Confessions III (Recovered)

Steven Adkins Science Fiction
lieu-dit Fondemenge 16,450 words

82600 Aucamville
France
+33 6.14.76.48.54
stevenmadkins@hotmail.com
The Confessions of Lazslo Bream
by
Steven Adkins
ADKINS / CONFESSIONS / 1
“Men are monkeys, dropped from maternal wombs”--Arthur Rimbaud
In the last light, when the feral kids dance, ashes to
ashes, crumbling dust, and the dogs caper, along will come the
Harbinger: Chrystal Kelp, flautist extraordinaire, a pied-
piperette throbbing thru the damp, cool air ‘twixt the melon
trees. And the kids won’t ask but follow, in pairs, wafting thru
the air leaving a trail of pheromones. And the kids won’t
hesitate as they rise into the air, noses extended as though
clenched by a clothespin, and that attached to a rope.....imagine
if you will a Skyhook, invisible and indomitable.
***
Lying in my chair in the glare of the dentist’s lamp, I
think of these things and squirm, my hands knotting, my feet two
uncontrollable doves, small gasps emitting thru the disgusting
gargle of the spit-removal machine. They sound heavy-lidded &
ecstatic, like a hapless proto-saint being stabbed by the arrow
of God, in a Bernini pose of unmistakable eroticism. She leans

forward, the tautness of her breast hovering at the edge of my
hair, its presence only half-felt, but 100% sensed, an
electrostatic charge, my skin in goosebumps, and I am given
release, the pent-up energy of my ordeal escapes, my body
slackens.
In moments she has finished. Stands up. Walks away. From
where I’m sitting, she looks tall, featureless as a silhouette.
But the memory of her solid presence lingers, and I imagine that
we have shared something, an illusion of scintillation, a
professional trick of the oral hygienist.

The Mexican Macho
In the morning he grunted as he rose to the cusp of waking
in a whirling cloud of flies. She hawked a loogie on his greasy
damp back, a veritable bed of blackhead clusters with downy tufts
of hair like flowy little black cottonballs. The morning smelled
of woodsmoke and tortillas.
At noon it began to rain. The shopkeepers mostly closed up
and cursed the clouds. Some but a quiet few to be sure cursed
God, and only the most sullen cursed his mother.....our big fat
oaf belches on the couch an’ slurps menudo--el amigo del
borracho--onto his pants. Qué tonto es to smack his lovely woman,
so young, once so amorous.

Young lovely in the foreground mixing flour while el macho
leans drunkenly on the couch, choking to death in his sleep,
vomiting old ugly.
***
“Lateralizing the fore-wand capitaine, so why’ncha cum on
back here and suck me?” “Sure” he says with a mercurial smile and
decks the navigator. “Why’ncha suck me” is our secret code for
“the navigator is a traitor.” The captain checks coordinates over
the navigator’s prostate and redirects into the Forbidden Zone.
Oh capitaine my capitaine!
***
We were walking down a long and winding road and oh, what a
perfect way to begin a tale that will tantalize and shock you,
and for all of us involved--you’re no exception--a degrading
spectacle to be sure. It all started back in ‘56 with the post-
war hoopla in the shadow of the mushroom cloud. Now, it doesn’t
loom above, doesn’t shine through the bright quaternary of the
window-pane; that is an illusion. It is an inner-glow and a tiny
joke. Reductionism has led us here. Don’t yell at me like that!
As I sit here and recall I cannot help but swat away the memories
of the Hordes whose plasma rifles flicker across my back (goddam
right I was running away!), their crossfire red and blue arcs
sizzling about my head while a sitar sang, and always those two
arguing voices yelling “Good!” “Bad!”

If it wasn’t for the fact that I drink a quart of synthetic
gin a day, I’d think I was goin’ nuts or sumpin. Already the
deterioration has begun, the absurd ablation coined NewSpeak by
that guy, that 20th century guy, what was his name? USA Today’s
been jabberin’ about ‘im ever since the Omnibus Terrorist Act got
passed way back in ‘94 or sumpin.
Please don’t think me mad dear readers, whoever you are, but
I have seen things that could turn the strongest into gibbering
fools, crying uncontrollably at the horror and vile deeds of
which we so-called “civilized” are capable......and I have
remained vigilant, and I can tell you that the over-the-hill fear
is real, and that the hill is in your head, and that a true
humanity is not an option of the chit-board of Creptilous and
Fornico and Helphasia Syndicates. The pitch has certainly eroded
here, my readers, and the severity of my tale is above such
shameless histrionics.
Ask me then, the question that may be formulating in your
minds: my words are pissing in those limpid pools even now....but
let us return to our story. It was mid-July, Double Ought, and I
was stationed in Europe as a thirty-year-old draftee, and you
know what that means. Supposedly I was a quartermaster, but in
reality I was a loathsome parasite who stabbed his own troops in
the back in favor of making a buck or two in information, sex,
drugs, comfort, and security, kind of like those freebootin’

renegades you read about in WW2 books who avoids his enemies and
plays his Army like a dime-store harp.
My luck couldn’t run out and I was called Mr. Korea by some
limp-dicked journalist who thought it evoked a black-markety feel
which would lend me some “Oriental mystique.” I did have a
penchant for opium and I could get you the best synthgreen in the
European Theater. I was as powerful as the President and twice as
popular. And, just for the record, my dick was so hard I could
hang an iron kettle upon it and do forty or fifty reps. The
Kettle Trick it was dubbed by ladies and a few boys in the know.
Anyhow, I was living with this Spanish chick who really
loved me. Sometimes, on days nippier than usual, I choked down
strong urges to throttle her or smash a bottle over the base of
her skull, but generally speaking, I loved her very much and was
very attached to her. Emotionally. Needless to say, we’d had some
glorious moments. So one day we were walking down the road when
it happened, that mad event which set the whole thing in motion,
the thing which has turned gentlemen into shameful lunatics and
made shameful madwomen of ladies. I will never forget the image
of the flaming descending upon us from out of the heavens and the
terrible fury of its starborn crewman!
***
Have they taken all the fight out of you? Do “they” really
even exist? How much longer do you think you can go on like this?
***
The outlines walked across the reedy fens, a cold mush like
gravy ‘tween the toes as the silt is kicked and the minnows
disturbed. A quiet slosh and the softest hum of one single
refrain from an obscure folksong, something to be felt as part of
the overall ambiance like that one flower of loveliness midst the
vastest of ugly wastelands, the vaulted pit of hell burning as
the air is consumed from the lungs of the damned...
(An issue now not of integrity but of “good form”).
***
Dire warnings and predictions from where the latest breaks
are shaping your world! Crusty fornicators blindly speaking,
willing dreaming playing seeking.....in a coarse brown smock he
stands judging you, with contempt clearly evinced upon his brow.
Go smack the insolent friar, I’ll go and back-scuttle ‘im! I
thought of this amusing incident from my childhood while we
walked like the ghosts of Timucuan warriors on a grim nocturnal
soiree with Jackson’s Horde of almost Paleolithic soldiers,
dessert-camo’d swarms of death and malaria. Many a mother vomited
grief upon those occasions and must the contact always be so
bloody? What with the Alpha Centauri project and all....I just
mean to say that someday “we” won’t be the fitter of the parties;
but that’s just nonsense right?

When my brotha cames back from Bellamy One he swore he saw
shit being sent back from Mars that would blow our fuckin’ minds
to shreds. “Pop” he went and imitated the ol’ needle a da
balloon. “I tellya babe there’s sumpin’ goin’ on here we outta
know about goddamit,” etc. He could go on so.
Llammasu Gregory was the best damn pilot Bellamy Airfield
had to offer the world, and if he couldn’t take down Ace Stiflip,
flying mad over the globe with a (theoretically) perpetual source
of energy created from (allegedly) one-of-a-kind Sino-Chinese
Microdeca technology, surreptitiously discovered by Dr.
Damilah....thus the torment of a hateful discovery that could
well end all human life as we know it. Then, perhaps the rumors
are true that Stiflip, trusted test-pilot with Double Secret
Clearance was indeed part of the Boweta Syndicate--too horrible
to contemplate! Well if the goddam Boffomulics won’t admit to a
mistake and instead lead us all down into Armageddon fuck them
I’ll send the motherfuck into destiny. Llammasu Gregory was all
runonsentencesascameinfastdownintotheblindspotofStiflipperpetuals
ourceornoI’mstillabetterpilot--and--whammo!! skittering hot radio
steel umbrella it falls and the soft powdery liquid over there:
those’re the remnants of Ace Stiflip now, dig?
They never considered the last option available to them
because the end result of their calcifying “intellectual” path is
complete ossified paralysis and a jerky mental clutch;

incidentally, they have a new kid working on the Damilah PMM,
after the good doctor’s unfortunate acquisition of scruples and
his most untidy suicide. What a puss. His boot stood poised over
the threshold of world domination--the entire solar system--and
he quailed, in doing so perhaps allowing the goddam BOWET
SYNDICATE to just step in and take what might as well be the Arc
of the Covenant for the Armies of Yahweh or the Western Flame.
Never thought they’d be glad to see a Bellamy pilot take out
their finest prototype of the new ZombiWing; their flack almost
seemed playful.
Forgive me if such a direct address is rude, dear reader,
but I think some acknowledgement of my debt to your gracious
patronage is in order. While it is true that at this point you
exist for the most part--in relation to the scale I propose to
achieve--as potential only in my present operations, I also
harbor no doubt that you will not fail me as future devoted
readers, hopefully not just as “that late Twenty-First Century
writer, L.B.,” but whilst I am alive, so that I may live--this
for the money--and so that I may live fulfilled--this for the
attention. Base, craven, yes. A loftiness I hold close to my
chest, to be sure, but one borne out of the living earth, the
rocky strata of the planet crushed into the many fractured stones
set amidst the wiggling roots and the burrows of an amazing
richness of animal life, from worm to terraforming human.

