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.

Phuket, I'm Goinda Thailandia

Whereas once Connie rose an impunate clamor carrying on in a flock, something about the way she shows up late in life and alone with the same old antics gets her sent more often than not to jail.

Whereas her age peers with higher-up roles in the global economy behave even more shamefully, no one sees how it's her prerogative to shower her wurl with boutique critical commentary, especially on a bender.

Whereas all the other seats at the bar are also occupied, those drunks have the presence of mind to shut up. "It's righteous what you say, girl-- but more so that they haul you away," says a skeleton.

"I'm just husband hunting, Jay," sasses Connie, heavy lidded, to a lady strip-search cop. "Thas whut you get for poking around wair you don't belong," retorted Chama, a goddess in policewoman's garb. "Youda nosiess dyke I ever saw."

No One is Innocent
by Connie

I'm impatient and
I jab at things and
I hurt myself.

I'm innocent and
think the hol wurl want
my prolongations.

Ery time I stick
my neck out, they hack
it. Phucking bastards.

Miserable Smoking Child Cardiologist

I have to tell the babies when they're dead;
It's all the universe needed me for.
It's like bending horseshoes into poodles.

I find survival with access to jets.
Clown white before complementary drinks,
I take my hotel suite and sob and sleep.

I am totally hypnotized by cock.
The Pharmers pay me all in stock,
But I tremble at the size of their teeth.

How could I cart a young husband around
Near parents glowing with hysteria--
Explaining that he's just my Playtime King?

Illyn's Reincarnaton Ride

there is a shinyness and texture change in the skin patches that hang directly across bone.
the pit below sucking at their edges.

the hairs turn by white vote one by one in agreement and blindingly affect even albinos.
mthyuh regurgitating them daily.

thru so many loops in and out of her craw I circuit past searing innard and smearing contagion.
a planet's movement taking its toll.

each morning having been passed through the wrinkled colostomy bag of night, I am gone.
tossed up heaving on someone's lawn.

Peggy, Peggy [the Mp3]

"Peggy, Peggy"

Most birds keep their legs together when they fly.

She was born with a vision
and it was copacetic
but where can you go but down.

Table dancing just to eat
Children home watching TV
While mommy does the late show.

She held it in her big hips
The secret that they wanted
After a couple of beers.

But no one there was ready
For Peggy's revelation
And Peggy is no longer around.

Oh Peggy Peggy
Born with a vi-zhone
You had two kids when

You took to the winds.
You had two kids when
You took to the winds.

Limping K's Rock a Death Zoo

Pete Dikker, Chankside

Discovered late last night in Chang K. Chang, hundreds of K's in various states of consciousness literally drag claw in circles round a towering black shivbox. None of these med captives can fly, completely gimp even with their equipment set to Strong. I spoke with a scrawny, filthy boy as he attempted to tunnel out from under the fence with a guano sack through which only the faintest throbbing purple glow could be detected.

PETE DIKKER: Boy what's the point gathering their slry when they are so sick.
RUSTIC BOY: Not... sick... old... Pegyuh want the 12-year or nothin. All else... is rotgut.
PETE DIKKER: And when they expire for good. What then, sherlock?
RUSTIC BOY: They flesh is a mummify, and work better with remote.
PETE DIKKER: As tar-like raindrops crackle and splatter all around us and your tunnel begins to cave, what existential feelings are welling up in you now?
RUSTIC BOY: K's rock my emotion sickness... I live to feed the milk goddess so you can suck laif to yor generations... and find answers for mizzry'n strahf.
PETE DIKKER: If you could ask the camera any question about our world, now is the time.
RUSTIC BOY: First... does it merely hide chaos behind a facade of complexity? ...And if there is nothing around it... why isn't everything right next to it?

Apologia for a superstitious lifestyle, or true quest for the Pegyuh's favorite bar mixer? Private guano plant for a queen, or sadistic joke on a species for whom religion comes from a gene? While getting shot with flaming arrows by flakes and just before suffocating in liquid coal, RUSTIC BOY looked me in the eye and screamed. "Dey keep fline even wen dey ded! Soon deyl awbee macheenz! Wair can we go wen th'Mthyuh doned get fed? We Dai, We Daaaa...iii!"

Bitter and Out of Control

"Promise of our love? Promise of a new tomorrow with the kids? I say the whole concept of a holy family is overrated and that no promise compares to the the tangy, wet prognosis of a cold, fresh cocktail. Boy! Make it a dubba."

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.

