Monday, March 19, 2012

chapter eight - postmodernist apostate

sometimes we find ourselves confronted by sheer naked courage to be more than we ever first imagined our lips saying those magical words all the crazy things we watch as bertha gives us her shadows she used to be alone but know she shares everything with us sending us greetings from the dark side bertha is no mild mannered freak she is a vicious god with large teeth and she has outlived all the other dogs who came before her no shaggy ears to scratch I feed bertha a cold meat sandwich and she smiles like an albatross her glossy tits sliding around my cock  I am international when I am not distracted sticky bodies with bullet hole intentions bertha has needy eyes bertha is attending to her voices a grim compromise hovering over her she is pleading for rescue from the strangers in the street she is poured out as drivel another expressive mythology that we teach the children how bertha overcame her static beauty thinking death won’t notice her she leaves a pain in my mind a mind numbing pain that keeps on pounding those old thoughts of woman how things used to be with bertha before she learned to turn the sunshine into flowers now she sits in a warm memory with her poppies becoming a mindless zombie reading the plexus and taking down notes about AC and Tim kinbote the glorious one that was when tim was wearing blue eye shadow and throwing interceptions to everyone who could catch a ball jane didn’t believe back then she was an endless chute we were all ungrateful monsters I made you Jane and now you look at me differently like a sinner a lost soul in the pits of hell she hates me because I am friends with Mr. Crowley she is convinced that he is no good the story the fight the adventure she can see no future in his poetry her chakras are troubled and she is giving up the project no more hands across the waters jane only loves tim and occasionally Mr. Perry her heart belongs only to gods and presidents now she is working for the cause she has a mission she has unlocked her inner sickness she writes about it in her poetry tells everyone how daddy abused her made her into a junkie and a tramp it is her excuse to fall into a bottle she is embarrassed she has very little self value it has been stolen from her by her father she feels like a failure the tears fall from her eyes like disembodied ghosts she is looking for her underwear in the back of Mr. Perry’s truck cashing in on her criminal karma flapping her wings of venom he died in her arms as she seduced him she would call him boring as he read her lips jane would speak out against the little voices in Mr. Perry’s head the one that tell him to leave her for tim
she wants to ride in a car with tinted windows one that is bullet proof and has secret service running along side of it she is convinced that this is the start of a long lasting relationship but Mr. Perry isn’t so convinced he loves tim more than jane he still uses jane as a bathroom every chance he can get he gets to pretend he is a man with jane even though he is really a bitch he is waiting for the axe that will split the weak he is dreaming of a new cycle a new world with a new king he is sitting on a throne made of skulls everyone bows and worships conformity as the people step in front of the speeding machine it is a revolution that he dreams of a new world where he is king and everyone loves his god tim just as much as he does Mr. Perry wants to kill everyone who does not believe the world does not believe in tim so Mr. Perry wants to destroy the world and jane cried when her daddy died Mr. Perry said he would give her a star everyday he wants to drown her in the sickness every night to burn her on the stake of love he is pulling the curtains of the soul his knife is dull as her cuts out her heart he is dripping from the corner of her mouth he walks he talks he shoots from the three point line the mushrooms are kicking in he tells her that she cannot leave she must stay until the full moon she is picking up the pieces of her broken childhood naked on the hood of Mr. Perry’s car doing this fucked up thing the priest next door never beats on the wall

