sloth ambulance

sloth ambulance
sweet chariot of the law
am i dead?

why carry me so far
boat of rushes
bowl of sand

rocking tumbler
mountain lion
i hope that you've been fed.

Vikki Dublin

Post History

They found one of us in a bog, but here I am in the latest possible century, encouraging my pet dogs in the exploitation of grasses. Smoking something like turf in a bowl, I'm sure I wd also be swilling infusions, eating my fellow if that were something that ever caught on culturally in vogue. I've gotten better comforts and what else. Better comforts better be and are after all all. Is my god better. My god is kinder cuz he's mostly gone. Remote slumlording is something you can't take personally. And all the better in case you want to water a little patch of ground, just so the pups can see how it was in the virgin forest. Add it to their digestion, watch them puke away the side effects of modernity/ post history. After history I suppose it could mean there's no more great surprise events. You just figure out nature is this way or another; men are just so, and that's that. Whatever happens you're like yeah right whadid I tell you. That's not history, or even any kind of present to speak of, and it sure the hell ain't the future.

Mike
"Jaded."

Parade of the grotesque

Fell out of escrow, still hanging on. The owner is partially invalid, peeking through the blinds in his apt, which is the room closest the office. He has an organ in there, covered in magazines. He is determined to help with the cold breakfast buffet every morning until he can retire, where, into some other all-male gay nude atmosphere.

Deeply stained camouflage seat cover. Haunted luggage cart. Corporate-sponsored parties of the lowest kind. Your eye is it jaundiced, Ken, or cynical wary. How bends a brow, time vexed by sideways-straining inquiry, counter-retaliatory scowls, discomfort of constant x-treme love pleasure to the everyday system.

Finally we couldn't extract the dishwasher. It seemed to have an umbilical cord connected to the Mthyuhphkn trailer. And between those built ins, we couldn't have even hacked it out. It was that snaky galvanized steel tubing and puddling water. We put a warning sign out for any literate and not too rebellious pervert.

Mike

On storytelling

One event fills your cavities with helium. Your shell is pliable but so hard; you can float around in its warped global seizure, or try spinning out the thread, courageously banking against walls, furniture as the hiss shoots farther toward actualizing another moment, a backlog of strong postponed beats straining adherence to the microsuede bubble til they succumb to the overwrought notion of a present that resists exhalation.

By Donna
"I busted lactose at the scene of the crime. Ask me how."

Donna's Release

For a while it was third way or third rail;
we realized der was hel to pay if we fail;
You got a clock to stop you, a watch to
pop you soon as you come close to truth,
but this is the big time, in fac hours are o
-n the spot, effectively in the chair while
their final appeal is imminent and excrem
-ent and all you're waiting on is the phon.

Dr. Fashion Model

witchy things like locks and zippers/ fire
can bring about some situations you desire
but in the end the future is a fraud/ fake

Carrot on a prong

They left me naked on a stainless slab for like two hours. I was so cold I couldn't move or shout. It was a paradox that up until then I'd been experiencing a sucking gravity that wanted my life with it in the center of our planet. Was it so wrong that on an autopsy table, instead, you feel that the main stage is right there; if you are still alive on a surface of those properties, associations you are doubly present before a strong frizz of imminence that can beckon like a carrot on a prong.

Because I'd slipped into the trance of a dormuñeca, Ted reelie freaked. Because my axial staves had curled stubbornly around the mattress springs, he additionally found it hard to lift me in his arms but as always, championed. I'd trusted him because he was married to Peg. Maybe past domestic horror on the man side could be right cosmetic for the new girl. Also he knew to the last sprig of hay how it felt to minister rooster like to a bird wife, la monarca d'ensalago. At least I could show him tenderer buds of an ugly to come. 

