I Wandered Through An Ancient Ruin and Found A Nurse With Wound

The fish is on the counter. "Mum, it's Adam. He keeps trying to put Han Solo in my vagina!" Does something smell odd to you? Like burnt mothballs or a burnt up fat old grandma or something? Est-ce que quelque chose sent impaire à vous? Comme brûlé met en conserve ou brûlé vers le it all wentgreyblackwhite and back again... i still couldn't feel my heart beating in the chest of drawers, only her voice- lilting... endless.. "it's not real, you know. nothing is." but i'll be damned if i let her in. i can't even let mineself outoutinandaround. it all goes lonely in the end, and everyone i've everwilleverknow will be walking along the beach at the edge of the world.
and walking on the edges of the world,in exnovo alliances...collisions ....coalitions.... I wish and I dream,,,,I confess but ny feels are betrayed. so I closed my self in yhe cocoon of my head ... no more speeches,no more words to give to the "slug-sharks" so I was lost and I'll find me there.
I
am
shitting
in a room
a room like no other.
We are sitting in a room, a room like any other. One with marble floors and perpetual debauchery at the far end. Even the frozen sculptures are in on the action, lending their pearly essence to an atmosphere already atomized. Fragmented. What Happened? His bloodshot eyes belied the comforting tone of his voice, indicating that all was not as rosy as he claimed. The investigations started the previous year had continued into this one, and now he would no longer take the train for fear of being locked onto a single path. Only one of his personal planes would suffice to whisk him around, piloted by a trusted member of his entourage. In meetings he would throw those damn hunks of deep-fried peanut butter around the conference table. He always hated the stuffy nature of those meetings. On this day hewould leave a steaming treat in the middle. Perhaps it was the sharks-tooth elixer he drank earlier that drove him to the height of his madness. Or maybe, it was just his way of checking out of life, of eliminating his map from the hectic game of catch-up that had characterized the past few years.
He had been without any contributives. This upset him most dearly. The triumvirate was upsetting to him. This perturbed his most undearly lover. The sky grains had been falling again. He drank one again. He lost thought of consciousness and was for once "free"....
thrid thr kfynimngrslu ;prt kr ksf rmt kski;oppny esd lyyof f90f kpptA lfigthis had no intentions!
We will never be the same again.
Things will never be the same again.
And it was then that he realized that the kitty was not coming back.
Fair 'nough. Kitten never liked bourbon.

Untouch by resistance, the cold marble filter flicked luminously between her thighs.
..and then THE BEASTIE himself appeared (cue knocking at the huge wooden door-not a tappig, polite knockig, or the light bumping of a genteel brass doorknocker, but rather the sound of enraged Vikings attempting to batter down a door, using a rather large uprooted tree).

Or, rather, that's how Eric ( who only sometimes conducted himself like a Viking & who called me "Jules Verne" on 2 occasions, despite the fact that he can/ could clearly tell that I'm a Lass, but this has never stood in his way...) explained the situation to me, which was rather uncommon, considering he'd never bothered to mention it before, & even if he had he would've only muttered & spoken in half-sentances. Which, fortuitously (despite my lack of spelling ability & my school notebook marked "seplling" that the teacher never noticed) I understood/understand perfetly, completely & with every drop of blood in my body & every strand of hair on my head-which is rather a lot, but again, Eric has never allowed this to stand in his way... The problem being, he understood my half-sentances, as I understood his: "The thing is, I.." "Yes, absolutely, because I remember that ..." "Right, before, when I had the.." "At the airport.." "The guy..." "In July, then later when it rained..." "The woman who I spoke to in Russian.." . But nevr really the full sentances. Those were the words thoroughly mis-uderstood...
Stapling himself backwards over lengthwise corned beef flags.
"I'd like a glass of cold gravy with a hair it please."
'begone' i cried and crumbled the biscuits into the ocean
'stick ivag' skrek jag and smulade sonder den ackliga dvarg kakan, gjord utav talanglosa cp-barn, i havet

Chimed toll spoons lifted their weary. The murder of crows shifted the panzer march with the second hand at 3. This was morning and you were dew for a glance. I wandered my eye through screens and fur, coffee tipped to lip. Numerical characters (and alllies) sprung from my fingers, this story creating us as it staggered. Now we face the curvature, I just being slapped by gravity and all its myths. Forward kind cats, we are the
l'estratto naturale del fegato non potrebbe essere messo in una fervida contraddizione con la reale natura chimica del mio cavallo, correggetemi se non dico errato...

