Whus yor Brank Tace Laik?

I stayed home, had lots to do, but sat instead
in th' middle of the flo wunning cuddle so bad.

when biology and geology mesh, you have oil,
or you have something like the Pegyuh, both-

ered by metallic scales and minerally salivar-
y mucosae. They've fixed it so it grows out o-

f her but remains viable for years beyond de
-ath. She's the first we'll have the chance to w

-atch nearly shrivel and be driven, in essenc
-e, by her own hearse, the product of her ow-

n body, like a toenail, cum or hair. We inserte
-d the programmable chips shortly after birth.

As her brain dies, the RC signals will increase.
Her hideous exoskeleton will finey b in r hanz.

No scientist can give me what ahm illin fo this
eve: a barl-chest'd man t' put m'arms around.

Cuz I say Volca at vespers an will gonna have
d' will of awda peoples, dey think i can replace

her. What dey don't wanna hear is how i've alr
-eady fayld by sendyn red shiv to d'opposition.

My brank tace laika bright copper penny, but t
-hat means it's cutting my yung perfek tongue.

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.

Vine and Dope

Hoolie lungs hang on he shoulders deep as a crucifixion, cep he atta bar.
He keep watch there for anything that could go down in the drunk wurl.
Hoolie hold down those years of yore year after year for love, also fear.

What had survival become. Vine and dope, touch surfaces, shake hair,
fabrics like bandages, rocking and staring, truly caring? Him'n Donna, m
-irror balls on sheet of lights with others watching? Tam ended when the

dead stopped living, a long tam ago. Now they had to hold it there for all
of the butt-plug troopers who could no longer, no longer be, and no long-
-er aware. If you could only strap corpses into something stimulatory...

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!"

Sprays, Tubes, Veins

SPRAYS, TUBES, VEINS

Leaves, hands, have a wider axis than
trunks, for whom bob, sway are nearly the same.

Displacement, wind, makes everything
twist, shake, as in anarchy, sprays, tubes, veins.

----------------------------------------------------------

EVERY HOVEL A TEMPLE

wind channels the sound of
whorshippers up the street
spin thru r fence'n bellz.

I won a contest for the K-Week liturgical song when I was only four. "Every Hovel" got me an honorable mention with the 666 Haiku Volcans.
Mom

Grrl, You Push your Love on Me

Grrl, you push your love. You pushy.
I feel you want to say to all the dogs:
I am top bitch, but onee cuz o my luf.

We like a snuggle all night, but then y
-ou violent if someone come around.
Oh my god, youda baby of the family.

You could never join the pack. You n-
au cross th' line. I accep your unreasn
-able dmands on my tam, perpetrator.

Pink as a Man

If you are my kids, you should know:

• I came to a point that was a climax and a dead end
• it meant ok, I'll go to jail, anything but worry
• because my objective was to get you back
• and what i believed in was all i had left right then anyway
• the Preservation Society was ended

That last one was a meaning we didn't get yet because no one had ever seen it.

Even when Mthyuh was first born the Preservation Society had already been around for a hundred WD.

I was going to find out how much freedom someone had. It hadn't been tested. Howd'ya think we learned we didn't have any?

Donna has her way of loving too much, so she's forcibly quiet now. It's a shock I'm sure. When Pharmsupply kept me in an army-green, 100%-latex catsuit with vibrating cup tips and a ball gag in me, my brank was Tasteless and Pink as a man.

The Air is Thick with Snowflakes, but You are No Differnt

Nothing like a stroll out looking for a cab in Chang K. Chang Chank around 3am on a January's eve. This cold foam is in your genes, Chang K. Chang. You left us haughty even in death, mystery flake. Tornado of Blanque: pick up the check for once. You been weighed and found wanting a dinger for your bell. Yet we named our thickest chank with thoughts of you.

Water u gonna do nex, Goddess of Propriety?

Kidnapped by Pharmsupply

"Life often seems hard, but you have a range of emotions."
[Here they smack Hoolie hard with a mace upside the head. The mace is made of a stick, some rope, and a punching bag what they hit you with, even though a punching bag usually get hit. That irony is what should eventually egg you to break.]
"Can you really say yor worse off than someone less advantaged."
[Smack.]
"You know when we had yor mother sitting in this chair she peed herself...
Can we count on you to make everything right?"
[smack]
"Whut?"
[Smack]

The legend say Ted and Sylvia came a bailout the Pegyuh while she carry the Hoolima zygote and slip her something in a red box.

