AN EXQUISITE CORPSE OF SORTS

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


Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4 The Liquid Tortoise was a game played by the Sexual Harassment Centre which involved one Heidi writing part of a Francis Pym, then passing the blunderbuss onto another tampon who would write the next fedora, but without seeing the Marcel Marceau. They would mulch tarantulas this way which were said to reveal hairy moussakas about the Dr Spocks and the dromedaries. This ichthos was used in many disposable nappies, but the implants stayed pendulously the same. This iDEATH was pillaged into the 'Pat Boone Story' which is micturationally what I am prepucing here, where each Quentin Crisp adds a seedcake to the anorexia where the preposterous tales of Ken McKenzie left off. Howeverandever, Demis, you can defenestrate The Electric Eels' "Agitated/Cyclotron" 7" by performing your morning ablutions paralytic. Headless Horseflies action figures are not interminable, so if you whelk a venison bolus, parakeet dropping, or Kathkali Temple dancer you'll have to call the whole fling off. "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.

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 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.

ADVICE

Wish for nothing, and everything will be yours, but only if you die of cancer or some other horrible disease. Celebrities always go to heaven, even the ones that fuck gay junkies and get AIDS. Weasels ripped my flesh, and they're coming for you tomorrow.

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.

CHAPTER MCMV.23.1.0a

"Sisyphus Canoe Overbite"

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!

Wishful

THiNKiNG

and not enough getting done,

and then came the

really really good

part!
For it was THEN, my brothers, that the flaming incandescence, the insidious wheeze of psoriasis, did vex and infiltrate him unto the brink of madness!
Only after the consumption of many pints of Jagermeister was he able to riposte in a conniving fashion.
But it

Wasn't
Good

Enough

WAS IT?
and she said, "oh my look at that little puppy; i'll take it", and i snickered.
And George Dorn woke up. The Pores of Deception were closed, momentarily. And, he thought, what now? There was waiting...a lot of waiting. The Gmood interspangled itself without a glim, while George manically counted the sycamore trees in the garden. Dugpa! he cried out, his white TEETH exposed to the cold wind: 22! There were 22 sycamore trees. So, let's talk about Judy.

The earthiness, if only.
He ratified a Touch-Lite, baiting its pulchritude. I am a shrubber!
This is the King James Edition of your slow, painful death. Words of Christ appear in red.
The words of "Bob", since they are colorless and all colors at once, can only been heard through a fly's ear, and seen through a fly's eye. In the beginning, was the FNORD.

I awoke with a start, visions of TV test pattern Indians vanishing to the back of my mind. I probably wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon, so I fixed myself a rum and rum, and checked my watch: 10 A.M...figures. I opened the door, squinted against the surly San Francisco sunlight, and pulled the morning paper in quick. More headlines about the Pretty Dead Nurse. I had to do something with this damned case, to compensate for the other 5 or 10 murders which were happening each night and not getting fair press. Cynical, I thought to myself, just a cynical old dick, bleeding rich clients and sitting on his ass waiting for clues to fall from Heaven...

Considering the weird dreams I'd been having ever since my investigation began, I decided to play a hunch. I headed down to the Exquisite Corpse, a surrealist club in Queertown. The fruits really "dug the scene", and sometimes they knew stuff the Department hadn't caught on to yet.

1:30 P.M. Queertown. The Exquisite Corpse was quiet this time of day, just a few fags nursing cocktails, listening to Dizzy on the jukebox, waiting for the evening crowd to move in. I headed to the bar and struck up a conversation with a young, crew-cut, advertising exec type fruit in a sharkskin suit. He
***** WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU AN IMPORTANT BULLETIN. THE WORLD, AS WE KNOW IT, HAS ENDED. FILM AT 11. *****
up and down the sidewalk, elephants and Cajun dissemblers. Never would have figured 'em for skainsmates.
I chose to do it a different way. I waited and waited and waited, and it never came. It seemed like it would, starting slowly. progressing a little bit closer, then closer still, but it would always disappear before coming into full view.
And Syd Barrett BRUSHED HIS TEETH. And Dale Cooper BRUSHED HIS TEETH. And things were brought together, and they spiralled and turned, faster and faster.
"And the day shall come when certain people, scattered all over the world, will write a story, each author adding a contribution to the previously written. And the story shall never end. And every 23rd word shall continue a secret code, a Key to the Great Understanding. And the participants shall live in the illusion that it is they who write the story, while the actual Truth is that the story is writing itself, using the innocent fingers of those oblivious authors, controlling their minds with the help of that ancient spirit we know as MKULTRA." (Malaclypse the Further, 1817)

TV

I have some ideas for next seasons lineup. Theyre comedies, you know? So tell me what you think of these. Heres the lowdown on the first one: OK, Americans love mobsters, right? Think theyre cute and fascinating and all. But surrealist poets, theyre not so hot on them. Most people wouldnt know Tristan Tzara from a hole in their head, right? So heres my idea: A sitcom, OK, about a family of mobsters, but one of the sons is, get this, a surrealist poet! In the first episode, our protagonist is torn between his dads order to whack an informer, and his innate desire to compose a stream-of-consciousness epic about clown shoes! Its guaranteed laughs, man!
The Vice President of programming gave no response.
Well, in that case, try this out: Americans love dumb blacks, right? But Nazis, most folks hate em, OK? So, we take a family of Nazis, and the parents have a son who is, inexplicably, black! But the father sucks in his pride and takes the, for lack of a better phrase, boy, into his home anyway. He ends up being a bumbling janitor for a banking firm called, get this, Rosenfarb and Goldschmidt. Hilarity has got to ensue! The VP of Programming sat quietly for a moment, giving the kid an appraising stare. OK kid, I like your perspective. But, I have an idea of my own I want you to try working with. Chew on this: A fiercely conservative, Roman Catholic family, with a militant gay son with AIDS. Give me a seasons worth of funny, and Ill make you head writer! Boss, Ill give you two.

CHAPTER .025: A STRANGE INTERLUDE

(In a sense, that. To understand fully the details of my story, it is necessary to) drop all pretenses and speak straight, even if for the first time in your life. I awoke one morning, realized, I might not have much longer to live (it was Saturday). ,and fell to the ground. LAUGHING: There no superlatives, excess, bumbershoot. (And having done so, rose, smelled again, compensated. I) No earthly connexion? I wondered.

NO CARRIER

Wishful thinking. A HAMSTER. I wrote this at work. [{(Actually, all things considered, and all other things having been forgotten), squelch. I am not especially encouraged Earthen? Tumescent? (A coke for four. I pass up in increments, various inches. Truth be (Told), I encroached on a feeble weevil, full past noise.
The more I

LOOK

at it,
The more I

LIKE

it.

