Mthyuh Pariah

My very existence is pornographic to you. It's me you want to stamp out.

When I started to become sticky eight years ago, no one minded when my clothing clung because they thought it would bring tourist revenue. Now that we are in quarantine, you want to cast me out in the only way possible: by mouth.

Por la boca, I shall not be intimidated by your dirty-minded desire to put me on stage as your bottom bitch for blood sacrifice. We all know that shivweek may never come again. But for the masses, torture is more satisfying than death. So you keep me alive until I'm spent and no longer pretty. Well, I've taken care of that. I have sticky progeny all over this county. Both the sticky daddy as well as my self have had lots to do with births in many households, and in all walks of life. And you will not be able to use viable DNA sampling methods for many hundreds of years. You will only discover our work by the sticky messes popping up right and left. And by the way. I am a lesbian.

Peggy

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.

4: Inside Dog/ Outside Dog

LXVIII. Rover
rongplinth. Your life partner could be inside dog and you could be outside dog and get 40 extra years. The way they used to. Don't divy up chores; go to your station, and they will self-evidence. Take the 40mg for Outside Dog and HS [homeoshivic] for Inside Dog. Split it up, not up. Meaning separative team training [STT] is where it's at. Boil all communicative measures and media down into one: the kitchen window (also the name of our weekly clubzine, Kitchen Window).

Pegyuh

So you see, Hoolie, bile helps you digest your surroundings, but you can't digest outside your own body or else you don't get the nutritional value for it, and you lose all those vital acids. We are not insects that can just stroll on over and lick up our spoils.

How come she never wanted to claim me as her kid?

You know she always had the apron on--? It was all a gun moll needed to survive.

Protection?

Yes. She loved you most. She was a pariah.

triki derelicti

i stoop and weep [the Mp3]

this desmadre has been deactivated by the Mthyuh Preservation Society

Warm Green Monolith

Tom was walking down a wide empty Dhubbabera windy boulevard, his pants flapping. It was disorienting not to have to go anywhere in particular except what one had planned out for oneself, and that type was the most breakable of oaths.

So his thoughts took over. Only when he forced himself to admire the towering desert chank, blurred with a haze of spring olive verdance, did he feel that he existed as himself in that place, and in any case, that was not a pleasant thing. His mind operated as a spring this way, snapping back almost audibly after an intensive moment of pessimistic concentration before the sharply pending withdrawal. A whip. You wouldn't always want to be the object of that studied, cringing fronting off with reality.

So when a young German widow, furtive, herself disoriented, chilled by the wind in the shadow of the warm green mountain, blurted out, "Are you familiar here?" he saw the look of fright on her face and didn't want to be the cause of something like that, so he deliberately brightened up his mood, from within, allowing her innocence and vulnerability to spur on a sympathetic view of life, a view of life's delicateness, which ended up showing in his face and reassuring her.

It's back that way, he pointed. See the golden building? She'd asked him for the casino.

Then his walk continued and he did not snap immediately back into internal patter. He was crossing the shadow line on the sidewalk. Wind seemed to buffet him from all directions. There was brightness and bright color, magenta blue pink green yellow blossoms and their fragrance. As water sprang into his eyes stingingly, he imagined all of the dead who loved him standing in chorus and encouragement. But also in envy.

He felt responsible to use all of his senses, just for their sake, for a few moments longer.

Peggy, You are our Daughter

Peggy,

You are our daughter. We've been wanting to tell you for so long. We are your birth parents and we love you. We want to help you with the girls and be their grandparents.

Down the entire contents of this box NOW!

Ted
syl

P.S. We are in the parking lot.

2: In Search of a Paradigm

If they were all the same price, what did it matter?

IX. Truckon ROL.
i-proli havia. You read the Have You Experienced? pages in the paper daily. Most symptoms of most paradigms sound familiar, and you are on three or more rest-o-life doses daily. This is not a disorder. You may continue on with your life as normal, and your prognosis is positive. Why be a loser? You may expand over the years, through self-discovery, your daily regimen of wonders.

