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Pope Peter & the Moon Child
Back to Panic! Poetry & Arts
Tenth Anniversary Edition
Pope Peter & the Moon Child
God
Decipherer's Preface
The document which sets before your eyes was not written
by a human hand.
In fact, it is not the work of any hand at all.
As the story has been related, this work is the
product of an eruption of automatic writing recorded during a seance, one
involving a group of researchers which had been seeking to contact this now
deceased author.
In a brilliant display of supernormality, a pen,
setting upon a notebook, spontaneously stood up aright and began, suddenly,
transcribing the strange vocalizations which bellowed out of the medium's
mouth.
This frenzy lasted as long as the duration of Mozart's
Requiem and has been edited by myself
only in order to render it clearer for the reader.
This editing process required to a small extent a
re-writing of a sometimes jarbled text. This has necessitated some simple deletion
from the original, but I would seek to persuade the reader, that this was, is
of a wholly unintelligible sort of expression, comprehensible to none. If
anyone is interested in the original text, one may enquire further.
However, I assure you, the text presented renders this
revelation most faithfully. As is clearly obvious, I must and will take the
ultimate responsibility for these editorial decisions and hope that this
product is pleasing to my dear reader.
James Aire
1996
Decipherer's Second Preface
We could add
to the fire by speaking of such things, and we should.
James Aire
2006
Pope Peter & the Moon Child
Once again upon this moontide frenzy, streams this
last twilight, this Night, it gleams... Pope Peter, his head & legs a goat,
breasts of a woman, this last of his Noble kind, his nimbus glows, rhythmicly
fucks her curvy, burly, blue ass via this white-trash, plastic, armless statue,
this Sacred Virgin, raw shit flows out, orvis glows, across scaly scarlet
tissues, fluid red throws fleece. 'Oh, what did you expect to find, ... peanut butter & jelly???...,' (Choosy Mothers
Choose Jiff, No SKIPPY goddammit, not that, you lousy
Mother fuckin' whore child, aids & crack addiction! It is Peter Pan who is
sublime, only this brand ascends from these dark primeval waters, encircles its
own horizons, this Mother dries herself off, casts across libations to those
thirsty ones.... she brisquely beckons, 'Holy water, come & bring, cast in
salt for seasonin', give these zombies, here this plight, ring these bells,
hell's affright.' As preeee- programmed, these unchoosy mothers stood limply
aghast.
As large & long as his face seems, to My sense, as Pope Peter's Pine at Rome, every bone appears proportionately
immense. Ruddy complexion, goat beard, cock feathers, ox tail & burning
eyes. An iron chain wraps his neck five times round. It glimmers in this cold,
cry dry heat.
He succumbs to his knees, worships her, his heart
races... shatters amidst his joyous love, a love sends shatter to her, this
most joyous, beautiful one, she shines back through his shining. Jets her hand
towards his scruff cheek gentle caress lands drag joy, love transmits across
this supple opening. The chicken grows tense as those winds bellow, dark clouds
coalesce, consecrates these spectacular spaces irrespective of light or good.
For it did not matter after all what was happening as these winds pick up kick
pup dancing leaves across fractured terrains, it is aways there, not to be
questioned, at least not for now.
Her smile beams as Pope Peter engulfs her breasts,
lips open wide, consumes her navel, forehead, dew drippin' vaginal arena, he
swallows her entire luscious bouncin' body in one gurgilin' gulp. Bellows out her laughter as she has found this kosmicly
kaleidoscopic chance, this opens, she dances, her only time, no piss test in
this corporate restroom. He drinks these her
eyes, beholds wonder, this dark speck of cereal flashes out its fiery needles
on all sides. Air fills this humid corridor, little birds fly
about smash into clear, clean glass hit this floor, stand up, shake
themselves off, once again begin this endless circuit.
Suddenly, a very small genderless child appears, an
innocent, licentious face beams out across among within this joy, blond locks
dance across this vortex of utter saturated curiosity, it asks, gesturing with
its third hand, 'Is that this reason why this liberty bell is cracked, is it
merely assertion after all, is not our ownmost wish just an echo of this sad
implotrix???' Stuns, adults turn, look at this face as elders will look at
evil, demonic children, quietly dismissin' this rant, these progenitors takin'
this stern hit of embarrassment, perform this obligation, a hoop-jumpin'
diorama of authority vis-a-vis their own child's subversion, so as to belong,
to sniff & be sniffed... this small child hisses at lackluster ass faces,
'How lovely, so luvey lovely, you live limp your luscious lives..... OH! if I could live soooo verrrry long!!! Bubbly!!!'
It, this child, storms from this house, taking this
dog & cat out amidst this wilderness of a thousand cawing crows - within an
instant, that house of his father explodes, a bomb this small one happily set
under the dinner table, chunks, mom & dad, sister-brother - auntie melba...
scatter across, fly around out about over, paint this monotonous scene lovely
psychedelic reds, oranges, blues --- those insidious elves come out wary, grab
all these pieces that they can, retreat into this dark forest to consume these,
this, their spoils... A caption reads across this screen... Just Do It! Some
one tries to sell him milk, yet, he turns away to gaze at these clouds which
slide past this blinding full moon.... Now back to Minister's Daughters: In
Love With Snakes. A brief gray pause ensues...
That cricket beats but slowly this shadow coyly casts,
temperatures fall, reduce this ardor, cool careful currents collide, breeze,
chilly apparition emanates mutinous mundane monotonous cadence, these little
fiddlers dance in those trees, in these cracks of rocks. After this sunrise
hides, they become silent, dusk begins to fall... For Myself, Pope Peter would
have cast me from the aither into the sea, out of sight, had not Night, subduer
of gods & men, saved me... to her did I come in flight, & he, angry
though he was, ceased for he was in awe of doing what would be displeasing to
swift Night.
In preparation for his festival of love, Pope Peter
sprang forth from the wilderness & entered his conjuring lodge. It stands
via stout poles, eight in number, planted firmly, covered with wet skins, a
small aperture from which he spies his love. Once inside, he carefully closes
the hole & commences his incantations. All at once, the lodge trembles,
strong poles shake & bend as with the amalgam force of a dozen men, &
strange, unearthly sounds, now far aloft in the air, now deep in the ground,
anon approach near & nearer, reach MY ears. Pillars of smoke drift, swirl,
dissemfumes hashish & eyes of fat Newt, Pope Peter rises from his haze, a
stern warrior, embarks amidst this world, traversing this land devoted to utter
destruction, bears my command, only this sharp sword.
As a vapor, he covers this earth, makes his airy abode
amidst these heights, his throne, a pillar upon a cloud. He turns, waves his
arms as a bird, prattles to his heart of sorrow, 'Do
not harm this earth, this sea, these trees, until you have marked each of those
suits with this seal upon their foreheads.' That herd echoes, 'No Be It!!!'
Each individual consents along within this containment field... Pope Peter
stands with bent head & downward looks, gasps, 'He gave us bad advice who spears the sinners yonder with his hook! Naked,
transverse, bars the road's extent, he lies; & all who pass, with all their
load must tread him down, such is his punishment.' He smiled brightly.
Pope Peter conjures these spacious skies, this magic
terrain, brushes, golden fields, amber grain, waves whisper winds, this opens,
shadow green valleys, majestic glory ascends, this morning deafens, purty,
purple mountains, drapes slither expanse shatters, mist hovers over all, one
sea to that next, these great streams, unblemished ones, shine, reflects sun,
this moon, no need of this, My own shining. No green here, but discolored
leaves ... dark, no tender shoots, but writhen, gnarled ... tough, no fruit, but
poison galls on the withered bark. Wells in his tenuous heart, a space opens,
this dimension suggests, these surge, his inverse good thoughts, no order, this
lie, desirable domination, malevolent devotion, unholiness, mortality, his
gentle, playful spirit.
Pope Peter offers burnt offerings, sacrifices, his
tributes to this ineffable chance, this smoke rises from his tiny secret altar,
swirls off, away, breathes in these satyr dancing spirits, laughs amidst this
annihilates, that wind. He looks at his face upon this handle of this
refrigerator door, witnesses these wrinkles, proliferate, this apparition grows
coarse, blisters this onslaught, this surge... He knew that each position
already had its own alibi...
Pope Peter seizes this incense container, fills it
with fire from that altar, & scatters it over across this floor. He drops
the foot of a badger underneath the table & grabs his silver cord, a thread
of indefinite extension, whips across, mushrooms dust. This crucible burns
stench, he shrieks out, mutters incantation, 'If you are at one with me, rise towards me O Smoke. If you are not at one with me, rise athwart me O Smoke. Either to the
right or to the left.' The chicken begins to sing 'Which side are You On? but is interrupted by
There Grog, this primal bog, peals thunder, flashes lightning, earthquakes from
that supple navel of earth.
Pope Peter performs rites to make himself
invisible from all of those foul zombie clonepods which began to gather at the
window next to the green door. He deploys a cloaken gooey unguent from the
incinerated bodies of evangelical christians, mixed
with the blood of night-birds.
For personal preparation a fast of about fifteen days
is observed. When this is past, it is necessary to get drunk every five days,
after sundown, on wine in which poppies & hemp have been steeped. Pope
Peter assembles those candles made from the fat of hairy nuns & fashioned
in the form of a cross; the bowls he uses are made from the skulls of
parricides, the fires fed with cypress branches, wood of two desecrated
crucifixes, blood stained gallows & needles from deaths via lethal
injection.
His magic fork is fashioned of hazel & almond,
severed at one blow, this ceremonial cloth is woven by a prostitute,
whilstround about this magical circle is traced with the embers of a polluted
cross. He deploys this mandragore, unearthed from beneath these gallows in the
back yard next to the funeral pyre where corpses are still suspended. Mother
Teresa, a Babylonian bitch, one of two of Pope Peter's dogs, digs up the root
& is killed via a mortal blow of his fully erect member after which her
soul passes into the fabled, fantastic root... Sharing with Moon, Pope Peter
takes a bite of the root, all at once achieving an ecstatic invisibility. With
this, the crowd disperses as it is enslaved to the visible. They drift to their
hovels to sleep, that these could return to their slavery on the morrow...
sighing oblivion... despair...
That creek, chirp churp grows louder ... louder,
deafens screech screams, suddenly, Pope Peter's next door neighbor, one of
those friendly gatekeepers, Jesus, that one who hangs with those xtc freaks,
drips with costly, sweet smelling oils, walks out, this house of his blue
haired father, steps down decisive upon this little merry maker, grinds it into
sludge, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, from whence it came, to whence it
returns, beckons this silence, calls out, 'Surely you are better than this
cricket, surely, do you not agree my sheep?' 'Bah, Bah, Bah,' they assent. The
cricket, now only etheric, cries, 'The whims of luck
shall find me undeterred, so let her ply her wheel, the churl his spade.'
Pope Peter shrouds himself in remembrance, this, his
still too distant boyhood, visions eclipsed by this windy rain,
this tenuous, fragile hold remains still. He whispers, these vibrations engulf
his heart, he chatters his silent melancholy as he gently caresses his goat
idol, 'Mild is the word of an Overman, but sharper, more cutting than a two
edged sword... gentle is his tongue, yet it breaks these ribs of a dragon. If I
am deceiving you, may this piece of amulet choke me!'
He gazes down upon his red-headed lover, a spell smells, a femme carnale, this
effluvium, caresses warm, emanates from her lovely orchard, stimulates, rocks,
voids sputter his lascivious aura beyond simply madness. Tears well from his
gentle eyes, Pope Peter gasps, 'Such is the stair by which we have to stoop...
I will sit behind lest thou take harm from the tail... so do thou mount
before... be bold now up!' Dropping down weary, suddenly wheels away in a
hundred circlings, Pope Peter sets far aloof from his master sullen &
scornful... so, I say...
Dogs howl out crying to the full moon dances scintille
across the sky in its own time... Amidst his choral dance, Pope Peter writes
upon Moon's blue skin via this needle, stigmata, descendent, these scatter
autobiographs of his own former lives. Smoke bellows from that backyard funeral
pyre lighting up brilliant, flashes pulsate, shoots dance across this water
stained white painted wall. Yet, it is still simply too soon to smell this
fragrance, as this vexious, pungent odor lingers still, hovers, here
intersperses threads, casts this infiltrates film, clumps across slides
superfluous sticky humidity. A bird flies right into this window & dies...
from its mouth exudes witches' butter, hundreds of tiny elves erupt into a
wrestling frenzy to seize this most precious item of culinary aesthetics &
dietary exaltation...
A shadow stands in wait for this fire to fly away, so
as to gather together these marvelous ashes, extracts from these potent
supernatural powers. Pope Peter, for an instant, sees his own soul reflect
amidst this radiant window, he places this light under that bushel, this fire
beneath that basket, transfixes this memory, fortune, fate, this You! he purchases at this local drugstore...... then his face
grew dark with blood, Pope Peter screams, 'Why dost thou rend my bones?
