Sucking Beacon

Donut cloud, crown of thorns, and your lateral, unsurvivable blast: we must all learn, but be far away from. The charm of your beacon is a ring of pulling wanting. Our own livers, our sensing organs, viscerally seek to sate your warning glory.

Disappointing former anomalies, pivotal galactic trendsetters, turn out to be really no more than wood chippers. Matter doesn't "disappear" inside them. Their density is not "infinite." Law of physics: something always has to give. Look what's blowing out their axes.

We astronomers, in bed with our telescoping mirror cones and eye needles; we livers in other realms, of freedom, of caprice and lifestyle mistakes, of blight off season. They put us in prison in spite of our feathered hats. We recant our previous believin'.

Only the bars prevent our final charge on gravity. Suck me, wide one. Beauty is your annihilation of all other meaning. To true is to leave terminating dusts on a vinyl stack of atmospheres, to be creatures who will eat through song for an invite to a place where space bends.

From: "Ode to Black Hole 7"
Reptily, Graduation Day Speech
Hunger Gardens, Low Chanks

Lady McBirth

Hot neighbors' sons with shorn hair empty onto
the street and crawl up the block at night, spray paint
the garage. Reptily mom call police. Neigh-
bors complain, "Therz alwayz trubble over thayr."

She knew it was not at the law that they jeered,
but rather marked her as sodomy doer.
And their votes were against sodomy, not her.

She thought of the way shit stink stays in your skin
and wondered whether that was yet another
shame for mothers.

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?"

Free of Consequence

Back inee olden days Reptily mom and dad walk her through a foreign town on a phat wooden cart. Instead of arms, they had signs they'd written on with lipstick. The empty tubes rattled on the floor, just as Coral Blush Chum sloshes at the bottom of a War Canoe.

WEER JUSS PASSIN ON THRU
PLEEZE LEAVE US IN PEACE
CUZ THATS WUTWE WISH 4U

You might expect the next paragraph to be Choked with Carnage, but no. Enemy Villagers were just confused or busy and couldn't have cared less even though they would have liked to kill them haddit been Free of Consequence.

Pharmsupply's Prolabique LipLine Master-Lisp "Lipstickventory" List, 2009

900 Number
A Man Has to Act
Advisement to Do Nothing
Any Scotch
Archetypal Angry Parent
Audry
Bang C'Mon
Beau Talks
Bedtime Sandwich
Berry Plop
Black
Blood Hope
Bloody Poop of Creation
Book
Born Again
Bring Heavy
Brown Dirt
Burnt Issue
By L'Wisp
Chancre' Adieu
Chaos of the Senses
Chump's Paradise
Chunks of Orange
Circles All Day
Clove Aureola
Cohosh Spice
Coral Morningshadow
Crammed with Grace
Crematoma
Crisis of Being
Crystal Rimprint
Curly-Toe Slippers
Dad's Toilet Kit Gaping
Despite Nature
Devil's Clit
Dew on Ice
Dirty Pink
Dirty White Vinyl Bible
Douche Ditch
Drop Trow
Employees and Stockholders
Escape for Dependents
Every Trade Imaginable
Fallowed Lands
Feed On
Fifty-Dolla
Filter Stain
Final Eater
Food Covetor
Fool's Blessing
Front Seat
Gaping Lipstick Stain
Gentle Excretions
Getting Late
Goddess of Propriety
Grab Bars on a Tub
Grandiose Ideation
Handy Gentleman
Happy Orphan
Hard Trampoline Highway
Heavily into Rut
His Hat
Holiday Mincemeat
Hooptie to Tomorrow
Hummingbird Catcher
Hush for Cover
Ice Dispenser
Ideal Opposite Gender
Imitation of Christ
Janice
K-Dava Diva
Ladies' Barrel Competition
Last Say
Lifestyle Mistake
Lismore Vessel
Locked and Parked
Love and Care and Brutality
Lush Rose
Lust Gorged
Makes Time Stop
Marbled Rent
Me Tomorrow
Metallic Feathers
Middle of a Pizza
Mildly Undermined by Shit
Minor Discretion
Monkey on a Swag
Moral Vogue
Motel 6
Mucky Muck
Muff of Fur
My Dead Posse
My Yesterday
Native-American Squaw
Neighbors' Skins
Never Blows
Nico-Rush
October Foliage
Off Season
Offer of Tobacco
One Crossed Over
Optional Items Now Included
Paella
Pair of Masters
Pale German
Pas du Cake
Patina Teacup
Payment of Blood
Pearl Membrane
Peek, a Blue Pink
Peeled Grape
Peeping Gingerly
Perfek Pink-Brown
Period that was Misunderstood
Pig 'n Tongue U
Pig on a Lipstick (premium dispenser)
Pink Morning Sky, but Vertical
Pink Skirt
Pink Squishy
Pink Worm
Pink, and Fleshy
Pins and Velvet
Planned Activities
Plaster Grapes
Plinth of Juno
Puppies Smudging Up my Rug
Queen in the Filling Station
Rainbow Scale
Raspberry Gale
Real as Phlegm
Red Afro
Red Light Highway
Reddish Egret
Refridgerator Door
Rim In
Ripened Manhood
Robed Men
Ruff N' Buttry
Sage Rub
Sandstone Pimpernel
Scene of a Dump
Second Home
Secrets Kept
Sexual Lipper
Shadow of Medicine over Nothing
She Needed
Shirt Caller
Slimming Tips
So Hot
Softened and Empowered
Sopped in Bailey's
Spraybourne
Sterling Sour
Straw Dipper
Stud Aplique
Sutured Poison
Sweet Pie Raisin
Tacky Surfaces
Tan Taint
Tasteless and Pink
Tattooed Urologist
Teary-Eyed Drinks
The Crack
The Slip
Time Crack
Topless Coal Walker
Two Decades of Feminism: Dual Tank Treads
Vaginal Borderline
Virgin
Want to Steer
Want-to Cream
Way to Worship
Wendy
Wet Nip
white lipstick
White Veins
Whopping Disinformation
Wicca Twilight
Wiccan Dipsplit
Wisdom Mist
Wrenchbreaker
Zoned No Sex Offender
Zygote Birther