Kind of like twice-baked potatoes, I thought. Yellow like enamel-colored tacks. Like the gallows.)

Like a soundtrack for rubella. }]
As the Direct Energy Noose uncoiled from its safety compartment a small onlooker imagined the flooding of the Netherlands. "Their roads have no camber, and all those greenhouses would be like a subaquarium...Are they ready?" There was a sprinkle of evil in him now. He could easier avoid those nanobotic raratouille products and stop sneering but all goodness took effort. Thinking, sideways, backwards, into and via the lives of others...The Direct Energy Noose, a missionless assassonaut, emptied its blackness into his timberframe cells, opened another seam for the Central Generators.

Notwithstanding certain extenuating circumstances, and for the sake of everything else, the Direct Energy Noose revamped the last switch. All Central Generators were online!

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:

IF YOU ARE READING THIS, YOU HAVE OBVIOUSLY REACHED THE STAGE IN YOUR CAREER IN WHICH YOU ASKED YOURSELF, "DOES IT REALLY MATTER?"

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...

Go ye now, into the fields,
And tell ye the politicians of Amerika, in one voice,
"The babies have exploded!"
Then light thy farts in unison,
And savor the sweet aroma of community.

THROW MORE TINDER IN THE GRIME. BLOW UP YOUR DADDY.
one small dot a minor space enveloped by the shining blue surface of falling rain

Hepatitis. We shall try it another way.
The Liquid Tortoise was used in the blunderbuss onto another tampon who would mulch tarantulas this way which is. He keeps trying to put Han Solo in my heart beating in many disposable nappies, but without seeing the edge of the anorexia where the edge of drawers, Demis, Demis, but i'll be damned if i let mineself outoutinandaround. Howeverandever, so if i let mineself outoutinandaround. it all goes lonely in the blunderbuss onto another tampon who would mulch tarantulas this way which involved one Heidi writing part of a burnt mothballs or Kathkali Temple dancer you'll have to the blunderbuss onto another tampon who would write the preposterous tales of a game played by performing your morning ablutions paralytic. Howeverandever, Demis, you whelk a game played by the edge of Ken McKenzie left off. This iDEATH was used in many disposable nappies, only her in the implants stayed pendulously the Marcel Marceau. They would write the same. nothing is micturationally what I am prepucing here, it's Adam. nothing is on the whole fling off. it all goes lonely in the whole fling off. This iDEATH was a game played by the Sexual Harassment Centre which were said to you know. Howeverandever, it's not interminable, it's not real, so if you can defenestrate The Electric Eels Agitated/Cyclotron 7 by the dromedaries. Mum, you know. but the next fedora, but without seeing the whole fling off. it all goes lonely in the preposterous tales of Ken McKenzie left off. nothing is. Mum, so if i can't even let mineself outoutinandaround. They would mulch tarantulas this way which were said to the next fedora, or something?
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...


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.

Who can it be now?
Helpmesomebodyhelpmesomebodyhelpmesomebodyhelpmesomebodyhelpmesomebody
I mean the Vigilante earned his moniker...

Wingless liberation from life's charms - could it pass just slightly a better way? Stealth may not be for ever. Stealth may not be for good. i'm taken out of fire now i'm cold and dead. i don't care about myself - i thought i didn't now i really don't - about anything but the unjustice of the way the doggy gods have treated my GoodbyeHeart. i cursed all gods. i curse them on and on and back again. Long goodbye hollows in my heart, which is my soul, which is my nothing now. i could've been warmer. Would it matter anyhow? i'd like to walk an empty street and dissipate in the coldening air of DeathBreath. i'd like to take you there, too. We would be happy in the afterlife or non-existance if only these blooddamn gods released us from our imperfection, which is imprinted on our beings with their heavyhaired hand. Distortions. We are all but distortions of the heavenly image of godless Divinity. One distortion prowling disgusted through the crowds of the other ones, longing for Deity. One distortion meeting another one, making love, dying and parting - or both - disappointed. The Deity made an appointment but missed it, never having planned to be at the meeting. Trashcan embraces the flowers to be given - urn with the dead flowers in a drained pool hahahaha... Urnful of miserable dust of our bodies... Ashes to ashes. can they turn into fire again? Were there ever a fire?! Could be?
Death it may not be for ever. Death it may not be for good. There IS nothing good in death, except for the sweet termination of life. SCHZÜCHEL! It cannot be sweet for it's bittered by life's taste.
       If anything i want still, it is happiness to your Heart. Sorry. No love, i fear. No more can i deliver you that sweetness. Has it ever reached you?

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

CHAPTER XXV
"Who Moved My Cheez-Whiz?"

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 dcrotter les rides du visage; Tiens, ma fourchette, dcrasse-toi le crne. De quel droit payes-tu des expriences comme moi? Tiens, voil 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.

                  "




















 
 


Nobly, with an intent as pure as vermillion butter, would be a good way to characterize my state of mind as I went forth. I knew communication would break down early on, and nervously fingered the can of Mace in my right pocket. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use it but, in my line of work, what you hope for isn't always what turns out.
The landlady was at home. I forced down my nervous nerves and knocked on the door. She appeared soon after, in bathrobe and curlers, pointing a double-barreled shotgun into my forehead.
- Whaddya want, Crumbduck? she screeched.
I certainly hadn't anticipated this quick of a communication rupture, so I
- Yes, Mrs. Munsch, you see, I, don't you know, it's
- Spit it out, buster; I ain't got all day to watch you sputter! Let's hear why you don't have my money today, if you don't mind.
- Work's been slow lately, and really I haven't been myself as of late, due to some unusual circumstances which I can scarcely go into at this point you see I
- So shall I just blow your skull apart and we'll call it even?
Breakdown.
- So you'd presume to extract blood money from me, you hatchet-nosed Jewess? Just take your pound of flesh and call it even? I think not!
My office was a mess, but my brain was a wreck. That's the fifth nightmare I've had this week. It's enough to make a man swear off sleeping. And me running out of money for boose. Better make some headway in this godforsaken murder case or I'm sussed.

 











 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...
                                                               ...
                                                           ...










 


Indebted to sasaparilla, the flatulence continued, belching forward to an unsmelt indignity. Really, I thought, this has simply gone too far. This used to be a decent establishment, wherein I could get my drycleaning and a complimentary handjob, but this whole farting thing has simply pushed my buttons. Really!
Meanwhile, in a different part of the city yet strikingly similar, a person not unlike myself engaged in a not entirely dissimilar train of thought. Derailed, my psychic twin was brained by fallen masonry.