Mr. Crowley has written almost a complete book about AC and his magical powers he says that he will only tell us what we need to know he is claiming no prize he is raising up the propaganda putting his money in the bank and burning his dollars the mothers are standing outside the bank they are holding up picket signs save our babies from filthy lucre Mr. Crowley is standing outside with a megaphone lecturing to the mothers he tells them that the problem is the federal reserve sucking on the nipple of compound interest and the fear of being denied another loan the mothers are burning their applications and crying about the atrocities of the holidays Mr. Crowley is licking his sticky fingers he swears to god about Jane’s waist he measures her with a beer bottle he is making plans for her intestines it is all voodoo and backroom politics blood pudding with her arteries skin graft and crushed up bones he puts her in the soup that he sells he can see Gandhi in her nipples in the crossroads and in the streets she can stretch a smile of forgiveness her womb was safe like a fortress for kinbote he could hide inside her for days when he was not strong enough to raise the flag Mr. Crowley is building comfortable shadows when he runs out of beer he send jane to the store to buy more she drinks to forget about Mr. Perry a dick dodging a bullet there is a dog barking outside her bedroom door it makes her think of her past in the new revolution when she was a disciple for kinbote how she saw all the miracles now she stays up late drinking and looking out her window mouthwash and nighttime sex twisted like a toothless stadium she dances around the room holding her ruffles the boys stand in line to dance with her Mr. Crowley couldn’t blink rubbing her cunt against his chin smelling of roads to nowhere she is still swallowing Mr. Crowley’s demons jane is calling all the enamel doctors to come over and perform with the circus she wants to forget about the foolishness of her youth how politicians would part her legs and speak in tongues about the coming glories of the lord she gave her young doctors guns and butter knives so that they could practice making the room grow cold as jane practices raising the dead slumped over the couch waiting for the fickle his suit jacket is hung from a hook on the wall next to the photo of kinbote with the bleeding heart the offended slurps of butane tongues half drunk cavemen jane fumbles for her keys she went to the witchdoctor to have her fortune read he told her she was in for heavy weather so she bought a rain jacket and moved out of her bluff street apartment she missed her hardwood floors the concrete dogs that are smaller than people she was never cut out for sales she was a teacher and it took Mr. Crowley a long time to win her over she was still grieving the loss of Mr. Perry Mr. Crowley would send her flowers and pictures out of magazines of famous paintings he wanted to take her to Paris to show her a good time to help her forget about the holy spirit touching her with the hands of strangers pulling her closer asking her to repeat the question the dominate pattern of her vagina a tin foil pipe and rude manners keeping her eggs warm while she hunts for more sausage
the buffet was all elbows looking for that Christmas bargain before they had to take inventory I am sitting on my hands and watching her knees pumping up and down in her plaid skirt I was not sure if she would accept my request my pen says amnesty international I draw large circles around the blood spots Jane is a white flower that Mr. Crowley bough on the street corner he moved in with her and they worked at rearranging their thought patterns jane kept trying to save him when she got as drunk as a sailor he got the crop out of the field and they worked at bottling it in mason jars they felt just like robber barons jane got a corporate tattoo on her left butt cheek just to show that she was serious it is rare when she thinks of her dead cowboy and his political ambitions she has such a nice smile I have taken pictures of it many times they are taped up on my bathroom walls we met in a room with Mr. Perry’s thigh master I think they were pumping Aerosmith through the house speakers
I was working in a factory welding pieces of cars together I lived each day without kicking I read about Mr. Perry’s suicide in the paper I remember Captain Marc was so happy he took us all to the bar and bought several rounds of drinks he said a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders he says that it is wonderful news please don’t cry the world won’t end we didn’t step out the apartment frolicking downtown in a dress they are good for your soul random retarded thoughts there is no such things as logic salt, pepper, and ketchup appreciating a touch of frost not everyone is from the village the sweep that you make a silence born from heaven to believe in a blackened fish jane would go to the mall to buy more smokes and steal the dreams of little children as they pawed the candies from the story at the mending wall as thoughts often occur in a motion a sinning quark mending in the sun with bags of bargain hunters using all our spells an indoor game with needs unmet and hot cross buns a tune blow on good fences with mischief in me he said it for himself Captain moves in darkness with a banjo on his knees with cold fingers a renewed fanaticism I already drank all the free beer to celebrate the coming apocalypse he moves the black Fridays it is all about his art and the holidays the original blob and the blob gets bigger banned from society wanting to be a stoner a good spiff everyday jane likes to give them a quiz jacket up on morphine an old retired pothead a funky path into the enchanted forest getting my weed straight from Chicago getting