Breathes no pity in thy breast at all?' He quakes... blue veins bulge,
contours, pale, white skin, splatters, leprosesque, red blotch epiderm
stripes... yellow runnin' welts... green love... black beyond... Wearing his
Cactomite dirndl, he whispers to his progeny to be, 'My righteous love
children, you shall justify many, their guilt shall you bear, these sins, this
throng, slimy depth incites intercedes for transgressors, seas swallow
onslaughts of streams, putrid waters.' Pope Peter transfigures amidst wind as
pure light, then recurs, all remains the Same....
Hail & fire mix with blood, pour down out onto this
pink tile floor over across away from, flows that sacred cookie jar. Pope Peter
is stunned, but his smile soon returns, his face beams, reassures this, his
family, this caste of rope-makers, this throng of cowards, pariahs, witches,
traitors, draft-dodgers, perverts, murderers, child molesters, drug dealers,
drive-by shooters, weirdos, poets, philosophers, each immoral, a magician one
& all, each, everyone, together, an exercise of family values, this
coalition of tradition, derek deaned, worship their own idols, these liars to
this very end... Yet, each is a healer! Pope Peter smiles dryly, whispers
softly to his loved ones, 'When the wild soul leaps from the body, which its
own mad violence forces it to quit, be sure that thost do not wallow amidst this
intolerable shit!' In the family, there are thirteen in all, among these, this
jovial high priestess & six couples mix amidst joyous frenzeee, abandon
each, this self for four days straight. After this
time, they return to the fold which is this, their home.
Pope Peter feels this warmth, this black flame rises,
being at home, being there, amidst tender shelter, this beautiful life of
indecency, lust, drunkenness, orgies, drinking parties, pot-smokin'... all that
innocent worship of these loving, heathen images & illustrious idols with
his grandmother, his mother, father, sister, brother, the dog, the snake, the
hamster, the chicken, the cat, the toad, the newt, the vulture, the pregnant
ewe sheep, This Goat, &, those lovely, yet, strangely unfortunate goldfish,
not to forget these innumerable, nameless rats, mice, roaches, eels, flowers,
plants -----------> (transmigrationist family values)... dance amidst an
excession of commie kinship.
This strange man with a triangle tatoo enters with
starking brows, 'Gooooooooood evening everybody, ladies & gentlemen,
welcome to our shoo' ... Tonight we have in our studiooos, with us here, please
welcome, all the way from the Calmecacs, this pleasing transmigrationist
family, they will sing their own song for each of us.' Audience of milk &
dairy style homogenized products is signalled to applaud, so it does... Slapped
in the face, it begs for more & more & more... they engulf their meager
portions of pepper pot stew & are glad of this yellow balloon frenzy.
They each all stand up from these felt coven chairs,
father, not a single curious eye apprehends his triumphant worshiperection, he
plays this pitch pipe, these his dear ones sing together, a family, 'Momma, you
gave birth to a rancid, festerin' heap of shit, but, we're not never makin' not
a bit, no big stink of it, we love all these animals, for in each our friends
ensoul, it is all, all is one, erupts eternity now under this sun.' This
peculiar man interjectz his praesenz... 'What a reeeeaaaaaaaaal fiiinnne
fiiinnnnne, fiiNNee tune, & everyone must remember that not only are these
fine people wonderful singers, but they have been happily applauded by everyone
for their mature conduct wherever they have gone.' The cottage cheese claps.
With this he walks off stage left, is axed to death by
a disgruntled McDonald's employee, pissed off 'cause that one dude looked at me
funny, in that way, for goddsake amidst this day above all, I deserve a break,
at least today...' A throng of consumers seizes this skulker, set their teeth
into him - rend him piecemeal, & away they frolic carrying these wretched
fragments limb from limb... he whimpers as they drag him away, cries, 'Our
image so cruely distorted, so bereft of dignity, that their eyes brim pools,
milkshakes spill down to bathe the buttocks at the cleft...' Closes his eyes,
his soul migrates once again, but immediately falls, becomes a human flesh
furry fur burger.
The Peter's humble sweet home is perfectly cubist, as
wide as it is long, as it is high, casts multitudes of fractal perspective:
shines across shadow, casts dimension, fifteen hundred triangular inches or so
centimeters. This foundation stone is made from a mixture of blood &
mortar. Their small white picket fence, covered with Chilean postage stamps,
Pinochet's picture, with this caption, 'Happiness is a Warm Gun' is speckled
with lovely jasper, two hundred, sixteen centimeters high, each foundation
stake exudes, displays a different stone, respectively, if you could see this,
you would observe jasper, sapphire, agate, yellow quartz, beryl, topaz,
chalcedony, turquoise, & amethyst. Each of these twelve lovely gates is
made of a single pearl covered in coagulate blood of which, from time to time,
the elves partake amidst a noble & joyous feast.
A woman, Truth, wears a glittery red dress puts her
fingers together, this hand sends across parallel to this ground & out, but
just before she reaches maximum extension, flips her hand over, opens up, cups
it to this sky. Each pearl is a drop of semen from the feverish cock of their
youngest, most promising son... he jacks & wanks his knob over & over
upon an image, for a picture held him captive, this which blinds him, he chants
his vespers over this spews, 'Hadst thou but waited to find what I was looking
for, I think perhaps thou wouldst let me stay.' He spills this with stern
evocative gestures, eternally, this alibi recurs... outside it is snowing,
swirling across the lamp.
Pope Peter lifts his cacodemon arms in primal
rapture... from under each sprang two great winged wings that well befitted
such a monstrous bird as that... Yo! Dude! - plumeless
& like the dark pinions of a bat their fashion was & as they flapped
& whipped three winds went rushing over the icy flat... He joins this end
of that circle to its beginning, squares the very same circle, tracks out,
about across, rugged trails, traverses this woodpath, he builds fences, bushy
shrubs around this verdant wall with Pops, now a only a name for a psychedelic
cactus,moves this stone, //////cuts down this Spikenard, gathers this firm,
fragrant leaf, cherry trees tower, these of Asherah, via that old, two-man saw,
these ones his dead ancestors had planted, for himself to burn, chop down, each
shit as this scarab lives....
He feels this surge, a well targeted axe, hears that
gnaw steel, teeth bite, hard wood, in this instant smells this, burns steam,
paints his dusty skin, stings, his squint eyes... Pater, Simon Peter, yacks up
green flem, hocks it over, across, it flies, smacks this tiny tree, this ever
so gentle caress... hangs, droops suspended as ice sythes... Little animated
Buer birds fly amidst, land upon, each, this, their shoulders, whisper delight,
greetings, secrets, joy... rub each other's body with fats, fragrant oils,
relax muscles, dries up, antidote to fatigue... myriad memories by & by
burn build muscle tension after all...
Pope Peter erupts from his nostalgic forgetfulness,
breaks this din, his boredom, this gooey vision entranced monotony, ruttin'
this churnin' chick, fuckin' this bouncin' babe, resolutely, he simply
readjusts this slushy madonna via his only hand, increases force, intensity,
introduces variation into directions, his penetrations become chaotic, these
glushy overtures slither, supplements slow circular tongue caresses, dance upon
her quiet ankles. He descends his mouth towards this supple, her lovely ass,
bites hard, tears into this, severs seven layers skin across subdermal
mesentary, rips small chunk away, chews, voracious swallows this small bit of
her, she screams, gasps, then smiles, turns her head, just so, whispers 'Your
seductive breath enchants me, & I utterly love your propensity towards
cannibalism... Pope Peter, that is why I love you,' Moon turns, seals her eyes
tight, falls back into this blue masquerade, this ghost dance with claws &
sceptres.
The kitchen table suddenly levitates in white light a
height of eight inches in the wake of Betty the goat's growing excitement. Pope
Peter, jolting in rapturous carnivorous frenzy, screams out, 'Ibi hibi mimi maw
maw,' fribulating to & fro... but, vexed to hear its name thus vexed so
slightingly, mimi maw maw, one of those shadows came to life & fetch him a
walloping blow fisted closed on the rigid belly, which thudded back like a
drum... the dog howls in accompaniment, the chicken smiles - all applaud when
signaled to... slapped, whipped, lacerates scatazen.
Moon whirls her bloody, juicy fruit red flows
succulent ass high up into this electric air, Pope Peter pukes passes promptly
pita pieces about to people properly prepared... her supple joints, her
succulent lips, this tender mouth, her savage throat emits dry continuous
groans, joyous moans, she slobbers soulbreath through her teeth, both hands
fever plunge, immerse, her drizzly, grissly snatch. There is a place low down
there underground, her wombs deep, not known to sight, but only by the sound of
a small stream which trickles down the steep, hollowing its channel, where the
gentle fall & devious course its wandering waters creep... a spot that gets
her hot... but you ain't been to it!...
A tiny male elf sports a dress, sets upon his holy
head, a colliding parabolic crown, asks her if she
would like to have a glass of holy water. She politely declines, thirst a far
better, less salty, torture.
Betty hexes that shade down with her incantations, her
most sublime magic. She again levitates the table with a lattice of rods &
threads, tiny etheric, putty pillars, which she constructs from out of the
ectoplasmic stuff. She deploys ordinary cantilever assertions to initiate these
desired movements. Attachments are made via her formation of suckers at these
ends of those red rods, which she also deploys for this generation of
rapi-didley raps, percussive effects via their elasticity. She screams out
joyously, 'Listen to the sound of my tool!!!' She sets off a couple dozen
rounds from her AK-47... The steam from this trail of
carmine powder stings all their eyes. Betty herself stinks of it.... but no one
seems to mind as each loves her.
Moon pushes both of her hands into her hussy hungry
pussy, these disappear, absent to this site of vision, conceals this playful
dance of light, shadow, these vibrations of space, she tickles her cervical
spiral, tickles conceal cryptesthesiac dance, frolics, pulls apart, awaits his entry,
between this hearth fan, Pope Peter inserts his organ, utters, 'I am a humble
man, myself, this meek one... I was anointed with living toads at birth,
puberty, & marriage, I have been through this act of ritual purification in
that I was detected a violate of tribal taboo... &
I sang that song! If, in this event, that any of you have not seen what I have
seen, neither will I tell you by which right I do these things!'--- With this
assertion, he falls silent, becomes acutely ecstatic, rocks amid this vaginal,
penial, orgenzy interlock.
There is a sudden knock at the green door, at first
only slight, it increases sporadic, a women's voice yells grotesque, 'Open your
goddamned door, I know you're inside, shit, I can hear you motherfuckers!' All
turn, each turns to the green door, yet turn back to this, their glance away,
resume their, each of these, their own escapist, nihilistic activities. Simon
Peter wears the left eye of a bat, sits quietly in his manic wheelchair,
intent, solice, innocently plays with his testicles.
Lou Salome just sits makin' that leather circus whip that she's been workin' on
for a long goddamned time. Someday she hopes to deploy it, to thrash that sick
weakling asshole shit... she better do so soon or she might wind up in a circus
somewhere, at least from My index of expectation... all I can do in this end is
to whisper with blind impotence, 'When I tumble into this coop I find them
there... they are never given a turn or a kick, nor will to all eternity, I
dare swear.' Lou Salome hears these whispers, ponders this wisdom.
Pope Peter's mother, Brunhilde croutches next to this
dew bleeding wall, barks docile, impeturb, quiet, lull, mute, suicide,
noiseless, silent, still, hush, low, soft, calm, peace, rest, site untrouble,
passive, mild, sedate, dormant, inactive, motionless across, these rapid
roaches infiltrate, scratch at these dew drops, each emanates this, her single,
terrorifying reflection. Pope Peter's sister, Anorexia, merely, simply, solely
stares, fluctuates molten lava. She gazes deep into this sickening truth, this
call, this bath of frenzy, this stream buoys her up as pristine, this ideal, this beauty. And like a man who dreams a dire dreadful
dream, & dreams he would it were a dream indeed, longing for that which is,
with eager aim, as though it were not... so I, speechless to plead for pardon,
pleaded all the while with her by my distress, and did not know I did... but I
know that it is vulgar to enjoy that kinda thing... I already did a couple
thousand years ago.
No one stirs, Pope Peter fucks Moon's ass with the
alleged wife of joe the carpenter, her lucy fruit
pussy, his cock pulsates betwixt absent guides, her hands. These knocks become
these expounding pounds, scratches across outside the fragile, green door, her
voice vents heinous, 'You sick, sick bastards, open
up, now!' Without any break of rhythm, Pope Peter exasperates, 'Could somebody,
for godssake, open that fucking goddamned green door, can't you see that I am
fuckin' busy here!' No one stirs...
He turns his head to his little brother, Jimmy
Swaggert, this bearded demon boy, this one sits there & here wankin' his
knob at the kitchen table, 'Hey, you goddamned good for nothin' freeloadin'
penile parasite, why don't you just get th' hell up & answer that goddamned
fucking green door!' He throws a bald eagle leg over across,
right at his face, but Jimmy Swaggert ducks just in time, catches it, & in
a flash, shoves it up his ass, through his loose, howling sphinxerhole. Pope
Peter, miffed, displays the heart of a bat on his left arm, conjures up the
Bealing Bells, this revolt inside his eyes. But, then, he, Pope Peter, took the
form of a nursemaid, & began enticing Jimmy Swaggert to wander in the woods
out upon the dry, dreary cloud scene.