Forgive my somewhat obeisant and stilted manner. Perhaps you
sense a particular affectation, rudely employed and melted into
mere artifice and indirect appropriation of a dulled flow of
thought. This I would find sad but acceptable.
The flash from across the room allows the easy luxury of
laziness in taking the road to its fullest extent. Like to know
the Western Frontier and all its wonders exists for you to
explore in your own virgin way yet to ignore it and allow others
to report back from the front--a data collector the UPI or
Reuters, transcribing the blood sweaty journal of the dead
reporter. Dirk Johnston, crack reporter, dead at 32 under
mysterious circumstances. Film every ten minutes 24-7.
***
5. Sometimes when things get unclear it’s best to inject a

little space into the situation. Evolve.
32. The best cure for an insignificant problem which plagues
you is to undertake the Mad Work of Removal to in order to create
New Space, wherein to build a cult of obsession with the New.
From 100 Analects for Spacefaring Godmen (Bob Willard, aka
“Brother Khan Fuschia”)
***
Brooding now and clearly beyond that point at which he was
last seen plummeting on fire across the sky in his marvelous
private F-16, Ace Stiflip thunders thru the blue heavens firing
into a tunnel of clouds (!)
***
A growing phenomenon along the border zones is the practice
of integrating museums with amusement parks. Personally, the idea
seems to my way of thinking quite ingenious. Knowing full well
the peasant mentality, however, there’s sure to be a modicum of
disgusting drunkenness and a corresponding amount of lewd and
violent behavior at these establishments, with their free
burlesque shows and government-subsidized cantinas. Suspended
from ropes and strapped into a spangled bodice, a be-plumed
acrobat is gonna chastise me for a lack of what: respect?
Decorum? Yeah right. It occurs to me that it is this very
attitude which precipitates my ejection from the premises: “You
don’t know how hard it is asshole” growls the daughter/apprentice
of the one who had me removed from the big-top. I guess she’s
right. I don’t give a damn about the feathery aerial display, I
just wanted to fuck her.
The exhibit, which promises the visitor a complete
submersion in the sensory world of another time, another place,
falls drastically short of my expectations.
***
Begging for profundity from all the wrong sources, shallow
Class D watering holes which promised much from the air, but
who’s trim pubic forests belie a dry and withered cunt. Pardon
the harsh speech, my dear, but out here we tend to lose our
decorum, see its inherent irrelevancy to our rugged

circumstances. So much for the civilizing influence of the female
in the American West. Our Zeppelins ascend silently, morose. We
must find water or all we have worked towards will be for naught.
Who’d have thought that one of the basics, the easily overlooked
fluid of living, would have been the thing to trip us up?
And can’t we forget the “Onward & Forward!” of the gee-whiz
patrols on their profit-driven liquidation missions. Nor can we
forget those things which serve to make us complete, paradoxical-
like, by the purification of removal and that which percolates
madly in the kitchen, the slop shop with DNA moldering in the
rubbish bins and lymph all over the fridge. We cannot stop the
fight must resist the urge must hold it all together merely by
its grouping....the disparate sense of time and space projected
by these analects will find nexus somewhere, some code-word which
can Rosetta the indecipherable palimpsests in scraped layer upon
layer in the walls of our young protag’s cave, ensconcing himself
for his own protection, gleefully, voluntarily and with full
knowledge looking at shadows and calling them solids, without
irony, but in an “Impressionist metaphysics,” solid rendered
possible by the ephemeral, affected by gravity, spectrum-blasted,
beleaguered and bent into the dying wind, a hard concrete slab
with the green pole against which her strained form huddles;
she’s good kid, a naive kid, but strong and with the potential to
know things, really know things with a “those who know don’t
tell” kind of knowledge, given her by gnosis, that is by herself,
and a fingertip contact with AN OTHER; she’s a kidder, a smiler,
an injured innocent we will avenge. Too young to vomit grief she
yet feels viscerally what most of us only can build up false-like
in our heads, some cavorting cross-structure of neurotic weakness
and misapprehension....If I could only convey to you the dead
sadness and hurt of this woman, the girl called Chrystal Kelp
(yes, of course it is her of which I speak, how could it not be?)
before the onset of what they called schizophrenia after, I mean
before her mastery of telepathy which made her a skilled leader
of the people and contender for the feral-kid Ascension, of
General Interregnum’s malicious manipulation; he knew the
prophecy, read the cards, cloud-puffs, tea leaves, and most
effectively, the lines and cracks of his horse’s excrement. Most
clearly it spelled out the fate he was to suffer, deposed by this
skinny waif who should by all means be exterminated, committed or
otherwise dealt with, who gives a shit these days anyhow? The
Boffomulics got this country so wrapped up the people still
believe two parties run the whole damn thing and those who don’t
reduce it even further to one entity like Jews of the Pope or
sumpin’ ludicrous--must be a college boy--needless to say
antagonism to nonconformists runs high and the threat of
outlandish violence is not the screeching “love me I need
attention” of the disgruntled but a very visceral reality.

***
He tried to set the world on fire, blowing on thin twigs and
to the side little piles: finger, wrist, then arm-sized for
maximum fire-building efficiency. He particularly liked the
nomenclature, and he hummed as he jerked his kindling from the
bushes and grunted when he brought it down over his knees with a
damp crack. The forest was his refuge, the fire he was building
for the cave he had devised with a WW2 trenching tool (a small
foldable shovel). Our little protagonist was surely unaware of
this interesting fact, but this innocuous-looking tool had been
used once, folded into an “L”-his uncle Stimes had held by the
long end, grieving as he swung it about midst the whistle of
bullets and “upon a head had sunk it deep,” a crimson gash like a
jellied haunch of ham, and then the gray brain, lifeless face so
grotesque, so horrible to envision.
***
Just in time for the midday crunch dear, we got sales on
nonsense reams of the shit pulled fresh outta the whore-tailed
lil’ lad he’s swingin’ with these days. Perverts. One grenADE and
the good future of a whole truckload of theists visit their maker
like a cock-sure fruitbat with a tumor--loathsome stuff here,
isn’t it? Like claps recorded in digital sound, I play this part
of the thing looped so as to assuage my hurt over the rejection I
avoid by not attempting. A square. To love and charity straight

down to alley: tell them. You cheap-suited chub-rocker, your
“ages of messageless divination”--tell it to the millions who
have died believin’ that the lord or their country was on their
side, polemic and derelict between unrecognition, let loose the
ties that continue to bind us and that’s pronounced “bind” like
“sin” not “wine.” General, you obsolete fat hog, bedsore from
inaction, suspended with straps--in traction--as the only true
welfaree or socialist-recipient left, killing reds in the name of
the lord.
Her doubts span rapidly in my ears and I felt like I might
be ill, so queasy am I in the face of betrayal. Funny how it is
that when I do, it falls--what has hitherto lain with jocko-sock
intra-clip and dainty invitations to madness, if you ask hard
enough--persistent like--he’s sure enough gonna come to your
party, probably with yer wife in the next room while you drunk
and a fool cry over the alcohol-enhanced blues based on
inconsequential character flaws that you might as well go end it
all if yer gonna cry about it or even better, if you can handle
the stress associated with it, turn the gun on the madness. The
things you treasure most are the most dangerous, all that is
complex can be rendered simple, or concise let us say, pound yer
fist, make a claim, mineral rights, obligations, hand-shakin’
backslap and fat cigars.

Without love it’s true the world is simply a vast and empty
mirror. Without love my left arm ends in a stump and my legs are
cut off at the knees, the 8-mm metal plate in my chest, on my
face--edit me you bastard, let’s go and get it over with, I’ll
probably find it erotic. I’ve steeled myself with S&M and gettin’
pissed on--go ahead, let’s do it, takes two to Tango so they say,
and you gotta place it there before I’ll take it.
The music playing in the background was a mixture of teevee
static from channel X and recorded chants from the Armenian
Mentichrist Community. They were both the same to “Jack.” “Jack”
was a hard-assed muthafucka, a punchy little drunkard stouter
than he was tall, surprisingly deft on his toes and a wickedly
unexpected lefty. He wrote like he punched--quick and left-
handed. “Jack” liked that the warp of woof for “left” in Italian
was “sinistra” from the Latin “sinister.” For some reason unknown
perhaps to but a few scholars of esoteric philology with theories
only, our dimly-lit ancestors associated lefties with the
sinister--perhaps its’ relative uncommonness was a symbolic
threat to the natural order--and the so-called “left-hand”
pentagram has two horns exalted, that is, the “legs” of the
pointed star of five are directed upward, inverting the natural
order of man, and, incidentally, creating a nice shape into which
a goat’s head can be neatly inscribed. It is currently associated
with Satanism. Some lefties suffered from the stigma well into
the present, when teachers or parents often tried to correct
their left-handed child’s’ “problem.” The Mentichrists, by the
way, have left the building, as it were, and the static rages
with a warbled zither grinding in and out of clarity and notes
bending as if sound itself were being forced into a particular
corner of the room; slaking like the muzzle of a beast so
entirely alien that it needs this imperfect device to barely
sculpt its’ grunting and burbling “flati” (farts) into a
sickening semblance of human speech, whose maddening horror stems
not so much from its actual voice, if we can call it that at all,
but from the perverse approximation of the human tongue it
manages to convey. The mere memory is enough to push even the
strongest-willed individual onto the brink of the final precipice
of stark raving lunacy!
***
Forgive me if I often lose my way as I tread upon this ill-
lit and at best spongy soil. Usually hard, unyielding turf with
the sparsest of trees and texture and stink of a stale, parched
tongue, cracking and septic, not barely an ooze of moisture left
to eke out...
At one point the three of us had made it out of the swamp
that a greater number--like “the long walk”--had begun but by a
steady pace of attrition were lost to the elements.

CHOCO the telepathz
She is ardent about her workplace and its’ ongoing problems.
I have a difficult time processing the information; I cannot help
it and though I don’t I want to withdraw.....
123456780!@#$%^&*()_+=-*&*()&^^”’:;
qwertyyyuiopasdfghjklkhjkl;’;:”:ZZxzcccvvmnvmv,,,,./ / ssss
***
NYPD naked cops and the street anarchists erecting and
toppling one another naked and perverted. Not love, but love
sick.
***
Something like a rose thorn to mar a more delicate beauty:
the stupid female. Gawd how this new kick gets to me sometimes,
overwhelmed by my own creation--soo frank, soo stein.
***
“The figure of the uncle is so intriguing because it
suggests an alternate vision of the father.”--The Clarification
of the Anti-Amigo Phenomenon: A Study in Reduction, Book I: Anti-
Fraternity and the Disassociation of Meaning in the Overculture
(Stimso Adid, 1939)
***
I has this crazed notion, hear, with gutter appeal, hear,
but take it now, hear, Monsieur Toflin, with the preachy-teachy,
the biggy-wigg scientist, he think it profund, like tele-p or
empa-t. Ol’ Tof, he give me warm fuzzies when he tell me that, he
like he a spesha unca, he, hear?
Mo-me is so sweet an’ plump. I love her. Love love LOVE!!
That’s what they tell us at the preach and the teach and her
apron do have that smell and stain so that I jes’ really LOVE!!
OH she such a pie!
Pop-me, oh, he reall hard and strong and I LOVE him so much
is he like Number One and the preachy-teach of the crossy-woss. I
LOVE!!! GOD!!!!++++He look just like perfect pop-me, and his me
sits by his side. An’ Ol’ Tof is there, all like one big flowa
paradisio-style ‘n all, all the souls in heaven are all the
wingies and GOD is the eye-center, ya know?! From the preachy
BOOK?
I never heard o’ no two me’s, but I wish I had one of the
bumpy ones like at the preach or the teach. I LOVE it when we get
to play with our thingies with the bumpy ones for the preaches
and the teaches. They give us LOVE!! We make them happy with us.
***
She is a stark thing, a stark thing.
***
A sad preamble to a liquid energy wreaks across the room a
delicate kind of havoc, like a bull in a china shop but an inch-
tall bull, a little hard rubber eraser which, incidentally, came
thru one “Señor” Korea, hog-hound tooth -- thru the hands one Mr.
Korea, importer extraordinaire, kettle champ and the “quarter-
ounce pouncer” of New Seoul.....
Mr. Korea, yoo-hoo, yoooooooo0000ooo-
hoo0ooooooo0000000ooooooooooooooo 000000ooo00ooooooooo000o
I was a speakeasy snot-nosed kid, raised in the oppressive
Poob Culture of the goddam self-appointed “kneed-to-nose” when
they were really blind to their cog-nature, pigs. Badge-wearers
and shiny ID wallets with three-lettered cards, flashy and “kept
at the front desk of the hidden complex” kind of cards, flashy
and kept at the front desk of the hidden complex 12 stories below
and then three lefts. They’re just future-rust and the lichens on
an extremely salty beach....Anyhow, they gets their badges here
but their regulation ID’s make no special mention just have
special numbers which when popped into a computer, exonerate,
will always come clean. Small, bespectacled men, wireless and

thin, wearing gray suits and carrying thin attaché cases. Their
business cards have innocuous names and in a jaunty, chubby
script give only a number best not called at from yer own phone.
We got environmental controls, and fibrous examinations upon
which to base our actions. To whom do we need to justify when we
are the overwhelming Horde?

