca d'ensalago.
"Just take me out," he had begged. "Put me down."
When they woke up later under the table in a sea of mini-bar bottles and PaxPox wrappers, they knew that God's whole sick cycle had begun.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
When the Mthyuh open up her mos cruelest flood, other wurls behine can look through.
They may fine Hoolie so inncent they can take and hold him under pertective torcher.
Ex-con, brainwashed ex-gay, you rock mai hardons.
Your huge thighs and ass along with spiritual comen
-tary make your nips pop erect in m'mouth, swinga.
Ex-cop, ex-model, ex-mental healthful patient: now
nobody own you and you can unspin. You beg to Mt
-hyuh on my rug nekit, look like leaving a futr open.
I am here to receive you and you caynt fine me stud.
Here youda one and you can't take my word pityboi.
Donchu rmember Chrast? Hoolima? Wrk is dun, foo!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
It's not a death sentence, but it jus may be
The sentence they say right b'fore We Dai.
Notice nobody mine celebrating if it's over.
But the young keep up they treachery; dis
-dain or obsequiousness odda two choices.
They handicapped as zygotes in a fas wurl,
Dragging they bluddie chords, and notice h
-ow we godda bree dey sent t'bleev o relax.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Mothers circle the tourist center like a bee or it's an abortive flytrap. Caynt jus walk in. O they assfo a glass of milk. Some are sipping shiv awday from a rubber tube so they dont bend an give it all away.
I took my son here. He say itsa place to pray. Now he gone into fire and screaming shame.
Like somebody's plans, all musty.
Way down in the valley, they are garlicky,
While I'm here it may seem I'm older;
It may be the stress of the ropes and
airborne cement. Or,
somehow I've come to lose him and find
him at the same tam.
Oh my Mthyuh, I'm Kevin's mom and I
cayn't fine ma boi.
- P-coats are the enforced attire per GQ dickheads.
- Each of them would have been singled out and picked on in other chanks.
- They aren't even warm enough (cuddle).
- Check on all the ones hoove bin throwing shade r way.
- I've got to leave him. I feel him sucking me.
- The body is too painful at that heat level.
- No one can get close to me, said the flaming chal.
Friday, January 23, 2009
And, right, I was trained! What a waste. I can't even say that I remember any of it now. Because it was just so godamn important in the grand scheme of things, thought some bozo, who? we may never know, that I go AWOL.
The kids-- props, I hope. God forbid I was really their mom. That would just ice the whole tragic mess. What... can I remember? How can I explain? I just... you know all I feel here, rubbing my temples and scalp, is pain. And everything in between. Pain! It's all that's left.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
An elderly wiseguy in a Johnny Cash outfit greeted him with good-humored jadedness. There was a combo: two guitarists, a bass with a bow, and a polka master. "Who's that?" Asked the Hoolima. "Gilberto Whoopti-Sanchez and the Whatdaphux," answered the bawdy bouncer. "They're just doing a sound check right now-- should be starting in about seven minutes. I traida tell them: dooyer practicing at home, you know? Ha ha." Wiseguy addressing the ostensibly blind jazz organist on his off night sitting at the bar. "Waincha practice foya get here, y'know? Ha ha. Right Jimmy?"
Everyone loved Hoolie there, or so it seemed. Lovely Linda came right up to him with her throat uncovered; this was before she died. "Look what you've got!" she commented.
"I'd like to drag this lightly across your throat," said he, smiling, while doing so.
Linda was frightened and excited. She loved Hoolie, so she had some crazy faith that she would not die. In fact she didn't. Her subsequent death was unrelated.
She was sensitive enough to know that a tiny curly shrivel of the topmost layer of the skin which lie across her trachea was being shaved away and falling into His Perfek Pink-Brown palm, and that was all. She felt as though she had to trust someone just then.
Suddenly everyone Hoolie knew had ventured out into the rain and instead an impossibly beautiful young couple had taken a seat at the bar. They had shiv stones right in front of them but neither was going to lower their head for the tiniest lick. They were broke, he fantasized. They wanted all the beauty and meaning of this historic place without having to pay the price. But the longer he waited he knew that wasn't it. They only looked at one another, and all the more beautifully when knotted in that gaze. Hoolie asked the waitress, an elegantly aging goth chick, to send them a fresh dose on him, but only if they asked for one first.
Then the second guitarist was looking into his eyes and stroking vigorously to accompany his master. Between sets, the second guitarist stood in many places: near the service area, ordering for himself and taking in the compliments of the barkeep while letting his tawny brown eyes reflect in Hoolie's glass of port. Next to a column roped with Plaster Grapes, perfeckly in alignment with Hoolie's eyes. Standing speaking with the dark-spectacled accordionist while they drank, Peeping Gingerly over his colleague's shoulder into Hoolie's eyes.
In his dream, the second guitarist, a gaunt hungarian type named Kevin Reynolds, came up to Hoolie and whispered, "Darling you are too young to be sending Teary-Eyed Drinks to young lovers in nightclubs. Your true homage should be to those who can respect and appreciate the glory of your Ripened Manhood."
In reality, of course, Hoolie got tired of the suspense and went next door for a Bedtime Sandwich.
But songs began to well up in him.
Or you can hire fine bitches.
