I see it now, my body parts laid across a table and displayed, grotesquely in a pattern of fillet and general dismemberment. Even the muscles are open for all to see, pinned and labeled. All given a formal name, more distinguished in part then I ever was whole. Backing up, I can see the whole, more than pieces and what I see could be nothing less than human, whereas in parts who knows...a sort of squidtopus or limp mollusk from another world?
Who is to blame for this thing done to me? The foul deed needs a villain, be it Asian mastermind, a scribe with his quill. Or maybe a simple musing heiress with the devil on her shoulder, whispering vile deeds in the guise of sweet nothings.
The student artists gather round now, recording my despair, brush stroking canvas. The squares rest upon an easel, translated into geometrics or self serving self portraits, all knees and elbows, laid open for admirers and critics alike. How does this slight woman see in the monstrous display an engine cut in twain? Why does one ask? She sits astride a tricycle invention with a planetary globe to hide her features. She seeks anonymity in the whole, giving my parts new life and a noble function. If only I could tarry and discover my new name; alas.
Even now I feel this will all be arranged upon a parchment, bound and distributed to any who care. What have I become if not some diversion for the masses? If so how will it differ from a postage stamp licked and stuck on preposterous correspondence, what is so unique about my bit of flesh next to an etching of a pretty girl who admires her form upon an ebony reflection? The scribe scribbles furiously to keep pace with my reproof.
I would sooner hold in my hand a blackened sun then paste morbid anatomies onto my library wall. My only recollection of her reveals her bound in foil, dancing in the desert with its alien trees, arms like clubs raised to batter all who approach. She took me into a corner room and sat across me on a chair folding her arms into each other like an optical illusion. She bowed and her neck was smooth like porcelain, white as the naked hands she laid upon her knee. We met in the middle and now I can see in retrospect there were two of each, she and I, leaning in for a kiss and reflected upon each window in the corner room.
The only way out was to go further in, for to retreat was to smash the facade and break apart like ceramic figurines in a play about love and loss. I wasn't willing to sacrifice what we had. I would have given the world, or run wild in the abstract cloth of a wild Ubiquitous before I relinquished the gift she laid upon my brow. Now from my ethereal stance perhaps my sight is clearer. She is behind the easel, painting a tilted square, relegating my lost soul to mathematics. Our love was a magic act, I was the skeleton in the portrait, eerily laid to rest.
Even as a child I found it difficult to learn, resting my head on the desk in a plaid universe. Then, I felt like an animal in a zoo, one among many, a naked procession of muddied specimen chained for perusal of the elders. A chosen few were braided and set into collections, ogled on from spectators on goggled shelves. If we ran it was only to fall into a gutter and lay there dreaming of vast tentacled atrocities and tiny words that only twins with superior eyesight used in tandem could translate. Even then I could see her, smiling with a hand upon her hip, leading me unsuspecting into the maw of an ancient subterranean, with only my tibia to ward off evil spirits – how was I to know?
No sign could have been more apparent than the one she herself held, but I only saw the white sand, not the tug of war between the inhumane and heinous alike. I rode into their midst and they squeezed me like a ham, dripping in agony, in ecstasy, foreshadowing my portrait in advance. I was with her when she reclined, open as could be in a mesh wrap, she said my time was numbered and the number was two. There was no doubt, it was written on my skin. With the right illumination she could count my teeth, the only bones to see the light of day. And the string around my fingers, and the moths alighting, buzzing and hoarding precious space upon my pate, all told the tale of my life, of my loves, my failures and my conquests.
I couldn't see then what I see now, her easy way and beauty, hidden by a strange light that cast a shadow on her face. Was it a cricket that only a pinprick, a ray of sun, would clarify? Was she a fancy contradiction in a soda glass dressed in frills? She was abstract and two faced – one face born out of another – graphed and charted, lips in a vast circle of conspiracy. I thought I was in color, but now I know she is black and white, born of serf and pecked by raptors. Amalgamous, obtuse, two in an envelope and poured viscous onto black tile.