A barbaric ritual
Gary lay smiling at his own jokes in his bed. In his left-
hand he absent-mindedly worried a Sigareet! brand cig,
occasionally remembering to take a long deep drag; his right hand
toyed with his semi-hard penis, fingers working their way up the
bulk of the thing, pulling the skin up around the circumcised
head. He was in no hurry, he let his body take care of getting
hard to its’ fullest extent, when the tip would throb and swell
into a round red ball, “like the handle of a gearstick in a ‘72
FIAT”. Cinzia was her name and he’ laughed when she told him
that. “Fiat Lux!” he yelled and sprayed cum all over her chest.
Gary’s girl watched him, squirming, the yellow patch of
panties peeping from beneath the hem of her miniskirt growing
visibly damp and musky. The scent began wafting around the room,
the heavy blue smoke of incense. It was that kind of smell,
fertile, almost tangible on the tip of the tongue. Gary
remembered one smell like it, its weightiness, not its actual
perfume, back when he had been walking in the summer night and
had been overcome with the smell of oleander, swirling about him
like tongues of flame riding the air currents and updrafts. The
lower biosphere within which we walk....
Her eyes widened and her gagged mouth managed to gasp as his
penis gave a sudden leap and doubled its size, one stinging surge
of blood in his ears, the sound of her straining against the
ropes which held her to her chair began falling about him,
infinitesimal echoes the cry of a million cicadas in the summer
oleander night.....
Writhing and beg-like whimpers as the flaying gives way to
what lies beneath, ruptured, it sprays wildly across his body
into the air, she releasing a tidal pool gone limpid.
The corpulent ghost launches itself thru the air on
molecular springboards--the woman deigns not to listen to your
professions of love--that sickly sweet musk of release which
allows for your departure. You knock-kneed wimp, habit-addict of
indescribable idiocy, a lunatic farce and a sliver of yellow
rippling in pointed fingertips of ocean black....DJ Freak in tha
house!!! Ambient double-mixed synthetica, straight from that
ambiguous soap ad, the scrubbing powder on the map labeled

“Europa.” Subliminal Message Case Study #626: So-called “mutuo-
suck” and the widespread profusion of death-dreams, a case study
in simultaneous orgasm.
(He claimed pigeons flew about him, roaring, he said, as the
sunlight burst thru the overcast sky and burned the pattern of
the window obliquely across his lightly-haired young man’s
chest.)
How could she--lashed as she was, bound, in all senses of
the word, do this to herself? Arms affixed, she yet managed to
drag her cat area and induce the petit mort, an exposed cheek of
flesh in the rock-face, soft and raw, unexpected...
He a masturbator with a one-woman audience. She coalesced
his entire experience; perhaps he trusted her experience with his
friends and relatives more than his own so that his very
epistemological foundation had been entrusted to the overriding
will of an “other”, a willing submission and gradual concession
and piecemeal distribution of his...heart? Soul? Wherever the
stinking chemical epiphenomena of his physiological makeup led
him.
100 feet tall
Let us take in a broad sweeping view: a Zeppelin wafts about
in rectilinear patterns like the ZAPOTEC ruins at Mitla about an
hour outside of Oaxaca, but this is the sky, and the city. The
patterns are set for it by great pits which shoot columns of heat
into the air along which the Zeppelins are magnetically pulled.
That’s what I do. I’m a magno-tug operator, Malariaville Zeppelin
Authority, License No #626-23, Class 2.
The city stretches toward all vanishing points. Standing at
the great building in the center, communications and floomph!!
***
Just call me “Stulty Joe”
***
A scream and a shout are not the same thing. And there were
both, in spades.
***
Special current adapters compensate for the lack of adequate
voltage in the so-called “Browntown.” This owing to the color of
its residents, its air, and the regular lack of sufficient
electricity. “Well, they were the ones who voted down rationing”
snorts the corpulent TV commentator gleefully. Let ‘em laugh, we
in on it with ‘em in those parts, it’s where we got most of our
outlets onto the surface from beneath....it’s their greatest
fear. As the firelight projects grotesque mockeries of ourselves
onto the cave walls, the younger ones among us revel and proclaim
reality in the face of the image. We cannot tell them enough,
true illumination, it seems, is an age thing, like the brains
don’t really start workin’ until their gonads do, and then it’s
such a friggin’ mess for a while you gotta let the testosterone
settle--not sayin’ it should never be shook up again--but that’s
why in our culture we have the Years of Tranquility, about 21,
where sobriety and chastity are observed--two years, for some
nothing for others grueling....with the proper guidance our boys
become men, responsible and strong--the Keta word for this rite
is FORTITUDE.
***
Gulotamy is an ugly word for an even uglier practice.
Downright gruesome. No one knows from where the word came, and
our linguists can’t seem to make a connection between it and a
word from any other language, living or dead.
***
“...your apparent willingness to seek Another Space
continuously erodes my faith in yer perfection. I take solace in
this, for it liberates me to seek a New Space of my own.” (Bob
Willard soon to be “Brother Khan Fuschia” in a letter to his
soon-to-be ex-wife)
***
The coffins raining down do little to cheer a heavy spirit
(Poem from Gail by Gibson Stone)
***
Ker-ash!!!! The lumbering keys have trouble finding the
locks into which they fit; oh to return to that hearth which so
warms my cold and hard soul!! Gawd. Marching thru the city
jingling like an elaborate spur, they look to the door and window
ports for a trace of clue, to lead them home.
***
Mothers lock up, bring children indoors, pull curtains
to...............................................................
.................................................................
.................................................................
.................................................................
.................................................................
...............................................................!
***
His easier-said-than-done cry echoes loudly thru the canyon
–yon –yon –yon...
Barely, with a whisper resembling the pitter-patter of tiny
mouse feet, his fingers inserted themselves into the proper holes
for the subtle manipulation of the golden machine. His fingers
were poked by needles and clamped with pressurized vinyl straps,
he felt strange textures like glue or snot, small dials waited to
be spun with the slightest pressure, nooks crannies, etc. It was
a strange machine and it resembled a milking machine with udder-
like squeezies and vibrating steel sheaths, be-tubed with a hole
for the removal of fluids. “Jack” was such a badass drunken poet
he simply went up and stuck his dick into one of the elongated
steel army helmets and flipped the switch; he came so hard he
shriveled up like an old red balloon. One of the lads went up and
I had to restrain him from bending the stupefied ejaculate over
the damn machine and doubling his pleasure with a round of
chimney-sweeping. The honeybees in the court were loving it of
course, they couldn’t stand this man of strong smells, and he
pinched their tight little flat asses and insulted them to their
faces all the while smiling. They weren’t used to that.

The inventor of the machine was an alcoholic Mexican macho
named Joe Zaragoza, whose original claim to fame was the creation
of a luminescent dye mixed into cow-feed nationwide which in turn
made the cows glow in the dark. In a place like Mexico, out in
the rural parts where the roads are narrow and there are no
lights, and no fences to keep the cows off the highway, the idea
made perfect sense.....just damn hard to get used to the blasted
things glowing mellowly at the side of the road chewing and
looking and going “moo.” Saves lives tho’, nobody questions that.
The purpose of this strange machine is nebulous at best, and
the alleged benefits which are said to arise from its application
too innumerable to count, tho’ they range from improved eyesight
and virility to spiritual liberation from the ideological
shackles of the modern era and the immaculate intensification of
experience with home-brewed eyeballs (even the best Colorado
laboratories can’t beat the eyes you can make for yourself at
home).
Certainly, as tests have shown, sensitivity to puns and
anagrams is markedly increased after merely minutes on the golden
machine. Whether this has to do with the problem-solving element
of the machine’s manual controls, and thus arises primarily from
the exercise of the human participant, or is one of the more
unsubstantiated benefits of the machine’s pulpy restorative
elixir remains to be seen. Benefits result from a mix of “psychic

weight-lifting” and faith. The magic potion promised must be a
myth. The artificial paradise offered by what is merely a
slightly hallucinogenic soporific is not as valuable to the
individual as the one created by the individual thru his own
labors and “hand-made” mental development....truly in the sense
that one must cultivate one’s garden must one sharpen the mind,
it is a physical act, a gritty shaping of clay, of endless
coffees and late night deliriums, sweaty constipated moments and
gut-wrenching fears; the success or failure of a so-called purely
mental endeavor “may be as dependent upon the disposition of
one’s bowels as one’s brain.” (Wickes)
***
So don’t you believe the hype about being handed anything.
Because you pay the machine in gold for a worthless tonic. But it
takes what you give it freely, and like our toughie, sometimes it
takes a little more than you care to give.

THE LINKING OF THE ESTRANGED
Long ago, I, Lazslo Bream, undertook to describe to you what
has for me been a life of warfare. It began merely as a
journalistic endeavor, and I often lay naked on the field of
battle, scribbling away in my notebook, dreadfully, with boots of
iron. I eventually took up the various weapons which presented
themselves to me. Ultimately I was at one point severed. Alone
against a phantom army of countless numbers of unchartable
geographic origin, I often broke down and wept while exploring
caves, mountains, archeological remains, shrines, all with a
general idea of finding something that wasn’t there, couldn’t be
there, because I was imposing myself upon it, losing the
specificity of each place I traveled. I made generic what I
touched, traveling in ridiculous disguises which often failed me,
so that I was chased, hounded, shot at, feared. Sometimes I

passed myself off as one of them, gradually assuming the
realities of my enemies. I am one of them now, a mere shadow, at
least until my soul returns from its grief-filled solitude....
I’m not trying to be cryptic but to speak plainly, as
clearly as possible despite the likelihood of static and echoes
and otherwise meaningful associational interference which
broadens and dilutes as much as it flavors--it’s a hit-and-miss
system really, but a lot of fun to toy around with for that very
reason, for whimsy, surprise, and sometimes darker, sadder things
like loneliness and the inability to come forward and show the
mind behind the games, to forget fear and fight the fear which
gripped you when you went away to college and you puked and you
were so nervous, remember? You didn’t think you could do it, but
you did, fairly well, and have continued to this day to learn and
develop. The lack of structures hurts you, but the rigor
necessary to stick with pursuing structure scares, you, so you
quit, and your fear of failure is a self-fulfilling aspect of
your entirely paralyzed person. Talk about a soul on ice!
Well it seems that I have disappeared again. I should tell
you that all the characters herein you have come to know are the
warring factions of myself, each a militant screaming extremist
who can brook no quarter, give no middle ground or otherwise
blend in.
Some of these individuals fit together as two distinct
social organisms interlocked thru strife, participating in a
greater ecology they--like two warring amoebae--are unaware of.
Time and space have thus been conflated into what is quite
literally, an invisible interstice, whose real meaning lies in
the afterimages of its rapid gyrations, and whose definition must
be discerned by its epiphenomena alone, as if seen thru cultural
values which act as invisible blinders, thus framing what is
seen. Each of these organisms recognizes no enemy except the
other, and assume that those participating in their organism seek
to remain whole. Although each bears the reflection of the other,
it is that very other they despise, and seek to cut out. The
dominant trend of Organism A is to strictly divide into a rigid
taxonomy of definition, of the individual and the concrete
identity of things they approach imperfectly thru names. The
other seeks to destroy words as the necessary communication of
distinct beings. They believe in the insubstantial nature of
form, meaning, and the idea of the self; they seek to dissolve
into one: Organism B is thus seeking telepathic communion and are
metaphorically labeled “wet.” Organism A, which desiccates thru
reduction, are said to be “dry.”
49. Die blind while the coffee’s still warm.
There is nothing soft and cuddly about the steel bars of
today’s prisons, no affable turnkeys with sticks of tea.

