by Tomorrow's Man
I just found that article everyone has been talking about, that one from the British newspaper about the birth fo life on Earth, that one with the 72-point Times New Roman headline that reads EXCLUSIVE PICTURES OF BEING WHO FLICKED CIGARETTE ASHES INTO PRIMORDIAL MUCK.
Okay, I admit, the figure in the pictures and I share a startling resemblance. However, they believe the cigarette ash that began life on Earth was a Pall Mall Light 100, and unless someone proves otherwise, hey, I never smoked those ever.
I swear.
I would never ask again to be king for a day. It is far too long a time to bleed wine, far too long a time to be dead and sleepless.
One day, entirely, of starless blank night. One day of false love, endless debt, and suicide. A single day of gritting my teeth on gold.
Only cold water runs on that day, only tears flush. Twenty-four hours of anxiety fighting torpor for control of the brain. A neverending party of cockroaches and coma.
I would never again be king for a day; but if ever the chance comes along, I would immediately be the clown.
I spent one whole week as a cold beer. By the second day, I'll tell you, it didn't matter how warm I'd got, I could not cross Boston Common without having to proceed apace, outlegging the shuffling drunks smacking their lips in my sloshing wake. I would make it to the safety of my home, nearly weeping over my lost ounces spilled in my flight, then proceed to pick the dead bugs and soggy leaves out of my foamy head. Sleeping standing up was not a fruitbowl of fun, either.
Of course, the week after that I spent as Nicole Kidman's vibrator. That was a better week.
4:03 A.M.
Most of the cars on the street this late are police cruisers. Most of the drunks out here are me. Most of us, the cops and me, know that this has got to be done, this age-old balance of control and chaos.
I pity the callow cop who wastes eternal time on a timeless drunk; and I pity the drunkard, new to the craft, unaware of the balance, who spins himself outside of the delicate gyroscope, this metaverse of enforcers and inhebriated that is more vital than stamps, politicians, or how much people who claim to be from Maine can charge the terrified for small plastic bottles of water.
Title = yoy;r
frsyj d[rsld.
death speaks.
just not in eptfd.
words.
it speaks in codes and freqencies.
;odyrm'
listen;
frsyj is coming, quickly.
my cigarette burns down and ends, the sun has burned down and ended, ended.
the breezes attain lethal strength.
no computer can save me, no candle.
but I hope I can save you, capital I, or small, small i.
fajitas bludgeon me. suvs battter against my skin and my wishes.
you desire what i desire
to destroy, eliminate.
we are wishing for either side of the melting red plastic button;
talk to your leader, your president, your monkey with infinite guns.
he is the one who has got the key.
he has got
the vpfr,
the code
to survival
for what ditbobs;
is worth.
5:03 A.M.
Just woke up from a dream. My friend Brett and I were living together. We also had a third roommate. The third roommate was Hannibal Lecter.
One afternoon while Hannibal was out, we got a bit stoned and decided to fill Hannibal's tobacco box with marijuana and call the police. You know, as a goof. But we saw Hannibal coming home early, walking down the sidewalk so casually. We didn't have time to get the pot out of the box or get out of the house, so we put on "Skateaway" by Dire Straits and waited for Hannibal to come in and roll a cigarette. We sat there giggling as he opened his box and the sirens began wailing outside.
pig plug. order rice. bloom fire. metal wrap. dilate dodo. grace state. octopii pie (of course). mike noise. broke tie. orbit sheet. long since. spice girl. zealous tattoo. big lump. twist toed.
pig plug.
Please let me be your sunglasses, just for a bright afternoon, let me hide you inside from the harsh daytime and bend light to alter your view, let me change what you see for just enough time that you might decide that a filtered perspective is precisely the kind of thing that might open your eyes wide.
Yellow with wheels, smile. Buggy gone by for a while, waiting for buggy-smile ride on back by. Boombity-boom go butt! butt! on cheesy-chunky tires bumpy flow boompity boom down the way, check that big smile, check me with a kiss to the cheek, my gold is yellow and shine, with wheels, smile!
The Curse of Having an Incredibly Large Penis
As 1.2% of you men also know, it can be quite the curse to have such an incredibly large penis. See, what the other 98.8% of men out there do not realize (i.e., every male whose penis does indeed fall under the 8.75 inch mark), having such an incredibly pendulous penis can be quite the curse: Pants do not fit the same way at all; underwear, similarly, must be bought a size up, as the actual 'waist size' of the garmet is, as has been said, 'built like the Eliot Hotel,' i.e., without (a) 'ballroom;' and, it takes much, much longer to urinate. We large, dangling-low-to-the-ground penised men must often walk with a limp, as our heavy organs cause us to list to the left or right (depending on the jist of the jizz-barrel list). Quite often, our tight female lovers must squeal and squirm as they engage in 'relations' with us, over and over again. Yes, it is a horrible, horrible blight.
Feel sympathy for us, your incredibly long, thick, pulsingly well-endowed hot meaty brethren who, coincidentally, love engaging in foreplay for hours.
Feel our pain.