My time has come, a meal unto itself that only a relevant slug could fathom. My eyes are in the palm of my hand, a receptacle of sight. I have but one skull, but two empty sockets that will never see another beauty bound, no sumptuous crustacean or chariot on the wind. My bones lie stacked, floundering in a vortex, riding a blank highway on flaccid wheels that tell no stories, no tales to be mowed into the lawn or etched upon a virgin's captive flesh. She sold me out for a star atop a verdant green. She stole a bauble for my soul, and many hands together and many feet in unison and couples stretched as one touching skin in skin will never touch her empty breast that I once believed teemed in color. There was no truth in the fires she wrought and her grin lies naked to the netherworld I dwell. My reach is powerless. I am nothing now.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
shoedoom
From afar it could be seen. Flames licked the sky over New Old Brumpton.
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
She decided it then, when the house burned down, then blew over, and her neighbor's dog came out of nowhere and bit her. She was standing in the street, random bits of newspaper piling up at her bare feet, her cold bare feet. Cars were whizzing by and she almost got hit, even as the flames reached out from her sunken living room and tickled her naked toes. Enough is enough, thought Marjorie. All of her stuff was on fire, including her mother's asbestos orthopedic pumps. Enough, she wept, again. And this, which she said aloud to no one in particular, but the dog may have heard it and used the defiant tones as an attack cue: “I am going to destroy this world!”
It was a new dawn for Marjorie. All her life she had been stepped on and used. Her family only called when they needed a car to haul dirt in. Her coworkers used her desk, which was really just a shelf, to store the coffee maker and supplies on. And her boyfriend, who moved all his junk into her living room but lived with his secretary because she was one block closer to the subway. He was really going to be upset when he learned his 70's album collection had melted. Marjorie was not going to take any more shit from anyone, especially not this fire thing. “Fuck you fire. I'm going to find out the source of all your power, and I will take you out!” Then with her new found power of rage, Marjorie smote down her neighbor's dog. They watched, horrified, from the kitchen window as Marjorie walked down the middle of the street, their pet pekinese turned inside out and spewing internal gunk onto the fire warmed sidewalk.
The morning news told the story from several eyewitnesses. Calls went out late, as the neighbors didn't bother to phone emergency services until they realized her burning house might effect their ability to collect Marjorie's morning paper. The firetruck didn't come down the street until the fire had thoroughly done its job, and Marjorie met it at the corner. The driver saw her at the last instant and swerved, took out a telephone pole then came to a shuddering halt. Marjorie stomped up to the door and ripped it off the hinges. She pulled the captain down from his seat and consumed him in one gulp. Then she slammed her hands down on the truck, sending it rolling up the hill where it bowled down a large estate and came to rest in the garden fountain. The butler and several ornamental carp were instantly killed.
Marjorie was not a particularly pretty woman, but she did have a normal human human body with all the usual lady parts. Damnation, she was sick and tired of sitting alone on weekends wondering if Hank would come by to put a needle in her record player. A reporter from the Daily Flop got the scoop from Gentleman Erv's Bar and Swill: 'We heard this ruckus from out the door, you know. It was a kaboom, like some big ole cannon, and then the door is stoved in and this lady glowing with righteous indignation comes a'barrelin' in and she screws every guy in the place.' Apparently Marjorie then drank a keg of the best stuff and proceeded to dismantle the building with her breasts. 'When she left we cried. She was the best **** I ever had.'
Helicopters and army reserve tanks followed Marjorie for two days as she walked around the town swearing at sign posts and looking under hills for the source of fire. She entered the local Family Grockery and Condom Hut to pick up a six pack of Dr. Pepper, and when they refused to give her a rain check, because they were out, Marjorie poked holes in all the shrink wrapped hamburger and wove 200 shopping carts into a sculpture of Wink Martindale. She ate the brains of the stock crew for a snack, and found them wanting. So she drank from the tear ducts of the teenage cashiers and found them remorseless. “What kind of world is this?” Marjorie lamented.
Finally, on the third day, the president came to the town in Air Force One to survey the damage, and to appeal to Marjorie's better senses. He flew in with a full retinue of congressmen as well as a family of lookalike stand-ins. By that time Marjorie had dug a deep hole into the side of Mount Receding Hairline and was piling boulders onto Main Street. “I am a glacier!” she shouted to the blackbirds. Everyone else had run away.