Jimmy Swaggert hops atop this table, stretching his
body over atop he hops onto the neck qua shoulders of Pope Peter, shouts to his
grandfather, 'Oh King Walt Disney, most mighty, who reigneth in the land of
evening, I call upon thee & invoke thy name in the name of Supremacy. I
command thee in the name of the Most High to present thyself before this
circle, thee & the other spirits who are thy subjects, in the name of
Mickey Mouse & Goofy, for the purpose of replying to all that which I
demand of thee. If thou dost not come I will torment thee with a sword of
heavenly fire. I will augment thy pains & burn thee. Obey, O Walt Disney!'
How after this stunning earth shattering proclamation
could he, Pope Peter, thrash this pathetic boy who has dived to roll around
upon this kitchen floor fucking a genetically engineered duck with a human
vagina? Pope Peter aptly asks gently, 'Dear brother, could you answer that
green door?'
His gaze focusses upon a meat cleaver hangin' on th' wall. Jimmy Swaggert unaroused by this request, stops,
stares, glues eyes on Moon's stenchy shouting pussy, sweats profuse, stinks,
turns to Daffy, jacks off & off & off, off... chants this idiot child,
'That's all folks!!!' doo-dadoo-doo-doo-da doodoodoo, doo-doo-doooooo
daaaaaaaaa dooooooooooooo...
Pope Peter shakes his head, the pounds grow louder,
like the heart beat of an elephant on eighteen hits of acid, he scoffs under
his breath, 'Lousy shit imbecile stinkin' asshole mother fucker!' Recovers
quickly from this, jolts crisis apparition, this phantasm, his life, he turns
sudden, 'Hey, what about you Grandma, a little help, please,' he remarks,
gestures nice groove across at her, winks to his current interaction with this
one whom he adores, loves as dearly as his own sweet, saltry self.
Lou Salome stands sullen, dejects, falls amidst this
unknown limbo, vortex annihilates her joys, her magic & necromancy. When
she was younger, she would flutter a camphore cluster to bring a priest home,
in an instant, to do evil things... joyous, divine seduction... Now, with this
sodden withering of her flower, she thinks differently, burns sacred plants,
herbs in temple fires off, away amidst her small, yet ample space, purifies
this spot of her secret practice, quietly immerses amidst this spirit world.
She covers both her head, her face, inhales deeply,
becomes intoxicated via fragrant fumes. She travels, departs from this prison
amidst opaque realms cascade this, her dreamz.
Lou Salome's scowl face turns away, resists, her hands
grip her shoulders tight, tighter, tighter, seethes under breath, 'Who do you
think I am, I do enough for you lousy stinking sons of bitches.' She returns to
her sea-side pier, gazes at her crystal ball, says she sees all sorts of weird
things after that awful cloudiness dissipates. She whispers to her dusty
mirror,
So truly loves a friend his friend As
I love thee, O Life in myst'ry hidden! If joy or grief to me thou send; If loud
I laugh or else weep am bidden, Yet love I thee with all thy changeful faces;
And should'st thou doom me to depart, So would I tear myself from thy embraces,
Am comrade from a comrades heart. And if thous hast now left no bliss to crown
me, Lead on! thou hast thy
sorrow still!'
These pounds grow more intense, yells of that faceless
female become bellows, quake, shatters stillness of graceful actuality. Each
stares at these others, & back again, each waits for that other to move...
suspense grows, surmounts this nearly intolerable surge... finally, Anorexia
stands up, jolts forth, walks over to Pope Peter, screams into his face, looks,
scoffs at Moon, fucks unaffected, 'O.K., this time I will open that green door,
but only this time... when was it that you ever did anything for me?' With this
agate assertion, she saunters away, Pope Peter murmurs violently under breath,
'Lousy, ungrateful, putrid bitch, I fucked you last night...' He spits at her,
but surely misses.
Anorexia shoots around a weird wistful glance, 'Yah
right, brother - you call that a fuck?!!' An uncanny apparition rises &
shocks these walls back & forth, sways, breathes flux, in & out, this
wallpaper bleeds purple urine. She is dressed beautifully for her part, in lynx
skins folded over & over from waist to knee, the upper part of her body
covered by strings of teeth & fangs, beads, skeins of gaily colored yarn,
strips of snake's skin, & fringes of Angora goat fleece. This, as a
decoration, is both graceful & effective; it is worn round her body &
above each elbow, falls in soft white flakes among this brilliant coloring
& against her dusky skin. Lynx tails descend like lappets on each side of
her face, overshadowed & almost hidden, a profusion of ostrich feathers.
Among slides all this thick, floating plumage
intersperses small bladders & skewers, pins wrought of tusks & sacred
toad hair & crystal reefer.
Anorexia traverses curtly across this fluffy pink shag
carpet over to that green door, roars decisively, 'Alright, alright, already,
hold your fuckin' goddamned horses, I'm commin... (under her breath, laughin) 'NOT!,'
she turns this knob, opens this green door, makes these stars quiver, this
blanket of sublime night. She remembers the time when sorry someone scratched
over her picture, 'White Slut!' She never understood this remark as she is
green, all except her tie-dyed hair & her gentle, tasty flower, a seething,
blood red rose. She drips a green, purple drip drop, a third hand growin' from
her back. No one in her family or circle of friends is quite sure if she will
grow an entirely new arm, or, with all of their fingers crossed, an entirely
new self, a body... god bless... Mickey Mouse & Goofy!
All at once in her face stands an ugly, coarse,
pregnant whore out from that sullen murk, this ominous night, Pathetica points
to two men, these stand at that end of this hallway, 'Do you have any rooms? We
have come a long way, we are tired and hungry,' she, with difficulty,
constrains this mule, John Paul II, gestures to herself, in her condition,
gives Anorexia this knowing glance, one which only another woman would
understand. Her fierce face spots with gouts of red paint on cheek & brow,
partly overshadowed by a helmet-like plume of tall feathers of this brie bird
of sakabula, that one which makes all the noise in the mornin'.
In her right hand she carries a light sheaf of august
assegais, lances, & on her left arm is slung a small & purty pretty
shield of dappled ox-hide. Her petticoat, made of a couple of large gay
handkerchiefs, is worn kilt-wise. But if there were little decoration in her
skirts, this absense is more than compensated by the bravery of the bearded
bead necklaces, the goat's-hair fringes, & the scarlet tassels cover her
from coat to waist. Her breasts sag, rise & fall beneath this baldric of
leopard skin, fastened across with huge brazen knobs, down her back hangs a
beor beautiful dried & flattened skin of an enormous boa-constrictor. It
writhes writhingly amidst subtle gaps of void.
Anorexia sighs in utter disgust, is distracted - 'No,
no, no Doggie - Richie come here... She turns to the smelly intruder, 'What
does this look like, I mean, for sure, dude, like tha' holiday inn,' she points
to this entire corral of sprawled slackers, her own family setting about here,
there, 'I really don't think that you have come to the right place, try
that-that shelter-thing, it's down there, down that road, not in our
neighborhood, yet, always close enough!' points down, directs toward that
muddy, squalor pathway.
The dirty slut asks instead, points to her companions,
'Those vagrants over there need some cigarettes.' Anorexia twists her pupils
amidst her brain, this bloated chick barks, 'One of them tried to rape me, can
we have some cigarettes?...'
Immediately, Anorexia, in order to rid herself of this
vile, pathos excretes, dramatic interrupt, hands her two fags. Yet, scum chick
from hell quips, 'What about me?' Anorexia hands her another, 'You know - you, um shouldn't smoke if you're pregnant,' she
dreams she slams this door with gratitude toward their departure.
She gazes unfocus, yelps, 'This custom is loathsome to
my eye, hateful to my nose, harmful to my brain, dangerous to my lungs, black
stinking, horrible Stygian vapors, bottomless pit...'
Anorexia laughs to herself, wishes to shut this door,
return to her previous activity. Each & every night she sits, smokes
cigars, stares amidst, throughout this lava lamp, it disseminates subtle
nuances, vibrates across her fingers through her left hand, no knots can hold
them, these mysterious hands play tricks while tied, frozen, messages only for
these initiates as far as this earth extends, heaven spreads, this sun shines,
fire glows, water flows, this wind blows. Pathetica, in her Amazing Grace,
retreats, evokes under her breath, 'Why don't you just mind your own fucking
goddamned business,' this ambiguous harlot is displaced via hideous apparition,
jolts into Anorexia's gaunt, sunken, green face.
A dirty smelly piece of rancid shit man, everybody
calls him Godot, shoves his body, substitutes for this ridiculous whore, sticks
his bacteria infested, alcohol shocks, protrudes, mouth, breathes bad into this
unique, special face of Anorexia. Burps out what seems like words to that
effect of exchange, an incipient market effect: pot for beers... those intense
men at that IMF prick up their ears... Reeks feces blurts,
glares psychotic at her perky, emaciate tits, this waif, 'Hey babe I'l give you
some pot for beers, you smoke pot, eh??? Like I will give you a couple of
joints for some beers...' Anorexia wishes to get back to her singular quest,
retorts abruptly, 'Well, are you carryin'?' Rancid feces man shakes his head,
belches, 'Roll a joint for beers?'
Anorexia stands arms cross, cynicly, 'I--well 'we'
don't have any beers left, only a half bottle of wine, but I can give you some
change for a joint.' He gestures dislike, indifference for wine, blurts, 'How
much you give me for a joint?' Anorexia thinks for a moment, recollects this in
her mind, these, her, monetary assets, 'I don't have any money really, but I
can give you about three bucks in quarters, dimes, and nickles.' Shit brain
asshole assents, 'Alright I'll be back, let me go roll the joint, but I don't
want any change... How about a nice long, hard blow job... you suck my cock
deeply for a joint?' Anorexia pauses, negotiates amidst utter indecision, this
silent soliloquy ... this herself... he whispers incentives into her ear, 'I
won't come in your mouth... just all over your face & hair!' ... She impatiently, immediately agrees, for she has to if
she wishes to receive any allowance... family value... a vers'un ov'da lab'r
th'ree ov valu', yet, depicts more a pre-industrial cottage contour... Anorexia
agrees, this verbal contract is negotiated amidst this
small scale, homely, barter economy. He walks away down this hall, away across
spiral staircase, she shuts this door & returns
quickly to her incessant visions, this lava lamp & pictures of those who
crossed over.
Julian, this black cat, peers out around through eyes
upon this scene of Pope Peter & Moon, this frenzy, lisp hawthorn buds,
jubilant abandon, rubs his face against, neck across this handle,
that stained coffee pot. He must assemble, fabricate this for himself,
he sucks prong part time, this, in the Name of that Lord, that old time
religion, for, after all, art is very necessary lest I perish of My truth... Julian immerses himself in dream, playful delusions,
this ugly onslaught forces his repose, seeks to begin this all, each once
again. He offers rosewater to his ghosts at meal time, fragrants these heads of
female hair. Adolf, this plump pregnant pet ewe sheep wants that honey, she
wants it yesterday, but cannot find it in her quiet pasture under a blood red
sun.
Lou Salome brings a single violet into this house,
sits down, breathes sulfuric eruptions, inhales their essence, this aroma
pleases her nostrils, she contemplates these bowels deep within this orb. This
silly snake, coils upon this navel of this earth, breathes amidst her flesh
these noxious fumes of charred corpse... Lou Salome turns her head beyond this
glass slides door towards that this rages fire outside, her husband's voice
beckons from his repose upon this funeral pyre... she ponders, 'Was he dead, or
was he just asleep?' She catches herself intwixt this double bind, shrugs her
shoulders, returns to gaze upon events to come.
I should know, but when I do know this ridiculous
truth, the ugly, comedic banality, I perish amidst pitiless laughter...
succombing I do not die, but return like mold.
Anorexia hears these words of these ones that she has
sent away in her heart. She also hears her neighbor Jesus after he has had one
too many. His voice screams, this detection, an entirety of situation, 'Get the
hell out of this building, you goddamned bitch... Don't you ever knock on my
door again, you whore... get it into your head -- you're a nuisance -- go, get
the fuck out, or I will wring your neck...' Silence erupts stillness, these
retreat to their own proper domains, he back to his, her to return to this
murky trail with her two male companions... she first, these two following, til
her straining sense glimpsed the bright burden of the heavenly cars through a
round hole... by this they climbed, & thence came forth, to look once more
upon the stars & into the face which shines joy.
Betty smacks Jimmy Swaggert real hard across his face
with a thirty four inch hand she summons up from these depths. She feels the
seductive dissemination of this master deconstructionist, yet, feels herself
that he is a bit lazy, unimaginative, and, after all, he is just a rancid
asshole parasite piece of shit. Jimmy Swaggert humbly retreats away into that
soiled corner, sucks his red left hand thumb, holdin' his cock with his golden
right hand, cries hideous chistles, 'ah.ahh-ha-ahh -I- ahh-ha iah-i-IIIIIIIIIII
havvvvvvvvvvvve sssssssssiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnD!!!' He cries & cries, bends
over, removes this baldeagle leg from his asshole, quietly gnaws this succulent
morsel, wipes his nose with his left index finger. Jimmy Swaggert coiled
himself up into a fluffy ball.