But now he would let me be dead and move on to a new life. Maybe to him it's all the same when She Wakes up Alarmingly Knowing, Enlightened as the Sun. That means it's someone else, next head to pop up in a window. Telejournalism had forged him some terrible paradigms. Off camera presented a writhe pit of humanish complexities. Or he just wasn't thinking right, or the decay fomented by the acid rain of the industry had allowed to protrude a sickly primeval crimp, toad, appendix, fail, trip. The ages bade me forgive him it.

Connie

"I've helped Phyllis become more accepting of her body's changes."

"A scorpion knows that a human is never more fully on the go than when she is simultaneously screaming and slamming with her shoe a creature who seems to want her harm." 

A Cock is a Whole World

When once with the morning you are off
There's a whole day blossoms free on ya
Bran new sensations, slurpy kisses, funny
Wrinkle-puss puppies swelled with candy.
Fresh being gives the environment a gloss
Who can help reaching out to this fat hope.
Now everything matters more than before.

Sistah Grupe Project
Connie
Donna
Mike

Tonight is...

that's the morning birdy
like a kitten crying for a titty.
keeps chirping till it's good and sunny:
Pree-ooo. Pree-ooo.

blazing deathstar rears basically as a dot.
somehow a non-mammal goes after it like a nipple.
even though you and me can't even nod as two.
Me-you. That's brain freeze, flashbulb blindness.

Creature sounds are taken on only a la carte soup du jour by others at the zoo.
When they sync with their salvation antennae, link to their shame receptors,
Every color of lipstick could be a way to say how hip you were to suggestion.
Once cast into the tornado of a day, tonight is what men piss into showers.


Connie
"I love guys and cock and the 90's."

Krewly Taken Down

Watch this advancement. Two warriors faced off on a stage. Their movement can now be phaged into hold phase, frozen while the ages play out. In translucent view, sponsored by PharmSupply, we can appreciate organ failure up close. The passage of meals is just a faint, grainy yarn in the video yield over time. Limbs might disappear, but early on. Similar elapses have been projected over classic statuary in open climate evolves now approaching 3-4 millennia.

Special attention to facial response to slow-cook trauma makes one of our most popular "Side-B" features. With the remainder of all musculature frozen into your choice of carefully measured RoicPoze, you can watch intelligent, feeling countenance bravely ignore, laugh at, ridicule, question, rail against, pale before, scream in horror, suffer from, and finally, pathetically, surrender in dissolve to the Click of Time. And you thought life was "all about choices." Fool.

The simultaneous degradation of the individual fighters, the lively bravado going pathetically prunish at nearly the same rate in each, the temporary soaring, inspiring but ultimately crushing thumic rantalog, each one hardly even unique enough in most respects, we find, to call himself a worthy n' wholesome opponent: often it was two organisms who shared a single host tearing at their other halves, or the fruit of disparate matriarchy rolled out the same chink, but in the end they're krewly taken down just the same, system by system.


Jan Janzdaad, Lead Wiccadocca
Recreative Clinics

Qtd in: Old-School Telemetry Without Regard to Budget
PharmSupply UP, Highchank

Bitter last thing they yelled

air is muskety with wisps of shrapnel steam
you won't take my farmin and i'm givin my horses t' injins
standing in a dapply shade with that sword-drawn pose
swore a war vanquishee, now hewn forever so.

air is dusty at home with The Hoarding Squa, squatting
into the land with boxes and snacks to weight the structure down
and to have on hand whenever tomb travel might set in,
a war with men or nature that knocks out common supply webs.

air, world you blew it on me, i wd have done anything, i swear;
wd have given anything in and outside me, family, shiny sterling.
wd have submitted to tying or courses of labor, obligations, fines;
wd have been willing to stay here, breathing, for a longer time.

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

journal of a house arrest, day 106

at least down at central lockup you had yr hell is other peoples;
a pretty prison soltera, even with dogs, may become agorapathic.
she sits in the sand with the bitches guarding, hoping, dozing.
her hair pushes through the squares of chain link fencing.
Donna, you are beautiful, but look at you:
a free tumbleweed with caramel tinge, mashed in a blockade.
whooda known you'd steadily become a morbid-ideating blob?

