Men's gene

We always believed in the true horrors uncovered of popular feminism, a product of a guilded horror age. While it was so easy to remember what had just happened, not really knowing what to say, it was also easy to remember sunshine and chintz, keeping movement frontal, forward and advanced. But when you see horror over there, you take a second start when you look anew around you. Humans aren't who we thought they were, or whom we made them out to be. Not least of all men. Disappointing. But most of all women: worth celebrating, mourning. But then you get a pendulum. Pig/ saint. Wench/ king. Magician/ witch. Biology itself has been a perpetrator, but all to men's credit as conscientious super-mammal. Created poorly for the modern world, he resorts to a hamster wheel. A hamster cranks out worlds of it's own dark little oblong worldz. In a flashbulb, all tyranny was rotten, harsh. Even eager embra co-dependers were seen as vortice-eyed followers of the missile-phallus. It was Men's gene. Fems had to prove that they had it too.

By Phyllis
Freelance Free-Weekly Filler Filer 4U

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.

Crazy guy sez:

you pump supermen bible stars hockey legends presidents at me like a batting machine

and then you give me the MMPP, which ass if i think i'm on a mission?

i just soak up the spills of my heroes and keep the faith in what i been wishing.

i see the ills of society, but you see those pills in me, and everybody can't go to prison.

sleepy scream

Compared to Donna's pretty prison, Peg's incarceration over at PharmSupply had been much more futuristic and steely unyielding 'cause of both the interior architectural elements of the space and the officious register of her jailers. They were at work, bottom-lit, ghoulish, suited up; the rooms and interfaces boldly angled out of indestructible polyfab. The optimistic, gothic high-ceilingedness suggested a society of builders that would see their curving hallways with concave base molding tunnel through a millennium.

Once as she was taking in a breath between screams, Peg heard a guardian yawning. More splendid a range of emotions could not have dropped from Mthyuh's craw just then. Peg was grateful as if to a nightingale through her cell bars, but also miffed. Was the hard young mercenary jaded, bored. Did his employer weigh that sound down on him with labor, true as her gasps in chains? Did he intentionally hurl a sucking insult.

Then they went back to turning the big wheel of the rack. The basic mechanics had not been altered for centuries, though this was a modernist rethinking. Someone obliged by pulling her hair back so hard as to lift her head, and she could see the level of industrial streamlining possible in cast iron, the high-gloss cleanability of an aquamarine Dyemenkote dip.

Phyllis, embedded

Nachos "Espanto Hindu"

small red beans
media pechuga
spices
Fritos "Scoop" chips
gerlic
laurel
pimenton
>8" boner
aceite virgen de aceituna

cut a thinner fillet of store-bought whole chicken breast half.
key to this meal: a darker spice that bleeds the satisfaction of red meat.
let it shallow fry in a cast iron pan with three bay leaves and
your estimation of whatever is "a lot" of cayenne, paprika and naked gerlic teeth.
you finished the beans days ago in a pressie: heaping t or level T of turmeric, whichever is more.

Donna, at the hotplate in the privilege room
Casa Medio Camino
Desilusión, Fordamall

People are Hot on TV

I was interviewing a sex guy who likes other sex guys.
He says it's paramount to get them on their backs
'cause then you've got the choice of either being on top or
being on top. Even better: dick/hole/dick/hole/dick...
Is it a values question, say if the only choice was embra.
Yes, he had to admit, he would choose the vadge. One
can't help it-- it seems cleaner even tho each opening is
nasty in its own way. Anything, in fact, seems nastier if
it is attached to your non-preferred gender. Also consider
the het-fallacious bias for reproductive essence in love
paradigm [RELP]. How it leads to dissociative fixation on what
penetrates. Reality contains, we contend, one set: conscious
beings focusing their targets of desire. Intercourse is a term-
inal object in a panopoly of toys/ instruments/ expressions.

Phyllis, rovin'

Devil on a Chain

Even after the transformation, Missy snipped two claws together pointedly to signify wanna ciggie. But her screeches of indignant soul-wrenching need sounded identical to an itchy call for hors d'oeuvres or snoring or Intruder! or wanna play. So no one knew how to help. A Pall Mall is the last thing you think of offering a non-mammal.