She Fell for This

to come across an ex-stripper, gal of any age,
is to find, while drinking, a ruby in your soup.
to run into an exotic dancer when he's boy no
longer? Neat pile of tobacco on a stack of wat-
ermarked parchments deeds contracts notes.
For you to go to the place where you're ass m
-ust save your ass's life: one phone call away.

Hoolie Discussion Board: Hoolie Now

They go Hoolie talk again like a hymnal, some kind of Judis speaking as a pree-so holy fathyuh. He think he immortal an fit to be keen someday soon. Look like a baboon with his nipples showing drinking out of coconuts chall. What he thinkin? We all know, all the chilluns know, the bitches know, the boys know that he is trapped as the son of a holy permanently outshining shivstar. He will never be anything at all, or he will be something humble. Let's see which he choose.

MO-TOWN UBER ALLES

Ted'd followed some man who'd already ditched him to a communist rally in the dead of 1980 winter Detroit. Jammed in a boxy downtown gymnasium, he watched a hairy gal on a platform rant and rave until he felt he needed a drink. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOUR CREDENTIALS?" he screamed.

The speaker, stunned, actually answered. "Why, I am JoAnne Studebaker and I am the Director General of the WSBI GMC [Greater Motor City]. It was clear they were all under three feet of snow, it was crowded and warm, no one was getting out until the thing was at an end, and even then at risk of trampling or fros-titty. During the blizzardy 8-hour trans-industrial tour from Mai-Kaina in an unheated car, Peggy found she could break off a hunk of her freshly shampooed hair like a fibrous herbal popsicle.

Later that night in a Group Apartment full of filing cabinets and armoirs, one or two Workers or Students with a blanket, a Mexican poncho or a polyester sleeping bag were situated roughly parallel, every few feet, as in a slave ship or graveyard. There was no smell of marijuana or drink, just lesbian tea.

Ted always felt they had been sent by someone, possibly Comrade Studebaker herself. They came and settled next to him easily after everyone had quieted down and the lights had been dimmed, as before a naked photo-op. He'd been granted a wide perimeter.

He felt their thudding behind him on the bare wood floor through the nylon that wrapped his clothes that sheathed his body, and there were sickly goosebumps on his back. They seemed to be slithering in and out of one another's sack. Then there were wet clicking and smacking noises, strange aggressive giggling.

The proverbial Sventlana and Judith had really shown him who was in charge of that political landscape. All the guests at the crash pad were polite and hushed. It occurred to Ted that these maybe were just spoiled ivy league kids with a denim and bandana fetish.

Peggy and he her own twin brother had still never met. Even in the womb they had been a hot throbbing membrane apart, jus' two pieces o' pie from the same automat, ass to ass.

Where was she nau? Where was she when he needed her not only to be but to be there and not only to be there but to be a woman?

Only Problem is they Torture You

Peggy held one wrist with the other hand to steady the shakiness. Every movement weight shift was a conscious embracing of searing, crippling pain. She could only smile if she remembered that in WD066, she had been cut off by a shopping box at the shivmart and wished just a fraction of her pain on the infractor. The pusher, a large man, died almost immediately with agonies. They made a cement pill for Mthyuh of him.

Peggy have incennive as well as desire. She got to go, go on. For one, she always itchy down there. Peggy like, "This is bullshit. Gemme a man down here." She only wanna drink and fuck. But she a deity, and so it goes, you gotta suave it on your streetcorner crew, take personal interviews, not too many speeches, live in a graciousness safely above the minimum mark for a milk slave of Mthyuh.

Ceremonies. That the main job of a milkuh. And they caint be cynical cuz when you do-- ooo watch it grrlz. You must believe it baby or you suffer so bad. You wouldn't burden your own family with dangerous knowledge, rational doubts, so why do that to yourself either. Under pressure, you'll have no idea, you won't be a fink. Only problem is they torture you.

Hoolie Discussion Board: Month of the Tranny

Hoolie comes up to me, "yeah i've let down or gotten in fights with all my friends now, so maybe they'll finally leave me alone so i can drink and fuck. which is my natural state."

You know as well as I he'll start missing the fighting part soon. Any updates?
----------------------

yeah as a matter of fak miss thang storms in for the weekend snapping left and right like he's all that, the shaving kit all over th'bathroom and the lighter, squares, cenicero set on the poolside stonette. i'm like yeah just think of me as some homeless chick who hangs out in yor place and you just tolerate. he say yeah i already do bitch.