Every soul felt this most deep, true, good, pretty
compassion for this most honorable young gentleman, this blues band plays his
own music, accompanies this five note procession, three natural, two sharp,
this four beat rhythm, mixes in some rock & roll progressions, tops off a
rendition of 'Sex Machine' via this Soul Master himself... C'n we hi t't an' qu't!!!
It was such a disarming musical tribute to this most benign, sensitive soul,
this one with this singular courage to admit his guilt. By this act alone is he
saved, but this act alone... Hu-huh, huh, huh...
So long as I descended, thou wast there... but when I
turned, then was the point passed by toward which all weight bears down from
everywhere... I fell out of lust, desire & boredom... idleness without
surveillance.. creatio
Anorexia sits with her foot under
her ass, she casts off this earthly garment, she throws across that physical
body, erupts her etheric body, this duplicate amidst that other sphere. She
glistens upon this bed, her personality & character have not changed, yet
she no longer eats, sleeps or works. She merely breathes in these vapors of
rosy rose water, with this perfume from this glowerts bell,
she feeds her ambrosial dream, her life. She is solid, moves in this same way,
in similar surrounds. She finds herself, dresses in these most appropriate
clothes betwixt these recognizable operations, happenings, but she finds that a
strong creative mental effort is needed to construct further. It is only
practice, yet, it is, will persist as helpful.
Julian leans back to smell his, churns genitalia, a
plug, mucus shoots out across, mixes many colors, he lies upon his back,
stretches out his body, its full extent, sudden stand, admires this innocent
dance... He adorns himself in seventeen perfumes amidst this single day, while
Moon secretes tiny phials of scent amidst these braides of her hair.. Floral wreaths smooth, sweet unguents dance upon her
skin, honey, wine, bitumen, at death these paint, perfume this festival... Gay
Speaker, the etheric newt, passes him this pipe, he grabs inhales decisively,
sucks etc....etc... Pope Peter hops up strews this bedchamber with sweet
fragrances, these fragile flowers, a white lilac, a lily, a white hawthorn he
cut down with his brand new chainsaw. He hopes to conjure up some good luck...
health, happiness.... joy... insurrection of body...
Anorexia sits, transfixes to these subtle fire laden
transmutations of dancing lava, it performs for her stark voracious gaze in all
of its modest vanity. She snorts absinthe extract, upon this surface of glass,
invokes her past loves, these faces, haunt sad visions, she remembers each of
these coffins, her untimely departed sweethearts, lovers, she decks each with a
sprig of rosemary for her perpetual memory. Brunhilde rubs herself with ash
from the hearth. Grandma sits, stares at that wall, it stands erect against her
gaze, she breathes deep into her abdomen. Simon Peter dazes in & out
between this dimension & that of those tiny pink fuzzy bunnies. Pope Peter
fucks Moon, paroxysm ascends aura sparks fly out across amidst shocks. Anorexia
professes her words amidst this trance of black intoxicating fumes, this amidst
her silence, this snake coils, sets still upon this navel. Suddenly this lava
lampesque transfigures, etherizes, disintegrates, disappears Anorexia asports
across this room, streams web, aura lands, all similar to before, the Same.
Julian looks upon this panorama, carnality, spies
these uneaten remains, this feast, becomes fixed, entrances this, hypnotizes,
enchants, these sparkles glimmer, sparks, rays, light, reflects this shaft,
brilliant candles, this juice of Moon engulfs this statue, this Assumed...
Suddenly, this statue comes to life via cosmic animation, shakes itself off, thrusts forth, this silly message, 'First I was raped by
Wild John, and, then, by my very own son, when will this torture ever end? When
will i be allowed to be on a current affair, I could get the rights to a
mini-series...' From thence onward, in her resistance,
she was called the Lady of Sodom. Suddenly, she becomes fixed as a statue once
more. There must not be any more words spoken of this. Although, a lot were
written, bestows this image... but I, this author, refrain...
Jimmy Swaggert stands up whirls around in a great
whorl pretends to be an airline pilot, lips vibrate buzz, shakes his semen
drips cock, makes abstract, pointillist, dot-like impressions upon this myriad
black chaotic surface seething scent. These, his parents were
hairy nuns, this love child, faithheals, foothills, hemroids, hurricanes,
hepatitis harangue, he sins but is sorry for it... yet, amidst his
legos, he can not erupt as joy... never this!!! Julian muses indeed that this
goddess religion has certainly been reborn, a novel transmigration, here with
this display, now, casts into relief this ironic, frisky fate of presence
and/or absence.
Yet, this contemplation jolts, Jimmy Swaggert trips
over that three foot dildo, crashes his head resolutely onto that toaster,
displaces this coffee pot, Julian hops atop this open refrigerator. All eyes
turn towards this event of commotion, then, just as quick, they return to these,
each, an activity of contentment, they sit, waiting
for Godot to return with that joint. Anorexia lightly begins to rub her crystal
lamp, her eyes amaze amidst this lovely dance, fluid matter, disguises surface
dance....
Julian wishes to get into this act, mesmerizes, to be
one of those amongst this, a witness, participant, bestows this kismet event.
He purrs wild, deep shriek howls, haunts strange human clatter, grips this
soul, penetrates this net, web, epithet. He rolls, this wind never remembers,
over onto his back across this off-white, foamie formica kitchen counter,
wiggles his fluffy furry behind, he pets his face, licks his arms, sporadic in,
out, his red licky libidinous turnstyle darts out loud. His cock cries mary with this blood dawn breeze... Moon whispers lightly to
Pope Peter as she puts on her dicyanin goggles, anticipates their joy.
Moon gently summons Julian to come amidst, join this
festive gathering, 'Come face me, my familiar, friend to friend, shine upon me
this charm of your eyes.' She fluxes her drool glistenin' hands through this
ambient air, smiles beam precious joy, this special opens, this eery ecstatic
figurine. That pregnant ewe sheep, adolf, dwells upon this threshold, guards
this door with vigilance, this ear of Dionysius, keeps out those earthbound
spirits who lust for revenge against these who dance upon this earth plane,
hop, fly throughout this fragrant air.
As all is calm, safe, she sets down to perform a
concert of perfumes for this lovely, most appreciative audience. She begins her
rant, it emanates: sandalwood, patchouli, vanilla, frangipane, clove bark,
vanilla, knob, benzoin, clove, storax, benzoin, patchouli, clove, vanilla,
frangipane... clove bark, vanilla, benzoin, frangipane, clove, sandalwood,
patchouli... (Piesse scale of seven primary odors)... Now, let's have everyone
join in!!!
I, that lofty one from this monster, the old man of
the mountain, long to come down from heaven, fling off my purple cloak... race,
dance, laugh, buzz amidst this silent, silly circle... to survey these my
children... I do prevail over these champions whom I meet in this land of
battle... I will surely prevail... I blow, I fell, I love, I
am kindly... I tire of being merely a voyeur, just sittin' up here watching my
creation, here in front of this light shockbox, sound & image, you guys
havin' all this fun, leavin' me up here alone to jack off, never ever even able
to touch you, you, this work of my own hands, always beyond my reach. I long to
come down amidst you, into this space, to get into this act, jump into a body,
any body, that can fuck, suck, lick, eat, rub, glide, gnaw, taste, mount,
swallow, & perhaps, love...
Julian repents, quivers, purrrrrrrs, hops one counter
to this next, table, furrrrrrrs bush brush across this right cheek of Moon. She
pushes herself over turns onto her back, Pope Peter
fucks her, without breaks, this indigenous rhythm, naive Mary dives via Pope
Peter's single arm.
Moon's supple elbow gently rests, bathes, decays, this
tray hangs, this splendid feast, fetid baldeagle.
Julian paces freneticly, waits for this special clue,
this welcome, this operant semiotic-reward. B.F. Skinner, this wretched cop on
the beat, part of this new initiative of communal polity, i.e., militarization,
discipline, & last but always overlooked, surveillance, peers in through
this fractal window, scribbles incessantly, witnesses these splinter terrains
erupt, mutters something about movin' beyon' fred'm an' dign'ty. Betty, this
visiting female goat sings a song, suddenly, he
self-immolates amidst his excrement, his dispersion... his daughter smiles...
Pope Peter wipes his, sweat drenches, his brillo
browl, he shits resolutely, teeth clench, drool enhances onto that space behind
him, his excrement drops onto this sample tray, these pellets of dung there for
all to enjoy, a gift for all those who wish nothing better than to constantly
receive, assume this style of hunger to be beautiful, good, true, etc... etc... He grabs Apollo, ties a string to its hind legs,
crams him up his ass, Pope Peter screams out, hideously, 'I put the light under
the bushel of my ass!' He pulls his throbbin' red, white, & blue cock out
of Moon's pussy, jacks off hard, jolts, fast, comes all over, across, splashes,
seminal splats thrown, whirls, streams... not, of course, breakin' this
sodomous rhythm, this lowly woman, this only Immaculate...
Anorexia fucks her gaping cunt with that lava lamp,
she moans amidst this searing heat of fire. Opaque white solid balls, light
shoots out from her mouth, asshole, & from her pores innumerable rays reach
out, bathes this cold dark room. Jimmy Swaggert rapidly races over to watch,
jerks off, his limp dick shoots out soft soap, cascades, slowly
forms lipid pools. Anorexia smacks, whips herself decisive, her ass with this
power chord, cries, 'I love you Marilyn, I love only you!,'
she gasps with each lash. Simon Peter, smokin' his heroin, proudly smiles,
Grandma, Lou Salome, drinks her beer, winces, turns away, whispers, 'These
birds beckon me to play their favorite song.' She kicks adolf
off of the organ & plays a single sulfuric hymn. All at once, the front
window shatters into myriad speckles of dust.
With this clue, this beckoning call, Moon prepares,
enacts her rite, she grabs this bottle of tuna juice & a goldfish named
Leto. Moon removes these giblets from this juice, which showers, flows over
upon across her seething, grissly, maggot-infested snatch. Leto wiggles in
utter terror, immanent despair, struggles to untie this gag that drapes, her
gasps, she suffocates, her only breath. Moon dances to insert Leto amidst her
fine festive flower, yet, this cat crazy, goldfish suppository hops up into
this air through this ceiling to that floor above, comes back down through this
ceiling, Moon catches her, graciously bestows compassion amidst her, hers, this
final time, precious rhythm sends, graces reprieve, showers mercy upon Leto,
this one who requests this singular, sacred right, to a last, this only word,
this mirror held in front of her singular face, exposes her innermost lyric
core, her ownmost vision of eternity... evokes in measured shrieks:
How do they try to end this beauty?
she beckons, scolds... eruptions of
this tonal flux...
why do you seek those stars, you have this earth
here... i love her so much, we play amidst joy, there, somehow this shatters,
cast apart, each longs, this recurs, not quick enough, never... coxswain, boat
swain pounds gavel, disciplines beat... i miss her so much.
effluvia<<<*>>>terra,
This pot plant, Nietzsche, has had enough for now...
yet, Leto requests her space for this continuance of her speech...
I am so glad that i have that... this which is here...
there is a reason via i did not suckle Apollo, this narcissistic rodent...
there is a reason for which he is fed ambrosia, that he against his father
dresses up as a woman in order to learn this art of prophesy, how he comes to
be this Sphinx, Apollo in Drag, this god of light, a transvestite... throws his
voice through silent, undetected shocks, kills up close via disguised strangulation,
this entire religion, George Washington: you must remember at least this much
amidst your decaying, scum rotten brains... please recollect... We live not on
a barren rock, some of us are clever animals. We seek
for that good, yet, this surge longs, erupts this evil, our wild dogs bark in
these cellars.... It is not necessary for one to seek to escape this orb for it
is alive & thus has soul... is immortal... No knowledge of astronomy or
physics is necessary, we need only aesthetics,
geography... The Sun, a small blue orb, casts orange red golden fire, that
diameter this breadth, a man's foot, it ascends in this east, goes under in
that west, traverses subterranean seas upon this golden bowl.... This sun
revolves around earth, moon, moon guides, beckons this to follow her lead
beyond that horizon... earth revolves moon one day, each day travels, differ
perspective this cycle repeats ten lunar decans... sun revolves earth, moon,
one day, it bestows ten solar months... moon revolves sun, this earth, sun around
moon, earth... earth revolves around sun & moon, our sun around moon, this
earth, moon around earth, sun... Each turns around each, this
these other, each turns, all turns, this One, this All. No stable
position except that of position itself, this mere display, scintillates turn.
With no permanent ratio, frame, fixed stars to maintain order for this kith of
endurance, there will be a collision, this gathers itself, these orbs
disintegrate, with or without this event, collision... if this world be eternal,
there must be an immortal soul, it must not be capable of degeneration,
accident, or death... yet, if this truly be a world without life or soul, then
it will surely end in horrific disaster...