MMXLCCIX. Speed.
hunger. Remember when chicks worried about their weight just went ahead and got scripts for Black Beauties and Preludant? Fuck yeah they rocked. They like a talkie all night, makeup, stocked up on supplies. Speed freak chicks just want to hang and rag, maybe sixteen hours at a time.

CCCVII. Solids Plus.
superficiality. It's a way into deepness. The whole metrosexual thing. But not like South Park did it. More of an antidepressant. Real, physical things and how they are is real and present. You can grasp on to solids, and after all, you are one. Your premier lifewonder for today's premium rewards of your prime. Live a little. It's decadent, which means highly satisfactory.

VI. Nest.
cohesia. You believe there to be links of causality and intention between disparate entities. There is a pattern forming: of events, behavior which seem to share a purpose, though any number of motivations and consequences could be, with some effort, applied to each individual occurrence. Hanging in space, however, they would still create a shape. You are not a star. Keep it real. Nest is your ticket to everyday living.

21: Time is a Liar

Now wait a minute, Sylvia. I'm wearing lipstick, and you ask me if there's some special name I'd like to be called? I don't ask you that when you put on lipstick. Though I might think of you as some special name or another. With peach you are more a "Janice," with brick you are more an "Audry," and with the bluer tones, "Wendy."

They were at Ted's working on their letter-writing campaign. They felt that the Audubon Society, among many others, should know about the creature they'd been glimpsing hopping from gate to gate or just standing dumbly alongside the canals. It shared many of the characteristics of the Reddish Egret, except that those areas which would have been covered with feathers, and in the same colors, seemed to be tiled or even armored in a very hearty as well as irridescent, metallic plating. The Mthyah Preservation Society website had been down for weeks, and they weren't sure how, if at all, their reports and samples had been processed during previous migratory guest anomalies.

Envelope stuffing had allowed their conversation to drift.

Gee, you know I ran into Lourdi Spires the other day in Career Center, and it's like sometimes there's a limit before you just have to let these holier-than-thou types know that they could really go ahead and act more Christian!

Well there's remember Hoolie? Maintenance? Went around acting just like Christ and wasn't afraid to tell you so. What a dirty freak. Heretic. Stank.

God you know he could have been a shooter. Good thing that cancer he had got him off our campus at least.

Tom and Sylvia make contact.

Then they did the torture where they spin you around very fast in an office chair-like contraption, then stop you suddenly and spin you even faster the other way. How can I be so important? she murmured, bloody spittle strung across her cheeks and hair. Then she realized: she wasn't that important at all. The torture was completely automated. This was sort of like a car wash whereas before it would have taken an entire team of ensemble actors. Soon it would spit her out on a lawn behind a post office or a school. Not soon enough... she was going to faint... not soon...

What? What was that? A tiny package, a vial... by her foot. She thought she had hallucinated it, but no. It had come rolling across the floor and under--into--mother's shoe. No-Shiv. The red box.

Tom and Sylvia stood holding one another in the parking lot.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY / WILL VAWTER

Just to be good—
This is enough—enough!
O we who find sin's billows wild and rough,
Do we not feel how more than any gold
Would be the blameless life we led of old
While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss?
Ah! though we miss
All else but this,
To be good is enough!

It is enough—
Enough—just to be good!
To lift our hearts where they are understood;
To let the thirst for worldly power and place
Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.
Ah! though we miss
All else but this,
To be good is enough!

See What Happens?

Tough Peggy

Mum's pleated wool skirt was soft and absorbent. Her thighs were not so bony as to be scary or uncomfortable against the cheek, and not so big as to be mottled or odorous. Her knees were a wholesome cushion of responsive and supporting tension, a blood-water-fat balance that seemed custom made for Peggy's face. She cried and cried.

If you could step back from that scene, you would see the projector above the door behind Peggy and that her mother's image was a hologram.

Dear Peggy

Peggy Smith?

Fuck you. Get out of my face.

That's your attitude. But we have taken control of your will chemically. You will answer our questions with the utmost sincerity.

Suck my ass.

Peggy Smith, why do your parents anger you so?

My parents anger me so, asshole, because they disrespected my intelligence enough to give me nothing to get by in life with except some shitty fairy tale about a volcano goddess. So fuck off.