Phyllis, embedded

Phyllis in a cilice

Meanwhile, Dr. Thong has her toes spread between the railings of the brass bed in her cell. She is painting them with a q-tip from a bottle cap with a solution of urea and Pink Bismuth heated up atop the radiator.

Someone is with her: Phyllis, in a salt-and-pepper fall, natural mock cilice and denims on a folding chair. Her purple lipstick is inappropriate.

DONNA: She'd be very upset to know you were here.
PHYLLIS: But I'm a reporter. I get to be in on all the angles.
DONNA: Yeah, you put the bed in embedded.
PHYLLIS: Allz I did was sign up to express her preen gland. It took weeks to get clearance.
DONNA: As if you could step back through the Crack anyway. You can't mend two worlds with a few strands of horse-like hair.
PHYLLIS: Hmm. You noticed. [PAN FROM ONE TO THE OTHER OF HER BREASTS]
DONNA: Maybe she'll come to us. She could get me out of here.

[FLUORESCENT CEILING TUBE BUZZES AND FLICKERS]

PHYLLIS: You know Dr., time travel is a bunch of b'caca. But light beams come and go as they please. A deity can do that.
DONNA: Now you insult my sense of connectedness. Isn't it much more likely yr pal Wayne over at PharmSupply has been pumping up his experiment?
PHYLLIS: Are you saying you'd be down with RMP if it could bring back the Chama?
DONNA: I'm saying I'm a doctor and I know an evil phuck of a shrink when I smell one.
PHYLLIS: Illyn, her brother, does it the hard way. No one blames him for crawling out the Mthyuh's stinking rubble erry tam a generation almos fergets.
DONNA: You are sinking into superstition, and it's unbecoming of journalism.

Wayward kernel

My brushes with decadent company
kep me spinning to the edges;
alls I could feel was stomach punches.

All the fine living in the balconies,
Pearl rings on gloves perched at brass
railings, made time reach like a feather bed.

Finely now change has found a patteren,
jarring as a cart trip on wheels squared,
with the high points blunted, knowing yor

No where, and are traveling there.
You see faces peering over and viewing
your spin like a weather cock or crucifix

In a sunk diorama of storytime ruin: a
damasela's eyes pecked out as the Failed
Shepherdess, calcified, weeps in her coats.

Quietly now it's the engine I question, the
spark that was supposed to be pushed along
to regenerations of florid qualms and spies.

How can a squiggle in a dish be intensified
by anyone's cynical easy moonlit labors
if she too is powered by a wayward kernel?

Connie, in retrospection

Gaping laxity

Wayne and Jan's first year went by in Jan's Dad's four-clawed bed above the family-owned mortuary cosmetics forge:

"You saved me."
"I bought you."
"I hustled you."
"You made me."

Wayne and Jan had saved one another, but each still carried the shame of the lower chanks. Wayne's lowest impulse was to disrespect Jan because he bought her in an alley. Jan's lowest impulse was to disrespect Wayne because he grew up in that alley. In moments of doubt, absent parties were heavily considered:

"He bought you."
"I brought you to him."
"But you're mine."
"He owns us both."
"Let's have kids."

Jan wanted to adopt the ugly child who had been spying on them from under a truck. Wayne said ok if they could take her brother too, a baby covered in scars. Reptily explained that the tot in its wooden crib was really her uncle, who had been 27 only a few days earlier, before leaping from a cliff-side prayer station into Mthyuh's roiling gut.

"He's a re-baby."
"I can guide his nature."
"She could be beautiful as a topless aframerican in her 30's."
"There's something in yr daddy's lab we can use to cure those scales."

The expectant couple had to step back through the crack tho to find the chillen. There were hunnerds of years of folds and recriminations. Jan and Wayne were not afraid because the momentum of their luck in meeting had brought them safely to righteous lives and prolly forced the muscles of time into a gaping laxity.

