Thru the wires & along waves of air comes this: a hate-filled love story… “Something lurks in air without remedy, wing, nor foot traffic. Somebody has the knowledge denied mystics & monks, sitting, staring, picking up the pace. We’ve built roads for that…”
Love Turns Hateful: A free e-book by Richard Thripp. 6*9, 96 pages. Download the PDF version (~500KB), or read on…
MY IDLE LOVER, unemployable due to spinal cord injury, unreliable due to drug addiction, unabashed from former stint as street-walking prostitute. Her milk flowed with great ease like at the dairy. She could fill small buckets, but now her small-bucket-filling days are done as she’s in the hospital for accidental surgery.
“I’m full of hateful intent. I’m now denying Israel’s right to exist & belittling the worth of World War I!”
“How dare you concern yourself with such things better let to the media & military!” She said militarily.
“I’ll say what I want. Who are you to boss me around, what with your trim, woman’s body & hair all about your shoulders the way it hangs?”
“My grandfather nearly participated in W.W.1 & Israel is okay as far as I’m concerned!”
“Too bad for you!” I said hurtfully, when suddenly she began to bawl rythmically. “Bawl all you want. You’re merely paying with a credit card from hell!”
”What’s that mean?” Sobbily she queerified.
“It means that no matter the cost to my personal or perpetual safety issues I will prove my point on #1. Israel & #2. The global war of 1918.”
Well, that was all she needed to bear. She jumped on me like Lloyd George, knocking out my u-boats & tricking my dignitaries. Within weeks she would attack my finances: her & the baby, from which I would not soon recover.
“I’ve lapsed upon the comfort of your languid love, one time too often, more so is to pity the climate. I see you now from what we’ve begun: a blackened love affair far afield with smoldering embers of broiled meat unattended too long,” I told her without interruption as she was drowsy.
“Although drowsing, I understood each poetical & beautiful word my witty lover. Our dreams, our quivering bodies & inflammations tell the tale of our lovers’ love,” she spake wide-eyed & conscious.
“Yes, dear one, it’s your wide-eyed consciousness that guides our derelict ship to calm harbor.”
“Of course — the rapids represent lonely endeavour, the hasp & lock of desire…”
“Let us go from here yonderward afore the hour fades.”
“Touch my brisket clever one, feel the handles abounding my girth.”
…And Spanish people have lots of girlfriends. Who remembers the difference, these days, twixt Andy Devine & Gabby Hayes? Marta Kristen & Bernard Getz? People accidently killed in 1973?
Once I gets to prison things’ll be different. I’ll sail thru the front doors determined & demanding. Guards will be fumb ducked in what is their confused state as I organize things to my liking. Not since Al Capone or Frank Sinatra or with any sawn-off runt has such fear been spread amongst real men. “I don’t want my love held captive baby or my toilet seats stainless steel.”
How dare you photograph me in the nude! For God’s
sake put some clothes on! Because being awake is
just part of not going to sleep.
King George said bemusedly to his name-sake
George of Washington, just to piss him off:
“You’re no longer a colony — you’re a nation!”
Washy, who was home-spun & half deaf, & who angered
crazily, became chinned in his pissed-offedness.
“Urination?! I’ll kill you for that!”
”Jesus died for my pins…Pins? Why’d he go do a fool thing
like that?” {St. Denis, protect me from headaches & rage.}
Love limps, hoses, splits, rounding shit-houses, road courts, beneath luxurious folds of under-bellies, atop Old Smokey — hate-filled & frilly — shunning lanterns, bespeaking itself, pre-dating China, limbering solid-muscle showings, willingly weak, wilful & hickory’d, abounding, budding, promulgating, washing red & burrowing cracks…it’s a flowering betrayal in my love garden, my jardin amor, with the Knossian & Kiowa, amongst the stamens & pistils, flow-flower of the back-stab. Flat traps flush with surface tension are to be avoided amongst the Creeks & Algonquins…because: Acne is like anything: a box of paper clips, Oprah’s yacht, toe nail fungus.