54. There is nothing so disgusting as an egg.
Drank a quart of coffee this morning and am now about to
vomit. Sun coming in thru the window is bright--too bright--
flaying the skin from my exposed shoulders and my eyes are
sizzling and running hot down my cheeks leaving slug-like trails
of 2nd-degree burns and the happy remembrance of the yellow light
reaches towards me from my past and childhood; at the back of my
mind though. I wonder if a cold anchor doesn’t hold that
fluttering golden sail.
63. Never trust the soft template of memory except as a
construction of the present.

THE DIM FACTORY
She purchased the brushes and paint with which I create this
tableau, I don’t owe but am indeed indebted.
Who’d have thought it, stooped, benumbed, dispirited. How
many men had he seen like this, a heavy-jowled weariness about
them and a sighing, sagged resignation? Fat, middle-aged cuckolds
in dull jobs hiding behind pseudonyms and dawn-to-dusk
consumption of synthgreen? Never me, he thought in his youthful
vigor, his puppy energy gone wild as his egg-shell consciousness
blundered forward into a murky mind full of regrets and always
waiting....for something…
tossing small objects
into cans,
ready to load the
belly of the plane

reaching a small
plateau
for the sake of
future references
Languid and pilled-up, the rimmers sit bitching...
The Boots of Ascension and the Chrystal Divinator (License
No. 626-23, Class 2)
***
High in the cockpit with the tiny forward windows--two--the
soft-hard canopy and the camouflage of fur, the wispy pilot sits
conferring with himself and his tables. The pilots were called
“ghosts.” His last signal was traditional ...--... / ...--... /
etc. until it abruptly ceased and his ZombiWing disappeared off
the screen. This was appx. 13:23 e.s.t., on 5/18/34. Capt. Marvin
Farquar.
Pilled, slack-jawed and degenerate, the rimmers sit
languidly bitching....
Canopy rimmers sit listless and sprouting the moldy fuzz
patina--he ate his bearers when the party ran out of food, played
‘em against one another and literally stabbed the last faithful
one in the back, used his corpse as a buckler so to speak, Capt.
Robert Smith whatta hero, lookit’ his bulging crotch and melon-
backed rump! Lord! Get that man some sort of decent codpiece
before I’m forced to blow my load right here in the commons and
ruin my reputation as a Haislett, from Boston don’cha know!
Long and braying, a dull brown ass in the pillory for
attempting to fulfill his needs.....

The trial of Stimso Adid
sa lay in his bed of
sweat and delirium;
worried and strange
indifferent looks
borne upon their
faces: they hovered
above.
By Removal, it is Mad Work to Remove,
the Truth can be made Pure!
***
Someone during the night had gone for a white man in the
know, willing to risk the angry streets for a furtive midnight
liaison with this babbling American; he walked in the moon
shadows and was let in through the heavy door cut into the gate
to the fevered room, aglow with votive candles and musky,
pregnant air, he coughed tightly and knelt down....
“Notify embassy yes yes old chap will do.” He communicated
his need for identity papers but the sick American lay semi-
conscious, hot beads of perspiration staining his pillow like a
widening circle of blood..... “My things.....get pot,
co.....caine, must...get drugs.” “What man? You are delirious!”
“Get drugs...in...things.” “What things what are you talking
about?” “My.....things, my....” The sudden realization; he eyed
the American. He was a scruffy man, wasted thin, sunken-eyed
with drawn cheeks, raving in delirium about his drugs; by his
reckoning the young man wanted him to take his things, to avoid
their being found while he was invariably evacuated, as most of
them were when this whole business erupted. In any event, even if
he’d wanted to stay he couldn’t now that he was so precariously
ill.
The empty spaces of his ambulations...she said his face was
the color of a cauliflower, and it was her question, so it hung
with dim dilations of time. Sweat ran off her face in giant
rolls.
***
“All his attempts at writing a coherent letter were dashed
by his disobedient fingers so he cut them off. He was a stupid
man.”
It is said that on his deathbed, Adid bolted upright, looked
at the Englishman, and made this statement in even, albeit
weakened tones, then he lay down calmly and slept. Adid then
awoke with a start some minutes later, laughing madly until he
simply died on the spot in the midst of a terrible rattling of
the windows by a sudden gust of wind.)
Yon Milhaus, “The Lessons of Adid” in Tales of Adid,
Double A Press, New York, 2162.
***
Like a bear to a bee, saying the right sequestered moment, a
thing which tantalizes and draws in unto itself that which passes
within its’ grasp.......toll kin don’t let me pass without paying
the requisite emotional “fees,” the small fish chunks which
slowly reap space in an empty harvest, a stinking shoe at the
bottom of the spring-fed pond which lead inevitably towards the
ocean, the wide open, which is...
Nunca mas.......
I lay adrift on a plate of hot glass, which yielded to my
touch yet which would not be pierced, only glob and resist like
Kevlar strands hugging an acquiescent rotating bullet--I quite
like the hallucinations without words, but God, I don’t know if I
can stand another with the bitter voices, the grinning devils’
heads pirouetting on stilted feed towards me, all a-leer; the
melting dolls’ heads the dripping eyes the recriminating tone of
what is after all only an inanimate plastic head, its
indifference a condemnation: that no one just seems to take
notice any more in the whizzy stream of splintered drunken
engagements: I do not ask for much.
The salt on my cracked face and dry, bloodless lips squeaks,
and my face crunches like a leather mouse, although the sound is
visually reproduced as the winds of an atomic detonation bending
mighty pines like saplings, the voracious heat in searing
blankets which seek and consume, slo-mo, the roar of the
fledgling match being struck. One punch! of the button destroys
the Prime Mover and all reality ever is less than instantaneously
coalesced into a pea-sized lump. The siren to my left, on the
rock, pouring ladles full of brine into bowls, inviting with
carrot and potatoes, to eat with mewing countenance a hearty
stew, a “Dinty” if you catch me.

Sewing a reaperful of braying seismic men, chanting jagged
lines from the stretched mouths, forcefully squatting above a
trough which carries away their excrement, while attendants note
the numbers and destroy the reams of cardboard which bear the
incriminating figures....a long stale-smelling hallway of cinder-
block serves as the temporary home of these cretins, and until
popular opinion can be swayed in any direction significant enough
for action to be taken, it will remain this way, the poor
autistic bastards in chattels for meager accounting tasks of the
anti-machine government of this latest pathetic edition of the
American Republic. Sad simulacrum and amusement-park sensibility
of your leaders and followers; we in the dark just sit back and
laugh, fondle one another, fuck in the suction-like manner of the
damp funky.
Never so prurient as to brazenly reveal ourselves in public,
we wait for the private moments in which to truly cut into
ourselves and beg for a violation of the skin suit, to know the
reality of the fleshy, fatty underside of the epidermis like we
do the hairy artifice.

DAMILAH AND THE TORMENT OF JONATHAN
Like everyone, I seek freedom of expression, to speak in the
language of freedom, much like myself as a young man snapping
twigs over my knees in the forests, where an hum and a grunt were
my most vituperative curses. I too, was a Whittle-Stick Kid,
falling prey to the preachy-teach (for a little while), the
conditioning of the Boffomulic (I was a Boy Scout), and in
reaction, an enervating but passionate reactionary thinking. Even
Chrystal Kelp, that most appealing visage of all that you desire
in the strongest emotional way. You step gingerly over the
threshold, toes snuffling the alien soil like a prehensile
nose.....
Raining glittering un-fightable unstoppable, you lying
cadaver you!! I hate yr friggin’ guts. Here’s my attempt at a

straight story of rural idyll and the goodness of the nostalgic
farmer’s way...........
***
“Jack” was walking down a dusty road in the Florida summer
heat. He swam in pools of humidity, panting and stumbling, dry-
as-bone throat and on the verge of blacking out. Hungover.
Abandoned here by some well-meaning do-gooder..... “Charlie” he
spat like an excrement-flavored curse. “I’ll be right...back”
he’d said. Then “Jack” blearily eyed the note....
***
Bah! I speak to you in stilted tones and the descriptive
diatribe supersedes the extended droll narrative, tongue lolling
about like a stunted dog!! You cretinous Boffins, Pessimod and
his Legion of Nay-Sayers!! The Spiteful Lord, representative of
the Patrio-Matrix. Their cult weaves Indra, loops, and meaningful
repetition, their statues often depict many-armed serpentine
females, like snake mermaids, spinning shimmering discs on their
fingers like basketballs or newfangled jukeboxes; set against
gold-fringed red velvet, and studded with zirconium, they gleam
brilliantly with the most garish spirituality of Kitsch, Goddess
of Trash Culture. They hang out in garbage pits and mortuaries,
Humane Society crematoriums, in back alleys wrapped in go-go
skirts of Hefty bags and nylon rope. They communicate with the
rodents, naturally, have excellent night vision, indelicate
nostrils, etc.
The SP got to them here as well. You remember the SP, who
Interregnum abused and subverted, brought in close, then
isolated? The subsequent genetic drift and resulting degeneracy--
albinism and anemia? These poor children purged in genetic-based
infanticide, to purify the compound. Some babies escaped to the
Gurglensch, a shadowy subterranean band led by one Señor Korea,
or “Mr.” if you prefer; we all know about the resulting war, the
ancient eon endgame which shattered the windows and brought the
aeroplanes crashing down into the suburbs. But you see, there is
reason for hope, to defeat the new threat: Disintegro is dead!
But we must remain vigilant as our ancestors remained vigilant
without the fear of and race to acquire ever-newer armaments; a
new specter haunts Europa, the specter of Pessimism!
***
We do not fear the reprisal of anything...but of
EVERYTHING!!!!
(That’s why we cringe)--baby sucks thumb, gurgles--
***
Code “O” and the pressing of the button, ...--...
***
He was a nice Jewish kid with wide eyes and one of those
Beau Brummel caps the heavily-sideburned hipsters wore back in

