the sky opened up, and seven trumpets sounded, blowing a lazy, incomplete jazz tune. from the crevice in the sky walked a man, painted in black and chain smoking infinity. lighting cheap cigarettes with lightning. the crowds milled absently in the pitted earth. waiting for him to speak. or sing. or some other pervasively stupid thing.

the man spoke in a deep nonsense accent.
"the man, has his hold in the office. he has his hold in his pocket. the terror is thick for the low men in the work place. boss man rubbing up against him in the elevator. masturbating furiously in his glass office, hooting and howling as the scared clerks walk by. suspenders were not invented for the reasons you think. neither were neckties or dress socks."

the man walked among the people as he spoke. he spoke in a font that was hard for the people to see. he would poke and prod the folk, pinching at loose skin, he would gesticulate wildly to illustrate his sermon. the people grew weary of the man. the unease of the crowd hung over the deep pits that they inhabited like a fetid cloud. the ghastly thing was under the spell of the man. rising and falling as he created changes in pressure.

"the boss man created all things to hide his reptilian features. to hide his scaly ankles and forearms. he looks like he has human hands, except for when he masturbates, he has hands then with three little claws. or four. he obeys no rules. there is no relish in him. nothing sweet or favorable. there is nothing that he prefers."

the people thought about the things they preferred and the ugliness of the man. how the black paint was cracking, and rubbing away in the folds of his ancient skin. how he looked like some stupid zebra. walking, smoking, and speaking maybe. his theme music was punchy and upbeat. the trumpets had packed away their jazzy ambling. the drums punched and the bass, in some ugly fervor. urgent but pointless all the same. sometimes he appeared to have a walking cane. ugly too, like him, and cracked in the very middle. the thing couldn't even hold his slight frame. and then sometimes the cane didn't appear.

"the workers cower under their desks, if they have them, or behind chairs, under tables. the boss man pretends not to see them as he pants and moans. like a sick dog. restless in all his skin. he drags himself on the neutered carpet. mocking, obscene display. he grabs at his dick, hideous thing, so abnormal it can only be seen in small bursts like some optical trick. pulsing, and angry and alone in likeness. he has introduced terror as his mate."

their hate for the man had matured into a fine wine. the folk splashed their feet in the growing pools of deep red. the acid ate away the black on the man's legs and feet. and his hands as he flicked them around in the puddles like a child. and his face as he pantomimed washing up before bed. he sat down in one of the deep pools and rubbed his chest and the places he could reach on his back. he lit a new cigarette and the cream paper turned red, killing the burning coal at the tip.

meet me at the beach.
with your clay hands
with all the darkness in your sky.

hand me in to the doctor,
at the harbor
with all his damned grey hair.

cover me in dark stones,
with blue pools
with hard times,
down at the water.

drowned in the waiting sunshine,
toe hold in the sand,
waves that pull like a million hands,
we've been waiting such a long time.

what is my capacity? this won't cut it, i agree, wholeheartedly, this simply won't do, it won't damn, either, it won't fly, and if it gains the ability to do so we should all count our valuables and make our peace with misery. we should grow talons, and walk about our towns and cities clacking our claws on linoleum and tile, obscenely. flapping our gums like wings, and sorry things we call tongues, made for swathing foodstuffs and making merry in a variety of indecencies.

 the well of our forefathers has run dry, we are in a barren, a desert for cremes, a ghastly home for dead things, a monitor for changing atmospheric pressures, the pressures we all face, as predator and prey, as lunacy in the hold of a societal ship, one bobbing on oceans that know nothing of fairness and politics, of politeness in the face of extremity, of danger, and rape, and of housing angry ghosts. 

the will of the front runner is evidenced in his diaries, the pages stained with the output of his crime. the will of his victory over and over and over. the will of his victory in time, in space, in the pages of a book of hymns about decadence and mirth, of blood and wine.

to those disappeared

white fog, or grey, or black, you can feel it slip away, like water and sand through your fingers. another day at the beach, in the sand, without the sun, black sky and all that disrepair. dogs snarl and kick up the dusty floor of the land, running endlessly in loops and tangents, drool hanging from pregnant jaws.

fumbling through the, i don't know, files, angry cans of paper and mist.

diet soda will buy you everything in this life. like a hopeful stepfather.

and still we stand here, in that wash of grey, so true that white was never seen at all, with busted megaphones, throats as raw as the devil, hides cleaned and stacked in disparate order.

and friends can't be found(simon and garfunkel)

and all the plastic science can make can't hold all this troubled water.

the don nelson tabletop rpg.

i awoke with a goat's leg protruding from my skull, the hoof had pierced my occipital lobe, blood and liquefied grey matter dripped down the goat's bobbing calf.

the night previous the goat and i shared a scrap of bread and crumble of cheese. we argued at length about the merit of merit brand cigarettes.

i've been lost, spinning in my grave since day one.(spitting and spinning like turncoat marionettes).

in this scheme i can make anything happen. (but nothing lasts).

i joined the a.a.r.p for prescription discounts.  then i killed a doctor and stole his script pad, ran all over town hanging the little squares of paper.
i didn't kill the doctor. i seduced him. i grabbed him by the lapels of his white coat.  i changed my genitals in his head.  the ink was dry on my chart and the information still changed.

the backspace key.

i told the doctor i'd need several different scripts. i read off of a tattered list. i told him it was of no consequence that i'd be taking the pad.

i grabbed again at his coat. and she kissed him. on the neck and shoulders, never the mouth. she was an ageless prostitute. pickled on the streets and waiting rooms around town. she loved golf magazine. she was raised on golf magazine. i could hear her breathing outside the door. i sat naked on the disposable white sheet, eyeing the doctor, perched on his ubiquitous rolling stool. i wiped the grit from my ass with the rough paper. i grabbed again at the doctor's lapels. i held them and we listened to her breathing.

theories on butthole singularity. (second wave)

(gOD's dirty little finger)

an electrical charge running through every pant's seat.

like touching two raw wires.
(instinctual at best)
nerves collecting data.
(thought oozing from every port)

man's continuous nature

*(ordinary)                                                                  *(like a diamond in the sky)