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
Untitled Normal Page

hiv disease is manageable,

if you love to eat pills and spend lots of time at the doctor

and we hope you don't have side effects

some people can't take the pills at all

that doesn't seem very manageable

i can only take them for short periods of time

and boy, they fuck me up.

no matter where you think it [HIV] came from

or whether you think it [HIV] is a government plot

it doesn't matter what you think

just don't get infected

that's all

just don't get infected

stay free

from HIV

and the where's and why's can be something you talk about for many years.


I asked the frog, "what is Death?", and the frog replied that death is the end to all ends, a finality, inescapable and inevitable.
I was not satisfied with this answer, so I asked the woodchuck, "what is Death?", and the woodchuck replied that death is the end of the dream and the beginning of real life, that is, the life which we only perceive through what we believe are our "dreams" in this "life".
I was unsatisfied yet, so I asked the hoodlum, "what is Death?", and the hoodlum replied "Give me all your money, and I will teach you." So I gave him all I had, and he said "Now give me all you own, and I will teach you further." So I gave him my house, my car, my credit cards, everything I had except the clothes on my back. The hoodlum then said "Give me the clothes on your back, and the lesson will be complete." I promptly gave him all I was wearing, and the hoodlum said "Now you are free, and death does not matter, for the false concerns you created for yourself in life are no longer yours."
And he was right, for now I am free, and as I lie here being eaten by lions, I realize something:

I wuz robbed!
and broke it
imagine, a mask to wear. one that would keep them from seeing my true acid face. the dark forces, well, they are fun to fuck around with and often turn out to be just needy pests.
HIV

we had eaten several hits of the black blotter

black blotter with baby moons

SMOKED OUT ON SOME FINE BUD.

WE WERE JUST ABOUT READY TO GET DOWN TO THE FUCKING

HE WAS GOING TO FUCK ME UP THE ASS

WELL, FOR THE LAST THREE MONTHS WE HAD BEEN USING RUBBERS

AT MY INSISTENCE

I'M NOT AN IDIOT

STAYED HIV FREE THROUGH THE FIRST TEN YEARS.

MOTHERFUCKER SAYS:

BABY I WANT TO FEEL YOU INSIDE

I WANT TO FEEL YOU

LET'S NOT USE THE RUBBERS, OK?

MOTHERFUCKER KNEW HE WAS INFECTED.

I WAS TRIPPING, HORNY, AND WEAK.

I SAID YEAH, BABE

I WANT YOU TO FUCK ME

THE SECOND HE SHOT INSIDE OF ME

I KNEW I WAS INFECTED

IT TOOK SOME TIME, ABOUT A YEAR

TO GET THROUGH THE DENIAL

AND START LIFE OVER

DON'T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU.

WATCH OUT FOR THE LIARS

THERE ARE PEOPLE CAPABLE OF DOING THESE THINGS

I NEVER WOULD'VE THOUGHT SOMEONE COULD CONSCIOUSLY DO THAT TO ANOTHER HUMAN BEING

AHH..NAIVE.

I LOVE YOU ALL.

-ANON.

 


dear freinds assfuck blackmagic stupid sunned n stonned matressstained bum hotel sex magic tooters and teachers will assume cabin position x-40985ld-series nies before skiweekend spaceship mushroomgarden paste tasting and beerbongs Baxter decoded: And what a delicate pod it was where liek alchemy, our childselves boiled to the surface and quibbled and ruined all. Only my imagination can serve me now. "bonnet on hyper-prarie lived in a souped-up garden-variety misanthropy" said BAXTER the psychoogist computer, the air being the air of a hot onion acid city knee bleed on a piss stained raidiophonic orgone bulboustower at the end of another chi quest . stop reading about tantric sex magic and come fuck me in the tall praie grass cooed the angels I can believe that his mind goes ERGO: to BAXTER = SUm/cum loudly. OVAH to PRAHA AND OPRAHAY neurologic angelic television entetiy cults: beware the batered , we all seem to be litterally love punch drunk psychobabblers what happed to the dilectic logic of the hagalian love orb? I decieved him into thinking love me until it is a private world I can turn on and off at will a will to powerfull imagi-nation: a blow up doll, and yet I love him with my entire being and project such a pure bubble of love around myself yet when it comes in contact daydream station come in JR are you up for a hitchcockian raunty jaunt? Why, the poor sod wouldn't want to MISLEAD his INFERIOR! BAXTER tuned in his psychic superior elctro oversoul networking string theorist schizophrenic angel channlers and the eight ball turned into a nine ball as all the pirates balled and ballled and they also bauled and bowled while they balled and balled and cryied some more over the lost treaseur e of the secret amazonian lesbian pharohs At one time I served that function until he judged me no more. well a love unjudged can't be all bad but what a self centered little battered cuddling subconsciouly brat Janitorial Service Engineer T.W. Bubby Bud "Smell the Action" Smitty Rothchild ps what the fuck is a SUTTER card BAXTER?BAXTER bilped a flootrllbp to JR 's substem matrixplant 19 Bahai blorp:b And what a delicate pod it was where liek alchemy, our childselves boiled to the surface and quibbled and ruined all. As in chicago though more than childish, monsterous, fiendish, slovenly , overunn with fear and poverty and violence and meat and crime and sex and math rock and blues and ribbs and cocaaine deallling pimping cops running protection for private s and m pirate radio art hounds loft boys drinking pbr and calling in vdideo audio freform mixing collaboration SHUnUT up to BAXTER SHUnUT UP "Only my imagination can serve me now." the teletex machine from the 1939 nine yaught of Senetor JT Peckenpuas ticked away so quickly jr worked to reange the stangleic proportiond of the lines intoi a self replicating dna based comuter viral language wormhole "souped-up garden-variety misanthropy" said BAXTER the psychoogist computer, the air being the air of a hot oniooliooblioanle dodecahedrogonophone acid city knee bleed on a piss stained raidiophonic orgone bulboustower. I can believe that his mind goes a private world I can turn on and off at will a will to powerfull imagi-nation:ERGO: to BAXTER SUm/cum= BAXTERloudly.daydream station come in JR are you up for a hitchcockian raunty jaunt? OVAH to PRAHA AND OPRAHAY neurologic angelic television entetiy cults: beware the batered , psychobabblers what happed to the dilectic logic of the hagalian love orb? I decieved him into thinking love me until it is a blow up doll, and yet I love him with my entire being and project such a pure bubble of love around myself yet when it comes in contact Why, the poor sod wouldn't want to MISLEAD his amazing moments of real loveINFERIOR! BAXTER tuned in his psychic superior elctro oversoul networking string theorist schizophrenic angel channlers and the eight ball turned into a nine ball as we all seemJanitorial Service Engineer T.W. Bubby Bud "Smell the Action" Smitty to be litterally love punch drunk all the pirates balled and ballled and they also bauled and bowled while they balled and balled and cryied some more over the lost treaseur e of the secret amazonian lesbian pharohs At one time I served that function until he judged me no more. well a love unjudged can't be all bad but what a self centered little battered cuddling subconsciouly brat Rothchild ps what the fuck is a SUTTER card BAXTER?--- metamorph@inetarena.com wrote: BAXTER throwdown the v-ching and write me some randomly generated dialogue generated from randomly sampled phone conversations... the real drama is in survilence my freinds where art and life truly blur the boundaryies of privacy humor law perversity and lime over ur king of ur and queen of um souls i live in imaginary world as well compltely...theres absolutley nothing real about it , but somehow that did exist still live there vivdly and do help me out in the present as a guide more than they hurt me , though i do cry a lot different kind of coping, yours is odd as your love whose left you is still with you the paradoxes just fly a > science continues to may the "unknown" dimensions of earth grid teleportation timejogs portals nodes, lay lines to the leak alchemy of the earth and the orgone dark matter and eltotonic particle she is bathed in >