Lysate

Donna poked at her tobacco bowl with an ankh pin.
So you walk in my sleep?
What? You mean you dream of me?
No, sometimes I open an eye and catch you streaking by on the tile floor in your socks, ninja. You yourself have reported certain nocturnal peregrinations that could only have occurred among my delta waves.
A white mustache of smoke gave her a veil as it rose. Hoolie listened to the flock of windmills cooing beyond sight.
Our bodies --and moments of shared tragedy-- are the thin yarn that in those two places binds us, allows us to roll sharply forward like a squared, spongy wheel.
On the contrary, I believe it is our love of those not present that keeps us in moon-like orbit, that wobbling, borrowed light of lost knowing.
Indeed, her name is tattooed on your wrist as well as my ankle.
Ink is the murkiness that follows. Connie was the miracle, invisible.
I can't see you at all now.
But there's been a Perseid every 15 minutes.
Someone's turned off the bathroom switch.
It's on a timer so's I can check the color of my piss.

"A Hero"

It was a year ago about now, that many people and things having moved through places. Even then we thought of how solids are overrated, that mass itself got too much attention. A vacuum is a place. There are spaces where there is nothing.

Twice a week you went off to the tramp with the crystal ball on a stand. The solid and the gas were both clear, but the one could only tauntingly reflect, not contain. Your sadness spilled into the air of that room, tent, hooptie, ditch.

That was one time you answered back with an all-time and timely disregard for time. Your movement has carried you here, and that could not have happened without unlimited space. Possibilities of emptiness make even pagans fear.

to Cap'm, "A Hero"
Phyllis

Mike's Swimming Blog, #6

You are anticipatory, yet
you want the days to undulate slowly,
even anxious to reach a day that's slow,
so anxious that the day grinds by.

We thought time was the
difference between today and tomorrow,
not how you resist or move in space.
We were wrong. But are we dorky mimes?

Two nights now I've fought a permanently
duct-taped vacuum hose, a sea monster or
reef, after only one and a half strokes.
I am not comfortable with my nose underwater.

The pool in that house is for show or
soaking, not to swim. Only the Mexican
understands this. He came with his
blower at 6 AM, or wasn't that him?

Now that all that was mine is repossessed,
Water stalks me, even as I try to stand
free, to remind me perfunctorily of its
disillusion and ravaging suspensionship.

Where are the bats and leafy, hairy flotsam?
How can toes scribble nonsense without algae-
filmed walls of bathroom tile to record each
grateful and confident, leveraging touch?

You and I look to swim in each other, fools.
There will be better times when we cast a
glance backward and see what we've written
in these caverns, once they are still.

Mike

Pins n' Buttons

Tom wears a home-sewn vest over every plaid shirt every day. It's covered in commemorative pins and slogan buttons. Even as he lectures, its beige suede rocks against his arteries. His half-naked students find it obscene, but a heart on his chest puts them at ease during drills and bloodletting. K chicks will often leave purple stains on their seats.

Missy is out on suspension for off-limits vittle. Every re-creature must be protected extra much because they are most likely to be eaten with the smallest pang of conscience. Because they come back, because they must, it seems a venal abuse.

Tho flakes are other matter; academy classmates even graver. Flakes are food for bloodsac only; the grrl in the next seat is your sister in pain. Had Connie stepped in The Crack? Were her tertiary characteristics driving her onto the waiting list for shiv clinic and guided skeletal bursting? Had Connie in fact been a casual associate of Reptily among the rotting alfalfa bales of the Low Chanks long before the filter and the MPS? We measured time in WD then. But it lied.

Imagine all the singing night birds before wide feeding. Now there is only one, and he mocks. Fecundity only breeds more episodes: thumping, wailing, spines. Flakes disappear like soap. Soon only those who rule the skies will have a strip of land. They are proud and unsentimental or grieving. They have paid with burning; they have paid in change. They are tired of thieving, of treating. Now we are their petri dish. Death is a privileged doctor.

Phyllis
Lit-Crit Contractor, Embedded
for Sports n' Sex Crimes Bugle