We know that you'd like nothing more than to put your head in your mother's lap and weep.

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!! SUCK MY DICK!!

So we've asked your mother to come in.

I don't know who you are. I don't know if you are a person and that's your real voice or if you are a recording of a real voice or if you are a machine with a synthetic voice, but I swear to Mthyuh I will find you and destroy you or die gratefully trying.

Your mother is waiting in the next cavern. You may proceed through the hanging beads to your left.

You don't know me at all.

In Search of a Paradigm

If they were all the same price, what did it matter?

Tom and Sylvia sat in the waiting room at Pharm-Supply browsing through old catalogues. Way beyond lipsticks, the most curious pages were the symptom and scripting breakdowns for the shivtropics. Their real reason was to see about breaking Peggy out or smuggling a box of No-Shiv in to her.

CLXXIV. Blyway
Neurodigm. You have many interests which you focus on intensely. You are never happy because you are never satisfied with what you are focused on or else why would you be so focused on it. And why focus on anything anyway. In the big picture, you are a rat sniffing from flower to flower for no reason. Are you a victim of neurodigm?

XXVIII. Same-E
Hopinaskipina. Everything seems fine until all the sudden you have to break your healthy rthyum and engage in uncharacteristic behavior. Consequences include loss of productivity and increased stress factor for coworshippers. Signs of disease-specific denial: "had to let my hair down," "just needed to get away," "fuck you; get out of my face." Ask your shiv priest about your doctor. Then, stop your hopinaskipina.

CC. Rock o' Mthyuh
Blight. Something in the air. You're not the only one who's being affected. But not everyone has the nut to do something about it. You stay right in the head because you owe it to your family, for the safety of whom you are like a lioness. You take your Pro-Labique Pharmashiv whenever and wherever you need it: for protection, for peace of mind. You are not a sick one trying to get well; you are a potentially deadly protector of children. Keep taking Pro-Labique. Don't let them down ever again. If you do, do you really deserve to live?

"Mexican Bean Beetle"

The most likely explanation seems that by jumping, the bean will move itself into a safe place where the larva can relax, pupate and undergo the miracle of metamorphosis ready to continue the life cycle.

Please remember to kill and/or capture and report any new, mutated, or previously extinct species to the Mthyuh Guardian Society, especially if aggressive.

http://www.insectlore.com/xlorepedia_stuff/jumpingbeanmoth.html

Peggy's Incarceration at Pharm-Supply, Day 4

http://www.jbsawid.com/art.htm

Drunk Man Rides Horse into Bank

http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/article.html?in_article_id=46457&in_page_id=2

Lucky 7's

i, an ex-pro ball player,
slump in my plush armchair.

alls i did was got it rol-
ling and now i get purple

velvet flock on the mouldings
and blue wallpaper. i'm feel-

ing under-plussed now i got
no trade power nor value

it's all overtime now on
a pitiless avenue

and a sorry ride home, too
and except to me, I may

as well be an ohio-
an from hawa-ii-ki-ki.

Duck Gun Rockers, Longhairs and Pinstripe Freaks

It was quite a sight seeing their sons in tight bellbottom jeans, red patent leather platform boots and dago-t's, all their hair long as Peggy Lipton's, holding and aiming those duck guns. Their hair curled down to the tits, wadded up behind the ears where they'd pushed it back to get the earplugs in. At night they'd wander out to the garage with a beer and slug the bag or jam on their Fenders. That night Jay burst in after church and stated that he'd never be seeing Charlotte again and he felt like driving the "goat" off a cliff, and there would be others. Jay: in the exhaust, in somebody else's headlights, walking across a street, always busy setting up a scam or a bust. When the quake swarms would start, he'd seem super with it like how we's gonna go about it now is-- huh?-- we gonna save the world. You gave Jay a tallboy and a mic and you get skinny flesh and bones, flailing in the blacklight and moving and singing till he is soaking wet. He was of legal age.

Torino, however, being his father, didn't like to turn him out. He imagined the blinding golden hair coming off like butter. Rolling a young gentleman's future out before him like a colorful rubber: that anticipation made his ankles feel weak. And now it was the time.