..............................idid=nt see(IT) w(H)OSOEVERthinks (in)con-clusively^^mayENDwithout--d-is(may) unto an irregu(l)ar unOBTrusive///disclomglomerative===exstinction/""EEEEEEEEEAAAAAALLLNNNN@***&&&&###!!!!!NoNokNoNoNokNoNaNakNaNaNEkEeenEeKeEeeEeEeeEeeEFFhohJllJiJokjdjJdJlJJlJJlJJlJAAAblAblAnlAAAK VooViKlllKiKuEEllULLULLUNNNNUSSJIJIJIKLhOOOLLLAANJINBEU OOOOGGGGLLLOKIIIKKKLL(MMMMNNNnnoollllifffjiide...................
...Then:

Everything was in readiness. Sambo and Rastus were waiting for the signal from Ole Massah, Jesus had set up the explosives, Wally and The Beav were at their positions, and Todd was getting cocktails. Sarge thought to himself, "It never pays to underestimate those Red Chinee. If we blow this mission, democracy as we know it will be finished." Aloud he said, "I sure could go for some crack cocaine," regretted it, and promptly died of shame.

Meanwhile, at a fog-enshrouded airport, Charles and Dora were holding each other closely. Neither of them wanted this to happen, but it was necessary to the survival of mankind. Charles let go of Dora, went to the backseat of the Hudson, and pulled out the gigantic wooden rainbow trout replica...
when suddenly there was a beach. Through the woods, under the overpass, through the forest, over the tallest hill at the end of the horizon, with a large whopping sound, there appeared a beach.

Which reminds me of the time I was in French Algeria, on assignment with the Rand Corporation to do some fact-finding. They were conducting a feasibility study, but that's not really relevant. I had ingratiated myself into the local aristocracy, namely the Marquis Chlamydomonas Del Monte Gay-Paree, and his wife, the Marquesse Clarissa Alsacia De Licioso.

All things considered, and everything up to that point being forgotten, I probably should not have done what I did, namely knocking up the Marquesse and then getting drunk on absinthe and shooting up the natives with an old blunderbuss, but that's what happened.

Never was one for learning my lesson. Now it's some time later, and I'm in the Balkans, hanging Serbians for kicks. Funny thing is, I'm supposed to be a goodwill ambassador from the Salvation Army. Life sure is fucking funny.

A man runs out of a burning building, shouting: "The cheese stands ALONE!"

Flaming debris falls on a little girl with cancer. Unfortunately, God was revealing the secrets of the universe to her, and His finger slipped.

In the street, Angry White Males lament the slow death of the English language; but even they get hung up on apostrophe rule's.

A serial killer boils fags and juliennes hookers in his apartment, preparing for Saturday's Lutheran Potluck Dinner.

"I'm glad I live in the country," I think to myself, "I can't stand all those weirdos in the city."

It's rather like a clown in the way it bends and folds into itself. Aeroplanes whizzing overhead, buzzing runble of the underground below, nibbity bump nibbity bump. But who am I to say? I can't tolerate that sort of arrangement, being as I am the harbinger of mouldy artifices. Feet! Feet! Feet!, I shout, and the heavens reply only with silence. I hunger only for cheese.

I lit a cigarette, sat back and thought about that dead nurse again. My dead nurse, I said to myself. I got the case, nobody else wants it; no suspects, no leads, nothing. I get stuck with the stiff. And what a stiff! She was beautiful, but not like the girls in the magazines or movies. She was real, all too real. The kind of girl you could look at over and over and always it'd be like you were seeing her for the first time, and you'd promise yourself you'd never see beauty like that again. Why do the beautiful ones always have to die?

Enough of that. I decided to pay a visit to Stinky Fishbits, my favorite informant, on the off-chance that he had a tasty lead for me. I caught a cable downtown, and made my way to Stinky's garret. Knocked once; he was in. True to form, he reeked of cheap gin and bad cigars.
"Hullo, Stinky," I say to him, "How's life, if you can call it that."
"Yeah, nice to see you too, Pal. I can't complain, y'know? That'd require me to have something worth complaining over!" He hacked out some sick drunk-laughter at this bit of insight.
"Talked to anybody lately? Got anything worth sharing?"
"Oh, you know, I've made chit-chat with every bum on the wharf, every hooker on the boardwalk, and every two-bit lowlife scumsucker in front of City Hall. Of course, none o'em know anything you'd care about..."
"Oh?" I flashed a sawski in front of his face. "Suppose you walked into a bar, and Mr. Washington came in with his friends, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Jackson, and Mr. Jackson? What would you say to them?"
He smirked. "Shoot, Pal, it's only Monday. Your gut wouldn't forgive ya if ya had no scratch to feed it, all because you had to pump ole Stinky..."
....and so they fell into the abyss that they keep inanely referring to as life, or least something like it. They never could quite tell the difference, between the dream and the abyss. Everyone was too lost in the blue whir. The pink limbo on the edge, peering over, and floating right off into the warm enveloping space. Like swimming in molasses. And the noise!! You could hear the whales cry circumventing the desert. Filling the valleys with pure sound. And then they got naked and screamed and cried and laughed and then they knew the answers. Somewhere between the green tinge lining the mountain rocks in the distance and the water you could see from afar, though they chased it for hours, it never was. They knew and it mattered not. For it was all fleeting.
A warm rush overtook each performer. Not simultaneously, but successively. The nun dressed like an ostrich was first, the man with golden scalp was the last. Their romance from that point was doomed.