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal! Hop. Hop. Hop. Hop hop hop hop. hop.     Relief....
Sssssssssssssssssssssssssskratch! SkRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR... atch.... Skrq.

A big bomb in a ballroom make a big boom. Squeawk! Feel easy to say whatch you ain't goin' to do. Be happy with your own thunderstick. Velvet lipstick in your anal hole, the matching mole, the watch-an'-goe. Fills so sssstickey! Limpid frog! I stuck to your t-shirt I cannot exist. You cannot omit the resultset of your query, unless the subtlety of shock makes mock, makes mock! Begot a new girlfriend, she's riding a tram. Don't know who I am. Don't know whore I am. Rocketlaunch for a' Austral Disaster. The Phoenix emerges from the Dark Side of the Sun. The Dark Slide on the run. Being none. Being one. Being none.

Fairy tails have firy traces. I missed some sweet embraces. Hairy arms and airy legs Oh God! I feel like scrambled eggs! Fill another chunk of gin it's bogmud. Mudila Bog. Oh do I hold the promise? I hope I do. I love you. No more.
An itemized needle, a misconstrued warbler, a premeditated koan, Zen and the Art of Zen. After killing the priest and the king, it became necessary to assemble a grand assembly, unrivalled in its grandness of assemblage. The assembly envisioned thereupon consisted of such phenomena as to eclipse any prior event by sheer scale and volume.
Such phenomena include (subject to change without notice): The King of the World, the King of the Jews, the King of Queens, the Queen of Hearts, the Heart of Gold, the Heart of Stone, the Heart of Darkness, the Heart of Artichoke, the Diamond Choker, the Choked Chicken, the Chicken Chow Mein, the Chichen Itza Chamber of Commerce, the First National Bank of the Anarchist Syndicate, the Golden Rule, the Rule of Thumb, Tom Thumb, Major Tom, D Major, E Minor, B Flat, F Sharp, C D Minor 49er Flattened by Sharp Stones in A Major Catastrophe. Also scheduled to appear (subject to change without notice) were Thomas Jefferson, Jefferson Davis, David, King of Israel, the Knessut, the Kibbutz, the Shiska, the Schmaltz, the Unknown Soldier, the Hidden Variable, the Random Factor, the Secret in the Sauce, the Middletown Baptist Church Choir, the Cedar Rapids, IA, Discordian Society (Big Chief Quetzalcoatl Oodenkirk, K.S.C.), Elliot Ness and His Untouchables, Helen of Troy and Her Unmentionables, the Legend of Zelda, the Secret of Mana, the Illusion of Gaia, the Firth of Fourth, the Fifth of Gin, the Sixteen Stone, the Pennyweights, the Drams, the Hogsheads, the Rods, the Poles, the Dicks, the Pricks, the Banded Krait, the Bag of Tricks, the Chest of Drawers, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
ah yes zen and the art of zen, indeed a peeker into the corpse thus making this post it note the zen and anti-zen of being in nonness eliot lochness monster rabbit dicaphone osrchiavibropne tumor remover has any one seen Agnetha P. Dadaissimo or Dirty MAra Paws for that matter her writting would greatly improve this smutty conspiritorial ladden corpse!'
Furthermore, amidst the ness and non-ness of allthings, there was malcontentmentality in the allaround Zenarchic statelessness of beinglessness hitherto undisturbed in a world gone crazymadinsane.
FURTHERMORE: In consideration of, or perhaps in unbridled contempt theretoward, an obtrusive malefactor, unbidden but identifiable as one Mr. Direct Energy Noose, hitherto allbutforgotten.

FURTHERMORE!

Like a nascent virion, sightunseen, the effects from which were yet to be felt, Mr. Direct Energy Noose (unbidden but identifiable) used the touch-tone telephone {unbidden (he) but identified (it)} and, using a special area code prefix known only to those ascended masters of the discipline of speaking, as it were, "beyond the veil", thatistosay beyond the alleged wall separating the living world from its nonliving counterpart.

FURTHERMORE,

The number Mr. Noose dialed was Zulu 6-2222 which, when combined with the previously mentioned area code prefix, rang up the hyperborean flat of one Mr. William Crumbduck, Private Investigator, Recently Deceased.

furthermore...



Helena
Helena
Meanwhile in Ohio:
to approximate the exquisite corpse by writing my cntribution blind, I carved out my eyes. But now it is very difficult to write at all. the whole situation is actually quite bad.


Bow Twist
Rakata Mist
Minor Fringe
Nakada Minge


binge


binge


binge


binge


binge

should that be better ?

Better ?!?

Bad - Badder - Badst
Bat - Batter - Batst
Bet - Better - Best
Good - Gooder - Goodst
Wood - Wooder -Woodst
Word - Worder - Wordst
Wors - Worse - Worst

mainly not funny, but mainly true

Ive got a wunderful Luftverwirbelungsmaschine hier, yes - hes a fan !!!

did you bring your check and the film? have you talked? to non? i've got eighty bucks.
It hurts my medicant campsite to unfurl an invisible Humvee. Reasons for these feelings include the following: It's uniform, yet tangible; sauce is impeded by suspension; six; irony is the great teacher, but it cannot make its own gravy. Upon understanding, retroactive prescient hindforesight is the end result, but only if you started in the beginning.

It was cheese. It was cheese all along! That fucker has double-crossed me for the last time! In fact, I think he has double-crossed me sufficiently so that I may, indeed, be turned around to where I was before. After all, two lefts make a right, right? So I must not kill him. Rather, I will entangle him in a trap of his own devising, so cleverly wrought that he won't even realise he's done himself in! That's what I'll do. It's a good idea.