Each is cool in their way, doll. You jus don't have the weight down there
to declare your weapon, baby.
Wooden chew laika fine white bitch with a real straight wig and blue lips to take
on yor PR daddy you no u do.
You say premium you say upscale we think we getting nice not rough, swingah.
Zisda Ebb Tide Show Lounge?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Peg lets the mail slate drop to the floor, where it shatters. The silken flaps and tendrils of her robes are revealed, unfold across mirrored and embroidered cushions, which hover just centimeters above the filthy cave floor.
"...and find my son!"
The Pegyuh's suddenly violent and earsplitting command sends a light breeze across the Chanklands, rustling blades of grass and temporarily contorting the naturally heavenward trajectory of ritual incense spew everywhere. Her tiny palatial servant, a prepubescent Crack baby, is thrown into an epileptic seizure for fear of fucking up her drink order.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Witch climb on up da rope that saw you split.
Womachall whai you ack so crazy? You awred
-ee own da lanz. You awredee da ansr to awd
-a prayrz. Do you need mor histry foda books
? Cayncha jus stan nau on yr looks? You sexy
as da goddess of destruction. Youda link betw-
een da en anda beginnin of da wurl. Bitch come
back an fu-fil da profisy anda promis of R love.
That time Ted came home and spoke to Connie's cold rotting shell, even tweaked a nipple without noticing her death, was a time when Ted was not conscious and not on a path. Thinking it had been his fault was the beginning. Connie was just a drifter trying to fill her hole, as were many of the foreigners who happened by when the Preservation Society was still in operation. He found he cared for others, though. He had senses of justice priusnear that of a prees. On that night he imagined himself a hideous creature with four arms, two of which should always have held her, no matter what else it was he was doing.
Connie had died because of the miscalculation of the most holy and misguided of deities: Peg. Her recklessness, her carnal nature, her powers are unpredictable. She is ditzy and from her indecision and avarice and folly comes the milk we suck to live.
Connie's pain took her over. She could not lick shiv and be pure for her fugitive mom and also live beyond the pool, the gravitational distress of the beacon. Peggy has a dark pool, and the beacon may be so dim that there is not fire enough to reach her whole. This is how Peggy sacrifice her chilluns without that goal. She holy but a flake.
If someone would marry me, I'd come back. I'd take a high cave near Mthyuh with her steam falling across the front holes like curly bangs. Before the grafting my perp and me we'd have a nest of K's right there in the window box and send them out looking for my little ones. The four of us could briefly live as one before taking over each a hill or shivbar. We can pimp each other out as models and spokesmen. We can pose at the oracle for Volca. I would need to come out of my skin and sleep inside his shell at night.
Monday, January 12, 2009
- take the Shiv Path test.
- answers are filtered into categories
- categories into diagnoses
- diagnoses into prescriptions
- prescriptions into your body
- your body unto Mthyuh
- Mthyuh gives you life.
- Muhalalahalalala Mthyuh
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Lights went out in a whole chunk of chanks
at the same tam, and it was such a stunning
sight that Ted completely forgot what he w
-as going to say. The high cave mesmerized
him tho it was not the high cave but everyt-
hing that was not the high cave. Inside, the
atmosphere was highly unstable. There wa-
s rocking. There was trembling, swaying, s-
himmying. There was cunnilingus, cabbage,
crawfish. Doe-oni d's scenes of his people liv
-ing could feed Ted. The deal he'd struck wi
-th Pharmsupply was such an easy price co-
mpared to licking shivplate like a bat for 30
more year. Onee he and the Chama were n
-ow exempt. The others, well, they seemed
happy swarming over bones after Blood Sac
or painting dey bodies wit brightly colored c
-emen' slry or climb fast upandownda ropes.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
You see what's speeding howling across our com-
munity: purple cranes fight a wind make it seem
da ho planet be turning. Da ho chank be rocking.
The clouds drag their curtains of illusion behind.
Up here it's too late to warn a co-worshipper ifd
-ey bout to get attack. So we watch instead the
way they glide, dive, scalp some po flake heyud.
K's fly feeling more dimensions than we can hav
-e without getting sick, six directions to choose,
aiming they K shape way they going. They mot-
or, move by solar, keep goin even wen dey ded.
Monday, January 5, 2009
she needed to be back where they'd known her all her life
or had helped to pluck her from a teenage primordial soup
and exemplified worshipstyle among the cement turbines.
she squats hideosly now on the chipped cement cave lip of
the highest chank in the Valley, Chukka. Her skin has resp
sponded to the breezes by going blue, and her spines r out.
i came here to Chukka Chank not as a spa trip, which woul
-d be assinine. These are smokin caves with lots of furs an
-d meats, jewel, hypnotic light, stewed game, shiv, curfew.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Though I may be hard to look at, you know I am the albino slave of t-
he Chama, whom I called her 1000 WD ago Reptily, my black cousin
who have a spiny blue weyub come out her heyud laka brrd machene.
Chama have to chant for food one a day resta her laif but you and i ca-
n taker as a example of a wicked laif but a happy laif become a unhap-
py laif topda crispy cleanan laffa virtue, always dooda chores, confess.
Weeda blades who gots to spread da news abouts huh pains and blues.