a flashback of the first time you got backed I’m not doing this to impress the crazy lady on 21st street  I arrive with a load of trouble and unload my guns I shaved for Christmas just to make you happy reading my mail from ohio I should be ashamed about her boxy hips looking at her jewelry the ones I really like I didn’t mean to ignore you and your social butterfly going to school and work I wanted her to run around and party but she lost her mind and we couldn’t find it I have been feeling very strange it’s eating me alive just as dire it is not the case I got enough dignity to leave but I don’t can’t find my way out I wish there was someone I could talk to someone to share my thoughts with I am so alone left with only my thoughts wondering how easy is this fuck she is bitching about politics and how the glass ceiling keeps getting lower it was her little button that turned me on I bought her an ice cream cone and told about my days on the pony express delivering mail for the new republic making sure the welfare mothers got their checks jane was handling snakes and making moonshine between session of psychotherapy god she could study matrix algebra I went to the strip club to watch the crazy lady dance she was a psycho who heard voices the cabaret Voltaire she always wore a cubist costume and too it off one stroke at a time while reciting the lord’s prayer backwards that was when I met AC for the first time the crazy lady just finished her incantation and AC just popped up out of thin air he looked a little pissed about the whole mess he calmed down when she showed him her website mostly just her making confessions while smoking a menthol cigarette she blows her smoke into the camera a Christmas present from her gay boyfriend
Louis aragon dadamax dear friend a nihilistic movement with thought and sound the crazy lady would answer in purely ethical terms a distribution of the inaugural committee the linkage between art and technology drug dealers and doctors in love I painted her with my robotic arm I am a liar when it comes to my presentations behind me is the reality of my work I changed you with floppy drive out of tune and out of time I have her tied up in my southern Illinois farm house it is a pretty nylon rope that binds our souls together I think she shares her face if only she had a clue that could be transcribed for the media and plastered on interstate billboards it looks like she has stubble I have seen it up close the commitment of the mean and cowardly if the lines could read between us what interpretations would they make the thermal lines of Jane’s kiss I watched her kiss the crazy lady it was slow and intentional like a man’s middle name something that was thought over a bottle of wine yes you could say it was premeditated it was the responsibility that she could not accept returning to a one dimensional character something from a book by Murakami someone who disappears into that world between floors the memory of an after-glow as the fireworks exploded
Jane builds and the crazy lady deconstructs she talks about you and you and how the context changes the subject of the sentence her lines seem practiced but I know she is improvising I have seen the crazy lady up on the stage before reciting her poetry like a drug fiend looking for the next fix the next brief moment of applause or laughter the grave digger is in the bar watching the crazy lady perform he is drinking a bottle of beer when the crazy lady is done performing she sit down next to the grave digger and asks him where is his shoes he tells her that he lost them in a poker game she asks him who he lost his shoes to and he tells her David the bell weather he says that they were the best pair of shoes he ever did own and the crazy lady agrees the king with a whistle in his pocket walks not the bar and buys everyone a drink toby asks the grave digger if he can buy him a new pair of shoes a pair with buckles and bows the grave digger told the king that he was much obliged and asked if he could rather buy him a new pair of boots so that he could run off and join the army since his wife left him he has no will to live and the army seems like as good as place to die as any
Mr. Perry is a worm that eats its way through the flesh he feeds upon the rotten things of this world Jane is driven by love and morphine she helps Mr. Perry with his plans for destruction together they map out the crime they are transmuted by bestiality they think that they can extract meaning from a confused and chaotic world they think they can cross the abyss without being touched by the angel of death beyond Choronzon we are no longer our self Mr. Perry is taking the first steps into non-being a task that each of us must face as the blood vessels burst revealing the true spirit that hides inside do away with this body of flesh and bring forth the body of light the world is meaningless and disconnected your conception of self with break apart into its individual selves that are not interrelated nor are they interconnected you have become a broken collection of individual pieces life and death are both magical it life that separates us from our higher being the flesh is not the highest existence we have been seeing things backwards turn your focus in the opposite direction place your gaze upon the stars we are spirits in a material world we are not material beings seeking the spiritual when we were born we left our union with the universe which is the real and the unreal this is the puzzle for you to unravel the dynamic force of creative energy sent forth into the abyss of space you are descendants of the starry emanations do you believe in tim do you understand that tim loves you that he is the savior of the world bow down and worship tim and he will give you good things