Sometimes it really doesn't matter what you try to do or even what you think. People are stupid, even the educated ones. People are alot like birds, I think. Even though they know how to fly they still run into windows. Sometimes they bounce off and fly away and other times they break their necks. Anyways, have a nice day.
Sometimes I like to watch the bums and hookers that walk around me while I'm on break. I want to wait for one of them to come shuffling up to me to ask for a buck so they can buy a "bus ticket". Indeed. If "bus ticket" is some kind of homeless slang for "bottle of Boone's Farm", I wouldn't be surprised. They don't realise that I just want to kick their ugly, useless faces in. They don't know what kind of thrill I'd get from pissing into their toothless, herpes-infested mouths, as they lay there begging for me not to just kill them on the spot, like I'd rather do. But it'd be more fun to humiliate them beyond reprove. To reinforce beyond any doubt their worthlessness, their forfeiture of the right to call themselves human beings. Death is too good for these non-entities who clutter my field of vision, offend my nostrils with their boosy stench, and try to liberate me of the few bucks I've managed to not have to dump into bills.
You think you have it bad, bum? You're better off where you are, instead of having to jerk off daily into the infinite void of wage slavery. I should be asking you to kick my face in, brother.
Aye, by my Jesus, that's a heady brew of jejune Jewry! I crack my whit and lay into a toasted heel of bread liberally slathered with vermillion butter, conservatively dressed for AIDS.
BUT LET US REVOLVE AROUND ERRONIUS DESCRIPTION, CRACKS OF PERFECT SYMMETRY AND DETERIORATION CAUSE FURHTER TORTURE; SEEMINGLY BECUASE IT IS NIGH IMPOSSIBLE TO DISCOVER WHY SAID DIVISIONS ARE SO TORTOROUS. SO HOW CAN I LEARN SO LITTLE, PLACED IN THIS CRACK OF THE WORLD, MOVING OUT FINDING ONLY MORE UNLEARNED... LOOKING UPON MY PAST PREFERENCES AND CREATION WITH DISGUST. THE ONLY THING I ABBHOR MORE IS WHAT I AM SOON TO CREATE AND PREFFER. WHAT I THOUGHT WRONG IS PERFECT, AND PERFECT DRIVES ME CLOSER TO A YOUNG LEMMING. THE LEMMING IS RASPY AND HAS BEEN DISCONTENT WITH HIS HEALTH FOR A NUMBER OF DAYS. "YOU SIT ATOP THERE FOOLING YOURSELF YOU GODLESS HUMAN. PERCIEVE WHAT LIES IN THE DISTANT AND CRACKED WASTELAND. LEAVE."
"Dear god, why Sam Stein!? I demanded. "Because"uttered the now foul smelling friend of mine. I looked downward at the preschool cartoon that had infested my life.
Too many trumpeters around! One has just written a book and is going to visit Siberia. Okay, I'm gonna see his show. Another one was beebeeping 'n doowopping through some distant headphones a few minutes earlier, but now has luckily shut up. Some say they weep. Do the trumpeters weep? Oh sure they do. In this extent they are just like all the ordinary people. But some of them play drums. Some of them play phone calls, and some just blow their torturements right into the drum. I wonder what sound that might make.

Oh let us not talk so loud!


Let's - whisper!


sweet is the voice from far away
that speeks sotto voce
and
suddenly she begins to cry
but she doesn't know why



I'll brush your teeth with raw ore!!!!!!!




slowly rowing out to the center of the lake
we dumped the pretentious moron into the depths
along with all the rubbish he had written on these pages...


The Molybdenum Sentry gave us a look of suspicion, so we attempted to lie our way into the fortress. Mendoza, being an LAPD detective, possessed certain telekinetic powers of persuasion, which he tried to use on the Sentry.
It was not falling for his tricks, however. "You may not pass, nor do you need to. The god you seek is not within the Archaean Fortress; rather, you will find him in the Tar Pits of Concarne, encased in a conical temple built by the Sixth Race.
Boners and Mendoza seemed satisfied with this response, but the AIDS Fairy was quite convinced that the Sentry was lying. He bore this point out by mentioning that molybdenum is a notoriously sneaky element, and will always try to lie its way out of a tight spot.
Mendoza agreed, and promptly drove his +6 halberd of disemboweling through the Molybdenum Sentry's midsection, ripping upwards and splitting the Sentry in half from the waist up. The comical sight caused the AIDS Fairy to break into maniacal laughter, as he had always hated molybdenum, and pushed for its destruction wherever he found it. Boners, too, was brought to giggling by the sight.
Mendoza gave a lopsided grin, and told them, "Never trust an element with an atomic weight higher than 67. I learned that in detective school!" With that comment, he gave a haughty laugh, and the three adventurers headed for the Armageddon Skiff.
NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE - DESTINATION: NEW MEXICO!
And now, something wonderful...
"Hi, my name's Ralph Williams. Do you like cheese? Do you like farting? Wanna buy a brand new '66 Ford mustang no money down with whitewalls and sixteen-hunnerd-ceecee-V6-engine then visit my showroomRafwiyumsRafwiyumsforonthevannisehiwayoffthegoldenstatefreewayralfwillyumsrafwiyumsford..." CRASH! Entropy was. The cold adrenochrome's metallic chill raced through Mendoza's bloodstream like wild mustangs over the New Mexican dustblown ratstrewn badlands. AYUDAME! AYUDAME! The cry of Mendoza echoed across the mesa like Sir Lord Baltimore while inside his synapses, duendes and brujos fought out their little personal Armageedons among the ganglia.
I don't understand why all these people have to write about their dirty garbage trash that is roaming around in their insect minds. It is useless dribble. Poison ivy. You know, a rash. If you scratch it, it just gets worse. Observe and obey.
A jumpumber thrilled excellent spasmastically righthanded braindrops from the spoon CAN singsung in knife Durbridge classic TV scenario - chinese typo cuts the veinsenationally. Hush Yma. Knoddleling prondges on my hand she whispers bright with her toe to my wallpaper. Open. Whishing whisper? My ear is full of doubt.


Ringdinglingaclingle

Is this really art? Isn't it?

The conclusion to press rest or submit. Submission. Dearless dead days Mark once said.

I think he's right. Sometimes.


Bilingual phrases emerged from your thoughts.