Find Someone Who...

is a drama queen.
likes red punch for the lipstain effect.
exaggerates, and whose nipples are erect.
bugs their eyes at you obscenely.
rolls their eyes in digust while making a drink.
is every moment conscious of their hairs.
is always sniffing at the air like a sacked fish.
wears a ladies' perfume so sweet as to induce diarrheas.
is FABULOUS!

There'll be no Ascending or De-Escalating

[advice to stripper continues during alcoholic blackout]

And hi, then ok, and you know today's my birthday. In-fak it's been my birthday all month. Yes I celebrate it more every day. I think I'm going for a record, yeah. And it'll be a different year every day, but there'l be no ascending or de-escalating. Same manic pace all the time man. You wanna piece? Of this party? [etc.]

Over to Kypes'

Kype's mom had just a sec before she had to leave for work, so she grabbed a glossy magazine and an ashtray and sat down on the couch hunched over the coffee table in her Pink Skirt, hose out of shoes and a quilted bra.

[photo]
"I'm jist ginna... git out there an give it... one damn try more..."

Illyn Jones, emerging on crutches from Mthyuh of All Miracles hospital this afternoon. Jones swore he was already on his way back up to deepend the same mosh pit which everyone could have sworn had been his Final Eater now these four days ago.

Miss History Moment
Sponsored by PharmSupply

Peggy had taken on the cause of pimping out models to the American public via the pharmaceutical industry. Top powderpromies could pull down many shiny coins per week. For example they could play a beautiful Drip-Dry Maiden who'd made the Lifestyle Mistake of spreading herpes everywhere, some poor kid who wants to make it all right again by licking for-profit shivplate every day for the rest of her life, which had just recently become endless, at a cost, thanks to PHARM-SUPPLY.

Then a friend hears about her plight. To make her feel better, the friend says, "Heck, I should really be licking this too. That way I'll never have to live YOUR sad life. Why doesn't everyone start to lick Pending? Then no one will ever git H."

"If you don't leck it, you're no bitter than a Sexual Lipper," agrees the friend.

Pending. A man has a girl to watch after him; a girl has to watch out for her man and for herself. Take Pending every day. Because a woman has to watch out for herself. Bottom line baby.

"So you see, Hoolie: if it is discovered ignorantly, it is discovered truly. If it is an imitation of life, you sermonize. Imitation of Christ, you politicize. If it is discovered falsely, you are not making music. You are playing the guitar."

Hoolie dreamed he was over at Kype's mom's who was always on her way to work, putting on makeup.

She had Pale German skin and her hairs all wisped up. All thems at Kype's smoked. A lot. All pale with Pall Malls and pink lips, pink tablecloths; everything there seemed organic, Pink, and Fleshy. And it seemed to be necessary for everyone to drain the soft white tobacco tubes to keep it going.

Hoolie got drunk over there for the first time and made a joke of standing up his lit cigarette in the Middle of a Pizza they'd been eating like a birthday candle. Everyone just laughed and looked at Hoolie lovingly, even though it was so stupid he did that. Also, they could have been mad that they'd paid the pizza, and a large family at that with so many mouths sucking.

Then they went out and jammed in the garage. Their eyes seemed to roll back in their heads, Kype's brothers when they stroked. Chords filled the room everywhere, free of drums. All three boys in that family had classic GTO's with fresh paint and clean original leather.

Hoolie dreamed he was sitting at Kype's alone at the kitchen table and a Pink Worm started growing out his adam's apple like a fleshy condom swelling. When Hoolie woke up, he was under a fuzzy thermal blanket in a bed over to Kype's. He was finding it a little hard to breathe, however, because there was a fat pink worm feeding at his throat.

Swamp Rascal

Mike crept through the high grasses and foam of dry salt cedar sheddings. Even the brutalest foul prongs of Nature seemed fair, while with man one wanted Payback. He kicked at beer cans and charred camp drudge. No surfers here. They hung out in the sand and looked out at the sand these kids. Surfing the tailgates on their pickups. Corncob bonfire shindigs after dark. This all would be flooded soon. Just big dragonflies and crocs. Bubbling mudtowers.

Chalk Chank

It was at Chalk Chank
Where I felt the first dank
Shock of the vagina.

There was a mattress there
In a spot called We Don't Care
Sipping at some wine like snobs.

It was the bravest step made
Since the night we pierced our eggs
Back in history.

It was our only creative act
Including starting a fresh batch
Years later on our shag carpet stairway.