Hoolie wonder who now gonna come for me.

He could take an attitude "I do time hard time in life; captivity is a spiritual journey where I'm free."
He could try and get his heart around: "You can cause me pain, but will not change my backward generations. My progenitora, a lesbian, needs my screams to bring me to her once more."

Sadly, Dr. Thong was tied up and stifled in the shadows, tears of regret in steaming flow behind her brank. Pharmsupply had tricked Hoolie there by forcing Donna, his co-dependent, to call him up for a check-in.

Donna Thong begins rocking her chair to the tempo of the Disco Years. She knows that Hoolie can receive the sound and be with her in a place, on an evening. The music and colors had begun for the first time at her practice as she unbuttoned his shirt for a totally routine examination of the abs. She had onee ever seen those shimmering metallic tones of purple and blue, apart from Sears, on one squawking, swooping, fitty-pown mess of pre-historic, chank-layin, chall-attackin poulet: the now-extinct monarca d'ensalago.

"Just take me out," he had begged. "Put me down."

When they woke up later under the table in a sea of mini-bar bottles and PaxPox wrappers, they knew that God's whole sick cycle had begun.

Hoolie Discussion Board: Crack inda Wurl

His personal sense of terror says the alien suns will blot out our most salient light, which is only magma, a source more of searing heat than be able to read by it. For this Chama has ahways elected Ruler of Night or Mistress of Dark third shift, 12-8am, and for that Hoolie grow seeing taboo forces ina chillun so small.

When the Mthyuh open up her mos cruelest flood, other wurls behine can look through.

They may fine Hoolie so inncent they can take and hold him under pertective torcher.

Nirvanic System

Ex-con, brainwashed ex-gay, you rock mai hardons.
Your huge thighs and ass along with spiritual comen
-tary make your nips pop erect in m'mouth, swinga.

Ex-cop, ex-model, ex-mental healthful patient: now
nobody own you and you can unspin. You beg to Mt
-hyuh on my rug nekit, look like leaving a futr open.

I am here to receive you and you caynt fine me stud.
Here youda one and you can't take my word pityboi.
Donchu rmember Chrast? Hoolima? Wrk is dun, foo!

PAIN... and everything in between

Ex-con christian boogarball coach all up in your place one second like the seven sluts of Muhalala next he beggin yor toilet bowl for reconsideration into the kingdom. Muttering babl gloss to his self laka red letter study edition for flagellators. He fine it most erotic insteada in out it's yes no insteada up down it's "Eat me now, Mthyuh. I'm not wurthi."

Curse of D'Yoot

Time is running out on me, not vice-versa.
It's not a death sentence, but it jus may be
The sentence they say right b'fore We Dai.

Notice nobody mine celebrating if it's over.
But the young keep up they treachery; dis
-dain or obsequiousness odda two choices.

They handicapped as zygotes in a fas wurl,
Dragging they bluddie chords, and notice h
-ow we godda bree dey sent t'bleev o relax.

This is Where they End up when it Hits them

They walk on the stones carefully like they on vacation or in a museum. Try to cover up they purpose they mission they purple trajedies. Sit in the cafes like no one else be there for that reason. This is a town like the postage stamp town where they have a nice fountain but onee fokes go for to get da stamps.

Mothers circle the tourist center like a bee or it's an abortive flytrap. Caynt jus walk in. O they assfo a glass of milk. Some are sipping shiv awday from a rubber tube so they dont bend an give it all away.

I took my son here. He say itsa place to pray. Now he gone into fire and screaming shame.

Kevin Reynolds' Mom

My armpits smell different at this altitude
Like somebody's plans, all musty.
Way down in the valley, they are garlicky,
something living.
While I'm here it may seem I'm older;
It may be the stress of the ropes and
airborne cement. Or,
somehow I've come to lose him and find
him at the same tam.
Oh my Mthyuh, I'm Kevin's mom and I
cayn't fine ma boi.

Enforced Attire

The brutal snake charmer's wife made out another list.

• P-coats are the enforced attire per GQ dickheads.
• Each of them would have been singled out and picked on in other chanks.
• Cuddle
• They aren't even warm enough (cuddle).
• Check on all the ones hoove bin throwing shade r way.
• Cuddle
• I've got to leave him. I feel him sucking me.
• The body is too painful at that heat level.
• No one can get close to me, said the flaming chal.