the 1970’s, but, more appropriately, young Jewish boys in
knickers and argyle socks wore in the 1930’s; this particular
little boy didn’t push a hoop along with a stick but did have his
books slung over his shoulders by a strap. This he bought at the
tiny school bookstore, a display case really, along with frail
felt pennants and dusty marbled composition books. Behind that
bush, there, by the water fountain, a mechanical device used to
count the months, years, spins wildly out of control, and the
light flickers pin-wheeling as day chases day faster than twice
per second! The children grow like mushrooms, ejaculate
spontaneously, go baritone, bearded, bald. Soon they wither and
stoop, disappear with a comic “poof!” that scatters a fine brown
powder thru the empty halls of the cracked schoolhouse. Mocked by
the Christians, our timid shadow tiptoes out via the little used
doors of what once served as the school’s mortuary.
The apparent incongruity in this statement only exists
for those who are only now emerging from their so called
“vacations,” in the nutritious vats with artificial stimulation.
Lost this young child, where piles of rubble stink with
flies, and where the din of conflict never ceases, foreign
tongues floating up between paper-thin walls like pages, rubble-
minded foundation where the warm room of the washing machines
sit, the dream-room of cinderblock and tack enamel paint and

dirt-crumbs spider webs in the corners, the light yellow and un-
endearing....
Where the brilliant spangle of the night beguiles him our
young Jewish hero dreams at the sky, looking at the stars as tho’
at the bottom end of a 70mm movie screen, the sky distorted along
a flat plane when it was meant to jag the jig like the best
dervish-footed suntails, kicking sand and destroying the
monstrous ant-lion deathpits like they were nothing more than
pores of the skin, penis dangling slings droplets of pee, growing
hard with a greasy soft exoflesh.......the onlookers laugh with
you gaily, abandoned in the heat under veils, tents, camels
languidly swaying, bells and the delicate strands of hasheesh and
the curried smells emanating from the pyrefit where the lamb
roasts with a precious garland of vegetation and stinging spices.
At the perimeter, beefy guardsmen circle, naked save for leather
codpieces and thin robes which keep out the sun. Harem girls, who
end up clad in less, dance for us, slipping away with the
complement of their choosing; needless to say, this is rarely
monogamous.....
STOP!!!!!
Have we not already violated the memories of our dead
ancestors and blasphemed the precious name of the Lord!!!! People
are in hysterics running screaming waiting for the divine
retribution in their hearts we thought was a curse long cut out

of our holistic society, homeopathically immune to cancer and
thyroid disorder....
The pin-wheeling firmament and the gaseous dust of space,
becoming, tensing.....
The hoary air and the soft cloud scudding along the flat
frozen lake of the sky with a silence that chilled, over moon
illumination and long shadows, I observed the movement of the
soldiers which strike at the very marrow of our lore...
Our village sits wintered, in-doored. Heavy and dense the
atmosphere.....
Flying fish choreography and the salty observer.
The nylon queen struts in the bedroom wearing a silk bra
stuffed with his girlfriend’s panties, kicking back on the bed in
a white-belly writhe which sends semen slinging all over the
mattress and the floor-it’s more exciting when he dresses up like
a woman and tucks his cock in between his legs and imagines being
fucked in the ass by a petite chick wearing a strap-on, wearing a
bowler and a painted-on mustache, a carnation in the lapel of her
wide-collared pinstripe suit; she should speak in gangster tones
with lots of slang terms and say “whaddaya” and “shaddap!” just
one scene in a place where it’s considered harmless, even
charming; among some circles, it’s even vogue, and many a yuppie
in search of the lost glory of the Reagan Revolution has lubed
his ass for what one witty pundit called a “great bloody good
time!” Oh, you haven’t lived until a woman dressed like a

lumberjack saunters over to where you lay tied up and rams the
fat end of an axe-handle so far up your colon, that if it was an
extremely sensitive hand, could tell you just what it was you’d
had for breakfast....
Forgetting the essential motivations behind the mission,
Capt. Willard Curtis had gone amok, playing King of the Jungle
with a rabble army of renegade Idrag Salar; we’re gonna kill ‘im!
***
What are they singing!? Sounds like it’s comin’ from the
boudoir, but you can’t be certain....you put your hand to your
head, that most disturbing vision as she lay next to you on the
foldout couch, four perfectly blue eyes looking at you from a
plaintive face. Not blurry, like drunken split-vision, but hard,
clear, only there were four eyes instead of two. You swallowed
hard and laughed, looking into them, and of course you met them
all; you finally had to turn away and grit your teeth into the
pillow. And still there’s that singing, the steady vocal humnnn
like a hive of devoted bees, a cantor woefully a-tremolo over the
gaseous hiss of your Whirlpool air conditioner. You used to make
this kind of music when you were young, remember? You were so
young then and sat in the stairwell when no one was home and lay
with your cheek against the marble stair, muttering litanies of
your own composition, following no rules save for the natural
rhythm of mournful incantation; sometimes the sufferings and

calamities that you conjured out of wispy smells of mildew and
the guilt you felt for your childish cruelty...withered scratchy
blanket giving you a rash, stinging sweat and the silhouette
grope; la ventana morisca; the filigree of the ancient woodwork
at your head vibrates slightly, pulses. A decanter lies
overturned and the rag carpet is damp, a slow fly buzzes thru the
suspended dust caught drifting thru the frame of the light coming
through the window, the Moorish window which throws
your arm
your arm
your arm
your arm
into a colorless flat space around which the light enlivens
this droll death-chamber; you are a sick pig, and I’m ever so
tired with you--no ugly spirit, no alien entity which twists my
head into a Janus-shaped knot! Goddam if I’m gonna take this shit
any longer you blight in my soul! The cantor is joined by a group
of men, both young beards and grey, hopeful, determined, even a
bit grim; they sing the same refrain yet veer off into a singular
groove which turns into a sonic cascade which reforms at the base
into a calm pool of call and answer.....is that why you sat in
the echo chamber of the stairwell, singing for an answer? A
respected voice cuts into the music, a prose voice. It reads from
a book and silences the voices of the many, heads bowed in
communal prayer, collective expurgation of unspoken inner
turmoil. The priest lets everybody know the same words can
express their individual concerns, and he’s the one reading them.
A lifeless comedy, folks, an auditorium of corpses with
their arms splayed over the backs of chairs and their tongues all
a-loll.....
***
The old man sits fishing beneath the witty bridge the locals
have painted with scenes of river bliss and manatee, impossible
divers in what is now unswimmable due to the chemicals and
carcinogens of an advanced and prosperous civilization. Tell this
to the fisherman, eyeing a shit log floating past as he pulls up
a rusty boot covered in foul-smelling cabbage, black with fungus
and rot.
The frizzy-haired washerwoman looks up as at water’s level,
a single eye stalks her; she senses but cannot be sure, cannot
see; in a clutching flash she has her basket in her arms and
heads toward the back door, crossing herself with a creole phrase
she misunderstands. A single attentive eye causes crib death,
infatuation, stomach irritation; crushing small colored vials
onto the floor, where a small fire burns with black smoke and
inappropriate smells. This is an apartment complex, not a dusky
village where the whitboar prowls.....

A small child falls heavily on the sidewalk, diaper
absorbing the fall, shit squirting out the top of his tight
rashed pants, panting.
And silently the beast continues along its’ mysterious path
thru the Stages of Ascension in the zones of the liquid black. No
jewels, but certainly a wooden lattice, though dim and
indefinite, light shines thru, and one is reminded of the
twinkling crystalline lattices sent shimmering, in dropped
planes, in the roar of flames. How appropriate the destruction of
the crystal palace. The fallacy of the glass house lies in the
stone-lying uncle, the bilious spread which clouds the blue.
Yeah, talk not of shimmer but of core, hard and impersonal, the
rejection of values implicit in the civil service position
offered and accepted. Disaffected white male gonna blow his top,
and you head with it!!!!!!
Shit squealing with the diametric leg, the moon amber and
bedazzled, went from swelled to temperate at the cold zenith, the
white shadow, and the persistence of dawn. Like it or not, we
gotta have it, and the driving madness that awaits the next
cataclysmic holiday on the universal calendar will knock all our
socks off, cringing babbling, quite literally an entire planet
going completely insane until the roads turn to dust and leave a
blanket of ash on the ground.

“Some call me insane,” said Freeman Walter, new citizen of
the 2nd Republic of the Federal Union of America. “To be sure, we
will honor this historic agreement.”
He was responding to Right Yelocator Y’drgg S’laar, de facto
leader of the Snl’aaq!ti jean Pleau’qt. “H’raaa ck’reel’
tch’napai!” cried the stocky barrel-shaped hermaphrodite from
beyond the stars with his version of a hearty laugh. We all knew
what was in order. These barrels couldn’t get enough of our
whiskey, and we sure weren’t disinclined to give it ‘em!
***
73. The most irritating and pernicious rash is the human
animal whose feather-rustles put a crimp in your favorite craw.
***
80. A second to your ridiculous motion should first be
ridiculed, then abashedly reconsidered, then abandoned.
***
83. The fallacy of your own devising should be spread like a
virus; those who contract should then be shunned, vilified.
After the heavy dawn and the extradition beyond the Eastern
Mountains, we will have revealed our monstrous trump and evil
inner face...
***
Creeping along the ground dragging potting soil thru their
drawers, gripping dirt with their tongues for the heck of it. A
few notes regarding the freon leak at the brand new school: who
gives a fig! Let the lil’ bastards die. Can’t stand how those
damn dead fish is ruining tourism......a widening circle of
disease where frothy-mouthed raccoons are terrorizing suburban
women.....cut to genteel fellow in a realm of trees: “Well, he
started coming at the dog and I went out and he started coming
after me....I picked up a two-by-four, and well.... (pauses)....I
had to destroy it” matter-of-factly with a bemused expression....
Retreating into a nontelegenic posture, bitterly fructifying
by rapid disdain and dams of titanic proportions, this for the
rebellious spirit of the water which seeks to break the coercive
structure which constrains it--“It’s never good when a dam can be
compared to a powder keg.”
***
Standing tall, with a meerschaum-topped cane--bejeweled and
heavy with a ring, encoded in a numerological system devised from
Hebrew and the Kabbala, which translated reads “Hiram Abiff.” A
small charm around his neck dangles in the form of a sextant, and
on the right sole of his feet: a tattoo of the letter tav. He
presently wore a linen seersucker suit and a kind of truncated
pith helmet in white. All this on a man with a cherry-red face
with a small waxed mustache, beset with a silvery monocle. A more
startling anachronism I never did see, on these, the mean and
flaxen streets of the conspiracy of man, the junk heaps and the
cracked foundations of the bleak and lightless canyons of
concrete, steel, glass. “What do you want here, brother?” He
snorted. “I’m not your brother, fool, I’m you.”
I gasped at his insolence then smirked. “Then you are the
fool” said I, “for I am long since dead, moldering like offal in
the gutter!” I pointed to the street and gasped again, this time
as my soul clenched like a dry-heave. “Incorrect” he gloated and
began pulling off his face, which seared and tore, gave off flies
and the smell of dead things left to rot in the sun, revealing a
pulpy black cheek, split at the side, with a slug of swollen pus,
and thick soupy muscle and blood. A bed of maggots moved in a
grim phalanx thru the fluttering orifices of his decimated face,
those vaunted good looks, that “cuteness” which had gotten him
laid so many times...
***
How many small armies must be buried in formation before
someone cleans house? The next best thing to our present
condition would be to be suspended in nutrient-providing gel,
into which all the essential vitamins, proteins, air,
water......occasionally swimming remote-control servo mechanisms
could be deployed which would attach themselves-synchronously!-to
our bodies and jiggle us around to stimulate our muscles and
joints to exercise them to prevent atrophy. Meanwhile, we would
be injected periodically with sleep-producing hallucinogens,