The president protected by a force field neared her, and then he spoke these words that he himself had written just moments early, “Marjorie. We wish you would stop being such a bitch.”
Marjorie heard these words and she thought about the words carefully. The president was elected by the people, and he was wise. Marjorie thought very hard, then she reached up into the sky and pulled down every blackbird. She tied all of the bird feet together making them into a conglomeration of winged fury that could transcend the universe, then she attached them to the president's force field with a piece of ire-fused hosiery and lifted the entire mass into the atmosphere, where to this day they circle the cosmos.
But the words struck a chord in her, and she wondered about the fire, and how it had destroyed her home, and how it burned to the ground, leaving nothing but a charred shoe. A shoe.
“Marjorie?” It was the tiny voice of a girl, the dwarf daughter of the President of the United States, the first reluctant astronaut president. She was by a newly enacted 28th amendment to the Constitution now the President of the United States, being the first born of a reigning President who somehow begins orbiting the Earth. “Marjorie, I know how you are hurting,” said Queen President Agnes, “and I would gladly give all of my newly bestowed powers to right this wrong, this horrible deed that has befallen you.”
Marjorie sat on the lawn with her splayed legs pointing east and northeast. She thought about being six, and her doll. And sandwiches.
“But Marjorie,” continued Agnes in a strong voice, “I won't do that, because I want you to be my vice president!” Agnes held up Marjorie's smoldering shoe and fell to one knee, presenting the charred pump to the fury of New Old Brumpton.
She belched as she received the shoe, then smeared the entire retinue over the blacktop with a solid backhand. And with her one shoe and a limp, Marjorie proclaimed for all to hear, “To hell with that, I'm going to eat the world.”
Sunday, November 13, 2011
election day
There are no Stragglers on the moon. Yes, I know. Everyone has seen the hundred foot view screens across the facade of their local EZ Shoppe. I myself have witnessed the gritty footage shot with hand held wrist cams. I've seen oxygen hoodies ripped from the innocent heads of nuns and orphans. But listen – I am here to tell you it's a hoax. All you have seen is staged to propagate inherent fears of moon invasions. Remember the 50's and your great grandparent's fear of UFO's? Or the the Y2K bug? Did your mentors not program into your Flixon Roll-ups the Martian pebble virus of twenty ten? Well, did any of that come to fruition? No, that is not an artificial snack made of colored beet paste! How many casualties have you heard of in the war against UFO's? Did anyone actually get even a head cold or throat tickle from that Y2K bug? No! And the Martian virus, just like the current Straggler Invasion, was a farce. Has your sister ever seen a Straggler? Do you really fear that she will fall to their smarmy come ons and bear toothy big heads? Grow your own cerebral cortex, people. Come out of your illuminated tunnel towers, put down those vegetable cake forks and realize that carrots do not naturally taste like chocolate. For heaven's sake, vote down proposition 99/3. All the 99s are crap designed to keep you and your children under the thumb of Moon State Tech. Maybe everyone you know works for MST. That doesn't mean you have to allow them to tell you what to think. You sir, you can hold your own dick while you pee! Ma'am, you have the right to choose your own brand of spermatozoa! Go for natural instead of prepackaged. Kids, you're old enough to vote – stay out of the pleasure tents on election day. Don't you know that they're only open on Tuesday because that is where your leaders want you to spend all your eligible electing hours? I repeat: vote against proposition 99/3. There is not one shred of evidence that a straggler community even exists on our moon, let alone the idiotic thought that they would have any inkling or ability to invade Earth. Look at our defenses, the stars are so diffused by the curvature of the deflection tiles that we can barely see them anymore. For crying quietly in a hat, how would an invasion force even navigate the criss-cross beams from orbital solar disks? When was the last time any of you even saw a worm or common black ant? Our soil is bankrupt, who would want to invade a sterile planet? The moon has more oxygen and water than we do. The dust there has been converted to loam where pork chops grow, polar ice caps circulate frozen water through self serve tubes that can be heated in a pot and served chilled, or mixed into powder bags for easy nutrition. The Moonies