Hideous, waddling secrecy, unknowing fruits of forbidden audacity, and there's your answer! and there's cheese in the city! and there's!

For lack of a better term, things had reached an impasse. Such things can be customarily overcome - all one needs is will, and certain tools - but:

The Exquisite Corpse was a game played by the surrealists which involved one person writing part of a sentence, then passing the paper onto another person who would write the next part, but without seeing the previous section. They would build sentences this way which were said to reveal hidden truths about the authors and the world. This idea was used in many different forms, but the idea stayed basically the same.

What's to be made of this? How do sodomy, detective fiction, and general nonsense reveal hidden truths? Have we descended so far into the Postmodern abyss that we unconsciously deconstruct everything we come into contact with? God damn it, the sky IS blue! Nothing mystical about that, right? The more we seek hidden meanings, the less able are we to see the truth right on the tip of our collective nose. If all are one, then this entire story has been written by the same individual. We are all merely facets of the same mind. We are cut from the same cloth, dyed in the same dye, and savagely raped in the same ass with the same stiff, throbbing member. We are fucking ourselves!
"Just what does all this mean?", asks a voice from the Above and appears as a robed cat for a fleeting moment, after which all is silent for another 5 minutes.
INVOKING THE MUSE: Raging cantilever, O Robert Louis Stevenson of my nightmares, indulge my fiendishness, my unknowing Hamster Dance!

and then came the

really really good

But did it really matter? A feeling like rusted metal came over the Direct Energy Noose, leading him to preponder the bulk of everything that had come before. Feeling suddenly despondent, he looked upward, into the vast maze of pipes that comprised the Generator Room. He happened to espy a sign, which had not previously caught his attention. The sign said:

Promptly, he disbanded in emulsified catarrh. Reaching the Administrators' Offices in Corridor D-23.6a, he found Administrator 22-87.6-12B still at his desk, finishing some paperwork. He blurted out his shocking discovery. Administrator 22-87.6-12B sat quietly for a moment, looking pensive and uncertain and diffused.
"That damnable sign. I thought I ordered it removed 25 years ago! The request must have gotten lost in Central Bureaucracy, the louts...Well, you did right, Mr. Noose. A lot of people looked at that sign and promptly broke down from shock. Can't let that happen - bad for morale, y'know? Don't worry, I'll get it taken care of first thing tomorrow. Go ahead and go about your work."
As the Direct Energy Noose left his office somewhat sullenly, Administrator 22-87.6-12B appeared outwardly calm, but inside his mind, wheels were beginning to turn.

Life was chafing. The blasphemous heat was gyrating sinuously into my cavities, elucidating all fallacies, in the manner of an exuberant cockroach. Incensed? Hell, it was like a raped tarantula around here for a while. The logic farts at midnight, as the universe moans towards a miasmic, masturbatory conclusion.
"I have found undoubtable proof that you don't exist, mister", said the conductor, and Syd Barrett adjusted his tie. "But I do", said Syd, laughing, while George Dorn, standing behind him, started to look nervous. The conductor replied with a serious look on his face: "I'm a frayed knot", he said. Break, paragraph or emphasized text: in hell there are thousands and thousands of colors.

At this point, the Invisible Tsar railed with fury from atop his giant tortoise. The nonsense which had piqued his ire was coming from the vicinity of the Blasphemous Text, a popular nightclub imported from Anarctica.
The President, one Scissor Rock-Bicycle, ordered tactical air strikes on the Green Meadows housing division.
Traction? Hell, it was like a rampant diversion around here for a comma.
All three of them climbed down clamouring from the gallows tree and made the way to the nearest pub to celebrate avoiding the haging garden's pinch for another day. The time the spent at the secret hospital was far enough to get to know the black porus cranies holding the various viscous fluids that woiuld make upo the nignt's haunts of light storms and bubbles.
Nearly run down by his own rocks, he folded his cancelled bloopers up into the rock-blood
which leaked from still injured false salesmen whose hemoglobin peaked in the jetty's spiral of black teeth!