Every Trade Imaginable

The Second Home was also away from crowds but for the Pair of Masters, the only neighbors, who could see you still Locked and Parked, not gone, on their Way to Worship and from. They may step past in Black, point an umbrella or their Book, and voice concerns. The male one had the Last Say, but She Needed to talk. He seemed both Softened and Empowered by her Gentle Excretions.

The third home posed too easy an Escape for Dependents. They don't think right. In spite of hangdeliers and dripping oil statue lamps, they take you for granted as keeper and wander. The Handy Gentleman showing it off was a little hostile, yet So Hot. You could have reached into His Hat for feelings of Every Trade Imaginable.

Hooptie to Tomorrow

I combed the chanks, all of them, to get housing for me and the bitches. It was the end of the longest Off Season ever, and a lot of what was closed down was going to stay that way. I guess I saw about _ spaces and met about the same number of men.

Phil Barleycorn drove me out to a hive where your fwd view and rear shield look the same. Phil was white and pink with the earnest humor of a man who'd been telling challenging jokes to chillun for all time. Never laid a meal in his own way. He also seemed to be sniffing for lint in my mind as he bragged about sending three zygotes to Pig 'n Tongue U. The rental structure had provided final launching pad for an original pioneer famly whose ultimate jump was remote lordship of these spoils.

"You may have seen it, the death march lot for K's right there at the end of the field, but the wind Never Blows this way," counseled Phil, farting. "They started this hole way back when the chanks were still flush and sweating. Then their heartland became a museum for ugly, militaristic protocols. Everyone who came here wanted badly to be a cog. So they called it God. It's where I'm still living."

Next stop, last rest stop before High Chanks and extremer pointz. RIP!
"Hoolie Roll: Hooptie to Tomorrow"

Weirdo Healer Prees

In a rat hole for aliens, you see a zeal for life:

lust for children and in cooking.
Tenants, slaves pushed their grime

against caves of linoleum and painted wood
and pipe and pane and wrought iron caging;

they come up to him in church, tap at the rai
-ments, a downtown suit-parlor knock off,

chequered from a couple decades down;
sandy hairs moderate his rostrum.

A sinner with thick glasses, loose pantz,
sprinkle on yor daughter, clean her path,

watch yor blighted son who no one look at.
Weirdo healer prees, closer than a fren.

Man's Drink in a Queen's Double Old Fashioned

multi-faceted, I bet you cd tell me
if this rock, that frame, Any Scotch

was real. bet you know how an Ice
Dispenser in a Refridgerator Door

can Bring Heavy cubes smashing in-
to and breaking a Fifty-Dolla water

-ford Lismore Vessel at the Rim In
the shape of a Gaping Lipstick Stain.