The amputees were restless — they’d gone weeks w/o stump cream. There was a fortune lost & opportunities amongst stump-cream appliers. Many veterans lamented & lambasted their roles in the war & in between. Those who swore to skunk ass no more had to give in.
“Howdy-do,” the tease-cock ranch mistress colluded,
drawn by sleaze & tax aversions, pitched against
sunshine, recoiled in mystery.
“Yes,” the fire man denoted, “we are drawn by knives & the knowledge girls regress. These be the fictive ‘cursions we’ve exed from our travel-daunted minds.” {”Oh Vic, remember when I slipped off the toilet & broke my coccyx?”}
“Your mind is that of a peanut butter & jealous
sandwich: full of envy but delicious!”
“I know. It’s akin to the popularity of climbing ladders whilst wearing short skirts & nothing under is spreading across the ladder-manufacturing mid-west & Ohio. Let us moan together as families should, during family-moan night.”
THE HARMONICS OF SHIFTING SAND & BLUT UND EHRE {Blood and honor — motto of Hitler’s Youth engraved on their scout knives.}… Take care with that knife — you wouldn’t wanna cut yourself to bleed thru the mattress, stain the floor or bespatter the t.v. There’s enough violent stabbing @ the hospital. There they’re violently hospitable: dogging it up on the floor like there’s a shortage of puppies or what.
In China we wash & brush our butter-nut squash coloured bodies with a regularity unknown in Japan & points west. Let’s wash each other in ways familiar just like the Dutch do, when they’re visiting, swapping wives & marrying beneath in the depths of counterfeit Christianity…recollecting their olympic duties & sex-testing anyone they want. {”Oh Mr. Mooney, can’t you give Lucy what she really wants?}
There’s the 1990 version of this booklet Love Turns
Hateful, of which one copy exists in a closet.
Are you hounded by an unwanted teen-model girlfriend? Are you dating within your age group? 40-60? And tired of the pads & rails? Looking for a little youth & nigger? I mean vigor. And up to your warts in ass? Up to your ass in warts? Believe you’re missing out on jail time?
Unleash the terror! The dogs of war! The unrequested mortgage loan applications & service entries. Let’s inhale cocaine till we’re crazy! Crazy mad: Kellogg-Briand Pact mad! “Never suppress a fart, even if it kills you.”
“What about unemployment? And birth control?”
“Never suppress birth control for anything.”
“For Elvis?”
“No. Except Elvis, of course.”
“I’ll be your steady girlfriend,” Sung Hi Lee would promise.
“Steady as she goes,” I’d say. “Steady my Hong Kong shuffle. Steady during the wobbly moments. Easy my little rough-neck, pulsing beneath the willowy bend of my transparent appreciation.” The maleness of my nudeness, the baldlessness of my hatless empire come together righteously. “Sung Hi Lee, you are the Joan Chen of my mission-building accomplishments, the flaxen seeds & lager, the late fees & tardy nature, all & every!”
“I’ll be more than steady!” Sung sang. “When it comes
to a reliable girlfriend I’ll be her: the reliable chick.”
”Yes,” I said remissively, “you & your sister.” It was
then Sung realized her sister was involved.
“Winning stuff’s like joining shit! So much for winning
& joining. Three cheers to winning & joining!”
“Ooooo, look at me: I’m Sung Hi Lee, mistress of
Cadaverville, silk screener to reckless intent.”
“Prepare,” the lip doctor instructed,
“to have your lips examined!”
My intensive interest in juvenilia is no business of the police’s. They have their job: collecting & passing out the graft & I mine: disarming the kiddies: soft & pliant ones, no longer than an abortion: the slavery inherent in ownership.
Darkening skies cook on the steam table of differing modems as it’s hats off to the new & unusual concepts securing rights & privileges snatched from breezes. It’s a softened compliance, a marination of goony vice & sodomy: the crap way of Americana Moderna, sluicing & slurping our way along a far climb downward, both eyes registering, calling up a love hate-filled & purposeless. This is what’s pondered & loathed.