But as long as everyone gets their aphorism, there can be no rampage of distaff maledictions. In their reverie, everyone in the world composed a haiku, a limerick, and a sonnet about vermillion butter in the serious moonlight. Only one person was not participating in this great jubilation. His name was.
"Imbed the HTML directly into the text...", Philip read for the 12th time, and was slowly becoming obsessed with this mystical message. Who, or what, was the HTML, and how could he be "imbedded" into the text? Which text, by the way. He imagined the HTML to be an ancient being of great power, the name probably coming from one of those old languages which use no vowels in writing. The pronounciation, then, should probably be "Hutummel", but of this, naturally, he could only speculate. He continued reading.
the secret hospital requires LABS of this ...
the secret hospital requires LABS of this ... LABS requirED Labs of the secret haHaspital STAFF........
LABS requries Labs of the secret ha haaspitlital.
aesthethiacne

I grew tired of the flitting clydes in Queertown and headed for some company of my own kind. The Wrong Gee, a bar on the corner outside my building. Lots of gumshoes kick back there, so I can always find someone to have a human conversation with. The bartender knows me by the size of my tab.
"How's the world treating you, Bill?" he says, offering me a glass of cheap whisky. "I know you'll pay me later, Bill," he says with a smirk.
"I know if I don't, you'll sic on me that hideous gimp you keep in the back room."
"That's my cousin I have locked up in there, you know - keeps the unruly types in line. I'll ignore the slight to my gene pool and ask again, how's the world treating you, Bill?"
"Frankly, sir, I feel like a sentimental mercenary in a free-fire zone. I feel like I've been dipped in vermillion butter and nibbled by approaching darkness fishes."
I wondered where in hell those words came from. That was the first time I suspected I might be in over my head...

And as he continued reading, many great things were revealed; answers to ancient questions were given and mysteries were explained and deepened. For example, he now understood that the Disco Duck was only a modernized alter ego, a codename, for the mystic lord of cosmic confusion known in the old texts as the Discord Dugpa. He was also informed about the connection between the Icelandic secret organization called KUKL, the KU KU KU Trilogy, and the Swedish cult of KUK LUX (Glan), the latter being mainly dedicated to worship of "male sexual power" and luxury, and the leaders of which were inhabitants of the Swedish lake Glan. Somewhere around chapter 23, he was lost among the great fur trees of the Forest, and when he came out many truths appeared to him clearly for the first time.
"za-za-za-za-za-za-za-za-za-ZA-ZA-ZUUUUUM!!!" "What was that?" "Dunno" "Paul from Reverbaphon is a steaming cat's fanny" "Yeah?" "Oh yeah" "za-za-za-za-za" "So it was you after all" "No, I just find it quite catchy. You sing with me this time" "No"
Painting himself with a large tulip until he resembled a baked apple, Steven eventually tired of his vast blanket and tore another strip from the wardrobe. "It's Oxygen", he thought loudly, peeling of his beard to make way for the new one had just fashioned from a devise behind a pea.

In a divisive, decisive fashion, the end of the all time and space stopped at a roadside cafe for a chicken fried steak sandwich. The end of all time and space looked rather weary, as it had been on the move for some time, crossing the whole of the Universe in order to make its grand appearance on Earth, which was the only place to express a concern about its existence. The end of all time and space was very intrigued when it first heard about this odd little backwater planet, with its odd little grouping of assorted backwater consciousnesses. When it discovered that many of the entities on the odd little planet were utterly engrossed with the study and prediction of its arrival, the end of all time and space just knew it would have to stop by and pay them a visit. Infinity is a long time to search for an audience, it thought to itself.
Not wanting to sneeze, she inserted three fingers into her throbbing blender. Each separate tentacle worked and waved like small black steaks. "I won't tell", she whispered.
Where is the tree? It's fruit makes me sick. Fascist crayons...they're gonna kill you, they're gonna kill me. But then...then they're gonna BURN and MELT and run down the driveway. The mailman will drive over them. I have hid in the garage from the ice cream man before and I can damn well do it again...
And that is how it is. That exact moment when you know that you are going to die. So what do you do? It's not about the Kool-Aid, actually is has nothing at all to do with Koo-Aid. But there is still that connection between RuPaul and Paul Reubens, there is no denying that. And those damn little Polynesian girls that work naked in the electricity factory. But we are all God's children in this factory. Electricity is not free, ya know...but faster than the quickest sloth. The little retarded boy across the street, as he sets up tolls at the end of the street. But no one will ever give him a dollar, they laugh at him but they're won't give him any money. You can't nail up a shower curtain...even if all the crackwhores in the neighborhood drill holes in the wall, if we were talking about crucifying the children with cancer......this would all be different.

Night after night the cheese barrage continued. The nations of men flocked together as various amalgams of spoilt milk rained upon them, and the nations of beasts lamented every damned thing. Today, Casual Friday was declared a national holiday, and now it falls on the fifth Tuesday of each month. If a month does not have a fifth Tuesday, the nearest convenient walrus will hurt the one you love. The unspeakable hideousness of it hit me right in the G-spot. Jissom? The AIDS of it all! I snaffle rancidly at the mucid air, and wait.
Wait...