--Gone Peggy: Wallowing in Treasure
Los Chanques Condominium Assoc.

"Dee Loop" [the Mp3]

HOMO

Ho-- para que me duelen las cachas? Por andar tanto? Se dice que han descubierto por cual razon me caen los brazos, como pendulos; es tan dificil entender? Hace falta el ritmo en manejar tanto peso. Una zanhoria siempre cuelga por la cara, y por eso sigo.

Como dios, tendria que decir que la numeracion sea el pasatiempo que prefiero mas. Como animal, quisiera meter mi fetiche dentro de los demas, servir las criaturas otras. Es posible que me haya creado estos desiguales yo? Cada vez que me giro, la muebleria se reorganiza por la amplitud de mi culo.

--Chamatilly
Reincarnizada como "esuperstar" monoteistica

HOMO

Wow why do my loins hurt? From walking around a lot? They claim to have discovered why I swing; is that so hard? Balancing a hulk alone requires rhythm. A carrot always hangs in my face, so I must go on and on.

As God, I'd have to say that naming is my favorite thing to do. Like a beast, I want to push my fetish into others, serve fellow creatures. Did I create these disequilibriums? Every time I turn around, my big ass seems to rearrange the furniture.

--Chamatilly
Reincarnated as a monotheistic superstar

Decrease of Mind

Physical detritus is easy to confirm.

In the world of English prepositions,

You can see into a flat surface if it

Peeps back at you and corresponds.

You are standing at a place of self-

Regard as if you could step through;

This world is flipped, but most true.

You face where light falls and look in;

Only dreams chart decrease of mind.

Talk Power

Your fingertips are livid;
There is no control of swear words;
You will only have three hours' sleep.

We relate because our neurons are awake;
By tomorrow, it'll be separate pidgins:
Handy, multicultural spasms.

Give me all yor talk power, chall.
Bad breath is either dental or sto-
mach, and we'll finally iron it out.

Thought Wash

Shall I sit outside and smoke by the last hour of sun
Or on the information highway in a cathoid-ray tube?

I prefer to forsake insects, mildew, sorrow
for a measured poisoning by light and booze.

These cancers attack from the outside,
Little Dr. Kevorkians teasing your hide.

These scabs you can't remove but at yor peril.
Death hardens and plugs itself for a while.

Torches Costs Money

One day Chama was being lynched by a mob of about 300 in the low chanks, and several of her closest associates gathered to perform an intervention on her because of their concern:

"Chama, we know youse a goddess, but can't you put this aside?

"Other people have rights too.

"Yes Chama, I mean look around you; your best thinking got you here.

"Chama, don't you think it's time for a little self reflection?

"Yes, Chama. You can go over how you could make this a better place for you to be.

"You have that power Chama.

Chama say:

No my power is shapeshifting and speaking back across centuries to my younger self. I can hide my back, scalp and neck spurs with alien technology. I can fly in a F-suit or grow my wing. I can lift shiny coins through telekinesis and slight of hand from air pockets in the steady stream of important and influential flakes who cross my sound threshold.

Chama continue:

I cannot make this a better place for me to be right now.

Interventionists:

"This is what concerns us. You've lost the ability to master your own destiny, and on the frontier, that means mental illness.

Chama respond:

Dats booshia.

Chama continue:

Caw deeze mthyuhphkas off.

Interventionists:

"We calling you off, baybidumplins. You hereby denied the right to perpetrate on any of those damaged and frightened neighbors and chankspeople you see before you and shall apoligize for working them up into that level of a froth by your tone.

Interventionists continue:

"And torches costs money.

Chama say:

This is me. This is what you get with me. You brought me into the system. You were following the Law then. This is who I am. I come with crowds. This is what you get with me when you let them in. You found me banging on the door begging for bureaucracy. I thought it was a meritocracy, but chall was I dim. Turns out I am a delivery boy: I brought the Him.

Chamatilly continue:

BTW, can I get a square? Can I get paid?

Interventionists:

[No answer. No answer.]

Lonely, Tired and Hot

Hoolie did not emerge from shiv temple until the age of 6, at which time he was put into the care of a couple of punk chicks in their thirties.

They said over and over, "We hate everyone; the world is lots of fun if it wernt for the mthyaphkn paple."

They mentioned the number of times they had been raped in a variety of mixed conditionals.

They burped him with a vibrator.