”Oooo, look at me I’m a hero, I quit smoking cigarettes!”
“You’re not my real daddy, you’re not my real anything!”
“Son, is that any way to treat your fake father?”
“Oooo, worship me, I’m Jesus Christ, junior!” {If my pencils were dulled by John Dulles, & Mick & Dean Jagger formed a duo “The Jaggers,” or “The Deanometers,” oh what a world this would be to reckon, I reckon.}
Bribe or inducement? I always pick inducement.
Wilful or still-born? I mean, stubborn?
Vital info. on dating me. Impotent, I mean important , points
to consider: #1. Head turner. #2. Hunky {Hungarian}. #3.
Natty dresser. #4. Winsome. #5. Swollen. #6. Tumor
& cyst-ridden, baby, in case of attack. #7. Here
come the brides, there go the lesions.
Dating & primping, longing & feather-bedding, smallish taps upon my spinal reserves, a passion-borne summer coming, trailing behind a worn war, torn down the skirts, tearing my flag into something shredded — these things buried beneath brain treatment, holstering my threats like so many pigs stirring to breed.
DEVOTIONAL SHIT WHAT’LL YANK AT YOUR BALL TENDONS {Stop leaning against rickety railings.} & The Bikini of Courage or The Courageous 2-Piece…Many have jammed themselves between me & my chick — others have slammed themselves upon the road-bed to prove worthy interest in the layerage of asphaltum & for whah?
“Your nigger-loving days are coming to an end!”
The nigger-hating bigot said.
“No way,” I countered, “nobody can stop me, nobody!” And true to my word I went on as I had before: loving, abiding, romancing, doing all & every, distinguishing not amongst the unaffected, that is, the unloved.
When your store runs dry on men’s underpants buy women’s. Use a marker to draw scenes of battle-field carnage to butch them up. For broads: Utilize men’s drawers by depicting images of feminine intrigue: tampons, gluttony, leg-shaving. Out of a million arrangements transposed {& nudely affixed} upon registering cellular bundles, endorphin molecules, tranquilizing myself routinely, I bind to her, her shapely stems, protuberances, hollow makings, clefts & intentions. Rolly & polly, gimmicky, numerical & fixed-set, she crushes my wiggles, under-jetting my slipping control bend.
Electrical man: “It hertz when I bend over!” [Nobody wings everything, nobody enjoys skip & scotch, latch & mix, French & Polish. The police are friendly & over for dinner, coffee & cake, nuts & bolts. They'll pull you over for rapid lane changings, whipping it out on the sidewalk, walking it out on the whip out.]
Living in the woods, what nature-loving has made of me: the blackened shell of a once-vibrant & virile man. Amongst the snakes & hornets, contaminated water & leaves resistant to absorbtion, I roll the dice in a life-&-death game of Earth-adoration. Yes, it hertz when I bend over, the electrical man had said, it hertz like a fire that burns the lining of rational bird-watching.
Her ratty-assed raggediness & lore of the forlorn ache, boot-legged my moon- pie shine, love waggle. I would in higglety-pigglety fashion perform till her ferrety facial features transmorgrified to something sand-smoothed & ass-wiped.
THE GREATEST LOVE STORY
BETWEEN MISS AMERICA & ME EVER
“Was it not,” Miss America {North} queried, in a way that
only she could, “Herbert Spencer what said: ‘The ultimate
result of shielding men from the effects of folly, is to fill
the world with fools.’?”
“Yes,” I must concede, yet not to her fantastic bodily shapefulness, “there is also said to be 2 groups of people in this world: those who divide people into 2 groups & those who don’t.”
That night, in what turned out to be a beautiful realization for both of us, we joined forces in what would become historically: [refer to title].
Long later she would reveal: “I’m not really Miss America,
but a pre-operative trans-sexual. I’m a man —
“Oh Lord Jesus! —
”Wait! A man trapped in a woman’s body!”
