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ntNoon
F. Cielo Aganorio
“What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
- Zen
A delirious and doomed inter-conscious sprint into the skid rows and
dead-ends of a mental metropolis where no leaps high enough to be
remained unreachable, no realms hidden enough to be left
unassailable by frantic frissons of the megalomaniac manic
misadventures of a mad-hatter.
Enlightenment came out heavy in spurts but everybody was too busy
searching for the next high mover and shaker of The Great Pacifier
(the Boob Tube). Here then is your antidote laced with acid juice and
spiked with a double-fisted uppercut to the gut, you stinkin brat!
The cannibal congo loon on your back yawping and yammering and
gazing the world thru hacked-off telescope and cellophane floodlights
of flourescented cognoscenti adolescents, gleaming with mad moon
beams of celestial hiss honing horticultured hairdos while humming
humdrum decade-old chart-toppers made by decadent pill-poppers.
Irregular blackouts from sulfuric heaven and half-catatonic half-
euphoric bliss drawing droughts from jaundice juices of pinprick
penetration through pores of banana-peel skin sick of dressing
dreams on dyphteric dawns.
Burroughs (Bill Jr. not Edgar Rice) crawling from the semen sewers of
Nova Express, at around 6 o’ clock, just the right time before the
spoon and the dropper points a dirty finger, screaming profanities at
government-funded clandestine catastrophies and camera-hungry
celebrities choking cocks and cropping crew-cuts.
Just forward . . . .
"We've given you chicharon . . . what more do you want? . . ." says the
voluble American Monkey . . . .
He is sixty-ish . . . ancient features . . . jaundiced . . . probably dying . .
. but still an addict. . . .
"Am I holding the tagay too long? . . ."
He has the jitters. . . maniacal gestures. . . his eyes are Comatosed. . . .
"I am the fucking Authority when it comes to Music and
Literature. . . ."
His companion sits right next to him . . . a total opposite . . . quiet and
serene . . .
"See what drugs can do. . . ." Lexam once told me. . . .
Go ahead, America, speak . . . so that I may record every word that
comes out of your mouth . . . but now. . . .
"Be back in a jiffy . . ." say I . . . walking away . . . a beer in hand. . . .
God is busy setting up the props . . . rolling a cut of aluminum foil into
a tooter . . . folding another piece into a gutter . . . . God's a bona-fide
artist . . . has a PhD in origami in fact. . . .
Two anonymous fellows watch, licking their cracked lips . . . eyes
redder than mine . . . ugly diamond-shaped faces . . . sixteen . . . thirty
. . . Me can't tell . . . They're kneeling . . . hungry and perspiring beads
of sweat. . . . God's sole electric fan is dead machinery. . . .
Smoked two candy blunts with Lexam, The Jacker. . . . Lights start
glowing . . . shadows cast by the sodium bend into distorted
phantasms . . . fast forward motion . . . euphoric sense of the
unknown . . . heart palpitation . . . the usual high. . . .
I remember two friends who had died from some crazy drug
experimentation: Code Name J ate a poisonous mushroom he
mistakenly assumed as psilocybin . . . and Code Name D had
overdosed from milkshake (a mixture of methamphetamine and
nubain intravenously inoculated. . . .) Read an innaresting news article
about a juvenile delinquent stabbing a police officer with a swordfish.
. . . Crazy little world we live in . . . lots of goofy shit happening. . . .
"A person of your caliber shouldn't be here, sir . . ." the waiter tells
me.
"What? . . ." I ask him . . . confused . . . defense mechanism sets in . . .
act primitive and savage, boy. . . . What is he talking about?
A psychic rapport between us occur. . . . He dismisses me immediately
and leaves
. . . he knows (instinctively, at least) about my mental condition . . .
two years spent at an asylum exchanging philosophies to a robotech
contraption made of shadows. . . .
There will come a time (not too soon, I hope) when all of this must
come to an end. This is transient . . . this is just a temporary state of
mind . . . this is NOT your psychiatrist speaking, boy. . . . But not now .
. . no . . . never now. . . .
Each meeting we are always spewing the exact same bullshit we were
saying yesterday and a hundred yesterdays ago . . . we are performing
the exact same scenario . . . we know every punchline . . . we know
the drill, sir . . . we are contained in a repetitive cycle of intellectual
bankruptcy . . . but who cares? . . Not me . . . and certainly . . .
not them. . . .
Bordering into the insanity zone. . . . stimulant psychosis means the
cockroaches are taking off their tuxedos . . . paralytic dance means
you're outside Terran beyond human communication . . .
dextromethorphan hallucination means a group of robotech
mechanisms are observing your testicles with surgical apparatus. . . .
"The tunica albuginea is white-blue this time of year . . ." says one of
them. . . . tintinnabulation of forgotten bells . . . priests butt-fucking
their acolytes or vice versa . . . hallelujah! . . psychoactive children run
wild outside the old Cathedral . . . a bum gnaws her arm for breakfast
. . . punks clad in black coats, Doc Martens boots, Mohawk hairstyles .
. . anarchy reduced into mere fashion . . . a kindergarten dream of a
dog performing fellatio on a toddler . . . plastic beauties on TV . . .
thawing flesh . . . psychoactive children run wild. . . .
Uncle Dino, The Dealer, is a big Tarsier with ruptured kidneys and a
bad liver, but the fucker is still alive and still shooting nubain. . . .
He'd say, "The caprices of the veins . . . they eat the brain, right?"
Or, "I am more of a technical person . . . I don't do much mathematics.
. . ."Or, "You will never understand the feeling . . . machine emotions .
. . soft tissues ignite into a romantic flame. . . cavities smile like teeth.
. . ."
His idea of paradise: a needle, an ounce of nubain, and the damage
is gone.
Wait. . . .
I find myself in Colon Street checking pornographic discs on the
sidewalk . . . . And then the commotion starts . . . two ugly Moslems in
a brawl . . . their gibbering language zap to and fro . . . cuts the
atmosphere with an angry musicale . . . blood spurts like drizzle as
they beat each other to a pulp. . . . "It's flammable . . ." a bystander
comments . . . an impulse to strike a match passes . . . I take a disc and
slip out of the drama. . . . My carnal sensation must be relinquish at
once. . . . Praise Allah! . . .
li'l grasshopper . . .
hops ---
now what?
Zubu, 2010
Desperate addict . . . desperate soul . . . hungry and forgotten. Holy be
thy dipteran penis. Holy be thy asshole glory. . . .
I will kiss thy feet in loving grace . . .
I will chase thy shadows in dark crevices. . . .
You will give me thy Kingdom . . . You will swallow my cum. . . .
Desperate addict . . . desperate soul. . . . I will pee in your Sacred Place
. . . I will spit on thy Holy Face. . . .
I have smelled the roses . . . I have burned the Books. . . . I carve my
own Name . . . I dig my own Grave. . . .
Hungry and forgotten . . . let this be the proof of my existence. . . .
Blessed are you who open this book. . . . Blessed are you who clasp
thy hands and believe. . . .
Blessed are you, Children of Men . . .
who will rejoice when you remember this
Testimony . . . on your death-bed memory. . . .
Fi
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