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.