Hoolie began to see the horizon as a search for uncles who were lonely, tired and hot.

• Leave your fingernail scratches on his back.
• Administer substances for which he will return.
• Extract samples, and
• Procure seedlings in vessels.

Acid Drain

Connie's first five matches were free. Thinking of what she'd written in her profile made her feel sucking rawness at the hole where her stomach emptied out into her intestines, she guessed.

She was fingering the portfolio of Christian men she'd generated on her new color printer/fax/ scanner/copier. Sipping vermouth, she laid their faces, statistics and claims across a big, dumb vinyl ottoman as a tarot spread.

The printout in the central pivot position was fuzzy because most of her ink had been consumed in the automatic "cartridge alignment" process. She had like a short ream of multi-colored test patterns to show for that.

Smells of "My Contacts"
by Connie

1) Alpaca spittle
2) Curry n' bile
3) Warm garlic sourdough
4) Lobster balls w/ asparagus
5) Mask of Aluminum Chlorhydrate

Pre-Mortem Lover

I heard you needed someone, heard you as an African-American. Now I bring you this white woman, freshly dead and off the grid, for it's said you can afford the latest remote muscular decisioning, which triggers the subtlest possible reflexes, all depending on the narrative.

Your sophistication exceeds even the most urbane of the high-chank natives because of what you've seen. If someone's going to be educated while lifeless, it oughta be she, a blonde, a zygote mom, related to dream deities.

Now you see my wing, like a pleather grey cape with veins, which enables me to swing high and elevate. I am, in fact, a sort of bat; my powers are sonic, if anything. Here's what Connie's pre-mortem lover said:

I lyke what they're playing at yor fyunral;
I lyte myself a pyre in yor honor.

My only chance at breath is to praise you;
My singing purges the waste that was ours.

"The Chama"
Reptily

Feed from the Air

Hoolie last memry of Peg:

"Somewhere in other places there are flakes who feel a little hungry every day, yet continue to read, bike or swim. Or they roll from work station to station wagon to hueco opener and spill out onto a candy-glazed Rascal what could be paid by the corporment. They don't self deny as much as behave like adults, kiddies: They say: 'Yes, I'm quite famished but I will eat tomorrow no prolm. I can ride my desire right on into a fevered dream of red-faced happiness.' Others of our species are glee deities and can never be gluttons because they absorb unlimited richvictuals and calming vines through their smiling lips with no worry nor wonder."

She was pinning homemade voodoo dolls with human hair to wicker tombstones she had made at home with dead Easter grasses and nailing them to trees. They resorted to baser traditions when the kids were around and/or holidays. Everyone would gather up surplus ribbons and scarves and make masks of K guano and fruit paints. They got mud-doo hair. Meet in the public square like freaks. Then someone from the high chanks show up to buy a loaf or some slurry. Now it's a single-file fool parade with jesters with rape whistles, hand bells, mace, car keys, tape, a drum, seasonings, exhibitionism, and the long-nose high chanker led the fray in a grim backward cap. Afraid.

These were alleys and gutters twixt houses that are flat black stones stacked one upon another. In windows, wooden poles hold up the backs of more flat chalk, shale, flint. Chalk Chank Knolls hadn't been up and coming but would forever be a noble culture no matter how destitute or raw. These life forms are weird polyps of their mighty blood predecessors, aphids milking aged meat who only causes goodness to drop by summoning feed from the air with its smell.

Jaula de Espaldas

Kevin Reynolds lay on his back at the bottom of Mike's foreclosed swim poo echoing, sobbing. The sound reminded him of la musica chanquera, the rustic kind that twanged back at your song. It was a form of prairie yelping, wailing known in oldtime saloons. Now his world was cement, a drapery of shunning, much as original ropeswingers saw night as a vanity curtain and privacy overkill. Most of all, there was no Mike: the most un-metaphysical man in the world. This had been a place where they could move in and out of one atmosphere and onto the next and up and back from one surface to the other together. Kev just couldn't help belting out,

"A circle of backs makes a cage;
all the asses seem flat this way;
no matter how much I ballet,
they snatch, trap my gay rage.

"Jaula de espaldas,

albergue de silencio,

aparte de mis amargas

lagrimas, gotas sinceras.

"Zif yor on a big-top lion's den
expressing your nails, glands,
in a trade of begging, demands
with chairs dressed as men.

"Cerrajon de esperanza,
Cojonudo de fortitud,
Menos carne indefensa:
unica arma, boca inmensa.