Dirty. How dirty I am. Skin smells like coffee. Ears jammed with pointless sounds. Sleep cracked. Head torn apart. That night I first noticed that her wrists might be thinner. Like a permanent goodbye. Crucified on my Catherinewheel I dreamt... and dreamt... and went on dreaming away the things that would never happen, so goodbye to you only, may the bliss of both Worlds be forever with you. Happiness to your Heart. Love. Why, she'll never surf these cyberwaves of shattered symbols... When I was a boy, I wished I had a sister. I wanted to make love to her, and no one else, but I didn't have one...

this is a
test
/* It is just like Christmas.
Many of us will not make it back.
But it will not make it better. v4.0.43 */

int main()
{
int milk, pornographic_oyster = 0;
int temp, orchid, francine;
cout<<"Ghosty Ghostette sent me...";
while (temp!=orchid)
{
if (milk==pornographic_oyster)
francine = -1;
else
{
RefreshSilkenSquid(0,0,640,480,);
FeedBeasts(temp);
CheckThing(FOREVER_JOYLESS,0);
PressTheButton();
}
SubmitNew(milk,pornographic_oyster);
cout<<"Shooter McBangBang Snacks'n \n";
cout<<"Shelf life extended\n";
cout<<"Alliteration = "< temp++;
}
Gone_Forgotten();
return 0;
}

I am convinced that unseen forces control my thoughts with lasers. "Charlie," I says, "They are aiming them at me night and day so's I can no longer sleep peacefully, rather staying up through the night fearing for my life and my sheep!"
Charlie says, slow-like: "I believe ye, Willard. God willing I could make myself not, yet I cannot doubt the truth of what I've seen and heared. Just the other day, I see's a truck down the way. S'nobody I know, so's I look real close at it, an I see's the truck is lettered "JANCL" on the sides, which I believe to stand for "JEWS AND NEGROES CONTROL LASERS", an I will swear to my grave that it is the truth."
"Charlie, that's a raspberry! Your dragon style is strong, but my tiger style is stronger. It's a load of rich creamery butter, no, it's vermillion butter, detective story without end, amen."
Needless to say, communication between the two paranoid old crackers had thoroughly broken down at this point. And all because they had missed the mark completely about who really controlled the lasers...

It wasn't clear at first, but while the sun lowered into the ground, the children of the cottage learned what it was they forgot. Even worse, it seemed as though no one actually cared to look around. A day for foolish men ate graciously at the relation to that which was divine. Finally, it was the younger of the two middle children that asked for something unexplored.
wandering in a sky of shreded stars

Impossibility? Your veal, my mischief. How can what passes for "news" be reliable, when even fate pulls a rutabega in its vast conceit? If it's all just bricks in the wall, there is no accounting for the enormous key sticking between my shoulder blades, and I would do well to abandon all Marxists. An invisible schooner howls its lonesome song in the night, sight unseen, as eternity prepares for what's to come. Muss es sein? Es muss sein. Asdf.
It was late in the afternoon when I left the bar and went back to my office. There was a woman waiting for me (Isn't there always? a voice asked. The voice wasn't mine, but it rang clearly within my skull...).
"Are you Mr. William Crumbduck, Private Eye?" she asked.
MEANWHILE...
after he became conscious again, he said to the muse "never distrust others and always believe the impossible can happen".
i believe in miracles (well not quite). i mean, when can we regard unexpected things as miracles? i think it is when the dices are rolling out.
Then the fur dodging bleak smiler began singing "Methylated Spirit Smells Upon My Breathing And Colours In My Nards". He had forgotten what he was upset about, now he was sated by wanking. The less he slept the less he felt the need the further he was from a mattress. "I have Eyes in my Hair" he shouted. Soon the precinct would be destroyed by his explosives. It didn't matter if they spotted him. "I have Hair Upon my Whole Body, I am Alvisionary Haystack, I am Weed Barrel Pouring, I am Native Protuder..." Sense collision enamel plaque tiles screwed squareforth and bending at the rigging within the time of Cider Sea and postures vogues dementers and pillockers of fillages. They know! They know! The night helmsman cackled at the noise of the warped air and revelled in the solitude, by darkness ignoring the soul of the wheel he was fondling, so much was it his pet. "These are my friends, I make them." In an underground barbarian penthouse, wearing disguises of sewage.

