Rupture Day State Report

We've studied the situation, and in fact no one can remember a time 

when we were not studying the situation but now that we've 

concluded our study we are ready to announce that our 

own chanklands strong community including every living soul from the 

monument to jan jansdaad in we are all jan jansdaad now park at the 

upper tip of mt. janjansdaadburg to the entire preserved bio-volcan and 

anomalous geo-genealogical sanctuaries and bombing ranges in dubbaberah and 

right on over through the cement mines and their educational sectors pocked with 

bubbling acid and shark vines to the tourist districts with their 

roadside live-curio kennels processions fully catered pilgrim trails and more to the

highway and its dead through all the fleke dry river towns choking in the 

low chanks where the nights are long can produce enough raw materiel of 

mutual Crack-wide obliteration to finally blast back our 

previous final projection.

from: Rupture Day State Report

by: La LaChama

Preservation & Progress Ambassador

Crack-Wide Initiative

Days of Destruction

Lip of Mthyuh

ICE CLAW

ICE CLAW was spotted having replaced the sun like a crystal bear jumping up and over the tooth-full mountain peaks that keep our valley in a hoary shadow...

ICE CLAW seems to have ripped open the stone floor of our habitat.

ICE CLAW cannot be trailed anywhere because he's so giant that he's always pretty much right there.

ICE CLAW's hand is often stuck at the center of lurid posters.

ICE CLAW is not a way to get ice but rather one of ice who gets.

Phyllis, embedded (coming up for air)
"Dial your emergency number now."

my needs

without the filter of loathing, there is no insulation;
tons of sentient matter teem in erry precinct, cell.
we can only wonder what 2 do about these units.

how yuv turned out makes of me something swel.
if i engaged you erry morning 2 farm perspiration,
i wouldn't care about my duty to let others down.

yet i'm a system, dependent on a few brittle cogs;
the belt of skulz born of foam from my backswing
bobs in a solid tide of need in2wich we've all cum.

Wayne 

blue-collar mad scientist

Yor laf in m' fangers gimme dread deepina bawlz,
Sorta whut you muss feel ravaging yr taunting food
Sep it's a kinda love too as I let care grow b'tween us.
In this hot room moisture prickles erywhere b'cause
you have evolved from a 2-bit preacher to a
national shivstar lottery queen from all I'm doing,
along with the searing truth 'n chance of electricity.

You think I'd risk my tam with Jan 'n the kiyuds
'f I dint know there was sum'm better t' provide
lak a day unner direck sunlight, stan on a real hill,
outta cement caves n' twilight of wan superstition?
I want yor skeletosis to tell a story longer than th' both of us.
You can raise bribes 'n forces, try 'n blend inta rustic corrals
while yr frens tie 'n kite you with ideals 'n booshia.

But because you have killt fr hunger, shiny coins, boredom,
or jus the sum of whut you were born being worth,
We cn bestow on you 'n honor greater than th' crusader kings
as you unfold these thinly fleshed and hideous wings
and a war helmet's gouging horn is organic to your face.
You may rise now awful Chama, and step in terrble knowingness!
Epistles loaded in yr chips will tip you into streaks of righteousness!


Wayne
Beta Invocation of Operational Systems

Hunger's always a bran new idea

Kep dreaming of a patteren or a mark:
from when they drove me spanking from poverty?
Regardless of how I'd been, I would be holy.
The gowns and injections, the bars.
I had to learn to twirl like a goat on a pin.

There were circles, lines, and curved lines.
Faces aimed at me filled the biggest caves.
At least no one marches a goddess around by the elbow.
She pulls on ropes, reveals tureens of fragrant smoke.
Preservation Society pays her in cash from the plate.
There is public housing for these special creatures.

Wayne, I'm awake.


Chamatilly, to the rescue

Collar of Skulls

When I close my eyes I can see pricks of light in the pattern of the tiny bud cluster on your ficus. They dim in and out and the tip wags like the shamrock marquee on an old border casino. Death gives you a mask of hurt knowing and the joy of helplessness. I see your face in the thick leaves I sink among to steal a smoke. I feel the backs of your knees and neck and bump the hip string of a loin cloth on my heroic groin carrying you inert out of Aztec Town. Ever since you planted a collar of skulls on my breast, ever since crimson footprints first crossed the wake of the blessed, I been able to get up on my knees, and the rest just pulled itself together. I never knew all the carnage was what my own eyes bled while stomping past the innocent. Monster, our arms rattle round the plexus, so many palms turned up with final gifts, a mill, beacon eating wind. Only your power can make me stop destiny and give in.

Kev's Biggest Wanter

Spin, Vajra, Spin

Maybe it's my hairdo that makes your bun fall to the side when you think of me, mom. For she is I that laid your egg, not you a Peg, and members of my retinue must twist the dhammilla so low and tight.

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

easy home

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.

Amygdala Jones

Was that her under the avalanche of gratuitous accessories and empties at the sidewalk cafe?
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

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?"

Auspicious Battery

Sated but still licking at shivplate from a round, girlish stone after the fact, horizontal poolside in a white rubber chaise, it's easy to call: Fool's Blessing, Chump's Paradise. After a 16-ladder climb up to the corner shade cave, it better be good, and it better be bad. I had to apologize to the valet-wench when the tip of my hard Italian duffel chipped the "bronze" trunk of a sentinel gomphotherium, stuck obnoxiously there in eternal trumpeting siege too near the beads like a high-security hole sniffer. Then appeared the living creatures.