Moon, her stress grows, she agitates, tires of all of
Leto's non-sensical jabber, whispers, 'Enough of your jibberish my sweet
maternal child, it is time for you to be tucked into bed for the night,' with
this, her patience shattered, she inserts Leto in, across, each, this petal,
her labias, majora & minora, Leto enters this silence deep amidst her
pussy, Moon gives her cunt another generous baste of tuna juice (No Dolphins).
By this time, Julian works up into a chaotic nervous
frenzy, bats seizure, shakes shiver, bellows out
horrendous oooooh-aaaaaaah eee! oooooh-aaaaaaah eee!,
screeches erupt these utter depths of hell. Where did you, ewe, expect,,,
Kansas...?... ,,, Lou Salome walks over to that
reekin' refrigerator grabs a jar of Gingrich brand pickled newt eyes & a
urine warm six pack she had hid underneath those rotten vegetables inside the
forever open fridge door... she walks past her wild children, shakes her head,
retreats through a sliding glass door out into that quiet garden, bathed by the
most serene of stars, swathes amidst light, heat traverses fluid ether, this
pyre casts her dear husband away.
Pope Peter continues to fuck Moon's holy ass, &
with her signal, he whispers, 'Here, Kittie, Kittie,' Julian, as if they had
done this a hundred times before-- Pope Peter looks toward this sky at Me,
shakes his etheric fist, belts out madness, 'Hey, dude, TTTTRRRRYYYYY like
two-hundred times,' proudly he gestures his apely, macho power through his
bodily semiotic, these ones only I truly fathom, this space, he does not
apprehend this, my presence here, he looks only to these stars, towards this
vain wind...
He saunters over coyly, as he always likes to do... he
is shy... ya' kno'... Pope Peter grabs Julian, gives him a nice lube job,
inserts his cock up, into, Pope Peter fucks Julian, via his asshole. A roar exudes
from this cat, like no roar before, Pope Peter gnashes his teeth, shouts, wild
eyes, 'You make fine tombs for these prophets -- this very prophet, your
ancestors murder,' Moon sprays out hot talk, 'i love you but i cannot love you,
i am not there to be love here, it would be so nice if this were oz, but it
certainly is not here there...' Pope Peter sports his brand new appendage moves
into position between Moon's spread legs, in front, this, her gnarly, blisters,
filch beaver. He screams so elegantly, 'Heaven & earth will pass away, but
my words will never pass away!' It is quiet, serene amid this sacred grove of
concealed night.
Anorexia shouts crescendo, orgasm!, she casually licks
her lips, rubs her blood stained ass, raises this supple fluid to her lips
drinks it down, closes her eyes with a sublime smile. Richard Nixon, the mad
family dog, saunters over cautiously & surveys this stench strings bag
face, Jimmy Swaggert yanks off hard, ties this power chord around his neck,
strangles himself, nears asphyxiate, cock bulges purple plumes plum, chokes,
face blooms red, sweat lines drain down, teeth clench. Baudelaire bocks as a
chicken will, 'It is all filth!' Richard Nixon approaches Anorexia silently
sets still pants oblivion, licks her bloody feast, runs down, dries across her
pale, supple ass. Betty joins this festive quivering rush, gnaws on these
gangrene hemorrhoids hangin' delicately down across Anorexia's fair, pure,
green-as-leaves skin.
Before Pope Peter ties Moon's ankles to these kitchen
table legs, he looks away out to that window... what it shows him, slowly comes
into focus, these pale green anemic, tilt toward panel panes, straggle potted
passive pepper plants, withers hope near this murky windowsill. He sees this
lack, sunshine comes remote to these poor dancers, life forms, yet, Pope Peter
sees nothing is to be done, light withdraws via these
awnings. He wonders if this is perhaps an omen, beckons his leave, depart
amidst this infertile place. He asks himself silently, 'Are these plants not
merely my own face shining through these bizarre, byzantine photosynthetic
mirrors, a surrealist face, perhaps, haunts, horrify? Have I become a
decadent?'... He shrugs his holy shoulders, reassured by the gentle spirit of
his home, once again he focusses his gaze upon these - this one he loves.
These birds come close, hover there, set on swaying
branches, cock their heads listen, winsomely discern, rapid response, sing
along with this Requiem.... Pope Peter with his still voice, asks his heart,
'If a black cat draws close but does not cross my path, if I pass & it just
looks at me then bends, stretches its neck -- then, is this not a visa through
towards this spirit world... amidst free friendly gateways?...' Jimi, this
Nightingale, loves this eruption of his voodoo chile in Spring...
This black trance, night flows into each, their eyes.
All these maidens, girls, voices like honey, prepare themselves, sing through
this night outside their green door, to sing his love, Pope Peter, for his
blessed child Moon, her kirtle, violet maiden songs, seduce, these always do,
these sing in chorus 'Like the mountains hyacinth, feet of shepherds trample,
leave this ground in bloom with blood, purple.' Their naked young bodies shine
as tiny suns dance welcome caresses from this enchants smoke drench cast wind.
Before Pope Peter unties these honed claws of Julian, he swathes Moon in this
softest cambric veil, seizes this golden cup with its twisted node, drops in a
few fetus ice cubes, drinks greedily, gulps down hard. He surveils this sample
tray near this altar of gestic incense onto which he sets this cup, it
overflows. There sets this mixin' bowl, burnt offerin's mingle with ambrosia, Pope Peter takes this ladle to pour some potion for Moon.
She takes hold of this goblet, receives this libation, Moon wishes Julian
opaque luck, this, his destiny allots. For just a moment Pope Peter & Moon
grasp together each, hands, hold this clasp under dim, red, putrefying light,
smile this knowing smile.
Through this Night Air, I hear these faint trickles of
wood nymphs... those invisible springs, these sounds, phial things, purrs this
cherubim. Pope Peter, this storm god stands upon this ragin' bull, approaches
this gentle flower seethes, this royal chapel, dynastic temple of Moon.
He quickly binds her ankles to these table legs with this golden cord, suddenly
releases these paws of Julian, quiver, flex out front
legs, graspin' batter.
Julian scatters claws, thrusts out, upon, locks onto
these supple inner thighs of Moon. He lurches his head forward, cutely
confident in this victory of good over evil, savors, gushes, licks, wet spirals
caress, these swollen rose petals. He thrashes drub whips, his sandpaper tongue
chaoticly streams across this sweet lovely pussy, Moon swells moans quake,
shivers, shake, tears gently build, bulge, blood trickles quietly down her
flush, beam cheeks. She gasps, chokes breath, 'May my pussy be widened! May
this mighty mountain redeem me from suffering!' Pope
Peter grasps Julian around his waist, pushes him forward deeper with his
joltin' pelvis, his stiff, rock hard cock anchors this cat asshole, all this
time he fucks her excrement cavern, pumps Our Lady of Sodom, no beat is missed,
this forges a durable rhythm.
Moon digs her long red painted fingernails into her
mayhemic psychedelial erect nipples, she tears away
skin, scarlet lymph lava flows streaks across, swing beauteous breasts sway.
Jimmy Swaggert runs over quickly hoists off his lubricated cups hand streams
this blur his eyes fix upon this cluster fuck frenzy. Brunhilde shakes her head
in disgust, turns away, scratches her wet slimy asshole, digs out
dingleberries, cling, places these, just a pinch between her cheek and gums.
She lays her hands upon tiny Jimmy Swaggert, clenches his shoulders, throws amidst
across this plane of flame & iron rings, forces
him to approach each of these seven mansions to ask each for a cup of strange
music from nowhere. He embarks upon this quest, Brunhilde casts seed across
this rocky family room pathway.
Moon evokes inhuman shrieks, moans & howls, these
morning stars rejoice together amidst their dream slides sleep, each shouts
with joy. Meteors fly hylozoic, thrust contingency, break from expected,
prophesied paths crash down upon this expanse, land, this backyard, explodes
tauty thunder shocks, bi-sexual angels fly merrily from house to house fuck
each, every woman, man, sheep.
Baudelaire flies down to this pile of seed, he divides
forty-nine yarrow stalks into two random heaps, counts them by threes &
fives, he throws three coins six times, each line, these hexagrams display
those values of heads or tails. Each, these sixty-four mutations correspond to
each one of his psychic, silly situations. Quickly, he consumes this meal,
spins around upon his pivotal heal, flies quietly back
to his perch - as a chicken will.
Julian plunges his face into Moon's holy of holies,
Pope Peter thrusts forth leverage, Moon slides her hands, fingers down between
her tender thighs over labial slopes pulls back open, gapes this doorway to the
beyond. She grabs Julian's head, clenches her hands clasp about his neck, she
pushes his head, slips it in, engulfs this crusty annihilating vortex. Pope
Peter fucks Julian into her enigmatic, Moon screams shrill, disintegrates
amidst this massive conflagration. Tiny heads materialize, this dirge drinking
glass fills with blood, Elvis the snake fights off
this glowing white orb, but falls, vomitin' & such things.
These fatal lights shine across this joyous terrain of
boundless frenzy. Clothed in flesh, a spirit, an odor of iniquity animates this
symphony of impious bodies, animals, humans & non-humans alike, this state
of being, co(s)mic identity. Suddenly, a pen stands up scribbles across this
notepad, writes treatises, yet, Job, that drifter, sleeps, dreams of his former
life, before he lost his entire family to a serial killer conspiracy. This pen
writes under this influence of remote suggestion from another.
Moon seizes Julian, spiritual son of Nero, this
secular fireman, she pierces each, his front paws with interlock rings, matter
runs through matter. She places a sterilized mask over his mouth, filters this
atmosphere before Julian breathes, lest tiny microscopic life be destroyed. She
administers laughing gas so he can evoke her most sublime destiny. These rain
clouds hover dark overhead, suffocate each singular being amidst their greed
for this light. A bird with Julian's face lands upon that damp windowsill.
Suddenly some one turns on the light, bruise's weal hairy hemorrhages break out
all over Moon's body. 'Turn that god shittin, fuckin', earthdamned light off!'
she screams, the shock becomes absent, the moon blankets rays illuminating this
limbo of fools & sinners.
Julian's aura begins to shrivel, slowly, he is naked, a dim light shines upon him against this black backcloth.
Moon pours oil upon him, anoints this sacrificial beast before burning him upon
the pyre amidst this living room. She feeds him a lotus flower,
Julian chews it, swallows immediately. His luminous body dulls intensity,
shadow casts across send, phosphorus gas burns eyes, eats this oxygen. Lycan,
this lizard crawls across this surface gazes upon him, 'Become as I am, you
ones who approach this end, come here be as I am, be with me in love.'
Terrestrial magnetism pulls away this silk thread each seeks to touch.
With a sudden jolt amidst this impasse, an insight
came to Moon, via this sword she cuts Julian up, with this sieve she winnows
him, in this fire she burns him, in that mill she grinds him up, in this field she sows him in order that these birds might
eat their portion, that they might destroy his seed. She urinates & vomits
into this stream as she drinks, engulfs her mouth over, around this water
spout. She treads upon across this sea, quickly runs over this source, these two
deep, depths, smashes down, displaces, drowns that one who merely walks,
banishes him away amidst this cosmic gathering.
Pope Peter gazes across this room at this, his family,
his clan, these who gawk at his frolicking joy with faces which do not
comprehend. These come & go like ghosts, he wishes to break up this family,
separate himself from not only his father, but also his brother & sister.
He really remembers those brutal beatings from Simon Peter, brutal lashes
across his tender young hide, each time Pope Peter would call this prophetic
patriarch a no good asshole bastard. He recalls these cigar burns to his chest,
neck, thighs -- and to this head, his cock, he still exhibits scars --- these
punishments for childish trespasses into this, his neighbors
house, when he would fuck his neighbor's wife on that couch during those
afternoon soap operas & talk shows. Or when he refused a loan of irrigated
rose water for just one day, or when he refused to loan a water jar, when Pope
Peter would dam up his neighbor's irrigation ditch. Kid's stuff! Pope Peter
whispers, 'Wait til you realize that you have already died, you just realize
that no one dies, it is just ritual...' Stares silently caresses streaming
rain...
Pope Peter shakes at these thoughts, pain wells up within
his soul, he swears by that God with unwashed hands, 'Oh ominous shepherd, who
rejoices on this horizon of dire domain, this light of this sun... You say that
I am a manic medicine man... I was born, came into this world for this one
purpose, to speak about carrot testicles... Whoever belongs to these listens to
me!...' This incantation, quite apropos in that his
father had always denied even knowing his nextdoor neighbor, especially as time
recedes, shadows heighten this awareness of color, contour. He mimpathizes for
just an instant with this sputtering moth, himself sputtering.... Yet, this
flying insect becomes a plastic substance, vibrates extreme rapidity, permeates
ether, rides a pony & picks floss via zircon encrusted tweezers, waxes it in
this monition of light caverns.
As Moon, this bride laughing in the sun warmed rain,
exudes the bouquet of her menstrual flower, bubbly bloody pockets, brown
coagulants, stream, effervesce out, drool shoots down across, all around.,,.. the aroma traverses the air dancing, tempting many a nose.