“Oh? Well, alright then. Until that bitter day when you’re
drawn above the knees we’ll remain physically enjoined in:
[place title here].
“You remind me of how not to unlove what is
reliable & shut tightly,” said she, later he.
“Yes, you can’t espouse new-age wisdom
without infanticidal leanings.”
“Wasn’t it Maurice Maeterlinck who was born
in 1862 at Ghent, Flanders who —
”At, in, who gives a rodent’s hershey? Let’s get
cracking while rooting’s still an option!”
Can my total loyalty to the one, true Jesus be used against me in future ramblings? Is killing an ex-wife really murder? Should a former wife be allowed to exist in the same way as does Israel? With walls & battlements? Does a lost wife command the respect of a much younger & sexier, & chinkier girlfriend shack-up? The Lord provides answers, even some pertaining to Arabs, shepherdesses, bearded folk & rabies…Once you realize how on-your-own you are, Lordless & trapped on this planet with only lies to go by in regards moon landings, empire building & central governing, then you accept it, the plunder, organized crime & labor…So frozen with fear it’d take weeks to thaw, weeks I didn’t have now with the calendar ending. Days of misery, agonal breath, motioning to helicopters & nobody the wiser, our difficult days of skinny-dipping lie ahead, ahead of emotional impactions. My teeth show the wear of the chewed bones of chicken & cow which form heaps about the hovel. I can give up my scum-faerie, I could dispose of what’s wasted if I had to, under warrant. A snort & a promise, a flush of grief & tomorrow creeping & flattening torment…curved about the axilla, rounded shoulders & areas local…
Constitutional Love Gallery…When you’re tired of flapping your flaps or opening & closing sphincters, turn to the constitution for love the hardened way. If it’s Xmas, enjoy the butt-end of New Year with a fiend or mobster. Never be quite the same again,enjoy hexing all, causing conditions, accelerating health concerns & marriage — not the kind Ma & Pa had but one involving sex-pervs whooping it up, sterilizing each other, calling an end to being nice to Indians. — The next time someone tells you to call back @ 3 & ask for Tina or Sherry, call & ask for Tina or Stinky. When challenged just say: “Hey, why don’t you let Stinky decide?”
In my final stage of Alois Alzheimer’s ailment I won’t be able to distinguish between Oak Ridge Brothers & Statler Boys, knobs from push buttons, tea — from table spoons, leaves and toilet paper, Paul Lennon versus John McCartney.
Lawd, how could this’ve happened? The American-led liberating force have now become occupiers? Is there historical precedence for this?…This out of Africa: Our human whites have been violated.
Mr. Spaghetti, your ways are Italian, you wash upon the shores of individualism, cooping up Greeks & raiding the noodle works. Has it always been this way? Must we tolerate things German? My sister german contacted me after years of abuse. I told her if it’s good enough for Ronald W. Reagan then I’ll support it. He ruled with an iron hand gloved in compassion. A compassion warmed by Nancy F. Reagan, his number two wifer. She had the mud flaps & loafers what made Dutch hoard laxatives till the evasion passed {of its accord}. He’s known suspence, once knocking out 2 of Barbara Stanwyck’s teeth, but when it came to spending other people’s money, he had no qualms concerning that. There were problems in the world with distribution: getting ammo & fuel to socialists, but Reagan {Ray Gun} had it licked. Stripped of tease he had nothing left.
Some people prefer total darkness when they’re doing the people’s business. Many smokers will not let their protective guard down, they’ve been burned plenty. If I were a bum I’d live in & amongst the weeds. High grass provides cover. If I were drunk & afraid & without a security guard’s detection I’d take refuge amongst the endangered wild creatures in Florida’s swamp lands. There could be no greater comfort than bedding down with an alligator as a pillow or flotation device & the mountain lion as a blanket. My diet would entail wild manatee milk & meat & condor eggs. I’d nurse whilst bathing, taking huge panic-stricken gulps. My calls for help would be in a long-extinct Indian language, understood by no one born since 1522 and even then? Live Indians, on vacation from the casinos, would rush to my aid throwing hatchets & squaws at me as I founder on the rocks, engineering in ways Jesuit, of the Jesus, junior within us all. He spake, we listen, heed & crucify.