have everything we used to have, and they hold the record for most consecutive flips during free fall. Their government is doled out via vending machines! Put your hand into your pocket. You sir, what is in your pocket? A dime? Remember when your government printed paper money and you didn't have to weigh yourself down with a roll of dimes? Isn't gravity hard enough without plastic coins? A dollar used to buy enough beansteak to feed you and your issued child for an entire day, now it takes twenty dimes to buy crustless boodle. And the defective stitching in your trousers, those same pants bought with your dimes from Moon Tech, causes such an enormous loss in civilian coinage that any ground hugging weasel on Main Street can become a hundredaire in a week. They collect your fallen dimes and flip them into Klantien fiber for their space needles to the sky. Ha! It's the moon that should fear an alien invasion, not the other way around. So what will you do on Tuesday? Dip your feet in a suspect pond and wiggle your toes at the minnows that your leaders manufactured for your so called “good”? Come on men, take off those helmets, the fog isn't really tainted with germs like you're told. And that murmur pumping through the speakers might boost your self esteem, but from the outside you look like blundering mushrooms with twitchy fingers. Everyone, all you women and children, all of you transplants in wheelie terrariums, don't let the authorities steer you toward a fake voting capsule. Do your homework, every organism on this planet is entitled a vote. Bring your cats! Even that pill bug family at the bottom of your nano-compactor is eligible; see amendment 2564. The DNA skirmish at the turn of the century wasn't for nothing. Look up, if you can move your necks. Are those orbiting tombs of the fallen nothing to you? They fought for us all, for you and all your ecosystem. We live on this planet, you and you. And you! Do not fall for any shenanigans, put down proposition 99/3 and tell Moon State where to stick it.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
This has been a counter message from the Society to Quell Nonexistent Threats Division of Moon State Tech. It is our duty to air our lies, and your obligation to be informed of these lies. This message will be displayed for an average time of twelve minutes every day starting today until tonight until every organism on the rotating planet of Earth has had the opportunity to view it. And so it goes, amendment 2465: There, you had your chance (you probably blew it).
Message over. Thank you. Vote for proposition 99/3.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
#5: Of the Treason of Hastius X.
Now, emerging from a delicate spurge
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Thronging the disquiet
So dispassionately dismissed an age beyond
From the union of said disquiet
And mossy stump,
Forthwith emerges the bane of Hastius X
He, X, who then did doth his cap to Aardvark
Once glorious king to Pestilence.
Then he did dispatch of Him
To the disquiet what then did hatch an egg
From the conglobation of the Three
Presented thusly to their liege
In a letter writ and sealed
The disposed King of Pestilence -
Measure for Measure - who haunted He, X
And closeted Miffla with regret of her daughter
Unnamed, the witch.
~
While it then ravaged the land of Pestilence,
The colossus of X, his surly spawn the witch
Who hath taken on a name upon herself
Fatalya
And to her breast this loathsome, winsome wretch
Gathered to her the maid of another house
Crocus, whosoever looked upon her
Shuddered, befallen in perpetuity with a kind of lust
A wild kneed reproach to life
Sated solely by a kiss from the flower.
And Fatalya stroked her hair and whispered spells
Into the golden braids, then set her, Crocus
Upon a dais of the Chaotic Wellsprings
The view from which his Castle, X, aspired
And He who did burn the fields of Pestilence
Under the great toe of the maladroit
Pined from a window for the lustrous Crocus
As did many
And the battle was begun.
~
Not to be outdone, Torquemala, orphan son of Pasty -
He who lay quiet, inflicted morbidly by betrayal, nether dirt
By X - stirred his spleen for revenge.
Marsha Queen of the Pie Plates who unbeknownst to herself
Or others, the exception being the witch, Fatalya
Arranged travel for Crocus who had an eye on Torquemala
Unto the witch, who said to she, Marsha
I will cast on this flower a spell to quiet her hungry eye
Which the witch then did, but heaped upon the spell
A plethora of incantations that could lead only to
Passionate treason in the Pestilent realm.
here be more, the history of Pestilence, one to four.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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