Splay hope

the waves were in a perfect grid
as if you were gonging the barrel

so we can't deny patterns exist
but only in the realm of physics

what's now, not dreams, more
truly is an offring of the surreal.

how your argument turns clown,
cash money vortices in this home

must we splay hope to phenomena,
or through magic only prove dumb?


Jan Jansdaad
"My husband is Ken."

Emphasis Mine

Under review by MPS. 

Phyllis channels Ted

Phyllis: The way you've steered your son will cause him pain.
Dad: Lucky for him! I speak from beyond the grave.
Phyllis: Now he wants to become the first gay guy in space.
Dad: Measure time, weigh matter.
Phyllis: How do I know this is automatic writing, not my projection.
Dad: What's automatic writing?
Phyllis: How do you measure time there.
Dad: Time does not exist; here's all there is.
Phyllis: Wait, that's... projection. I've lost reception.
Dad: *kgkkckghgkk* ...lieth with dog, waketh with sneeze.
Phyllis: I've got to somehow warn Illyn not to go down...
Dad: Illyn is what Illyn does. Maybe one day..
Phyllis: No, it was something you said, and it adds up... to bad.

Illyn: Hello?
Phyllis: I've found some evidence that portends.
Illyn: More wasted money on that swami?
Phyllis: You mustn't go down again.
Illyn: Too late. I'm headed for Her mouth now in my cart.
Phyllis: Those hacked-square pine wheels won't get you far.
Illyn: It's Shab takes me. We are suspended above matter.
Phyllis: Always trouble when he's near.
Illyn: Funny thing to say to a man about his driver.
Phyllis: Why not just ride Shab's empty saddle.
Illyn: Then it would be not empty, not Shab. He's under a vow/ curse.
Phyllis: Yes, I know, and he twiddles his legs in empty air.
Illyn: To make it look as though he's running.
Phyllis: But really only the ground is moving.
Illyn: But you called to warn me not to hurl myself into the steaming craw of Mthyuh.
Phyllis: Well? Is it Albino Cannonball again? Flaming Pondstone?
Illyn: They only called me that because my hair was red and it really popped against the stains of sulfur.
Phyllis: I don't know how or why you crawled back up through clods of ash n' dirt like a periodical cicada, but now you're whole again, and...
Illyn: This is not what I call whole or even periodical. What can I own but a body shed and rebroken?



Record of Phyllis (embed)

ZOMBIE BUCKET

They have a lost glass in their grey eyes,
Outer skin of gone nectarine,
Rock-like flesh underneath, mouths
that open into curlicues.

They live but can't see a life here.
They walk grimacing unnoticed.
What they have is what they had.
They want/ don't want each other.

These men, outside the pool of light,
Acting on their last survival nerve,
Trapped in an elevator with other beauties:
They are riding our bucket into space.


Sea Bitch

Awesome, Sincere, Sad, Desperate

Awesome:

Many at once.

Sincere:

Don't understand.

Sad:

Has my order been shipped?

Desperate:

Nails unclipped.

Your face goes bushy

you are who you are so hard that i take on your color,
dumb sucking sphinx warping your field of influence in
circumference with a tilting soul, fine phallo-centrifuge.

your face goes bushy but it carpets mine, natural man,
through the wool of trees, salty eye rings broadcasting;
stormy sea warning's a beacon seed'v only more alarm.


Enkidu

K's Rock a New Scene

They're high up enough, birds against a cloud
Posing K signals to the crowd, aloof

When they come back around, drop they
loads in our soup, scald the town, loot

We know it's a holy time, no chaos goes
unblessed; beaks, claws do innocents find

being coaxed to last breath in a downy nest,
in death, unwind the mystery of deliverance.

Principled beating

you passed me and i had to show you
what's the meaning of respect on this,
my road. you do not wear a cadillac,
but a wide-ass suburban. you've got
your 8 there, but in the sand and wind,
aren't you rocking it too hard?
Lag behind like a tired dog, and admit.

What's Now

part of me permanently just doesn't get it
From infancy playing along with the insanity
; what you can't add don't add up to bad
but what you doesn't know's what chews ya.

the biggest realization i ever had was on the
news, not the scrolls of of obsessives etching
, not hollow ecstasy, damnation or a birthing;
I say it's a cheat what we've come to think.