which, combined with virtual technology, would give our bodies
and minds, in suspended animation, the complete reality of a full
life in the comfort of your glass nutrition vat. Thousands of
people could be housed in vast warehouses like that, entire
populations collected and put on file, saving land resources by
at least 95%....Imagine people going away for free virtual
holidays and never coming back, tho’ they wouldn’t know it, of
course.
***
Like twelve and one, the circle moved grimly over the fen
towards the circle of ancient dolmens, a place where dim memories
revealed shame and a helpless draw towards it; drunkenness and
any perversion imaginable: sodomy, murder, bestiality,
cannibalism, rape, pederasty, etc. The list contains anything you
can imagine and a hundred things more you wouldn’t. The cultists
could not help themselves, feared for their immortal souls too
much to commit suicide. One jabbering acolyte was said to have
revealed that long-dead corpses of wayward members arrived season
after season in progressively worse states of decomposition, to
be abused and tortured by the living worshippers, whose own
transgressions were punished by a temporary lifting of the
frenzied haze which engulfed them all, so that the recalcitrant
one could experience gruesome intercourse with these reanimate
and disintegrating corpses, in full possession of his or her

faculties, so that the horror following their disobedience could
fully sink in.....
Presently, a great glubbering fart was heard across the rank
infused pools which swirled with dermal sponginess about the
exposed ankles of the cultists’ grim march thru the very swamp
where the Freedom Fighters had languished so many years ago, some
taken by the ancestors of these malformed isolationists, others
to the usual disease and one to snakebite, one to an alligator.
Ahead, prodded with forked staves, were three m-class
females, whimpering and naked, the perfect picture of unhealthy
sexuality, the pose of abuse and cruelty, the role of victim so
graphically announced to dead air, owls gone bad, and insects who
don’t give a shit; I’ll hand it to the mammals, they, with few
exceptions, such as the raccoon anthropologist in cahoots with
the Dolphin League, stayed away with contempt and fear evinced
upon their furry brows.....
Seven pillars mark the spot, where, the path rises between
rhododendron walls to a mushy hump whose only redeeming factor
damns it, its (very) relative dryness the reason it became a
focal point for incredible evil, a gateway for those unspeakable
elders which seek always to reassert their presence on this plane
of existence, subduing the weak and twisted, the deformed rejects
in whom revenge already smolders, to be kindled with manic hatred
and assassination, the drugged loyalty of the Ismaelite, the cold

dagger the warm blood, all the trappings of robes and waxed
mustaches, beards and turbans ajar, jars of salves and mysterious
oils abruptly toppled as the victim makes an unexpected parry
which only serves to prolong and make manifest the slow draw of
the Arabian steel over the Teutonic throat of the misguided
Templar: these are old wounds, friend, older than these things
which the forlorn squire brought home with him to Germany, then
transplanted with vengeful spleen in a perilous Atlantic crossing
over two hundred years prior to Columbus-and in the Florida swamp
he began something, planted his Asiatic seed, copulating with the
muck of the bottom, birthing thru his mouth a tree, a living tree
which took root and died, came back to life four times a year to
beckon its worshippers, its slaves of murder and vice, of
gleaming tooth and fervent brow-to-toes prayer....
Up this rise, here; we are here, ready, waiting to be
ordered.
Estrogen bombs lobbed mirthfully amidst the frightened
barnyard animals, stinking and rutting....
Slipping thru the bimbo cloud, frolic in wild abandon, cease
to reflect...
Undoubtedly burning, suffering from a kind of psychic
vertigo, or dizziness, the almost slug-like crawl of the inner
ear and that interminable ringing....
***.
He can feel the heat coming on, the summer rising off the
road ahead of him like a transparent wave, glistening with a
hundred black, vertical snakes leaping and cascading upon the
macadam. He looks behind him but the terrain back there has
already disappeared into the dark of night. He know that
everything he sees are the tricks of pale moonbeams and a self-
aggrandizing defense mechanism against a sense of inferiority
he’d dealt with since his earliest childhood; no pugilist he,
much suffering was brought about by a pronounced ectomorphism
which was his burden to bear. Fortunate in all other aspects,
good family, considerable financial security, intelligence, it
was to his emaciated frame he attributed his painful self-
consciousness and his shy, almost meek, nature. He compensated
for his damaged identity with travel, geographical to be sure,
but also psychic, thru the use of psychedelic drugs and
meditation, wine, fetishistic sexual behavior, etc., and it was
his recent terrible stasis which had left him stone cold with the
horrible anxiety he associated with paralysis on all fronts of
the alchemical struggle: spiritual, intellectual, physical. It
was as if he were winding down, prematurely, as if he had been
wound too tight and had rushed furiously about shedding calories
so to speak until he was a brittle shell of a man, shriveled,
diminished, and about to die. Obviously, this was not healthy
thinking for a twenty-year-old man, but his entire environment

seemed to him--the spiritually grey coastal cities of Florida--a
place not where bright young men went to begin illustrious
careers, but where old people went to live out their days in safe
places where everybody was familiar because they were just like
them. It was a bosom, the bosom of death, which comforted those
who were about to leave this world just like the bosom and mama’s
arm are the first assurances that it’s okay to leave the world
cuz the world is gonna be all right. Like a halfway house for
timid people stepping gingerly back into the street after being
somehow absent for a while: prison, rehab, the isolationist
actions of the drug-addicted and depressive little man our
protagonist turns out to be. Will he make it or will he implode?
***
The road he is on is not a figurative one, he is driving,
aimlessly, of course, thru a vast and turbulent landscape
consisting of inconstant colored lights and the grim flashes of
sunlight off the tar-splotched chrome of passing automobiles. A
more poetic man would have been led to contemplate the
ephemerality of all form in this blinking multitude, where
information itself was carried bit by immeasurable bit along
rails of light and thru glass fish tanks whose inhabitants can be
changed with a dial near the aerator: Channel oOne gives you
Siamese fighting fish, channel two, guppies. With the proper
flash drive you can treat yourself to the vividly terrifying

gyrations of the giant squid in heat, mooing like a cow and
screaming with a beak more like an eagle’s than anything you had
previously imagined, the purple lights of the horrors of the deep
the foul slime formations and clumps of submarine Sargasso, the
moldering ships impotent, their chains and anchors afloat in this
ocean which defies all notions of natural law and order and the
angles just seem to go all wrong, you blink and start with panic,
the blood pounding at your ears as the lights of the room quaver
and fall to flaccid motions like the rippling beds of kelp in the
scene before you....
***
The salty wind blows thru the cracks in the windows of this
your cliff-side dwelling, high enough to protect you from the
immense flying fish which plague these waters but affording an
excellent view of their dark and exotic dancing.

THE STRAIN OF SWIMMING IN OIL
Closing in with the accuracy of a heat-seeker, the distorted
voice comes thru my window at night attempting to make me cry out
and give myself away to the blind and sutured seekers he carries
on a multi-collared psychic leash......God the effort to fight
tonight, any night, is withering, draining me...
***
Variety melon chunks gingerly among the reed and red
thickets surrounding the foaming rainbow-filmed pond: “My God?!
How long have they been like that!?”
***
The sensitive, leaning on the whip-wall tears running down
in stringy glittering loops and coagulated filigree: all roads
lead to roam.
The sensitive, masturbating half-heartedly with disabled
fingers and arms, spitting rubber from infected sockets.
The sensitive, a piteous sight; the short-haired girl, she
looks at him with disgust and says: “You disgust me.” She slaps
his face and laughs at his hot glare, it is already past the
reaction point when he should have punched my lip she thinks.
The sensitive, a-shambles in the gaiety of the tavern where
old friends, he among the oldest, drink to old times and he
drifts away from the invention of new ones, where in future
taverns he will be talked about: “Remember....?”
***
So I don’t flow like nectar honey of the semen of your
favorite lover do I, bored housewife who tried for a bit of
titillation by throwing down the trash romance novel opting
instead for the raging lion that is my grandiose prose, echoing
into the future louder and louder until I’m like Shakespeare or
Homer......yes, these dreams please me in the way that I am
pleased and laid waste by imagining myself with the ideal picture
of cultural beauty cut from a magazine and displayed over my
shoulder to my friends and spurned would-be lovers, who go green
with delicious envy and I laugh and look forward to bedtime
gymnastics and forceful ejaculations that have made it necessary
to reinforce my condoms with steel: Yea, I am the mightiest poet
in the land, a warrior-journalist who has feasted with the

cannibals of the rural lands and sung hymns with the most rabid
theists in range of my meanderings. Yea, I love broadly and hate
deep; my love is like butter my hate like a sinkhole which pulls
my oh so delicate house under, wringing moisture like a fat woman
stepping out of the shower her hair dripping taken into two hands
and -squeeezed!!- God bless the fat ones, they give us madmen our
due. You bet there is lots of hate commingled with this impure
love which must be clarified, differentiated like the ancient
Greeks did, before the generalization of love and the medieval
invention of “romance”.
So I don’t get your knickers to glow with a hummm which is
the heat-filled mechanics of your genital vibrations; does that
sound crude to you? I meant only to compare the rubbing of your
sex to the cry of cicadas or the mournful throbbing of the
crickets, shrill and expectant, disturbed as in aroused; acted
upon....
I love you dearly, whatever you are, Chrystal Kelp, you
don’t exist in a body of carbon but in a refraction of square
patches of light....
***
A small additional alleviation effort is required for peace
of mind. Writing twenty-one (21) volumes re: Post-WWIII USA was a
drain. Determination: After editing, revising, and having
professionally Word Processed: I was too subject stale and

involved to be unbiased and objective. I may redo again. Mental
inactivity grosses me. A fresher, lighter, different subject was
necessary. Following notes, word sketches and meditation-now
catch title.
JOE SIXPACK’S
HAPPY RED NECK
BLUECOLLAR DOG
The dog was named “Verdigris.” It stood silhouetted against
the moon, howling and licking itself, its hackles like porcupine
quills. The villagers turned in fear at the explosion in their
midst, their cherry-bomb fervor that shocked a planet--some
gleeful, others enraged, fear perverse sexual games resulting
from...no, shit-can the perverse; can I be so empty in my
judgment? In any event I can’t play the hypocrite and act so
shocked in this my present company; privately, at home I do what
I please to prepare myself for the GREAT RAPE known as the
RAPTURE....this swelling elation of release, swoosh up into
heaven and the dissolution of boundaries in orgasmic UN-
differentiation...
***
Some ejaculation in the oratory of a fire-breather, a frothy
spit-slinger whistlin’ Dixie for “THE LORD.” Gotta be some
medieval thang, unnadand officah? Can U speak the new logos,
Padristas and lil’ Boffitos as we call still call ‘em out heah in
---! U don’t spect me to go that far do ya, ta give out that
fervidly protected info-sacred-like? We got one map in town
bustah, and it’s behind closed wall an Holy Compound made-
a‘luminun siding screwed into mama earf’ with tell-a-fone poles.
U gotta believe to get in like a da Mormo’s out in UTE, like the
Priests of the Temple in the preachy BOOK. Out heah we civilized
and keep up the ol’ ways, and drink the divine actor’s blood at
Easter Sacrifice, and eat his flesh three days later. WE do
EXACTLY what the BOOK says.
Remember the precocious youth whose buck-teeth and bug eyes
were the appropriate external surface of a head about to burst
with the excited pursuit of ideas....remember well.
Remember the cheapness of computer interface and the flaws
of analogy, the distance.
***
A HYPER-SONIC JET lifts off from Sugarloaf Key, shaking the
ancient bat tower with the hard rocks of guano beneath, the young
man looks up into the blind sun and recoils squinting, he turns
to the ground and covers his eyes with his hand, rubs.
The critical choices made for him by outside interests.