With exploding force, her pussy & asshole simultaneously burp, she politely
covers her oriphices, whispers, 'Excuse me,' Moon vents pungent invisible air
pumps inside her via her hands, this cat head, that chick Mary, Moon sends
gruel across everywhere, stench penetrates, mixes, transfigures, this furtively
fragrant aroma. Musical instruments with a bright center, dim edges play via
invisible hands. Moon fizzes via negative hey-Lucy-nation, clumps shatter,
ectoplasm raps elastic, spastic, scarlet letter, market fetter, westrin'
culture, festrin' vulture, hyenas laughin', magicians graphin'... No one can
count these cups she quaffs.
Oh yes, it is all quite plain to me, as I roam around
like an etheric roaring lion, look for someone to devour. Yet, I am only
continuously squeezed out by the ghouls, these creatures of head &
alimentary canals, prowling nightly in search of their gruesome orgies,
smacking at their terrible blood-shot ogre eyes.
Pope Peter does not seem to notice any of these
sensory onslaughts, he continues, chaoticly fucks her ass with this statue,
this alleged Mother of Our Lord. He gazes off with his larkspur's stuns
clarity, conjures twenty-five minutes of sheer hell, soular screetchin' terror.
As his symbolic recollections surge upwards to his heart, he lights a lamp,
covers it with a bowl. He rubs Moon with oil upon which she loses her reason,
flees into the woods.
Haunts this massive black, big dog, this hell hound,
one which comes from several hundred yards away over across that field, a large
black dog, begins its ferocious pursuit, these eyes, in a flash, meet &
meld, erupts this singular vision. It runs fast towards Pope Peter, he freezes
still, stiff for just this instant. He leans slightly towards that castle of
his grandfather. He is off, runs feverish, this vicious dog ever narrows that
distance between these two, hence, this, their respective relative distances
vis-a-vis either safety or conquest. Pope Peter makes it to his homely
backyard, this giant dog quickly gains, hears this surge, salivates breath,
this predator. His goal: run into the garage, enter this house of his
grandfather through that green door where there is no oriphice left...
He runs around this corner tries to sharpen his turn
comes around into this garage. The hellhound right there, Pope Peter slips on
gravel falls down, skins up these heels, his holy hands, elbows, face, knees.
That huge dog leaps, plunges at him, but with an incredible, magical burst,
***energy***, Pope Peter thrusts his body forward off this barren rock, lunges
for this emerald door, turns this knob, these massive dog's clawy paws grasp
his right shoulder. The door begins to open, but this devilish canine bites his
lobe off his left ear.
Pope Peter nearly jumps through this door into this
house, this opening, but his hairy, smelly, one toothed, ape tit Grandma, slams
that door closes on his face, yells, 'Keep this that mother fuckin' door closed
god dammit, who in the hell do you think pays for that fuckin' goddamned air
conditioner anyway, you bunch of sorry assholes.' She waves her hands towards
this chamber.
As she continues to ramble on, on, on, Lou Salome
denounces Simon Peter, 'And you no good piece of shit, you worthless, lazy
piece of goddamned yuppie,' these vicious sounds, smacks slap flesh reverberate
through door, 'you no good dirty, (vibrates off grind clenches teeth saliva
mist froths at mouth) dirty, mucky son of a fuckin' bitch, a real goddamned
hound hellfire, you sickening fat lazy scrounging' bum. You're nothing but a
goddamned sludgy feces parasite,' more smacks, 'And your ugly quayle faced
wife, she's nuthin' but a lousy, god damned, stinkin' whore -- Broom Handle,
what kind of a fuckin' goddamned name is that anyway?!!!.'
Lou Salome dances, nyctalopes out from behind this
oily olive door, 'You call these demon rats children, that little girl ---
Anorexia -- twelve years old, already has had seven goddamned abortions, you
can smell that cunt of her's from the fuckin' other side of this here room, (under
her breath) that goddamned cocksuckin' slut, some granddaughter (voice sudden
erupts) --- 'and the boy, well that little braindead faggot sittin' there all
day long in that fuckin' corner suckin' on his thumb, huggin' that weird ass
doll that he made,' Lou Salome pauses, 'where in the hell is that sniffling
fairy twat anyway?' She walks back & forth, twirling her arms.
Lou Salome continues her vomitus rant, ' --- This
wretched shit is truly beyond me, I should just wash my hands of all you sick,
worthless bastards, yah right, don't let me forget it, blood is thicker than
fuckin' water...,' meanwhile, back at wayne, I mean, Disney manor, Pope Peter
is savagely mawled, via that gargantuan black dog.... He lost an eye, &
from thence onward, he was known as 'that little one-eyed boy.' Many see him on
that windin' road.
The songster Snake, Elvis, intervenes, 'I thought that
little one-eyed boy w's dead...' 'No, no,' replies adolph, 'He only lost three
fingers on his left hand, lost his right arm, part of his left foot, & most
tragic... painful of all, Pope Peter lost his balls, which were, to his
boundless horror, wolfed-down, consumed by that voracious beast, right there in
front of his eyes.'
People, for years, would stand & stare at Pope
Peter, faces emanate nebulous perplexity. They would stand there starin' at him
for a couple of minutes with odic force, always with that sure same dumbstruck,
inquisitive gaze, as that little one-eyed boy whistles to himself, this same
song all day long, 'Doucheland, Doucheland, uber alles.' Then, with that utmost
predictability, each would shake his or her head, sighing, 'That big black dog
really fucked up that little one-eyed boy, real bad... reaaalll-real bad.' This
side of the world from out high Heaven he fell... the land fled back dismayed,
pulls the sea upon her, a veil...
For weeks, local members of this Coo Clucks Clan,
utterly, typicle pigeons predict, beyond this bizarre looish length, impish,
perverse pimply boredom, respectful of this sexy sixteen year old tatooed
virgin, Anorexia (she was only twelve), sucks all of their cocks, they having
misread, misunderstood this headline from that local newspaper, 'Immense Black
Dog Harasses White Boy,' beckon via their unspoken network of glances, this
world of oral orthos, whisper behind closed doors, 'Did you see the paper?' No
one had, but all nod each their heads so as not to be left out from this
vicious sniff fest, mind fucked herd, ostracized from this sorted seething
belonging, 'It said right there before your eyes, 'Large Black Man attacks
White Boy,' ... so, Brothers, what in the hell are we going to do about this
transgression of our pigeondome!!!' He grabs this small wooden board with his
pointer, rests it upon this smooth polished surface. This single word appears.
That brood of pig vermin begins to chant, 'Lynch,
Lynch, Lynch, ... Kill him!, Kill him!, Kill him... We
want Barrabas!,' whirl in a delirium of pure white
noise, discordance proliferates their diabolical hate. In order to witness to
this event, and to do their fair share in moving their country in a new
direction, they religiously hold a candlelight vigil under Pope Peter's window,
these good neighbors gently sing that old traditional hymn, 'I'd lynch a
color'd for your love,' or, if their emotions prodded them, 'Beatin' Up
Blacks,' tears flow from their sad, sensitive eyes, they greet one another with
heart felt hugs, these conservatives of the heart, their utter rapt emotion.
Increasingly, after several months or so, Pope Peter
becomes annoyed by this singing, its constant monotony of drones, & drones,
he decides enough is enough. In an effort to squelch these singers & get
their asses out of his neighborhood with those silly damn dresses they wear,
[their shoes don't match their dresses] ...
Most importantly, Pope Peter knew it was after Labor
Day, and it is just too tacky to wear white, it's just not done... Thus, he
ascends from his stool in the corner, sets down his dolly onto this excrement
tray, walks towards that budgy balcony through these kert kelly
stained glass doors. Pope Peter stands upon his leggy legs, he overlooks,
gathers barbheads below amidst his gratuitous grandfather's cactus garden, from
which his father grew.
As they see this object of their melancholic passion,
there, stands erect, integrates, above, this man's man castin' his vile
vigilant eye, glances down upon that mire of many, this resolute ressentiment
infested coterie, they erupt explode into song, along that melodyline of this
here United States (certainly not of these United States of Love).. National
Anthem: 'Oh, Lead--er, for you, we will gladly gas every spic, nigger, & jew.'
Pope Peter exasperates vis-a-vis this totalitarian
matrix of aesthetic depiction, raises his arms high above his head, beckons for
silence, stillness. All at once, that swarm of penguin bellies become very
quiet, freeze stiff in their adoring gaze towards this One, like those little
cogs of obedient, clueless boys & girls (back home, barefoot &
pregnant, of course getting the hot cocoa together for the men's return) that
they are... irretrievably drenches this wallowing excrement of brainwashed
recycled. pre-fab. @dogdick personalities, puts
everything into its proper place, give me a label, hide me away in a tiny
little box in that corner, suck my thumb, fuck my luscious little dolly.
Pope Peter shouts to stunted, but hungry eyes, 'I am
so perfectly fine, just as long as I get to pet my purty dolly's petite pusse'.
My dolly is pretty, do you want to see her, my dolly?
Do you want to touch her? Kiss her? Well, ... No, oi! sireee... You Can't! Only I can touch her, only me... Only I
can lick my dolly's bum, I won't let you see her, she doesn't like you anyway,
she thinks that yo'r stupid, she said this to me the other day, she thinks
you'r weird, & that--that... You are so ugly, she hates you, &...
&--wishes you were dead!' Pope Peter retreats to the shadows where he
embraces his purty, pretty little dolly.
Suddenly, still with vertigo Baudelaire disseminates
this allusive drug, alters each these minds of
millions & millions of bodies... This fatal precondition is set, forget
these sorrows... for a great dawn comes forth immanent via day... this jubilant
eruption of a new god, metempsychosizes for all to bear witness... this newest,
that oldest, thas, thit, Same... And in a borrowed frame & falsely false
disguise went in to him to do a deed of shame, Pope Peter cried, 'There doth
the ancient spirit rove of criminal Myrrha, who cast amorous eyes on her own
father with unlawful love...' So when that rabid pair, upon whom I keep my gaze
fixed, had passed, I tersely turned about to view other spirits born for ill...
Pope Peter holds his dolly up to
this herd of zombie clones, shrieks out, 'Do you see my dolly, isn't she
beautiful? Do you want to know what her name is, my very little itsy bitsy
pretty prickly baby? No--, I won't tell you, if you know what her name is, you
may call this gatekey, out, into these winds, beckon her removal, herself, away
from me, she might bestow herself to you... no, no, no, I can't let that, this
happen, I can't let you do this to me, I won't let you steal my pretty purty
lil dolly, she won't go, she likes me better, she doesn't even know that you
exist, you better just stay away from her, here, buddy... why won't you just
leave me alone, let me, us, be, get your own dolly, this one is mine, I love
her, I play purty pretty purty pussy pushin' panties pats pinkies plunge
pluggin' tight ...' Pope Peter dances chanting to himself. In a sudden burst of
joy, shatters frenzy, that ridiculous goatherd, these mediocre terrorist scum,
this grand dragon, Pat Buchanan freneticly dances around as their crosses burn,
arms lock with arms with arm, skip playful around this supple shrine, bells on
their heels, tipshit lampshades on their heads, bracelets on their ankles, sing
bold bellows chorus, 'Oh, play purty pretty purty pussy pushing panties pats
pinkies plunge pluggin' tight, I'm sure as hell glad God made me white' (Once
again to the sadistic melodyline, of this Star Spangled Banner). They danced
& sang with intensity, there seeming no more happy
occasion for a festival amidst this orgy of serotonin deficiency...
Obviously this strategy did not work, Pope Peter heard
these birds before this dawn, he could plainly see, by that dawn's early light,
via this rockets' red glare, that these words, these twoish tone amulets, these
images, styles, only intensify enthusia, give primal impetus & valid
validation, bewitch amidst this vast open expanse, terra bodies, this
horizonless mass, wretches cast defilement... slobber their automaton worship
of Pope Peter.
Therefore, he devises a new strategy, hears amidst
this wind what others did not eavesdrop, an ingenious concoction: boiling oil.
By this time these typical, epiderm cocksucker {in nominae patris et filii
sancti} ,,,... hiney heads had shown up to pay their
respects to 'that dude who was mutilated by a witch raven.' Each raises his
fist, shout, chant in unison, erupt pseudo-ecstasy,
they witness their boy, a hero, leader aloft sores out amidst coy clouds on
top, this tower above, down upon this regimented mass. Pope Peter sets ablaze
these arid branches cluster beneath a blackiron cauldren. His sacrifice augers
well, smoke ruthlessly rises lightly from his altar, ascending straight to the
clouds. He throws in a few jasmine & poppy seeds upon these burning coals,
he breathes in this smoke, witnesses this primal event of these devils of the
cauldren. He throws this stone into the abyss at the top of this peak, it descends amidst this gulf, resounds as a smart
copper vessel struck via a huge hammer. These manly men below cheer this
spectacle, recalling, of course, the fires of Odin. As that oil slowly heats
under this steady whirlin' fire, Pope Peter, surrounds his head with this
celestial light, a lightening bolt shines from the west to the east, looks out
into immediate darkness throughout across filters wibble wobble, fiery air,
gazes from this simple actuality, down upon his idle retainer of worshippers,
all of this, these, this event witnesses, chronicles these friendly spirits
dwell amidst, wave from these twinklin' stars.