We wanted to set her for free release. At the precipice of a fine waterfall, the resolution of Walter Ditch, in Fordamall, there was a ceremony. We removed the cigar bands from her dorsal spears and administered an amphetamine, but she just stood there.

It was as if Reptily were hosting a banquet in her memory and had to tune inward. Our civic event was merely the ambient trickery to pimp her reverie. What was going to be the culmination of generations of patience and misery, a way to eschew, into perpetuity, the co-dependent mischief of the land, a dirty given, and let savage have its own airs, domains?

We found the way that wild is tamed for show, but we still didn't want to keep her. For sure, they say the devil on a chain is a wasted life. But the truth is: she's got no wheres else to go.

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

Wreck Command

We're sensing some activity in the Crack
swimming bird-fish, topless
aframerican in her 30's
just picking up the skeletry
but it appears to be a cartilage-web
cape-like wing of light
and she's cutting on up through
the bog suspension with her beak.
There's a broken transmission:

...ckgghggk... donna... ckghk...

I Sit and Drink before a Screen

Rock rolling, in packs, against effigies, has been preserved.
Some flakes even stream in hoopties to communal slurp holes,
risk getting picked off by the sensation grid or spoiling a life.
Gods of atroposis can bareback their amygdalas and view.

Once you buy the razor wires for yr pinfold, the bolts and screws
close automotively, as at sunset for grain bank doors.
Yr consciousness and shiny coins are disbursed in the heavens.
All the moisture you can carry is your hydroelectric insurance.

Donna
"For Illyn"

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

Aquarian song

i used to rilly morn my swimmin' days,
but now that i cn post strokes to the POD,
i can sweat both sloth and malaise
so long as you can hear my aquarian song:

you gonna make my crossed-eyes cry nau,
break me till i can't buy ice or cigarettes.
ima gawda liquids baybee, with one regret:
that we dint goda the lenths that we coulda had.

Mike
"For Hoolie"

al be-ashamed tomorrow

al be-ashamed tomorrow, al be-ashamed at the end of it all.
al cop a plea an take a fifth of whatever been a-served to thee.

Them wrecks, them crimz them scavs... it's why we discriminate,
but al take the fall, for brotherhood sake an unanimity.

Wayne

Lab lockdown

Once i cd lift her with skin and blood alone on thigh power.
With pills you get full flower but it's not the same at the crux of the elbow:
Yr torso is just the main balloon in a multi-twisted limb affair.
Where soul reached out with all its might from a crown of hair,
There's a big-assed parasitic worm feeding just below the breaking point.

Wayne
Lab lockdown, Day 2

Believing

i hope you'll always let me go on believing yr better than me
because it's all i can figure about trying to grow

no matter how much you thrash in yr upper berth,
i feel so stable below, and no matter how much it

hurts, yr taking it on like someone just a shade more
innocent, in fact yr skin is translucent.

i hope you'll always let me go on believing i'm silly and
ignorant; i want to fill each hour with questions for you.

no matter the lonesome excuses for touching my cradle
i know you'll keep me alive enough to stay an embryo.

Reptily
Waking up as the Chama, to Wayne's sweaty face

Sistah Grupe

Facts n' truth others kempt buried in serial tracts n' novels,
proverbial irritable pearls of horror they had to tease into,
Are what's splattered each line of my songs in murdrous staccato.

When someone who should be dead for the pain either or longevity,
wuman kep alive so's she can go on wailing in societies and snack pits,
A pall will still set in stuck like the sun on a jet wanting mostly to get down.


Sistah Grupe pome:
Donna
Chama
Phyllis, ed.

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

Dog cart

Harsh Sunrise

Like grapes, it peels my eyes.
It's no time to shine a light on.

They say radiation splinters t' kill,
That death is a smoothing guiding.

But here is what the night's been unable to heal:
an accumulation of daytime crusades n' missions.

Grant me one more hour behind the screen,
No inconsequential might from worlds away.

When my features have realigned
, it will be time to hunt and forage.


Illyn, rocking in a dog cart without a rug