it was Mr. Perry’s desire to end the god form known as AC he set out to destroy AC but he failed AC was too strong for Mr. Perry and Mr. Perry was faced with failure and embarrassment because of his great failure Mr. Perry put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger  Jane mourned his death for a long time after his death Mr. Perry became a body of desire he would visit jane in her sleep during the midnight hour he would try to touch her but his body could no longer feel he was drawn close by her sadness he no longer has a generative power his existence is with the shadows and he is now a spectator in the material world he can only watch and cannot influence jane and this keeps his body of desire within the plane of desire he is tormented by his failure to destroy AC his great desire is unfulfilled and he haunts jane in hopes of having her fulfill his unfinished business larry in the white socks is tattooing his property he buys some meth from lee and engages in his foot fetish and asks the grave digger he can examine his feet as he touches the grave digger’s feet larry in the white socks purrs like a kitten no one asks you if you are ready they just strap you down and start inserting tubes larry in the white socks is peeling away the human larry in the white socks and hugo are talking about injustice how life is nothing but a wonderful soup the war machine makes soup out of humans hugo says that the only reason why we exist is to feed the war machine the war machine needs bodies it needs consumable materials the mothers love the war machine so they create children to be consumed by the war machine the mothers worship the war machine

the stains on Hugo’s fingers when he pulled out the small revolver and pointed it at my head I thought it was over for me but then you shot the guy next to me bathing in my glory no longer living in Memphis getting as flat as possible when morning comes it is a mound of clothes frightened a na├»ve dream with lives coming with me asking a thousand times a little gorilla poking me with a trident cage the animal seventeen shows the gorilla broke out of the cage he is climbing up the side of a building a plan to save the planet can we fulfill hugo’s promise there is nothing to be private about I missed Betty Boop I wish I could remember where I buried her sometimes I think I can hear her calling my name she tells me not to worry that everything will work out that hugo will find a way to bring about his revolution regardless of my ideals betty boop tells me that I am not important in the grand scheme of things I am just a toad or a small insignificant flower that is trampled underfoot she was always good at putting things into perspective

betty boop did not give me a word she held her tongue as the wolf approached this inheritance of loss is what makes us human landscapes of decay are everywhere I look I am reading your love letters I keep them in a locked box with my tarot cards and magic beans to climb up the beanstalk I have laid waste to all of your physical powers yet you still speak to me in the astral world your kiss was never just a kiss there was always something more behind and in front of your actions a history of movements that you inherited your hands could always launch the ideological arsenal sending the missiles into the dark sky bring death and destruction this is a desire for self drinking wine talking shit constantly a perfect bunker to hide in as the bullets fly overhead I slip into your membrane the world is a monster coiled around my leg as performance art the advances of your red devils with chisels in the corners they are creating a territory for themselves ready for anything both good or bad with rolled up shirtsleeves seatbelts paused pulverized marble the tools are greasy in their demonic hands as they work into the night another disconnected hand as the rooms turns soundly chirping like a bird

the real is interrupted by the unreal thus we do not exist in an unbroken linear model the model is broken there are gaps in reality consistency does not exist we move away from objects and away from thoughts to actions being the only prime aspect of reality we exist in our actions when we do not act we do not exist in the world only our actions makes sense to be still is illogical the purpose is to find the limits of action and thus set out the boundaries of reality hugo’s actions are not my actions and thus his reality is not the same as mine hugo is not violent he is only tired

I was distracted by the neighbor lady working in her garden she keeps pulling up plants and replanting them somewhere else in her garden it is like an obsession with her maybe the map in her mind keeps changing I watch her dig a hole and fill that hole with plant and dirt sometimes I go and see her and she stops her planting for a little while I tell her that I am in charge and then I tie her up I use the different knots that I learned in the boy scouts it is always helpful to be prepared when it comes to the neighbor lady if I don’t tie the knot just right she gets out and then there is hell to pay I always have to make sure we are done with our games before her husband gets home she always had to do what I told her she kept telling me that she loved me and that someday we would get married I was careful not to leave any fingerprints or bodily fluids I have watched enough dragnet to know that the crime is in the details the world needs tractors more than it needs me or her we are just two pawns in a cosmic charade eventually she could take the theatrics she had intentions of confessing to her husband about her sins I doubt that they ever could catch up with her when she ran away we all waited for her under the hot cracking sun we weathered the storm of accusation of incriminations but nothing could be proved some of the neighbors said that they saw a young man talking to her one of the young men who hang out at the house with the loud music but they could tell which one we all looked the same with our long hair and bellbottoms on certain days I can hear her whispers through the leaves the plants in my garden ask me to tie them up and to pull the weeds from their roots