Pope Peter gazes at this star, hours of Saturn, Mars
& Venus, evokes these souls of Hell, his buddies slain in battle, communes
with the spirits of his dead loves. He grabs an tiny aspergillum
composed of mint, majoram & rosemary contained in a pot of glazed earth. He
takes a fuming dish filled with freshly kindled coal & perfumed with
aloe-wood, mace, benzoin & storax. Pope Peter raises his sublime arms,
shouts to this eternity of opening, 'Tarry to my children, in this tree, Till such time as full ye be.'
He knew he had come a long way since those days when
he was sodomized by Jesus, his next door neighbor. Jesus would always say to
him, yo' Christ, his nickname down at that house of his father's slaughter with
all those breast shredders & burnin' stakes, goodly gracious goddamit, we's
goinna burn yous reaaal good, inserts his throbbing-red, erect wily-slick willy
dingdong into, inside & up Pope Peter's asshole, 'You must learn to love
your neighbor as you love yourself,' & 'If you do not love me with your
whole heart & soul, you will never enter that house of my furry father...,'
& 'In those days after this time of trouble, that sun will grow dark and
this moon will no longer shine.
These threats were hard medicine for this wafflin',
meek boy, this one-eyed sensitive soul. Pope Peter would always whisper under
his breath, 'What if I hate myself? Your shit molestation of me is enough to
bring on these feelings... so what if these stars fall from this sky, or if
petty powers in space are driven from their courses? I should sue you &
your father - your entire vile cult for mental cruelty & malicious
brainwashing!'
To be perfectly honest, Pope Peter didn't like to go
there to the house of his father anyway. There was nothing ever to do in that
musty-aired, antiseptic tank, just a boring old bogus corpse-festerin' tomb
(certainly no place to sing these praises of this Muse), with a whole bunch of
annoyin' assholes just kneelin' all around, gawkin,' spit, pretendin' to be
pious, holy, fuckin' won't mind their own stagnant goddamned business, it is
simply Hell there... as if this time presents this category, label,
entrepreneur, those most banal express, this, that last luxury, this rugged rug,
jades individual... all burn amidst this vortex of playful sacrifice... maya
dissolve, gift, truth, open@
Pope Peter would come home from a visit, would think a
bit, then look joyfully towards this radiant, gentle vision of his beloved,
beautiful mother, Brunhilde, he would say, 'Golly, Mommie, I mean Jeepers, what
the heck, darn, there's nothing ever fun to do over there in that crummy old,
god'mn house... &, gosh, for heaven's sake Mother, he, I mean JEE-Jesus,
just will not give me a moment's peace, always so touchy, feely-feely, won't
keep his hands off me for a mini- minnie minute...' He scratches his short
cropped hair, his father's own special bowl hair cut, gits
once a week.
His mother, of course, being this snobby, negligent bitch
that she is, tells him bluntly, 'Do you really think that I give two rats'
asses about your insignificant, measely, worm problems?!!! I have enough
problems of my own. I am at least lucky now & then for this chance to rid
myself of you for awhile. Don't you know what a pain in the ass you are, always
were?!!!. I wish you were never even born. You were a
mistake anyway, a bad, ... very bad
If I knew then what I know now, I would have even gone
to a back-alley abortionist, who does not restrict on any condition, this
part-time, earns a little extra, in addition to this revenue of its crack
distributorship, straight from the CIA (& other private subsidiaries). And
even if we had wanted a child, you certainly would not have been our first
choice... far from it... Never! Same for your whore shatters slut sister! Now
you just, go, get the hell out of here, snap! snap! out of my sight, out of my mind, you imp, leave me to my
peace, go off to your corner, play with your dolly or something. You know
Mommie loves you... now go away! You sissy freak!' She
cuts his face with her bic... & then smiles...
Pope Peter tips over this cauldren, releases that
boiling oil, it s u s p e n d s for what seems an eternity, but suddenly
smacks, falls upon, showers sear white sheets, bald heads, net of razors,
infiltrate storms, inundates shock sears slash, scalpel sharp heat burns
bubbles blisters bulge skin melts off bodies fall faces glue glues glued
together... eradicates this only cancer... Pope Peter looks down, surveys this laughable
spectacle, joyous scene, image, penetrates from out amidst this bellows chaos
of smoke, steam, fog, fire, torches witness under his savor caresses Moon. He
has killed many, but not all, especially this one who flies over head descends
from that cloud upon this shining, prozacesque & cleanly city.
Some lay helpless, dying on this psychotic field of
dreams. These rest scatter into this forest with their wounds, regroup, tend
these bleed, sting, surge sores, assess these losses, amass.
They would be back. For some reason, they always erupt from time to time, these
pestilent locusts... Were I but still so active that I could drag myself only
an inch in a hundred years, I'd be on the rugged road by now, be sure I would,
to seek out from all these sufferers disfigured & maimed, though it's half
a mile across & eleven miles round at least, from all one hears...
There would never be satisfaction in this agonistic
regime of open warfare, torment via neighborhood children, all of his meager
efforts, his fortresses, vanquish in this strife of night, shatter ruins, each
daybreak. And, each day Pope Peter once again begins to build, finishes with
the evening. And once again they come, as Pope Peter convinces that little girl
with her tiny toy plastic rake to pull down her underwear so he can get a good
look at her snatch, this space, here, where no follicles intertwine. His only
recourse is total annihilation, these, not by his hand, but by their own... He
stands, holds the rake of virtue.
Pope Peter breaks from his trance, glances over at
that screen, erupts from the small black & white
telescreen. A mule, Balaam, son of Beor, is lowered by a crain onto that
spreads eagle awaits cunt of an older skinny skin saggin' woman with blood red
hair. The mule is brought into position by two male, leather clad, chained
assistants, barkin' Ron & mafia Frank. That cock of this mule stands erect
via vaseline massages by serious, frenticly, smiling,
men. This mule speaks a human voice, 'A dog goes back to what it has vomited, a
pig washed goes back to roll in that mud.' Balaam's cock is inserted into Nancy
Reagan's sandpaper vagina, she shines in glee, releases a dark, deep, demonic
roar. With this primal pulpy scream, begins Comrade Wagner's 'Ride of the
Valkyries,' this, that fuckin' going on & on, over & over, tight shots,
far shots, rhythmic rolly-polly contrivance, this beatific beastial festival,
transgression dances within that discipline of this score...
Suddenly, this rope breaks, this mule falls onto Nancy
Reagan delivers to her this full presence of its wrathful sword, splits her
into two, blood shoots out of her mouth (it was obviously a stuffed-mule that
snuffed her). The words 'the end' come on the screen, with a list of credits, a
voice over begins 'this has been a production of Friends of Nancy Reagan, remember to sleep good tonight, so you can work well
tomorrow.' A subliminal portraiture of Henry Ford & Mickey Mouse invisibly
beams out, superimposes this phosphorescent electron festival.
Pope Peter slowly ceases fucking Moon's ass with this
Mother Immaculate, lets it slide out, releases it, lethargic from his hand,
Mary rolls over the carcass of roast baldeagle, which decays upon that table
besides them, this magical emanation disperses in recurrence. Mary calls out
for Wild John, her true spouse. Moon scans this room, heavy objects move at her
glance & gesture, float in this air in accord with her wishes. Her face
appears as clay, her body levitates, hovers over this table, keeps
herself from flyin' away by extra hands which extrude from her rib cage. Two
maggots, with hope, someday maybe even flies, Jim & Tammy, fall from Moon's
snatch, she hovers, taking one last smell of this wriggly wiggles evangelical
event.
Moon collapses onto this table beside Ave Maria, her left
hand comes to rest in a clump of mashed white potato(e)
on a plate, her pinky places perfect push proud priestess pussy purrs... Go! grow faintly light-headed, they drop back their wig-wings,
their hearts chill. The cricket from under his wings strikes forth his
rapier-sweet songs, that god of this sun pours down
upon this earth his streams of flame. These sounds of this wind rattle that
decrepit aluminum siding. She picks up this receiver, casts voyance over that
militarist inspired interactive nexus, net to net to net. She throws this pink
soft voice handle down, it scatters, comes to rest under that planchette. Jimmy
Jim Swaggert lunges suddenly forward, makes noises, throws objects about,
starts fires, breaks domestic crockery. He spontaneously throws small hot
stones set amidst his immediate proximity. He shits a shroud of turin
onto da floor.
Pope Peter walks over, staggers, sweats, seemingly
transfixes this force, surges through, this, his body, rapidly blinks his one
eye, holds closed tight, opsis window, compels him to look out of this window,
look out into that, engulfs darkness, gaze, fathom this wood, It stands out
there, beyond, calls out, bestows invite, to come, abide, beckons amidst its
dwelling, his shelter. A spirit world calls him to come join this scintil
forest dance. An etheric pseudopod reaches towards him, smacks him across his
face. This shock opens this dance of a thousand lights sparkle, swirl before
his eyes, sounds & touches, carry this wind via
these rods. This pendulum swings to & fro, this earth quakes howls of
suffering, bubbles up from through these cracks in this soil. He regurgitates
that flimsy material which he had swallowed only just before.
An intense shiver waxes his wild animal body shakes,
quivers, jolt hips sideways. He clutches his shoulders, sweats profusely,
guides his body through these corridors, obscure hallway, knees buckle
underneath, comes to rest gently, silently beckons words as he pulls Apollo out
of his ass with this string, crusty, it falls in a clump onto this floor,
shakes itself off, runs away under that flowery couch. Pope Peter sits stares
at Anorexia get her ass fucked by Simon Peter, but returns to this nowhere to
contemplate this event of his immanent demise. Brunhilde walks in triangles.
Jimmy Swaggert scrapes up blood & shit from this kitchen floor, rubs it
onto, his still erect, wily slick Einsteinian, surging member, bent space,
tickler...
In an involuntary, yet quick act, Pope Peter flicks a
bee, Helen Keller, her sterile worker body, through, this other side of this
screen web door. It wrestles itself in seeming agony but eventually begins to
shake itself off; yet it is still very disoriented walks around & around in
a circle; but now it seems that it has released its stinger which begins to
collect, drags cigarette ashes in its glue, tumbles around over down in its
final dance of death. It casts off this stinger along with its viscera walks
amidst light, seeks a place for herself to die.
Moon lays her grungesque face down onto this kitchen table,
blood & excrement drip-drop, sputters from her openings onto this floor,
into Jimmy Swaggert's bucket, mixes, baldeagle, raspberry sauce shines in this
blessed light of overflowing candles, this obvious innocence... This statue of
that conjectured virgin sets still, breathless, a slimy film of excrement &
blood coalesces amidst retreating moisture, an egg shell keeps her eternally
safe. It is a quarter phase of this moon, square
aspect to its full position, eight bright stars guide her along upon this, her
only journey. Moon falls into a deep trance of higher contemplation,
temporarily renounces this earth life & her body's needs. She lifts her
hand from these mashed potato(e)s gazes at this
imprint which remains, wonders about herself....... & about her family...
Pope Peter falls hard into amidst that nook &
corner near that doorway, impales ribs, this broom handle jets, falls over, a
broom stick snaps, rolls over onto back broken stick stuck into his chest of
ribs. He tears this thicket spear out, quickly pulls, snoggedy dog snags this
cloth diaper from his piper pants, plugs up this hole, his chest, increases
pressure, pushes cloth inwards. His arms fall back, his sporadic incessant
breath becomes calm, a small stream of saliva leaks
down onto his neck. Simon Peter fucks Anorexia hard, he slaps her face with
Baudelaire, Betty & Richard Nixon scatter in sheer terror amidst these
ominous sounds, actions... adolf stands stares at
these rovin' clouds, paints bad art... This room is no larger than necessary,
devoid of soft furnishings & draperies as far as possible, with plain
wooden chairs & floor, facilities for soft red lighting, window shutters
that breathe this dust.
I sing sorrow dry long stagger path way breath smoke
trails down around across still quivers embers, witness sisbrethren dance,
kneads tender resilient surfaces path, sweet silent nectar sways amid sickness
this, there here, restless scratch repose wallow.
Brunhilde dances, her arms wave throughout this room,
skips past her sleeping adoptive daughter & her estranged, crippled, wheel
chair bound husband, her crispy turbulent thrusts of limb & body, she
streams across this room bewitching all amidst her must ridden necromantic
banter. She exacted her silly charms via nails, animals, toads & waxen
figures in order to bring about suffering & death. But she cannot escape
the faces in the dew which shine with their cries out toward her, embrace,
clutch her, dragging her down into soap products & a Lady Macbeth complex.