It hadn't been three steps after checking in when I spotted it across the water, between doric plaster columns among a copse of senatorial nudists with towels, hunched over its tray of ashes. The chest was sunken, and the face was drawn of limits that all spelled bitterness and spite. It could have been so posed at a maiden's breast on a canopy bed, having sucked all the life with her breath, yet still wheezing for truth and light and sympathy. Its toenails bit into the cement. It watched me.

Later that night, I stepped out of my room for a jacuzzi. There was something glowing blue at its lip. Some bodies pose naked because they cook with religion, and he was a doctor of carnal gospel. To take the waters and behold him was to sit in bubbles of pornographic faerie children. His blue light and severed heads, caught in their fright and wonderment, dangled from every nipple, hypnotized all moral superiority. His youth and self-regard, krishna art and wicca, made that night the start of my final auspicious shakedown and battery.

When is he coming back?

I used to ask where is he, does he beckon.
But now I know that gone is just a wash.
Now I want to know but cannot reckon
If Ilyn's coming back, or is he lost?

One sighting happens ery WD,
but never all up in a bed with me.
No chance because he's uglier than shit
the danger of a shoe that doesn't fit.

My Ilyn sends his pow'r of gravity
to meet the Goddess of Infinity
who reaps his tenderness as an hors d'oeuvres,
and vomits his remains into an urn.

The urn is dumped each Friday on some rocks;
Then, as from an undertaker's table,
And soon he is quite able, Ilyn walks,
Hideously marred by private journeys

Through intimate Halls of Our Intender.
Where there is scalp, red hair grows back. Where a
Crime left sin, a hymen fills in. You say
Wheel of Life; I say Vortex of Gender.

Maundy Friday

Won't even roll over when I shuffle into the room, but they on they knees bathing my feet when I stoop to weep. Go away, M'Lady; go away, Missy La-La. Gonna put you bitches to work one day. When I feel depress, you shake your tails like a single kaleidoscopic Goddess of Asses. I want to turn your force on my enemies. Stanky bitchcunt of infinity. Love weapon. Merciless forgiver. Virgin of recycling. Inundation. Burning saliva. Breath that cuts and scars in rosettes. Christ command me! How much time have I spent in bed? It's a Maundy Friday.

Bitch Come Back

Bitch come back to this hole so's I can fill you.
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.

Curly Shoes

Chamatilly's living room had a vaulted, no a cloistered ceiling, faux-Spanish Renaissance, with tiny, wanton, dizzying metallic tiles lining the walls up to the break-- its peak was not unlike an elaborate desert tent for some sheik.

She sat on a tooled leather pillow-mattress, hovering just centimeters above the rug.

"Kali goddess o' destruction really doesn't know what she's talking about. And did you hear her tell me to shut up? I don't have time for that."

Chamatilly's shoes were woven by imprisoned thieves so as to send money home to their families. They were what we might call "wicker" shoes that curl up priusnear comically at the toes.

Chamatily meets Pegyuh

They are like the divas of the shattered and mutated world of Pariah. They are virgin and whore, whore and virgin, whorgin, vore, vore-whorgin, and whorgin-vore.

Chamatily could be a hundred years or more older than the Pegyuh. But Peggyists might say that Pegyuh is the superior being because she developed into the fullfillment of a prophecy rather than something that caught on in a flash and rode a wave of popularity straight into a life of crippling bindings and harsh ceremonial confinement. She knew it would be better than jail or coach.

Pegyuh explained to the Tilly,

"Being raised up in a temple, you learn there are basically two kinds of people. One kind is a holy but poor kind, needing your help. And the other kind is you."

"Or rather, you," Chama gently corrected.

"Yes, me," confirmed Peggy, smiling like a cosmetologist.

"I was taught that I had and I was something, someone very special because I had something very special, and I had something very special to give. Therefore, when I went out with my specialness and people found it, found me special, I thought it should be because of something special inside me, the special part of my being that is at my center. Instead, what they found was special about me most, the specialness that meant most to them was my tits."

"I am always topless, and my public accepts me so."

"Pardon me, but isn't that because women of dark African descent always appear to be dressed, even as they are nude?"

"Darling, no. That's not it. We are so often naked, yet we are so seldom shocking or obscene."

"You are a beautiful woman and a very special individual."

"you are the mother of all races. your milk is the milk of mthyuh and feeds all our faces. all the maidens and all the virgins milk and suckle on your multiple nipples, giving rise to all peoples. your spout of all..."

"Pardon me once more, Reptily," cautioned Peg, feather light.

"Eat me now Mthyuh, for I have disappointed your milk daughter, milk of her... Oh! You call me my born name from da first WD."

"I have and have always had, always forever will have only two nipples. You need to get that right."

"No, mama. You need to catch a hint from one who has jacked the train of public approval and rode it on in to the temple true da back dough. Now I'm all up in here witchu, and I need to say, 'You really otter be necket.' No one will question you then. No one gets in the pantheon without da bust."

"But I guess you must know. I am a lesbian."

"And I'm really a guy! Does it matter now? For the group photo we'll be facing one another and turning just our heads toward the shivhole, so it'll be your left one and my right, or vice- versa, whichever one is better on each of us-- hopefully they'll oppose."