slowly the heat dissolves and I am wet again all my actions are processed through the perceptual filter of my sensory organs how I perceive myself in the act of creating life or creating destructive defines the definition and reception of my actions if my actions are filtered through the lens of love then even my evil actions can be seen as a benefit to one’s soul it is your subjective interpretations that keep me from the gates of hell separating me from the froth and corruption of this imaginary world we are all the idiot children of an insane god it doesn’t matter if you call god tim or AC both are insane and operate on rules that they make up as they go along sometimes I think that tim and AC are the same person only just two personalities that have split off from a tormented individual neither personality is the original personality that personality died long ago now our conception of god is inhabited by a psychopath with a split personality I guess this explains how god can be so contradictory when he both loves us and hates us at the same time and notice that in my demented dream of a fictional godhead that such a creature is masculine instead of feminine it must have something to do with a patriarchal psychosis that haunts me as I lay immobile on the operating table the doctors are removing pieces of my brain maybe they will remove this god thing from my brain I wonder which part of the brain contains this inherited adaptation that was at one time necessary for the survival of the species now god is dead and a phantom of its existence lives on in the feeble forms of tim and AC it is the dead part of life that makes us create such fabrications I am hallucinating on the operating table

I can see the children playing in the backyard they are consumed by their brilliance they are chained to the playground the swings need oiling as they creak back and forth they are using magical words that they stole from Mr. Crowley when his back was turned he had written these words in a magical book that he was working on the children sneaked into his room and looked at these words I wondered how they could sleep through all the noise and destruction the playground was sinking into the ground the war machine was hiding underground and had set the earth on fire whole buildings would catch fire and burn and the mothers would send their children outside to play now the children ran off to different parts of the world and are building their own little war machines some call their machine justice some call their machine freedom some call their machine love but they are all war machines they were built for only one purpose and that is to destroy there is no in between for these war makers they have a blood debt that must be paid somewhere in another life they must have been real bad to do so much evil in this life they are trapped in a downward spiral they are committed to misunderstanding they are the naked man who doesn’t know he is naked they speak to words of fools they can’t walk by themselves they need others to hold them up they need others to kill for them they can do only what they can do and all of their words are lies and they destroy the world with a twisted love they will kill you and say they did so out of love they say they kill you so that you might live they say we are all equal in death they steal from you and you don’t know it because you are too busy bleeding in your grave they are only happy when you are dying they need to suppress their ambitions they need to take their finger off the trigger they need to stop building these war machines it is wrong to call your war machine democracy it is wrong to call your war machine truth why don’t your tell the truth and call your war machine money confess your sins to your brothers and sisters tell them you have sacrificed their sons and daughter for the almighty dollar tell them that it was power that blinded your eyes tell them that chaos is your friend that death sits at your table and drinks wine with you together you plan your fits of violence you hold a monopoly on the threats of violence you are so busy trying to die you have been accepted into the brotherhood of murder you live and you will die like a murderer I would be ashamed to live in your shoes to see the bloodshed that you have brought into others lives I guess your ignorance helps you sleep at night entering into the unknown space the abysmal plane where your existence is becomes the bone of sacrifice falling forward but living a backwards life a joke of an existence scripting out your gothic life you live according to the dictates of a demented mind you roll the dice and move your armies we will invade Kabul today we will kill some more for jesus he is always thirsty for more blood such a violent and blood thirsty god rubbing his shoulder blades calling others to their graves it is nighttime music he sings to the moon jugs of rubbing alcohol stacked against a pile of heavy words cobwebs and flecks of paint they are your concepts of romanticism you are out there on the road waving your flag jumping up and down trying to get someone’s attention god help them if they stop to give you help they don’t know that you are hollow inside and that their journey will soon end you have tied them up into a French dream the picture in your mind is black and white there is no feeling in your toes you have set your victims on the side of the road you saw this as a competition between you and the devil the winner gets to eat the French fried potatoes shocked by the half opened bodies you never used to leave things unfinished your contortions with the devil have left you lazy you no longer care about the crime scene there is no more spit and polish in your technique and method you have erased all of the formal introductions

No comments:

Post a Comment