Mister Kroppo lifted his eyes from the text, and replaced them in their appropriate sockets. His face, now whole again, was an expression of utter, gut-wrenching, mind-scrubbing, jizz-mopping disbelief. "What, if I may ask, the fuck??? This cannot be real, what I am reading here right now. Obviously I am in the throes of nightmare, condemned to spend my night reading this preponderously preposterous alleged epic."
A 25-ft tall Hippie replied largely, "Naw dude, it's a post-pancreatic self-help novella for the Banal Generation. This is actually the dream; only the story is real.
"As cats mate at your window, so will you too find your destiny among the myriad of characters. But for now, back to the made-for-TV trauma." Hippie's gone. What happened to the other sixteen?
But they were really seventeen. And one of them was the one called Santa. Another was Fnord Peter Christopherson, who is also the protagonist of the following events. Fnord Peter Christopherson transformed before the eyes of the three misanthropic bimbos. First, he changed into an angel of fire, then into four small plastic cones, and finally into an amount of oxygen atoms the total weight of which equalled Fnord P's weight in his human form. And thus he was now being inhaled and exhaled not only by the three females in the room, but also by a large black bird that had just landed outside the open window, and that would later commit the mass murder of 4300 people in Europe. As the bird took off and flew over the city, Fnord P. looked at the city below and simultaneously witnessed the
Observance and obesiance. I have $.15 to my name, and I'll damn well use it as I see fit. I simply can no longer afford to finance your lifestyle and, since the cows seem to have come home, I'm damn well going to butcher one because I haven't eaten dinner in six months! If the fat lady sings, tell her to choke on a cock. When you sacrifice a rooster on Walpurgis Night, you always get six-sixty-six. Mark of the beast. Those without the mark could not purchase, nor could they sell. Goat's head soup. Get a free can when you use your credit card to buy $10 or more.

I CURSE ALL GODS!

Why would someone decide to plunge their hands into the garbage compactor? Art for art's sake? I think not. More likely, he grew tired of the words echoing in his head, echoing like mad ramblings from his own subconscious.

"I wouldn't have sex with that, if I were you."

If only I had listened to the fermenting groundhog sooner, I wouldn't be in this

Cognizant, repulsed, it continues. It continues to increase, this madness. It continues, omnipresently, metempsychosis, standard reasoning, how long have I been like this has it only been three days since I talked to that character in Queertown, now I see fnords in all the papers, and screaming whispers reverberate in my subunconscience, nattering nabobs of wherewithal, it continues. If this is insanity, I thought to myself, I am clearly insane.
- So you tell yourself, I told myself presently, tense. Sleep would be welcomeughed up another glob of leprous gunk, and cursed the hooker with dysentery and that night under the Pier. I'll never mix Everclear and Gatorade again, God, just take this horrible hobgoblin from my tormented shoulder!til my dreams are no longer haunted.
- Should have become a podiatrist instead of a private eye, you fool. As yourself, I request that you.
To freak out is, finally and indeed, to break out - they differ only with a single letter, a single   symbol   - does it mean a thing?
Exquisite corpse is eaten by worms we are. Prophet is that married to Tiamat's deathless soul. Calling for Shakti may cause a repulsion to the Earthly. It burns.
God is upon the funeral pyre now, and the Soul is His Widow. Suttee. The Soul she must follow her Husband. Amen.
Burn out your feminine soul! Tear it away through a rageous immolation! Rise up straight - now a mighty Destroyer - and take the hand of Kali, lead Her forth to the Altar of Hate-to-the-Earthly, the Altar of Love. Amen.
The prophet he leadeth Her. I don't know where, but his hand She has taken. Does She know that? Does he know that? Friends. Friends. Cool down. Friends. There would have been more deaths - if it wasn't for the bursts. The bursts of blood. The shallowness of tedium. The most horrible - ignorance. Mutual ignorance of Nothing. But now we know - it is but an illusion. And i am a consistent piece of shit. Cool down. Relax. Murder. Spit. Life.

the distinguished gentlemen was appalled by this proposal: "whatever in the world made you want to revive such ghastly apparatus?" There was an awkward silence then, as the thin veil at once tore, allowing all gathered a simultaneous and mutually terrifying glimpse into the blackened earth and the teeth.
Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage; Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne. De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi? Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
Ridebis, et licet rideas. Ego, ille quem nosti, apros tres et quidem pulcherrimos cepi. 'Ipse?' inquis. Ipse; non tamen ut omnino ab inertia mea et quiete discederem. Ad retia sedebam; erat in proximo non venabulum aut lancea, sed stilus et pugillares; meditabar aliquid enotabamque, ut si manus vacuas, plenas tamen ceras reportarem. Non est quod contemnas hoc studendi genus; mirum est ut animus agitatione motuque corporis excitetur; iam undique silvae et solitudo ipsumque illud silentium quod venationi datur, magna cogitationis incitamenta sunt. (3) Proinde cum venabere, licebit auctore me ut panarium et lagunculam sic etiam pugillares feras: experieris non Dianam magis montibus quam Minervam inerrare. Vale.
There is no love that is not an echo.

 








"
i trusted that wooden doors ached no more in the belly of sarah. i take her down. her lip holds open my eyes, and they are both dry, and i stencil the code on her throat, and she swallows a red and inky thing, thouroughly exhausted, the fumes drifting to her face. i replace the canister, extinguish all the lights except for that one, close the door...
 there is a yellow staircase with spotlights between the trees, and i remember the rust that builds up from beneath. this will not bother my teeth any more. i unglove my left hand and i take hold and then i go up, then down, then up once more, down ; !SHIT!, okay, up once more, and then i stay going up. and i am in the air with organs overly-full, glands swelling to pickled-serene-henhouse levels, and i pick a plum, blue, from its stocking and i will swallow it whole; there are tics on my buttock but i dont mind. there are no hairs but one, a thick, oily hair in the center of her forehead. and not a bloody discharge, but a chocolate fetus. Robert Graves said he would never partake of it; instead, he will beat his balls in full ceremonial armor...
                                     ...
                                 ...
                             ...