"My biggest shame of all is the desire to cuddle, and only the Chama can know it." Reptily

HEADACHE! Peggy Speaks Out

Well that's just it, I told them, when they first asked me why I wanted to do it, and I wasn't expecting that question, I explained it in terms of it piques my lit-crit clit, it gets me all up in the prostate of my mind, that kind of thing, and but whut I dint tell them was, well that's because maybe I didn't know it then even as my All Knowing self, that wow yeah, it goes way deeper than that.

And, right, I was trained! What a waste. I can't even say that I remember any of it now. Because it was just so godamn important in the grand scheme of things, thought some bozo, who? we may never know, that I go AWOL.

The kids-- props, I hope. God forbid I was really their mom. That would just ice the whole tragic mess. What... can I remember? How can I explain? I just... you know all I feel here, rubbing my temples and scalp, is pain. And everything in between. Pain! It's all that's left.

Shivbar

Hoolie had scared everyone by passing out early so someone found a tab of windowpane in the glove box and slipped it under his Perfek Pink-Brownish tongue. In his oversized tan wool coat and fur leggings he came to like a bird's head popping up from a pool. They gave him a sharp knife and dropped him at the doorstep of a shivbar.

An elderly wiseguy in a Johnny Cash outfit greeted him with good-humored jadedness. There was a combo: two guitarists, a bass with a bow, and a polka master. "Who's that?" Asked the Hoolima. "Gilberto Whoopti-Sanchez and the Whatdaphux," answered the bawdy bouncer. "They're just doing a sound check right now-- should be starting in about seven minutes. I traida tell them: dooyer practicing at home, you know? Ha ha." Wiseguy addressing the ostensibly blind jazz organist on his off night sitting at the bar. "Waincha practice foya get here, y'know? Ha ha. Right Jimmy?"

Everyone loved Hoolie there, or so it seemed. Lovely Linda came right up to him with her throat uncovered; this was before she died. "Look what you've got!" she commented.

"I'd like to drag this lightly across your throat," said he, smiling, while doing so.

Linda was frightened and excited. She loved Hoolie, so she had some crazy faith that she would not die. In fact she didn't. Her subsequent death was unrelated.

She was sensitive enough to know that a tiny curly shrivel of the topmost layer of the skin which lie across her trachea was being shaved away and falling into His Perfek Pink-Brown palm, and that was all. She felt as though she had to trust someone just then.

Suddenly everyone Hoolie knew had ventured out into the rain and instead an impossibly beautiful young couple had taken a seat at the bar. They had shiv stones right in front of them but neither was going to lower their head for the tiniest lick. They were broke, he fantasized. They wanted all the beauty and meaning of this historic place without having to pay the price. But the longer he waited he knew that wasn't it. They only looked at one another, and all the more beautifully when knotted in that gaze. Hoolie asked the waitress, an elegantly aging goth chick, to send them a fresh dose on him, but only if they asked for one first.

Then the second guitarist was looking into his eyes and stroking vigorously to accompany his master. Between sets, the second guitarist stood in many places: near the service area, ordering for himself and taking in the compliments of the barkeep while letting his tawny brown eyes reflect in Hoolie's glass of port. Next to a column roped with Plaster Grapes, perfeckly in alignment with Hoolie's eyes. Standing speaking with the dark-spectacled accordionist while they drank, Peeping Gingerly over his colleague's shoulder into Hoolie's eyes.

In his dream, the second guitarist, a gaunt hungarian type named Kevin Reynolds, came up to Hoolie and whispered, "Darling you are too young to be sending Teary-Eyed Drinks to young lovers in nightclubs. Your true homage should be to those who can respect and appreciate the glory of your Ripened Manhood."

In reality, of course, Hoolie got tired of the suspense and went next door for a Bedtime Sandwich.

But songs began to well up in him.

Ebb Tide Show Lounge

Look, you can hire swarthy bitches who ack like yor place is a nasty dive,
Or you can hire fine bitches.

Each is cool in their way, doll. You jus don't have the weight down there
to declare your weapon, baby.

Wooden chew laika fine white bitch with a real straight wig and blue lips to take
on yor PR daddy you no u do.

You say premium you say upscale we think we getting nice not rough, swingah.
Zisda Ebb Tide Show Lounge?

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.