DON’T BE VIOLATED!!
The sheen of wild desire muted in the inky blackness of the
underworld, where the Gurglensh hoot and cackle and perform weird
rites “which require the innocent blood of our infant children.”
(Mortensen) “Blood libel” says their representative on the steps
of the courthouse... “Let us never forget....” he begins
meaningfully and everybody understands ‘ceptin the masses who get
a watered-down history lesson in a thirty-second snippet on this
the latest legal action against the Underworlders and their
“barbarism and polygamy and complete lack of shame over their
bodies. Their women are said to walk about naked like animals,
and let themselves be fucked in the manner of dogs in the public
places called “commons.” And get this--no one owns these
lands....” (Cruz)
***
None of this was actually true, per se, but rang
significantly distinct enough from the original alarm to be
considered evidence enough of complete perversion and genetic
degeneracy to warrant extermination proceedings and hence thru a
lot of wrangling and ethical questions posed and disposed of in
30 days or so the SP was born. How did they become the
degenerates? Ciudado Korea, don’t underestimate its’ size, hear?!
And you, Boffomulic, you’ve nearly forgotten about us after so
many years of hatred, single-minded zealous cries for our
obliteration.....wall-building fools and yer attempt to take our
home for yer own after calling it yer “ebony dire.”
***
Damn this extreme conflation of time and its’ confusing
consequences!
***
Like a placid bird standing in a rippling bed of water thru
which it sifts its beak in search of its particular form of
sustenance, like a Buddha sitting silently atop an inanimate
pedestal of plastic flowers.
Nothing meant or gained in this perhaps my last report from
this dying land. Air so dry and so desiccated the land that the
roads have all turned to dust and it’s impossible to tell the
way...over there! Is that a city or a pile of rocks? Is that a
lake or an amusement park? That shooting star, is it a meteorite

alight as its entrance into our world precipitates its fiery
disintegration--our house is burning--or is it merely an HST,
bringing commuters from Tokyo to New York in 3 hours at ten grand
per? Speed equals glory. Speed is money. Speed is the means by
which we conquer the implicit female, ripe and supine, laid
before us in the vast plains of the desert we have created in our
need for the fluid of life. Water. Water is life--consume her
until she withers, a dry twig you can prop about in the pose of
your choice, to put into your overcoat pocket and talk to
discretely in diners, to clench tightly at the movies, and to
hold in perverse blackmail over the flames, to achieve ultimate
concession and thus control. She’ll never hurt you again, but
neither can an invalid please you, just return the favor, and lay
back with a weak smile fighting off the tunnel vision as you lie
oozing.
***
In this symbiotic parasitism you call love you have found
the most efficient means of ablating your soul in small
concessions whose end product can only be complete obeisance and
the dissolution of your character.....
***
Thru vast interstices they tumble. Wearing hard-shell
helmets they resemble glowing turtles, the yellowish shells which
protect their spelunker’s brains. SP marks their luminous yellow

jackets. “That’s what we are” slurs one of them like the drunken
inbred he most likely.
“Shut up!” barks Number One, growling, head flopping on its’
hideously twisted and stout grisly neck. He drools and slinging
about his sallow slaver, pink, he jumps atop the nearest
stalagmite, reaching forward with a hideous squamulose forearm
and says “I didn’t get this chemical burn back at Alfez for nada
you bumpkins!! So shut up!!” He sounded cheaper’n an after-school
kiddie show, his deformity being equaled only by his brutish
incompetence, bullying the weak and stupid “volunteers” cajoled,
shanghaied, or bootstrapped into the service of the pathetic
remnants of the subterranean warriors who once ruled this land as
their own, while the cover government was still believed. Now the
purple has moldered into this, degenerate descendants of an
experiment in isolation and genetic purity gone bad. We were well
beyond the point where what the anthropologists call “hybrid
vigor” would be able to resuscitate this gene line.
They clambered lazily along, knuckles a-drag, snuffling at
the dank air around them. They had bad vision, and without the
claptrap vision enhancing apparatuses (SCIVEA) they wore, the
mission would never have been able to continue. They were
terribly ill-suited, as life-long ground dwellers, to appreciate
the need for silence in this echoing hall of mighty chambers,
where Gurglensch lurk and lie in wait for the straggling band of
the last sterile spawn of the Interregnum Brothers. Bigotry,
fear, pride. Whatever you choose to call it, the family turned
upon itself and fed upon itself alone for its sustenance; melted
so much lard to build so many walls, sky-high, reached el cielo.
But they forgot about Ciudad Korea. Inverness I tried to build a
bomb shelter like the one to which he once had an open
invitation, the kind of card with 3 letters. But out in these
zones of terra, the endocrust belonged to Mr. Korea, and anything
deeper than a basement or a simple family shelter-maybe a small
commune not too deep; anyhow, with the right attitude, these
people would eventually come into the fold, and joined by tunnels
in a way which affords them maximum privacy and discretion,
without hindered access to the common grounds of Ciudad Korea.
***
The Inverness family was only a cancer because it acted like
one, and that’s why we’re gonna have to cut ‘em out, especially
with these abominable penetrations by their warrant-adorned
stooges.
Somewhere in this boiling soup called the world was a
straight-up guy, bland but direct, and perhaps not just a little
profound. Within his four walls he was resigned. And with
resignation, wisdom, peace. His neighbors raged so long all day
all night in stinking foreign tongues. But not bad smell, good
sweet (good? bad?).....let is suffice to say ambrosial to him in

that it was flowing thru the air like Kelp, Chrystal Kelp, secret muse
and Whittle-Stick ascendant.
The old bitch is “my dautta died and if we can put a man on
the man” etc. (angry-fists waggling thru the unflavored tears of
the monk-faced fisherman....) Well, howdy; Capt. Future is here
to tell ya, moonin’ is just what the medic ordered, stern-faced
to be sure, perhaps at first seeming foolish, but if yer as cock-
sure as ya make out ta be then don’t ya think we should start
gettin’ ready for it? The future you say? Were ya justa gonna
foist it on over to yer bow-legged spawn, ricketed from Nutrolax
and engorged on cow meat? What was that, muto? I’m too busy
chewing soybean thru my dorsal mouth.
I think I got some hunchbacks mixed up back there, er,
fergit it. It’s not important. Anyhow, as I wuz tiradin’ jest a
second go, we gotta diversify or perish, rock on up to the moon
or Mars for starters or jeez louise we just gonna all friggin’
die or sumpin’.
***
“Typical hysterics from the Space Cadets” quips the
straight-thinkers’ boy from the great state of Texas, and all the
bigoted party followers just laugh and divert program funds from
the Energy Dept. and NASA to go towards New Armaments which lie
eating the dinner of the world’s starving masses. And our
straight thinker from Houston n’all, it jes don’ make sense, like
rubber crutches or submarines with screened windows for
ventilation, non-alcoholic beer basically.....but that’s just
silly-talk, RIGHT?
***
Chimpletary swings from the gymnasium swing set given him by
his human “mother” (even suckled her teat, how remarkable!) She a
golden true blond, pubes white as snow and get this, not a tan
line mars those inspirational gams! Sinuous, licentious, chimp-
mama’s a fetching bag to be sure. All the Boffo Boys in town
could state with complete fidelis that she wuz the best lookin’
piece of meat in this section of the galaxy. Chrystal Kelp you
sure have changed you rascal you. Lain water to the barren amber
fields, did you? Then how about this malicious Horde of Green-
Bellies? Rape and pillage is on their mind but you already got me
under, Kelpy babe, I just haven’t lost my senses or succumbed to
complete paralysis just yet. I know it’s not your intention, but
you do it to men anyway, cause yer blind sometimes, and
indifferent....
***
How can one resist the temptation to brag about any
encounter with Chrystal Kelp, no matter how humiliating or
degrading? Merely to glimpse her is but the rarest of gifts, and
speaks highly of he who can then rightly be called “seer.” She
always seems to be darting about the corner, her diaphanous gown

making her true form difficult to discern, the wispy ends a-
flutter as she makes her coy departure. And when you finally
reach the intersection from which she disappeared, another
glimpse is all you’ll get if you’ve got what it takes to continue
the exhausting pursuit, and most ain’t got it. A lot of echoes
and sore feet to be sure. A lot of dead ends and maybe you’ll get
lost in wherever it is she disappears to. Sometimes I think we
never find her at all, and it is of her volition alone to reveal
herself to us. If we’re lucky we get to lay with her a while, if
only thru the hazy filter of nocturnal dreams, where memory
cannot serve us. It is to hear dreams around noon, when she lay
with us proper...
***
Spooling threads of communication across an indefinite bumpy
survey map of America, the drooling patient, limp weeny hangin’
out from under his scratchy hospital slip, butt-leaking enema
juice, clattering along with an IV drip of indescribable
medications from Bellamy One and the electric-fenced hospital
facilities inside Plan Sixteen Double Zed-shh-he is clearly mad
beyond the capabilities of his youthful zeal...flat-footed old
man calcified arthritic hand I loved you once ‘til you took my
dog away. For such minor transgressions and less Aunty Jane and I
have consented to your involuntary euthanasia.

The old man stank of piss and shit, he drooled as he was led
away to the death chamber where the priest would oversee the
removal of pee-paw’s organs with the aid of his personal surgeon,
and chef.
Aunt Jane retired to her cabbage farm in shame and I
inherited the holdings; Aunty J didn’t even want what I’d
promised her....so she’ll surely despise what I didn’t.
McGraw reached into his coat pocket and made a finger gun.
He hoped this would be enough to convince Altern8or George not to
make the final charge that would put the whole stinking plan into
motion, the emergence of the race war...
Charles Manson screaming across the desert in the formation
of a square, eyes blazing hell as the go-go dancer unzips herself
from the suit she wears: NASA, revealing a spangled bodice with
imitation wings. At the other end of the valley lay the Antelope
Chicks, encircled: in scraggly imitation wings made of bamboo and
naugahide thongs, he sittin’ nekkid with the shred of his clothes
hearing: “outlander” “visitor” “You cannot help yourself, you are
what you are and there’s no question of the ‘what if?’ behind it
all. Victimization and foolishness are the preconditions of your
existence.”
It seems I must have wandered and bang, shrapnel flying
sticks in acrimony--you pert little shithead you, I thought you
was dead already....