In an avian V, the air layer betrays invisible,
non-meaningful, conscious-less self-twirling;
Hypnotized sods follow on a song, desiring.
All I want's what's now, and always fail.


Ken

What you cannot earn

IT was back 8-10 year ago, when I still had
a libido, rolling where the sands blo, truckers
tacking tic-toe, playing leap frog with they co-
co's: doing slo-mo on the Innerstate eight-oh.

HOW I became a creep is an odd story to tell,
But it was the roads enraged me, knew me well;
Man eyes the symbols from left to right, but hell
If the next week he own name won't ring a bell.

ROADS as if yr standing in place while they turn,
Crank wheeling backward a fifty-grit burn;
Rigs from what you can't jump, only sit an learn;
Monkey do the chasing what you cannot earn.

rolling where the sands blo
truckers tacking tic-toe
leap frog with they co-co's
slo-mo on the eight-oh

how it's odd to tell
roads they knew me well
symbols left to hell
name won't ring a bell

standing while they turn
wheel cranks a burn
jump or neither learn
monkey cannot earn


by Ken

Profane public deity

[Dr. Thong leading her meta-cognitive talk therapy group of former teenage prostitutes, the "Catty Night Cats" at Thong Clinic's satellite in Chank Dubbabhera]

DONNA: When you come in, you know, from the other world, do you find you regret it, I mean either coming in or what you did there.

TINA (meta-cognitive co-self facilitator): I find I think back and regret now when I gave it away. That kind of being free.

DONNA: Like 'If only i'd made every one count.'

TINA: Yeah, and I didn't understand my true value.

DONNA: Except that one night when you said you...

TINA: Oh, yes when I was dancing home and the limo was following along side me and they kept rolling the window down and the sidewalk was my stage and the man inside and his money fan and I said you can't afford me, and shook my finger doing chenez turns.

DR. THONG: Now bring that, bring that feeling with you: the finger shaking-- that's a no, isn't it. And the turns, owning the street, asserting your place, the natural entitlements of beauty that everyone had to respect...

TINA: Oh you don't have to tell me neither gangster nor beat cop nor parent could bring themselves to checkers be; they only watched in a paralysis of cathartic recognition of a fine spirit finely represented behind every vulgar action.

DONNA: If only someone could have paid the full cost, I mean besides you darling.

TINA: But this is how I take out my days, one by one now. Each moment is me charging the future for the pleasure I gave so freely as profane public deity, a decade of overall peace and blessings in every place I touched.


by Donna
"...and the Cats"

All texts are reproduction

Under just a milding patina of history, what He's personally mixed and physically dipped into is right there in front of you, and it's not mimesis. More an organic splatter. A squirrel might tie some straw into knots with her toes enduring succubi; perhaps a serpent inadvertently smears your name in green scat against the glass of its cage one night. My littlest bitch once gathered sticks and bones onto the patio from every corner of the garden and patterned them into the rough mosaic of a Christmas tree.

Palm Tree / Dandelion

The ones bleed with the wind; the
others keep their trajectories
attached. In a full moon,
you have to look down the hill
to see that silhouettes of palm heads
are live and shaking, spotlit
as if caught rioting. A week-long
sound of rushing rapids,
nothing flies away anymore
but the spew of taco manufacturing
and the dust cast off of the rocks'
rolling, shriveling cactus, vegetable
and now mineral dust.
But the little bitch walks right up
and tells you she knows her name.
And you remember the moment you
fell in love, when you are clearly mine.


Donna
"For LaLa"

mod freak to freaky mod

I am sure that this potato would have been quite perfectly fit for a pig.
Oh no, it was a beauty, really, with only the one spot, so I took it out.
In a future, please to make sure the spot out of which you take the spot is also taken out.

similar status to a conquered people's

The neighbor's garage was burning down
and it sent up a fat smoke ring. When I
looked up above me, the center was the
sun. The smoke eye would follow me
throughout the county, across the southern
border, edges of the dunes and Chocolate
Mountains; the hazing red would cause me
acne, crack and decay close relationships,
beaches turned to black sludge, and the
footprints led everywhere you could go
there in the bowl and back again and again.