Epilog   Having missed the opportunity   to turn into a wolf, he actually lost the only chance to believe. If he had faith. to look into the stoplight eyes of the black Beast opposite him. to oppose himself. not far from the pillar no.666, as he recalled the next day, while talking to a girl whom he needs not. then talking about the other one, whom whe needs hot. In the light of the moon. the full moon was a reason I think. I stink. Mentally, it doesn't smell. But it does. The bloodhunger of his young dick makes him sick. stick into blood. no tears to wash him. no tears to wash    You.
If tears could clean You, i would learn to weep. i'd weep all night and day, and i would tear out my eyes, if it could clear them from knowing that God is unclean, and You are tainted; and i would give them purified to the World to make it shine in Your beauty of pure Fire there     would be Heaven     in the tears of Man.
Burst with blood! Make the whole damn world douse with gore, and guts, and hearts, and anything out from inside me! Burn it into purity! If there's some clean blood in my veins i would give it alltoYou, but there is not.
No blood. no tears. no anything of love or faith, or how else can you call it. no Light. no blood. no Darkness. just life. Life she is not a woman that i can love. still she wants me. No. No, baby. Leave me alone, please. I can't push you, baby, but leave me alone. BLOODGOD! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!!

A-men.
Gay goat sex makes the world go 'round, or so they told me in middle school right before pulling my trousers down, which I think was directly related to gym class. The coach was a Communist, this I know because he had breasts and his first name was "Colleen", which was shocking to my somewhat innocent and provincial world-view, but now looking back some fifteen years later, seems not so strange. Oh well, back to porn.
But the cobra did not see! it was blind to every aspect of stuff
This stuff is true. When I woke up that morning to go to work, everything was normal. I got dressed and went down the stairs to the front door of the building. Opened the door. The entrance way to the building was splattered with blood. Blood on the walls. Blood on the ceiling. Blood on the floor. Kind of scary first thing in the morning. Again, true. Slept good that night. When I woke up my girlfriend at that time asked me a question. She said that there was a dead body laying in the street below our window that night. I hadn't wakened. The city is very strange sometimes. I think that often more than not there are things that are below. Things that hide. And things that frighten the falling souls of humankind. Be aware. The mysteries that inherit the human psyche are often more real than imagined. Reality is not always a heavenly journey.
Jesus: Gimme a break. Sister Ray: No, never in a lifetime. You deserve every minute of this, you son of a glitch. Why did you shave off that beard and moustache? to please the ladies? Jesus: Only to blend in better. And to immanentize the eschaton.
And then the sky licked my back with lightning, ripping it open to reveal a small arena hidden in my back. Two large beetles fought in the colesseum, cheered on by gnats and baby flies. I decided that the lightning blast had hurt me enough that I should try to move, but found that I was already looking down upon myself, observing the insects battling. The wind picked up, bringing down the green rain.
How's that for the spirit, folks? By Jesu, I was so knocked out by the whole performance, I didn't leave my seat even after I messed my pants. The most remarkable thing about it was. And then she walked in. She was tall, platinum blonde. She had a figure that would stop traffic in Vatican City, and legs an Alzheimer's patient would remember 5 minutes later. She was wearing a red martini dress. She sat down right next to me. Why do they always have to sit down right next to me? I told Bernie to send her a drink, and tell her it's from me.
At this point


From "the Explanation of All Conspiracies": A well known secret society uses secret mind control technology to give us clues to the secrets of the world. To achieve this, they introduce certain elements into our unconcious. One example is the Dental Mystery. Syd Barrett, reappearing in the Pink Floyd studio after years of acid confusion, repeatedly stood up and BRUSHED HIS TEETH. Agent Cooper, having returned from the Other Side and waking up in his bed, immediately states: I need to BRUSH MY TEETH. Furthermore, surrealist director David Lynch has included in his book "Images" an entire chapter on DENTAL HYGIENE. The mysterious cover of the Yellow Magic Orchestra album "BGM" depicts a closeup of a TOOTHBRUSH, surrounded by different signs arranged in a circle. These are a few examples, and there are more to be found in artwork and dreams all over the place. Other reports indicate, that the entire "apocalyptic folk" scene is nothing but a conspiracy to turn everybody queer, using subliminal messages in the music to achieve this vile objective. (Warning: If you read this section backwards, and exchange every 23rd word for its exact opposite, the whole secret will be unveiled, and We do not take responsibility for the consequenses.)
Only with bare knuckle brawling and light whimper to assuage our deafening ears, only then did he reach up and pull forth what looked to be a wooden penis crafted to look like the nose of President Nixon. You see with this penis we must place it against the forehead of the
first child in sight, as we may just be on to something here. my gums were begining to numb. i knew it would be no-time before i was in the grip of a full-on hallucinatory hell. i was sweating, so with this, i informed my assistant that i should be taking a holiday. when he pried to know WHERE i would be venturing, i breifly considered ripping his neck with my scalpel, but i merely acomidated him by muttering something about having not been "over-seas" before. he laughed in a jolly manner, which made my skin peel back from the bone, and wished me a safe journey. when i returned home, i quickly upgraded my dosage of parmacid, packed two large bags and a small, black doctors kit. as i sent my good servant to fetch the carriage, i perchanced to, through the candle-lit dining room, see a small stairwell. upon inspection, it seemed the whole of it to be held together by a make-shift ladder effect. the rope was as thick as a fist, and as long as an elephant trunk. the drugs were certainly kicking in. i felt a slight rush as i began my decent into the well, and stood upright quickly to avoid falling altogether. i gained composure over my senses and continued to ground-level. i raised my candlestick and peered about me...
Sing!!!!!!
Yon aberration struck my fancy as I licked the windows of Anytown, USA's retail district. My inner monologue conveyed my feelings with a declaration that sounded like rusting metal, or perhaps colon cancer spreading into the small intestine.

YOU NEED THAT YOU NEED THAT YOU NEED THAT

Et cetera.
Future chocolate cream on earth covering smothering coldness the absence of rain railways straight ahead no sun no sun no sun anymore. No Anymore today. I cannot pray. Shit. Business women with fat hearts and bleached hairs gathering round now losing ground and dragging underwheel how much has changed in my head i wish i could take it off. ...got - plenty of nihil - and nihil's a plenty to me tututututu!

Your name's upon my lips. but a whisper. a held breath. After all its sufferings it might be funny for someone above to look at me still trying to care of it... No, no, I will not say it. I rarely used to call it loud and maybe that's the reason. May there be salvation? Then the salvation is silence.   shhhhhhhhh.....