Moon begins to move, attempts to wiggle her way off
this table. She manages to slide her self off, comes to rest on this floor, her
shit, blood stained legs, face, hands, arms, breasts, abdomen, feet, cakes dry,
peels, serpent scales fall off like an early morning snowfall, out over sun
caressed meadows, tickles via friendly kisses, whisper breezes. She grapples a
large hunk of festering baked baldeagle, grease already cordially congeals
this, gelatinous feast, shovin' it, this entire chunk into her mouth, chomps
down hard, slow at first, but with a steady, yet, non-uniform, almost chaotic,
intensification of acceleration, chomp, chomp, chompchomp, chomp...chomp,
chompchompchomp, etc. This stick of butter begins to fly, causes, subtly,
indirectly, tiny transfers across this stillness of three interactive
non-linear differential equations... she chew & chews, whisks her head to
& fro...
Brunhilde consecrates these nails to the evil one via
spells & invocations, then nails crosswise above imprints of feet of one
who is destined for torment. She next selects a praying mantis, Allen Ginsberg,
resembling this intended victim, attaching to it its hair & sweat-drenched
garment of this targeted one. She gives it this name & proceeds to torture
it, in whole & in part according to an end desired, by driving nails,
red-hot pins & thorns into this body to that rhythm of muttered
maledictions. Brunhilde selects a fat toad, Rush Limbo, she baptizes It &
forces it to swallow a host, both consecrated & execrated, tied with hairs
of this victim upon which she previously spits, shoves a Florida orange up its tight asshole &
finally buries Rush Limbo under this bewitched one's bed, whence it erupts as
nightmare & vampire for destinal undoing.
Deleuze, that pet bat dangling from the cobweb
traverse shroud chandelier, grows rashly impatient, he cannot stand it anymore,
he has vertigo, he looks away abruptly, he shouts,
'For God's sake! Which one? Which one are you talking about, for the love of
Jesus, Please answer my only plea!' Jimmy Swaggert quickly descends, grabs
Deleuze, shoves him up his ass, he runs away, hides behind the loveseat, upon
which sits lavishly his sixteen year old sister, Anorexia, (N.B. Of course,
this is a fantasy of Mr. Swaggarts & does not necessary have any relation
to the prevailing rape of Anorexia's mouth via Simon Peter's cock) who just
happened to be raising those dead via evocations & sacrilegious rites,
legal & sacred, for her customary purposes of evil.
Anorexia's scene of operation are there betwixt pits
filling with blood, resembles that bath of Minnie, amidst a darkened &
suffocating room, in a churchyard & beneath swinging gibbets, this legion
of ghosts so summoned & galvanized into life. Anorexia trips those who
bring up an offering, this rite of sacrifice for this dead god, she grabs this
chalice & fucks herself with it cold, gasping, grapples for materia amid
ethereal orgasmic explosion.
She orchestrates diabolical masses & these
polluted sacraments to animals & reptiles. She makes bloody sacrifices of
genericly packaged animals & children, bleeds orgiastic dances, generally
of circular formation, this Witches' Sabbath, this opening of undreamed-of evil
& abominations, all distortions & monstrosities of reality &
imagination took part, to end in a nightmare of obscene utter madness.
Brunhilde scoffs at these absurd meanderings for she
swells amidst this ethereal cascade of visceral vibrations, she in the shape of
a butterfly, flies around those who are celebrating this mass, & who ate of
this black host, which they were obliged to chew before swallowing.
Brunhilde grasps towards a waxen image of Billy
Graham, not a telegram, that she meticulously sculpts
with her own three hands. Into this wax she mixes baptismal oil & a rue ash
of consecrated hosts, & out of this is fashioned a figure resembling that
one to be bewitched. Brunhilde began singing that song, her favorite, realizing
in full awareness that even that quirky second husband is dead, her lovable
Samantha, a daytime witch, stands solid, just as she always has been, eternally
young & beautiful, yet now, she buries her second husband, while in her own
milieu, she becomes an ameri-trash girl, whispers back & forth betwixt
these winds.
Brunhilde wiggles her neck a little & baptizes
Billy Graham, it receives its name, these Sacraments in toto, the little dog
which has not moved since that vicious tornado, & as was the way of coming
to be & passing away, Billy Graham is spewn with culcisemen curses, torture
via knives & fire, & then, & finally, she stabs him to his heart,
good shot due to its minuscule eerie expanse.
Parentheticly, yet, not really, no one at the office
knew anything about Brunhilde really, certainly not any of this. She confided
in them, yet, about things which were more devastating in appearance then in
this actual opening thrust. She surely never sacrifices her goal, no matter
what lycanthropic form she may take, & you better not forget that! You must
surely shod show ultimate, purty, pretty, pristine respect for this gentle
Lady! For, no one dies really, & you might just as well be a maggot someday
in my red garbage can upon which I douse gasoline for no other reason then that
you stink! Brunhilde walks gently up to Anorexia, a weird, perverse smile
beaming, bewitches her via Navaho insufflation, she barely breathes upon her,
but so incites this heaviness of her wily will & correspondingly, conjures
compliance to her own surge. She did always like her girls young & thin in
body, small in soul.
Shocks shake, Moon displays apocalyptical trauma, she
chokes, her eyes tear, her face turns red, white & blue, bends over, puts
bloody extrusions, places shitty wet hands into her mouth, tries to cough, to
vomit, to puke, to purge this herself of this naughty nutritional uncleanness,
pushes in her stomach, wields over, straddles back of rat hair chair, pushin',
pushes, push psuh spuch pussshhhh o-la-sky harder & harder... Suddenly this
perception transfigures... that artifice platform occupies a chair, a medium
& a speaker... of this Truth.. cough,
cough, sputters, 'regime'..
It opens with a simple spontaneous incantation. Hymns
are sung, a reading from this inspired work is given, & a short address by
this speaker follows. Franki zappa, a speck of cereal in Moon's snatch, bestows
a vision of return, there is a closing hymn, words.
Each & everyone sublimates sexual energy into ecstatic states, semi-trances
erupt a dark churn depth. Golden light shines from each body, this opens,
beautiful, though vulgar, ridiculous...
Out at once suddenly a lump jumps, shoots, flies,
scatters across air, brown, red mercury mass, descends, driven, hits tile
kitchen floor, rings this dull thud. She stands bent over rubs her chest &
abdomen, catches her breath. Simon Peter moans as he comes surges semen all
over Anorexia's back, grabs her hair forces her to suck his virus puss drips
streams cock, shoves it in deep, she chokes, gasp, vomits out, he plumes to
pump, pum pumpidy, pumpum, pumpumpumppp... screams, 'I think it is only right
for me to stir up your memory of these matters as long as I am still alive.'
Jimmy Swaggert runs over quickly jerks off fast in frenzy, grabs Apollo, shoves
him up his asshole, wiggles with this strange tasty tickle clawin', scratches.
Brunhilde walks over to this refrigerator, grabs a can
of pickled testicles, opens this lid, downs this entire container in one gulp,
pours this juice over across her tits, deeply massages
her saggin' grapes, her eyes flutter to this back of her head. Adolf miscarries
onto this kitchen floor, a shitty david duke, returns to this sofa as this talk
show host, Sally Pauly Parasite, introduces these grandfather's who have
married (via a notary public) their unborn grandsons.
Moon stands suddenly, scans this table, lunges towards this half empty bottle of wine. She grasps it
tightly in her clenched white-knuckle hands, rushes it to her lips, greets her
with a kiss of sloven love, chugs this contained Dionysiac liquid, her cheeks
movin' in & out, provide that suction power, forces rush fluid down her
throat opens through extensions of tendons, utter relaxation of muscles. She
swallows this entirety, moves that bottle away from her fine furry lips,
smashes it against this wall, rubs her mouth with her shit blood caked arm, her
eyes gleam, she stares happily off into this landscape of childhood memory.
Moon sets playing with this dollhouse that her late,
scorned grandfather, Walt Disney, had made for her. She dresses for this
wondrous event, Mickey Mouse goes down on her with her panties at her ankles.
She bleeds, big ears laps it all up. Moon decorates her body with electric
furs, panther, lynx & cat, these vestments flowing for this ceremony, this,
her robe, that hue of leaping flame, rust & blood, belt & bracelets of
steel, crown of rue & wormwood. Blue, green & rose, these colors of
utter amorous amish incantations, encompasses death
amidst utter black, a belt of lead & wreath of cypress, amid this loathsome
incense of sulphur & assafoetida. Moon donned precious stones, metals,
geometrical figures, stars, pentagrams, columns, triangles, bodies, herbs,
belladonna & henbane, flowers, honeysuckle, this ladder, arum, William
Burroughs black, red poppies, squeeze to get da juice.
She sets this dollhouse, her Lady's house into order,
as a Mistress of this sublime house must always have her way. Each room is
appropriately decorated to exude from the viscous visitor, coax, conjure a particular mood or emotion. These smells are
calculated to coalesce with music & images, a self-sustaining stream of
flags wells across this space engulfs, opening this dimension of times. She
walks Barbie across, throughout this maze of rooms to inspect this work of her
servants. Routinely, Barbie begins to scream, smacks these humble heads,
servant's faces who stand next to her, she leaves each
room in a decided huff....
Barbie finally comes to this bed room, where Ken lies
upon that waterbed, only apparently asleep. Barbie pulls out a long, thick,
steel tipped, razor edged, circus whip, & begins to thrash this pitiful,
horrified, shriekin' Ken. In her own voice, Moon makes Barbie shout at Ken as
she intensifies her livid lacerative onslaught 'No wonder my life is the way it
is, because of you, if you were a real man, one with a cock, one who could fuck
my pussy hard, I wouldn't have to go elsewhere, but, yet, in despair, never to
find anyone with a cock, not even Big Jake has one. None of these plastic
freaks do, yet, each gaze at my sheathless, hairless pubescent diatribe,
nippleless breasts, my shitless asshole...
It is only then when desperation sets in, I, Barbie,
am forced to concoct a plan to attain vicarious sexual satisfaction from
children & young women. I have been forced to become a sorceress, to
bewitch, via this plastic bodily amulet, with this statue, hungrily seduce all
girls everywhere to become, to emulate myself, & with this magical
embodiment, seek out, seduce men who will desire me, fuck me to my
satisfaction, quench this burning lust which explodes fire! It is all your
fault Adam, I mean Ken, you imp, place me in this perverse position to sit,
cannot even bend my knees or spread my legs, masterbaiting, penetrate me myself
with a seductive slithering statue (sss) of myself, while I watch a little girl
who looks like me get fucked by her born-again Christian Uncle Bill.' Well, I
never...
Breaks from her trance, Moon throws this eel out that
narrow door, stands still, silent, turns away. Pope Peter pushes (ppp) his way
up, uses, deploys this wall with his back, harnesses
leverage. He grasps his ribs on his left side pushes this cloth deep into that,
his wound, grimaces face lights up with a jolt, explodes pain. He stumbles,
falls backward, maintains tenuous stand, waves traverse unseen apparition,
flips back onto this bedpost twirls, whirls, rolls over, lands face down across
this exposed sheet. Bewilderment, his face hollows, this ceaseless, meaningless
suffering, sends him beyond, this vision of his childhood, this happy, bright
world of tranquility, innocence.
A small boy, Pope Peter, stands, curiosity abounds,
watches his mother giving head to his paralyzed, bedridden father. From his
eyes, this perspective moves closer to that, this event takes place, beholden
here now to him - sight, sound, smell, shivers, lost, swosh, sloshing sound --
relentless, gyrates a sucking action from his mother, a nice apple pie sets on
that night table, & you know pops, he loves his hot dogs, he's so cute when
he sits in his wheelchair with a baseball bat in his red right hand, &
let's not forget his mitt, that old lefty, he wears the cap of his favorite team,
the Brooklyn Dodgers, not that new team over there, west coast, riot infested,
uninhabit, fault-line hell-hole, his father comes, semen streams, mixes saliva
out of Pope Peter's mommie's mouth, drains onto his father's dandruff caked,
crab infested scrotum -- rank fetorpenetrates blisters, bleeds nostrils. A
large red & black butterfly lands on a lilac.
Pope Peter squirms gestures to leave, yet remains, at
once horrified, awestruck, excruciates ecstatic joy, windows open perception,
festival of transgression... chance, circumstance. He is suddenly entrapped,
detects that lifeless gaze of his mother, rests her sweat drenches head on his
father's abdomen in fatigue, whispers to him, 'go, ...,' frustrates, 'go, run
along, snap! snap! ... get!'
Pope Peter paralyzed, her stare coldly imprisons, he shakes, shatters
implosion, falls, smacks his head stark, stagger, night. He awakens, his mother
approaches, he peers out that window beside this broken lamp shade. This bulby
bulb here emanates sheer space, withholds darkness across disarray. Breath
amidst adjacent spheres streams across tickles, coalesce kindred thoughts....
Gutteral echo chokes emanate from this cold, tomb-like
bathroom. Moon cradles this vomit blood excrement splashed toilet into her arms
resting her cheek upon cool emanations, porcelain rim. Darkness falls upon this
little one as she slips off into slumber, beckons arrival this, her new day.
She drifts off away, dances, falls swirls about sup | |