Stay Naked and Live (There are Plenty of Sunscreens and Prophylactic Medications)

So you see, Hoolie, do you remember when those classmates of yours went and shot up those cops in Texarcana? That one who'd set his denim bellbottoms on fire in the woods outside the high school? Everything was about Back to Nature then. Now it's try this weird thing: nature. Nature is the new Chia Pet. All-night party in an unfinished basement, filth everywhere. You thought you were throwing up blood, but it was some cop-killer's daddy's Martini and Rossi "Red." Say yeahs. You had to stumble home through the woods and 16 inches of heavy wet snow with a hard cap at first, first light in the Great Lakes Region, a light without a color. He had lit himself on fire down there, too. The arm of his sleevey jacket. The Black folks were even more uppity in Chicago then, running riot all over the CTA, all the white folks with their heads hanging not daring to meet the eye of a Black man. Point is, you can't wear a camouflage barrette in your hair these days much less a stainless steel Afro pick.

Stay naked. All summer. Order groceries on the Internet and get out the Daffy Duck and Tweetie Bird beach towels for the furniture. This is what your mother would have wanted.

Undergrounded

Tom dreamt that he stooped over and did a somersault in the air and kept tumbling upward until he was flying flat out over the clouds looking down at what one of us might see looking out the window of a modern airliner even though neither he nor anyone else had yet been in that spot and lived. He looked at the bumps and smears and veins and trails and hanging mists and cracks and wrinkles suspended in the complicated vapor scape and decided that, as a part of nature, as he, as well as his language were a part of nature that it, as much as anything else that he could speak or otherwise create, must have meaning.

If he strained his neck, much as if one of us, a taller one of us, would have to do to see out the window of a modern airliner all the way to the horizon, he could see the line between the cloud cover and the sky and this too spoke to him; it meant that there was indeed a line, a limit. He had been drinking a little bit that night and feeling still emotional, like someone slammed back into the world after they thought they were already dead, so a high sound came out from the back of his throat as he slept, like a teakettle, and burning water squirted from Pink Squishy pads in the corners of his eyes.

The concept was since he was a natural animal and the clouds that hung in the sky below him or the air that he breathed were also natural, just as natural was the language which grew out of him, that he spit and spewed, as Real as Phlegm, and it would be arrogant to think there was no meaning in any of it.

When Tom woke up, it turned out he actually was on a plane. He sighed and saw his breath on the glass of the little oval window. He realized that some of his previous breaths might even be contained in the broken-up Chunks of Orange and brown clouds he was flying over now. There were veins of snow on the Brown Dirt that covered the planet west of the Chanks. The White Veins seemed to follow the water runoff. He could probably see millions of trees from that vantage point. When snow became general, water running was marked with the absence of snow. He had not yet seen an animal, but as far as he could see there was only terrain with trees and rocks and snow, and then no rocks, which seemed like a place where animals would want to go.

9. Time is a Liar

"AAA had to come and get you where? Was it...? Well then why were you bleeding?" Sylvia was standing in a robe in her kitchen. A stunted grapefruit dropped from the dying tree behind her on the other side of a sliding glass door. "If you'd like, I could... I just have to get dressed and I'll... OK. I'm glad you're fine then. Call when you get in."

She stared back into the kitchen from the living room couch then for a while. Her day had been intended to begin on that cool linoleum floor. With coffee. Maybe sliding open that door to let the cat out. The bright overhead light was still on in there. But she wasn't there. She'd picked up the telephone and listened into it and now she was out of commission. Her day had changed. Or, she guessed, it was never her day to begin with. The day itself seemed to be oblivious, the same slow spin of the planet. The same constant tumult forward or backward, depending on which way you faced. She could almost see herself gliding between the stove and the fridge. Probably what she'd be doing right then. Yawning into the back of her hand. Stooping with a tiny dish of egg yolk for Kitty. Then letting him out the back.

The living room was dark and intended for guests. It really didn't care how or how often it was used. It was set for a strobe of activity, and the blank spots didn't count. This felt like an unexpected layover in a haunted ballroom. The two hours you spend in a matinee, getting surprised every time you walk out and have to squint and figure out who you were again. Tom was the unexpected one. He could be counted on that way. He was a professional variable. In fact, he'd been next to her right there, a few times, on that couch. Realistically, the only reason he still wasn't there is that he got up and walked away. Maybe he was just going to the bathroom or out for a smoke. But he just never happened to ever think to sit down just there ever again. Or at least for a long time now. But let's not blame time, thought Sylvia, after another shot of Teacher's Highland Cream. Time is oblivious. It's Tom's fault.

Kitty sat at Sylvia's feet, cleaning egg from his whiskers.