Illyn

Iridescent bird strains not to lose ground

went out to brush the dog,
decided to let his hair fly
unto a neighbor's downwind
yard. But a tornado formed
which pasted it on me as if
I'd been tarred. Then I saw a
bird flying in place at first but
when it darted, it directed
my stare into the thirsty sun.


Donna
"On Retreat"

You Can Lick My Apron

Illyn had ptsd so bad that his ptsd gave ptsd to his dogs. Then they started, and he started after them, to do a hurt walk. A hurt walk is when you are hurt but you are trying to walk normally, like right after you've tripped on a crack or walked into a pole trying to read a number on the other side of the street.

Except that LaLa and M'Lady weren't physically hurt, just scared of yelling and relative mayhem. He in turn stepped painfully barefoot through the debris field he left when he'd set off the sustained disassemblage of the past forever. The three looked out on each morning now as thorn-footed refugees.

Who was it resolved the conundrum of personal responsibility vs. divine plan or choice v. fate, Flying Nun? Answer is no one. You soar because you're on television, and vice versa. Doesn't mean yr invisible to the critical eye, even if it hasn't the capacity to translate its conclusion into a comprehensible howl.


by Phyllis

Anxious + Strong

We were wondering about the inspiration of some of the artists and also the effect that doing art all the time can have on the consciousness, and we thought about an artist for whom colors jump out, call out like little whores to him: this is who i am! can't you represent me. And then in a future time that's litterly slick, surfaces have become so shiny, either absorbent or refracting fluorescence, and they've become so good at hiding the machinery of the system, the technological infrastructure, that you only see what there is to see on a screen; it's not the actual colors of things in their immediate light spread eagle on a time tray as we now have. In that harsh and alternately shadowy futuristic ambient with human forms in minimalistic linear clothing such as Bill Blass or Donna Karan, the creator realizes that he must treasure all the bad paintings that survive from the past.

He's tough from advancements in understanding of the tissues, yet nervous existentially, and even more so now that the concept of time had been abandoned. His trial-period partner asks him, "How many steps toward death are we having been taking while we try and figure out if we know one another the way we believe we might should want to?" Following, she states, "Anxious + strong is a sexy but dangerous situation. You could stand up too fast and bump yr head and father any number of children all in the same motion just because you think somebody touched yr balls from behind."


Phyllis (embedded)

Flames of Soil

Am I pagan? Because I walk under bells I've hung around the house just at the right level so my hairdo brushes their clappers and makes them tinkle?

Is it prayer when I do nothing to avoid an action that will set off a sound that reminds me about praying? Why not, if the words would always be the same?

Is it civilized, unhealthy in some way to pay tribute to a number of deities? And what if not knowing their names has the effect of clearing out a space?

What if every surface were a safety suction cup where the four-limbed would always have a four-point hold? Every molecule of oxygen an air bag?

Can flames of soil reach out to draw in all bad and selfishly settle back to enjoy monstrous containment? Is the world, cold suspended, bled of its evils?


By Donna

Strangeness of the Future

In tonight's episode, Donna and Reptily occupy adjoining cells at the Preservation Society HQ in Dubbabhera. They whisper at an ancient glory hole through the decomposing granite.

DONNA: "A moment ago I thought I heard an owl shriek in the airspace between the Twin Chanks but it was the echo of my own gut whistle-farting, internally."
REPTILY: "If you can throw your voice that far maybe you can get us the F outta here that far."
DONNA: "You the one knows howda fly."
REPTILY: "It's not an item you know, it's a function you do."
DONNA: "Do your wings of light feel more like extra arms or an active back pack?"
REPTILY: "I am a jellyfish or spanish-shawl nudibranch who moves along only as a secondary result of breathing in and out, at one with the proverbial seawater."
DONNA: "And you're a salty bitch."
REPTILY: "You need to stop coming on to me just to pique my bristles; if I try to tear down this wall, I'll only skin my Epicel, and that makes less with which to fondle you."
DONNA: "Sea Bitch, does it ever seem that you're walking in a future that for you it's not meant? Where everything's a skosh off?"
REPTILY: "Like the light now, anemic egg yolk, music that impersonates a past, and the shriveled clueless recent gawking generation?"
DONNA: "Thasright, darling."
REPTILY: "All the time. And that's what I live for. Because I'm changing too."
DONNA: "Changing or disappearing. I mean it could be either. I donno, sometimes I... Tilly?"