 A QUIET LIGHT SEPERATES THE TREES AND FINDS MY FEET AMONG NUMEROUS TUMORS OF ANCIENT ROOT AND CARTESIAN MOSS. 'THE GRAPHS PUZZLE ME...'
 AND THE SPELL IS TRIGGERED.

                  "




















 
 

 the staccato party timed out, and she left the parking lot, breast meat and all. all children must go to waste. waste her ribbons, and curse the metal to shreds. shreds contained in midwest cellars, cocking the rebar against the clay.
  and it is dark and special. special like the place for tornados and their green vomitus. purple like vambraces against the night...
                                                                         ...
                                                                     ...
 A deity kneels at the foot of this silent house. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, palms brought together. She is looking up through the gently waving fans of oil palm into the sky. There are thirteen plates set out of thirteen cats, im holding the smallest one...
                                                               ...
                                                           ...










 

The air heavy with jelly like the first few moments of sunrise greeted me at the door. Setting my sights to the ocean I gazed beyong the orange to lock my fingers into a clenching fist. DAMN MY FEET! I couldn't move. Vultures with perfectly coiffed hair were circling me in an attempt to lure me into their nest. The air was heavy and I had to eat my way out.
The music tapped on his ears like cold fingertips on glass. The twinkling like breaking glass ignited his eyes and the steel chilled his fingertips as the blades glimmered in his hands. The rushing sensation within drove him to oblivion and back....he needed this. He closed his eyes and felt the scratchiness of his throat as he swallowed; felt the small beads of sweat running from his matted hair to his chin; like insects crawling on his face. He heard the microscopic scuttling of a roach as it moved across the concrete floor, a brown blur. He slowly lowered the tip of his boot onto the insect, feeling more than hearing the crunch that the insect made as it was destroyed. The music was building now. It was time. He took his gear and stepped through.
My wheels were getting stiff and I decided to head into the local greasy spoon. Some cannibal children were searching their pockets for wooden blocks as I walked in. I nearly passed out; I had been making smithereens the just a few hours ago, and it had certainly taken its toll.

AGAIN:

In hindsight, it would have been better had I stayed home that fateful Friday the 13th but Fate (as opposed to fate mere fate) had different plans for me so it seemed and what could I do but follow through on them I mean I was helpless in the crushing grip of Destiny (by the capital "D" I imply more of a personification or anthropomorphic abstraction rather than a mere concept or blind force but since everything is coming out in caps right now does it really matter) so I had no choice but to press on just press on into what could best be described as a big fucking mess to say the least
And yet I couldn't bring myself to think of it as anything else I mean what do you do when a masked man comes to your house in the middle of the night spouting crypting nonsense while holding a loaded schnauser to your head and telling you it's all for your own good I mean I had no choice but to listen and listen I did to a most amazing story (and this is all on the preceding Thursday the 12th) about a lost civilization and how I was some kind of "Chosen One" and you could really hear not only the capitalization but even the quotation marks when he said it but as soon as he had vocalized to such an extent he had gone leaving me with a head full of utter gibberish which was strangely compelling despite itself and myself feeling compelled despite myself and the gibberish hitherto exposited
Now what does any of this have to do with what's happening now namely my sitting beneath the awning of a French cafe' sipping espresso with a man I know only as "Mister Guy" you might be wondering well it goes a little like this you see I was sitting at home the other night (Thursday the 12th) when all of a sudden this masked man comes into my house pointing a schnauser at me claiming it is in fact "loaded" and the masked man goes on to say that I am the "Chosen One" and I must go to the lost city to recover the treasure but first I must contact his business partner who he referred to cryptically as "Mister Guy" so I go all the way to Paris France (I live in Toledo myself) to meet this Mister Guy person and find out that not only does he have a swell apartment in a lively part of town but also the man is a real conversationalist I mean right now he's got seven or eight of the locals involved in this big nothing in which he's just going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on
Must be somebody new here and now.
and thats when i pulled out my saucepan, only to find out that it was actually an old tarnished war medal that my transexual uncle had given me when i was a smaller kind of child. a child to whom the world was a giant zoo cage, brimming over with horses and knives.
This gypsy manwomanbeast whispered into my ear secrets known to everybody but me. hark!! sadness drips from my sockets like basement walls during a terrible storm of liquids and electricity. Veins of chunky rotted meat, all pink and stench filled, like the air of civilization. people breathing filthy words upon one another. Hark!
And his already recognized propensity for spontaneously melting directions were blowing bubbles into a tiger's navel.
"Smile, or die!" he commanded. "A bald man should always smile." I awaited the axe in orgasmic trepidation.
i was wandering through those wandering woodds and slipping down green hills of slime. It was a tragedy you see it was a beautiful disaster to find me lying there tripping atoms and suddenly i looked up above me and saw a bee w/out a hat who called me a fool. I laughed as my heart bled and died that one insane day.
A waffler's contribution of moon-chips thoroughly ensnared all who lurked in consumptive silence, all motion equivocated with startled breaths like cthonic armour. The weeds were choked with tiny atomies driven by great subsonic Clydesdales, whose pernicious whiffling reverberated counterclockwise in time and retroactively caused the entire Dada movement, whose reverberations we're still feeling today, forward in time and frozen like cherry bomb-pops
CAN FRUIT JUICE BE PHALLIC LET ALONE ERECTILE?
in your grocer's freezer, like some perverse option you don't want to consider yet keep coming back to. In the end, all options will be meaningless. All points will be moot. It'll all be academic, because SCHOOOOOOOOOOOOL'S OUT! FOR! SUMMER! SCHOOOOOOOOOOOOL'S OUT! FOR! EVER!
Praise the Lord. Did you know you can Praise the Lord at any hour of day or night, because God keeps extended hours? But don't even bother from about 2am to 5:30am, because the crew is worthless at those times, most of them hanging out in the back getting stoned. Once the breakfast rush starts coming in, then you wanna do it. The crew is sharp, crisp, like a Belgian Waffle with French Canadian Bean Soup.
A plot nexus manifested itself in Times Square, and from the sky fell Doctor Spock, late infantilist, and Mister Spock, eminent logician. The first Spock (L.I.) was rightfully bemused by the sight of the second Spock (E.L.), and the two began an animated conversation, which has been transcribed for the public. At the public's request, it will also be made available in Spanish, French, Creole, Ebonic, Aramaic, Sanskrit, and Braille.