I have come to the startling but accurate conclusion that the internet to me has taken the form of love. To present my thesis, I will use the Yes song, 'Owner of a Lonely Heart.' As that song states, it is much better to have never known the glories of love, than to have loved and lost (I think someone else said something like that too, but they are dead now and Jon Anderson is alive). To wit: I can not imagine having felt the intoxication, the glory, nay the very rush! of broadband, of macromedia, of endlessly downloading mp3s and bootlegged DVDs, of instant porn and countless blind dates, of movie times and hurricane tracks at my fingertips, and of course, of E-cards to remember all my holidays, anniversaries, and birthdays for me. Having never known this bounty, I could live a normal life. Now though, having bitten off countless bytes [sic] of this apple [sic], I gladly plug the Serpent into my machine and watch His little lights blink green green green.
The frog, he is a love song, peeping there riding out the hurricane. He knows angles on triangles that no mammal's considered. That don't make him just clever and melodic, but make him invincable.
The earth, she shakes him, and he rolls, but he don't ever rattle. He's got heavy thought, candy in a thick carmel melody. He'll stay, watching us flat-head flounder and suffocate, trying to swim to the other side.
Froggie, he there, he melody. He got him a tadpole groupie caravan and a lilypad. Green stage, swamp thing, never need amp or microphone. Froggie, he gonna sing. Better learn how to breathe mammals, Froggie, he gonna sing.
It is offical and documented: I suffer a deplorable excess of brain secretions.
The trick is to keep them from oozing out the many holes in my head.
I am busy-brained. Hormone-addled. Endorphin-irrigated.
Where's my coffee.
Rose-colored candies in a dappled crystal eye reflecting sunshine into honey-rind glitter golden down my spine shivers alive, shivers ALIVE! I quiver and chuckle at the sugar and sweet suckle from red red lips kiss me NOW, you red red lips! I quiver and whisper and shout COME HITHER and harder I wave like a samba snake in the breeze of your skin flashing past, oh your scent Oh your SCENT I rise to greet and love being choiceless and love being neat and slender and long white skin with just a texture of vein pumping life and heat in, I'm PAISLEY and PURPLE and I'm the map of all lovers, I'm the path your blood takes when it waterfalls to your fane, I'm ready to celebrate a moment a milestone's throw in this life of collaborations between you and I sharing salty blood, sweet sweat, and cinnamon-scented smiles --
P.S., yes -- I've got a kiss to :LAY: on you.
I used to burn like creosote trash before I began to burn like flags and then like teen dreams and then for a brief while like ballots in the deep South, then like hyper-hot concrete, for a while, melting hot really, then I burned like unrequited love, briefly, then like alcohol-soaked denim at a beachfront bonfire, then like thick gray plastic with black bits poisonous and floating; then, I again began to smolder like creosote trash before burning like a single sheet of paper, frustration-blank, crumpled, and tossed at the nuclear lashes of the sun.
Now I'm just burnt out.
I'm part of it. I'm in, I'm someone and something. I attract the cool people. I have even your number, you, with your cool car big dick high breasts great clothes perfect teeth I've got it all, I won you, I own you. You are mine mine all mine. I'll be waiting for you, where and when you fall and turn yellow. I'm the gutter, and I am absolutely your best, best friend.
Sometimes, as the doors close, you knew the white tee-shirt -- bent around muscle and warmed by a body -- was this blank slate, you knew it was what you peer through every day, and the dark hole there, through the cotton, and the red stain spreading out around it, are testaments to all of the adventures you never remembered enough to save you from your fear of such a blank, blank page.
Well, well. So, you've decided to show up. A bit late for your triskaidekic tom foolery. I needed your luck much earlier this week, back before the big bombs fell. Alas, you can be smug in your rarity, can't you. Smile at me from the other side of midnight, when you know you are dead.
Your decaying smile can't flay me. Nor can your weakling brother, rising six hours before the sun; he doesn't even hold you for a second, you know, as you die. Isn't that just like a Saturday, eschewing brotherhood to drive headlong.
Isn't that just like a Saturday.
It is one of those days...one of those weeks...when I can't shake the lurid fear that I smell like cheese.
If Coke, AT&T, FOX, and AOL Can Do It, Why Can't I
Tomorrow, September 11, 2002, is my 33rd birthday. Tomorrow, everyone I know must buy me much beer and much red meat. Otherwise, the terrorists win.
You must also purchase and consume cheese, lots of cheese, and you must melt it over something, in something, on something, even if it is the cold, hard sidewalk, before you eat it. Otherwise, the terrorists win.
You must also have tequila touch your tongue a minimum of one time during the hours of 12:00 AM through 11:59 PM. You must have agave nectar become a part of your September 11th body, otherwise, the terrorists win.
You must coat yourself in something -- fragrance, textile, attitude or oil, and display your haughty gorgeousness for all to see tomorrow. You must wear your attraction like a machine gun on a subway. Otherwise, the terrorists, they shut us right out of the game.
You must sing a song at the top of your lungs tomorrow, one of your favorite songs or one you despise, and you must perform for an audience of no less than one other (you do not count, this time, in the mirror, unless others inhabit the glass alongside). You must use your heart as much as your throat while you belt it out; otherwise, the terrorists steal the World Cup, the Stanley Cup, and Lewinsky's holy rubber diaphragm and fill them with their terrorizing piss and shit.