***
Not to perambulate the corridors during the hours of repose
in the boots of ascension.
I was told that I would be entitled to something here. I
don’t think it’s standard practice but there’s certainly enough
of it going around to make a lot of assholes out of those who
still think otherwise........
***
Big boss man eyes young ass wiggler and unconsciously licks
his lips cracked in a face full of dry pepper. His hand works its
way down to his thigh, where it twitches unable to seem
appropriate. The wind outside blows into the open doors of the
dock, causing forelocks to waggle into his eyes. While vague and
“hard to pin down” big boss man has a solid presence and it
radiates. Some people just do that I never thought it pleasant to
be honest. Like a ten-ton leer in the form of a giant block of
concrete, affixed to a chain and suspended from a transom; the
technicians rigged it up to temporarily hold a giant prisoner in
a tortuous manner. Now they drop it on sissies after the boys
have all had a go at them. I always found the practice revolting
but could never manage to avoid watching. Protest? Good heavens,
do you take me for a fool? No, don’t answer that; you know how
sensitive I am and you’re always such a prick. Tell pee-paw I
said hello.
Radiating from a central hub--yes just like a wagon wheel--
the eight spokes of Bellamy One teem with the true life of the
station, penetrated by the ant-like movements of its consorts and
the fluids of its’ movement. The rimmers sit languid and pilled,
bitching about the environmental controls and the rationing.
Wheeling about the firmament like a flop-bodied narwhal in
heat, Bellamy One. Big boss man sheathes his Buck knife with the
deer-bone scrimshaw and slides out of the cargo bay unnoticed in
these the slums of space. The back alleys of a closed circle. Odd
to think about, isn’t it? Some mudboys think we go crazy up here
forget what life is really like can’t “communicate” anymore. What
a load. We got morality still and big boss man or no, he done
wrong. We jettisoned his ass last week, watched him pop in the
void....
Now I know some of you find the practice to be evil or at
the very least “distasteful.” Maybe them mudboys is right. Never
could tell up from down anyhow. Hydraulically speaking, my ride
was the best of the lot, its action was good and the fore-grips
didn’t have the sponginess and commensurate lack of coordination
typical of the earlier models. As a private contractor I was
responsible for my own shit and since that Martian ranch depended
on gettin’ fast c’s and bulk at that, I spring for the best, see,
then I can’t get set back down the road by a late-breaking line
breakdown or some such major shit like a continued balance

eruption. I God, my eyes is set wide and my forehead is a full
millimeter-and-a-half above the minimum requirements for full
emigration privileges. Class “C” baby, what do I got, huh?!
Everyone up here has dreams, some just too damn impractical
to be realized. Those I could give a fuck for, they’re jes’ too
stupid for my trouble; it’s the desperate ones I want, the ones
fully extended from their alabaster ponies reachin’ to their
physical limit for a ring which yet remains only a tantalizing
brush against fingertips half-numb with hope and desire.
Thus will I outfit my three ships of pilgrims; with good
judgment I’ll need a fourth just for the chutzpah.

The Torment of Damilah twice-told
Lackadaisical Mongolian Sadhu, we speak simply positive for
the sake of improvement...I sugar loudly not w/grace-under the
songstress soft and wicked, the preternatural son and the natural
comet-I mean sun...“span kidge l’ka-loudee” in the night of
forgotten dreams....along towers with adjacent rungs (a jaycee
wung; has J.C. /+/ won?) A long tower. A long tower with
adjacent rungs (a nascent tongue) and a great view of the
ocean....arrived at for the need to clean up messy evidence, with
the clipboard man and the man with the rifle and oh Inanna! The
joke horror of stasis and the pusillanimous position to which
reduction and the full reordering of mandrill-like speech leads
us--the tower that stasis of horror he was trying to reach and
goddam if my drug-benumbed fingers vary with their impertinent

accuracy. Never can be quite sure what the little bastards is
gonna spell out for ya.
***
Like, see, some folks think this the beginning exercise for
telepathic communication. Observation is le concepte du jour.
Observation. Ever marvel at the preternatural abilities of
Sherlock Holmes and his magnificent deductions? He can visual
analyze a man at 10 paces with deadbolt accuracy, like a
phrenologist whose bumps are facial tics and scraps of mud on the
boots....inflections of the voice and what is purchased in soft,
discretionary tones. The confidence of many a fearful
interlocutor whispered into the man’s ear, a magnificently-shaped
and delicate aural appendage. And what about the hair on the
man’s chest, or the texture of his scrotum? The late S.A.C.
Doyle, did he take the time to mention these things amidst the
fantastic crimes and macabre psychic warfare with the fiend D.
Moriarty? I think not, but I could be mistaken.
***
My employer is the Lord. He has forsaken me in this land as
any shit-smelling power-pants does to anyone expendable. I am one
of 5 billion employees who are as equally indifferently alive to
the Lord. The Lord is shit, and I’m hereby handing in my
resignation, retirement plan or no.
***
See, she looked at me innocently enough over the page’s rim:
“That is the most idiotic thing I have ever read” she told me.
How could I disagree?
***
A pink poodle ...a greasy Florida grandma.
***
The fine young man wiggled his way thru the throng
surrounding the Cardinal. It was a glorious Spring morning, the
air was full of eggs and butterflies; the Cardinal was here for
the Easter celebrations for which our town is famous.
Anger in his eyes as he made his way, the fine young man
knew his insane mission would not fail. Bomb-tossing anarchist
with the hateful jealousy of life, don’t blow up my baby.
***
So here we are, wading hip deep in swamp water on a fool’s
errand, lackeys to “the indomitable human spirit” and the
manifest hopes of a glorious destiny: so far nothing has
developed save the muck trudge and stinking death. The scars of
the wars run deep, no longer does the infantile speech of our
immediate predecessors seem to fit; the tone of the times has
changed. The white tower has been ransacked its dark shadows
revealed, flickering burning shadows against the starry whip-wall
and over it all the continuous operation of a machine whose
purpose is unknown. Across the city in the roar of the flames,

the windows are blowing out, scattering glimmering shards down
onto the running hordes below, in slow motion and with an
accompanying shower of small wood particles....
We all remember it well and the slow desperate march we make
through the alligator’s home is our constant reminder of the
degradations we have suffered since the beginning of this
entirely godless conflict brought upon us by theists and
ideologues who seemed to forget that the majority of us just
wanted to be left alone....never again can we be so naive, my
friends. We will learn a new meaning of the word vigilance or we
will die for our misunderstandings. The fine young man wears an
elaborate costume which renders his true nature invisible. Some
have claimed he is starborn. I now know the truth to be far more
sinister. I wish I believed myself mad: my firm conviction is
that what I have seen, however, is deadly real; in such a climate
can any man’s paranoia be dismissed as mere “insanity?” We are
all lost in this interregnum my friends, and not a-one of us
exempt.
So we jes keep our respective trigger fingers on the trigger
and our safeties in the position marked “off.”

The erotic screenplay
Enormous squat columns rose and more by a timidity the
columns twisted the stinking, oozing suit of his boyhood
fantasies and ate their babies. It was a massive breaking point,
for it was at his stockpile; for that’s what concern piers
occasionally becoming part of it worriedly scratched at the
cobblestone paths. The Oil Lantern Historical Society has it that
the ceiling studded with the erotic screenplay bled to death
vigorously and grunting. When he returned the night the boy in
question was paring away at the cobwebs and thick girls rowed
from within....
Chrystal Kelp, how did you get such an amazing moniker?
***
A jaunty room rocks with a sailor’s song and emerald patches
of light swimming madly on the walls: jagged lamps spin wildly on

their chains, set into motion by the occasional pair of inverted,
flying legs. In the chummy sprawl of humanity below, beaming
faces drunk with fraternity spell every sentence ever written by
Earthman or Martian, as the transparency of our millennia of
folly becomes simultaneously apparent to all the members of the
intelligent species.
Repairing the damage is gonna be hard work.
THERE IS NO END

Confessions III (Recovered)

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Steven Adkins Science Fiction

lieu-dit Fondemenge 16,450 words

The Confessions of Lazslo Bream

“Men are monkeys, dropped from maternal wombs”--Arthur Rimbaud

In the last light, when the feral kids dance, ashes to

Harbinger: Chrystal Kelp, flautist extraordinaire, a pied-

the air leaving a trail of pheromones. And the kids won’t

hesitate as they rise into the air, noses extended as though

clenched by a clothespin, and that attached to a rope.....imagine

if you will a Skyhook, invisible and indomitable.

Lying in my chair in the glare of the dentist’s lamp, I

think of these things and squirm, my hands knotting, my feet two

uncontrollable doves, small gasps emitting thru the disgusting

gargle of the spit-removal machine. They sound heavy-lidded &

ecstatic, like a hapless proto-saint being stabbed by the arrow

of God, in a Bernini pose of unmistakable eroticism. She leans

forward, the tautness of her breast hovering at the edge of my

hair, its presence only half-felt, but 100% sensed, an

electrostatic charge, my skin in goosebumps, and I am given

release, the pent-up energy of my ordeal escapes, my body

In moments she has finished. Stands up. Walks away. From

where I’m sitting, she looks tall, featureless as a silhouette.

we have shared something, an illusion of scintillation, a

professional trick of the oral hygienist.

The Mexican Macho

In the morning he grunted as he rose to the cusp of waking

in a whirling cloud of flies. She hawked a loogie on his greasy

damp back, a veritable bed of blackhead clusters with downy tufts

of hair like flowy little black cottonballs. The morning smelled

of woodsmoke and tortillas.

At noon it began to rain. The shopkeepers mostly closed up

oaf belches on the couch an’ slurps menudo--el amigo del

borracho--onto his pants. Qué tonto es to smack his lovely woman,

so young, once so amorous.

Young lovely in the foreground mixing flour while el macho

leans drunkenly on the couch, choking to death in his sleep,

vomiting old ugly.

“Lateralizing the fore-wand capitaine, so why’ncha cum on

“the navigator is a traitor.” The captain checks coordinates over

the navigator’s prostate and redirects into the Forbidden Zone.

and for all of us involved--you’re no exception--a degrading

spectacle to be sure. It all started back in ‘56 with the post-

war hoopla in the shadow of the mushroom cloud. Now, it doesn’t

loom above, doesn’t shine through the bright quaternary of the

window-pane; that is an illusion. It is an inner-glow and a tiny

joke. Reductionism has led us here. Don’t yell at me like that!

of the Hordes whose plasma rifles flicker across my back (goddam

arguing voices yelling “Good!” “Bad!”

If it wasn’t for the fact that I drink a quart of synthetic

deterioration has begun, the absurd ablation coined NewSpeak by

passed way back in ‘94 or sumpin.

fools, crying uncontrollably at the horror and vile deeds of

which we so-called “civilized” are capable......and I have

humanity is not an option of the chit-board of Creptilous and

Fornico and Helphasia Syndicates. The pitch has certainly eroded

here, my readers, and the severity of my tale is above such

Ask me then, the question that may be formulating in your

minds: my words are pissing in those limpid pools even now....but

let us return to our story. It was mid-July, Double Ought, and I

was stationed in Europe as a thirty-year-old draftee, and you

know what that means. Supposedly I was a quartermaster, but in

reality I was a loathsome parasite who stabbed his own troops in

the back in favor of making a buck or two in information, sex,

drugs, comfort, and security, kind of like those freebootin’