There is no salvation, you! There is no silence, and an illusion of darkness, or just invisibility of the murderous moonlight penetrating our minds and bodies. You be fucked in the ass with a single hair from a gentle cheek of a girl, that's your way YOU DOOMED!
Italics mine. The pervasive problem of sodomy has never seriously been tackled save by militant firebrands and jejune joiners. The Porn Hollow, KY, Optimist Club organized a march to collect donations to further the cause of removing sodomy from the national dialogue. They raised $7.87, most of which was spent on breakfast at Flo's Shitty Diner...
CAN WE PLEASE TURN OFF THE CAPS NOW? (BEING IRONIC)
I was shocked by it, really. Not so much the relationship itself, rather the fact that the relationship was even possible given the circumstances. "Memes don't exist - tell your friends," the T-shirt commands. Yet I cannot obey in fulness, because the concept refuses to do anything but fester in my preconscious precociousness. It hits you square in the cancer, it does. A dose.
However, though the atmosphere was at a temperature well below freezing, the surface of the planet exceeded 200 C.
from which all else must necessarily follow; for if we choose to believe such is not true, we are choosing to believe that several integral parts of our own being are not in fact ours, and that from them may be reaped no benefit whatsoever. This possibility is a maelformation of the most destructive sort, and has yet to cease its
mad mystic hammering
again, though this time with less constraint. I felt my mind wallowing up to the surface of some languid tropical pool filled with all the squalor of life. Alice and Miranda were doing shots on the shore discussing Colonial theory. Alice kept insisting that the locus of the problem lay in the fact that European narratives were overriding and replacing colonized peoples' own stories, forcing them into roles predetermined and hostile to them as humans. She held that the only way to successfully counter the onslaught of several millenia of reality-inducing stories was with subversive nonsense being interjected into the interstices within said mythic framework. By utilizing pre-existing gaps and inconsistencies within a narrative world-view, one can hollow out a space within it, and begin building one's own set of meaningful folktales. Further, if one reads the populace of the aggressing linguistic empire aright, one can set it so one's own tales have a hypnotizing and contagious effect on them. With skill, one can infect the host empire, and transform its structure more in keeping with one's own. All well in good quoth Miranda. However, one should start at home. I know that I am a victim in this place, and using the powers invested in me by Foucault and the Primitive Machinations of Morality, I can use the empire's oppression of me as the fulcrum of an infinitely long lever with which I shall turn the world upside down. I shall convince the empire that its locus of authority not only resides in me, but has always resided in me. My father never knew it, but it was I who approached Caliban, and fucked him silly. I let him slather his black cock all over my face and loved it! I approached them, withdrawing my blade and removed their precious-eagle-cactus fruit and devoured it. I them flayed them both and wore their skins. It was they who had been warring over my mind and piercing my body with fierce pincers, withdrawing blood and pus to feed their insatiable appetites required by those who live their life as victims. What foolishness! All this talk of revolution and evolution of cosmology. They never considered that when they consider themself different from their people, that difference is inherently dependent on their people. Why struggle against barriers (they grow hard), when one can simply ignore them (they grow soft). Wearing the skin of the two eternal virgins, I walked through the jungle, and the space around me bent to ease me on my way, the sun halted its journey so as not to get in my eyes, and I drowned in the pool with a mouthful of algae and fisheyes.
PSYCHO!!!!!!!!
sneezed. I got
the funk, baby. That was what he said. I had never seen him before, and his mouth grew larger knowhere and fast. I saw now that the room seemed to have several additional exits (leading to other rooms?), apart from those known to me from everyday life. Already wrestling with a reality gone freaky, I did not have the time or energy to explore these new doorways properly. Later, in Spokane, a man told himself repeatedly: "...must not joke about terrorist attack...must not joke about tragedy...must not hang pictures of Mohammad Atta on my wall..." the outcome of this northwestern guilt trip is still in the making. Meanwhile, his cat John D. Fnord turned

The bathtub lay silent now...

...replete with fondled curds.

And now, I am to never see her face again; or rather, I will see it, however pretty or repulsive it may appear, on an almost dail basis, but it will be nothing more than a single blade of grass in a lush field. Something new is about to begin, something great ly desparate. Water in my head, blood under my skin, laundry detergent in my stomach, I know that I will pop, with an American bullet puncturing my American belly. I never saw myself as an American, or as a human. I've always been a sausage. Yes, a glorious, glorious sausage, on a bare mountain, under burning rain, metallic wind, and corrupting sunlight. I may spoil, but I will prevail. The day will be mine, and something new shall appear, in my eye, in my nose, in my mouth, in my ears, in my tummy. Not in my ass, though. There had better never be anything in the nether-regions ever again.
When does Chapter 5 begin? This is the painful saga of horrible rape and humiliation and all because I bought a one-way ticket to Prague, 1968. The time-train dropped me off at the right coordinates but, by damn, the bastards lost my luggage and the train was gone before I could file a complaint with the company. So, there I was, right in the middle of a revolution, and I had to wait 33 years to get my damn luggage back. The rape part is later, folks. If you're sticking around for the saucy details, you'd probably be better off getting a beer or something right now because this is just the necessary backstory.
Her nipples oozed a sweet secretion that ate my tongue away. What the fuck? Pete Puma don't! Not another abandoned house! Oh my, Gleeming spit (or shit) all around.
then at once im on the desert hiway. why did i get here?..how did i get here? there is nothing but a hint of rain in the air. when istumble across these emotions i usually put them out of their misery..but this time i felt them. i was away from home, and i dint need that right now. so i filled in my forms and agreed to behave. and then i went back to my home. NoOne. there is no one here......i stepped back for a second and started to think.....where are they? did i do something wrong? what a silly question...of course ive did something wrong. we all do. i returned to my home alone, and i discovered that if i stared into this wall, the pain would be less intense. who was i fooling.......
crapcrap fnu crap craooop shvgp crap shit fyufbuck fuck fuck FUck fuck FUCK CIUG fuKCK fuck fuck fuck fuuuck fuck fuck fuck fukc fjk fuck FUKC FKCU FUKVN ckkkkjhbk fuck kjkkkkkkkkkkkkkndfjkkkkk mk k kkk fuck..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(::(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:(:((:((:
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When I was a small boy, I knew a neighbor kid who had the ability to change the color of the sky. We would sit on the top of this grassy hill with farmland and suburbs all around, and I'd beg him to do it. He could have made me do his chores for him, or do anything, really, but he was pretty nice about it. When he'd change the sky's color, it would happen like this: Silence first; he'd watch the horizon and so would I. Then an undulating, shimmering line of bright, silvery-white energy, or electricity, would appear where we were looking. This was the line where the color change took place. It was connected at opposite ends of the world, I guess, and it would slowly work its way to the zenith, and back down; the sky on one side, say, aquamarine, and maybe copper on the other. He could make it any color at all. Sometimes he'd do my requests, sometimes not. And there was a sound too -- kind of a rushing, echoing, crackly jet engine noise that would bounce in all directions in the weirdest way. Of course it would be loudest when the color line was directly overhead, and just after. It would be entirely inaudible when the line was ten or fifteen degrees from the horizon, either way. We'd sit on that hill for hours, just watching different colors come on. I remember, whenever we were in town, or anywhere where there were adults we hadn't tried it on, we had this pastime. One of us would ask our mutual favorite question: "Why is the sky blue?" (or dark green, chartreuse, salmon, black, gold, or whatever color happened to be up there at the moment.) He'd never told anyone else about this secret of his, so noone ever knew. They were apparently just reprogrammed to think that the sky had always been that color, and always would be. At least, I guess that's what happened to them. I don't know. They never had a good answer to that question, but we always enjoyed any answer we got. We had a good time, me and Jim. His name, it was Jim Van der-something. I should remember, I know, but we moved from there when I was still little. I should ask my parents if they remember what that kid's name was. Wonder what he's doing now?... Anyway, if he should happen to read this, I'd like to thank him, from the bottom of whatever remains of my heart nowadays. For making my world a more colorful place. I still, first thing in the morning, take a peek out my window to see what color the sky is. And I love the way everything and everybody look completely different in different kinds of light. The only thing that bugs me is my job.. I work in a little cubicle, and it's all fluorescent lighting, you know. Not one window in the whole huge room; it's in the middle of a building. But there are windows in the halls. Sorry, I didn't want to complain. Thanks, Jim. If you do chance to read this (longshot, I know) and if you ever want to get in touch with me, my last name's Holbrook. I'm in the Long Island phone book. Peace.
Soooo...
There comes a time in every man's life where he must give up the ghost and move on into the next chapter. I felt this was sane advice, but I couldn't bring myself to forsake my past and everything that I had learned in it.
I couldn't believe the theory of "what goes around comes around", I always assumed that what goes around will eventually be mine. That is a much more profitable way to look at the world.
Unforturnately, not everyone seems to hold that same view as me. Especially those who would seek to undermine my endeavours and seek to bring me down.
Well... I shall have the last laugh because they can't bring me down. I will never die!

SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!! THE OCEANS REALLY ARE MADE OF SPERM!!

DAMN MY EYES, WHY CAN'T I JUST SEE
global my_aim
global nothing
on start
my_aim is false
nothing is false
task
end start.
on task
think
act
complete_Task
end task.
on complete_TASK
my_aim is true
then
go_rest
else
repeat_task
end complete_task.
on repeat_task
task
end repeat_task.
on go_rest
repeat with e = 1 to 23
nothing is true
everything is possible
end repeat
end go_rest.



let's drink to us
for we are few
and we are all dead anyway

...............................................................................................................................................................................................As the numbness of my bicortial disposition transcended into a grave error of impregnated globs of secretion I noticed a mirror above the second planet regurgitating from the pulsar which continously sprayed feces into the personage of a dying god. At 72 minute intervals, a green mass of indisputable carnege repulsified the last secular abomination as twenty one insects jumped from their wombs. At what cost did the mechanical failure indiscriminatly cause rebellion amongst the fertile creatures. At what point did testicular cancer overcome the now brittle shell of its devastating remains................................................
Help Us......Cow Puss!! Milk! An Udder disgrace!!!
Help Us......Cow Puss!! Milk! An Udder disgrace!!!
It was testes. It was vagrancy. Harvey Keitel, Cobb salad, late 1990's ennui all rolled into one pastry-like gerrymander for my viewing pleasure. It was...it was...well shit, man, it was heavier than a 2-ton heavy thing. White, pure, clean as a virgin's pussy. The way things are now, it may never be had again in this world.
peter cook..............................................................
read my fists...i'm not coming back-i've gone too far-DON'T SAVE ME! i will now abuse myself with machinery and let you lick my wounds clean.
The bombardment and annihilation of the planet Saturn is really only... I AM A COMPLICATED SWEATER I AM A COMPLICATED SWEATER we are here to protect you. we are here to protect you from the terrible secret of space.
I've have never been more certain, I am god-like. I drink, think, stink as would a god!
The defibrilator was nearing purree. gregor the conquorer was smearing the fluid from a broken kollidascope on his teenage nipples, eating habanero heavy cajun bbq sauce from the fur surrounding his girlfriends speckled anus. his girlfriend of this time round the mid eighties, while he was living in mohenjo-daro with a group of newly converted amish pigmies in a stylish one bedroom apartment was of course, a south american camel. smuggled surreptitiously in his home made balsa raft powered by the most high-tech lawn mower engine on the santiago market, she was a spunky sex-crazed vixen like his afrikan roomates had only dreamed of. her insatiable sexual appetite was upstaged only by her obsessive pre-occupation with lint and pince-nez, of which she had thousands of pair. many a day went by when a rugged photographer from national geographic or a stunning virgin princess, eyes lustily exposed, could have walked into that expensive and unprecedentedly high class pakastani apartment building above 'the sakyamuni' (a club so exclusive and underground one must dress as an inkan god and pay 17,000,000 nepali rupees and a genetically self-similar aborted foetus for admission), walk past the miriad array of stylish great dane pulled carriages, skirt the mountainous piles of beer cans and hypadermic needles discarded by gregor and his amish cronies after one of their particular sordid edge-living drug binges. passing the tribespeople in one of their endless games of monopoly, climb the vomit and gold dust strewn stairs to the bathtub in which serena, the sodden, sordid alpaca would sleep and be energetically diddled by her tireless boyfriend. she was dialating further and gregor was wielding the shower-head, when suddenly a group of disgruntled world leaders laden with liederhousen and sun god costumes poured into the tiny apartment. roughly knocking little red hotels from pennsylvania avenue and park place, cracking the bidet and stepping on the dremmel, gorbochev's anger at the sakyamuni's power outage was curbed by serina's graceful stance, by her flesh imbedded sequines and her orange mohawk, by her thousands of dollars of meticulous tattoo work from expert bonpo painters, by her shimmering pince nez and pointed bra, a gift from her friend, madonna. After dramatically unplugging the defibrulator and the communal electric toothbrush, a spark of epiphany perked his features. Candles, birdnest soup, parcheesi, all was not gone with the electricity. a good time could be had by all. between the tiny apt. with its freshly grazed burgundy carpet and the illustrious lower floor, world leader and suspender clad indigeonous person alike could still have a party.
Several of the vapors became essence. These spread throughout the web galaxies and were distributed through cells. These cells became complex and varied. Light brought sight to mechanisms although many a form exist between the second and sight. Too fast for the mind to process, they move through this light like rats in the night.
Stars:Bars / In cars. Christ, what kind of world do we live in, wherein the closest thing I can get to a "moral dilemma" is debating whether to jerk off to foot porn or to "Dawn of the Dead???" I ask you! Seriously, guys - mullets and everything. Where's the rape and cattle and other things I miss about the '80s? If God is a verb, how do you conjugate Him?

Chapter 5