SPOCK (L.I.): Life is so strange when you don't know your destination.
SPOCK (E.L.): What are words for, when nobody listens anymore?
SPOCK (L.I.) (concerned): I seem to have lost my spectacles! Kangaroos must have wrested them from me in Albion, IL.
SPOCK (E.L.) (turning away in disgust): I will not venture to speculate on the spectacle before me, namely a diapered man searching in vain for his specious specs.
SPOCK (L.I.) (frantically now): Spock! You've...got to help me!
SPOCK! (E.L.) (stepping to a nearby podium to address the whores and johns in Times Square): Pornography is the greatest vice to this society! Men are drawn into the snares of flesh-worship from birth. From birth! Is this any way to maintain the health of the social organism?
SPOCK (F.L.I.) (petulantly): Does anyone care about my problems? (angrily now)Think of everything I did for this world, and nobody will help me find my Goddamned bifocals! Bunch of cocksuckers and knob-jockeys, you!
SPOCK (E.L.&A.P.C.): Look at this pour soul at my feet (gesturing to the now near-catatonic Doctor)! Clearly he has lapsed into infantile delerium from excessive masturbation, a tragedy which could easily have been prevented if he'd purchased my latest handbook, Snatch as Snatch Can (Poontang Press, $24.95 hardcover, paperback coming soon), a convenient how-to for young men who want to sow their wild oats in a sin-free manner. Come on up and buy a copy, folks, there's plenty to go around. You know, I'll be on Good Morning America this Friday talking about my book and
(Regrettably, the remainder of the conversation is lost to us, due to the horrific tragedy which then took place, which you all know as the passenger jet which crashed into Times Square, after being hijacked by a schizophrenic private eye. All the passengers, including the hijacker, were killed, along with both Spocks, and most of the people on the scene who were attending the late Mr. Spock's (L.E.L.&A.P.C.) address.)

being a sad long bot of rye, i banananed my way along a piss pane of larvae and sank enjoyably into my mess. you too can eat . you too can beast.


But first, a haiku:


elastic dog had buried the genome of the killer contagion in a special place. it was near where the old man sat, everyday, muttering. jesus was here, treading water, about two thousand years ago
keep your haiku klickyclicky click. tst. pst. swaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
i wanna fuck you like your momma fucked your daddy up the ass with some kind of leather bat. ahh, but i'm getting old, and squeamish. you'd think it was the other way around, but no, it's so fucking jaded and i have so many places where i can get away with murder.
immaculate conception, i am a vessel for a billion virion. come, fuck me. now.
and you are just a forgery! a tasty forgery, full of luscious, palpable evil in it's most playful, delightful form.
that's why i have to love you, that's why you have to touch and even embrace the virus that kills so slowly, so many, so slowly.
everyone has to die of something. hurrah! love, in annihilation. whee! come fuck me, take me to the centre of that annihilation

hiv disease is manageable,