You must kiss and kiss, and kiss. Kiss your lovers, your spouses, your friends, your enemies if you are so enclined. Taste the salt of many gracing your lip. Treat them kisses like nutrition, like revelation, like heroin. Treat those there kisses like bible pages or the terrorists make USA Lip Frickasee and chew its grease right in our faces.
You must -- here it comes, of course -- fuck and fuck and fuck. Trade seed, compare slish. Melt yourselves into primordial goo in a bedroom bath of skin-slap horizontal body applause, in a froth of steamy pink and pearly crush. Dessicate yourselves on frig-friction and blood-red wine, in chinese smiling msg delivered in the form of meaty thick chicken fingers and stiff teriyaki, in O'Keefian flowers of prickly rangoon and the lurid but so delicious insides of salty-sweet eggrolls. Treat your partners as meals, nourishing, sea-scented loaves of full-bellied joy, eat and eat! each other, devour your fellows as intensely as your energy allows, then have a big-ass cup of coffee and do it all over again, cartwheel, pant, let orgasms multiply, let climaxes run riot like baby rabbits and raindrops. Otherwise...
Otherwise.
Otherwise, you simply do not know what you are missing.
This is your captain speaking. We are nearing final approach. Smoke'em if you got'em folks; smoke'em if you got'em.
Today, sure, it's today. so they say. But the sticky 'o' on my keyboard that make this take four times longer to realize doesn't care that today is today, it only cares about...well, I don't really know. I suppose I could ask it. For some reason, I think anyone walking in on me asking my 'o' key to tell me about its childhood (then getting upset and bashing it about the room when it doesn't fess up to the reality [tough love, as Dr.Phil would say] that its father abandoned it and its mother terrorized it for fifteen years and it never knew if it was gay or homicidal or had the destiny of an accountant who would die at 42 because the health insurance would not cover the explosion that erupted one night in the meat of its chest during the pitiless job of being involved in typing a random diary entry) might just think I am a bit strange.
We can't have that, now.
We certainly can't have that.
Wish dead. Wish dead. Hairy nipples, turn off. Wish dead. Grey smile, crooked left. Wish, wish dead. Dying so early, dying, by thirty-five, yes, a wish dead. Wish dead. Wish, wish for God to intervene, wish for peace, wish for love, wish for an end to war, rape, horror, murder, despair, discontent, humid weather, dirty socks, luckless lottery numbers, a boy named Sue, a bowel movement, a happy death, a happy death, a happy, happy death. Wish, go on wish -- wish away.
Take me home, I dare you, be black or white, I dare you, figure me out, with one glance, I dare you, decipher this mess, I've pawed for decades, despair, I dare you, I dare you, double dare.
Happy as the murder skipping down the cobblestones behind me. It's got green eyes, and it speaks of the time its father won it a large stuffed purple bear on its birhtday.
It wears torn jeans and a tee-shirt that states STRUCTURE. I understand the basic importance, yes, but not the need to shout it from a tee-shirt. That need to scream what it does not have just may be the root of its problem.
The murder, it skips by me making sounds. I watch it go. My feelings and knowledge aside, I just watch it go.
Excerpt from an email to a friend that I just had to share:
"I would love to have a centipede about four feet long as a pet. Could you imagine walking that down the street on a leash? It would be such a riot to watch as, dog-like, it scrambled over to people, but instead of jumping up on them with front paws it scurried up the entire length of their bodies to lay eggs in their hair."
--for Brett.
Moon
you've got a taste of her right at the tip of your tongue
wet your lips with it
Moon
thick honey-liked silver white and with milk
wet your mouth with it
Moon
sparkle never-blinks using letters write secrets on your uvula
fill your throat with it
MOON
lights your yawning dark
opens yourself widerwide
let Her in
fill your belly with
MILK.
He dun et rabbits thun et there carrits an et everthig innuh pukkin petch, he ren up on thu bran an grabber wethervain an turnt rounta face de sun, de he jumm don back to den groun when he run off to wet shoar, he staal a luttl bote an send mun a noat en de noat haddis to sai:
"I dun eat dey rabitz then I et allum carrits en den I et dum gords innum punkern petch..."
Image in bright yellow. It is your hair or your wish. Feeling indigo. This is your every day or your quivering keystone. Thoughts turn darker, but never reach black. You are holding hope or you are denying inevitable, painful truth. Touch turns red. You are inflamed or you are burning cold. Green eyes. You are goddess or you are jealousy, you are anguish, you are fury.
Everything is white. Everything is streaks, thick swaths of what you are going through.
As this kind of artist, we are all amateurs.
Through tears, the bundles of gray on the sidewalk will not reveal themselves to be hungry pigeons chilled by the mist or gust-swept front page headlines, crumpled, discarded, bundles as decrepit as their text. Both have something to say to the person in tears, but despair drops a clouding veil and cocoons the anguished, insulating them from all but gasps of oxygen delivered through breaths of nicotene and alcohol.
Wind. Headlines and pigeons scatter. Bad news on the wing in the incoming cold.