STAND BACK AND LOOK at what I’ve done to make the world more beautiful! I’ve planted roses where there was only pools of shit, lilacs in place of decaying corpses. I’ve domesticated errant men turning them to the Lord & hen-pecked service. Children are now doped to insentience as news readers lie with impunity. Taxing for cash-cow folly is business as usual & bombing every other country promotes freedom.
According to Hoyle & N.A.S.A. & Emily Post, I should’ve been rich 10 years ago. My planetary probings & straight-laced out-croppings are enough to sustain a mole in a rat’s hole. I’d hop more precisely if my legs were attached. I tether these breasts & inhale deeply — both lung units functioning @ an optional rating.
Running & seeking my little acushla {Irish: darling} means little time in your loving & freckled arms & more leisurely restraint in the tracking down of tax cheats.Our money, our own, our funding of imaginary space flights & cancer cure-alls. I’d smoke for the fun of it & not because cigarets were free & delicious. Oh, your luminous-flux densities drive my passions wild & driven-through.
LUMINOUS-FLUX DENSITY {intensity of light} and all things girly — this is what a he-man demands! Give me a locker room of men — give me the things Edison really invented. This pagan cross, this puppet regime, this kill-or-be-killed philosophy, all stand to knock my Xtian travels…and the density of my destiny, my two-faceness — my half-assness, all tend to contuse & refine.
If God rules me, & me with free will, then I’ll do as he commands, making a mockery of self-sovereignty. The light intensity of Heaven no blind can filter, no screen can blot. God is light & He reigns from the ends of the universe, all a-cluster, all knowing, Praise Elohim and not Nazi-ism: a design for a more beatific world through bone-crushing forced entry. My jabs/transpirations: World War 2 will mean little to the World War 3 generation, they’ll re-set their culture-clock counters, backgrounded checks & equilibria. If it’s too early to resist or late to worry then enshackled we’ll trudge beneath centralized authority.
Let’s go without drinking till we hallucinate, apply garrotes to initiate apoplexy, dive head-long into posts, nibble shark tail, share syringes, as those experiencing true love might as mightily we poke each another once our pokers have swelled, beyond life’s allowances & balances. {Sometimes I have this urge to enter everything into evidence.}
“But why is it wrong if 2 men love each other?”
“It’s wrong as is cannibalism, infanticide & vampirism.
It’s a dead-end matching of screw drivers. It defies the
meaning of marination.”
“Sure does make prison stretch quickly…”
— Down by the fish market where heads are tails & women aren’t quite so, where docks meet clinical studies & the stench is so thick you can cut one unawares: politeness is right out, squatters abound & horse-play is Turkish. No one talks a language except full-moon romance. So many stories start: “I fell in love by the wharves…” & end: “My hammering woke up the neighbors…”
Sing I joyfully at the top of my lungs & the bottom of my
gullet: “I’m in love, world! In love with a woman!”
The world shrugs & goes about pairing truck drivers.
A WONDERFUL & CARING HUSBAND
I see bird shit dripping from birds in dreams mostly horrible. These dreams bleed me white, aspiring, spiking romantical fervor & pale intrusions. Nudity attracts flies & mother nature knows best. I like my gas @ $5. I’ll do everything I can, & then some, to assuage this unrequited love bearing what’s itching me beneath my scratched finish!
Central govt. crucifies counterfeiters for producing
irredeemable paper money. — Thou shalt not horn
in on our fiat money monopoly.
I’ll never forget that song: “Take this Job and Shove
it up your Ass, Nazi!” I’m telling you: NEVER!
As my itching becomes accusing & my scratching
negligent, a shortage alarms my sensors. “Look!
It’s that awful bitch Barbra Streisand!”
Everyone turned as Barbitchra Streisand waddled in.
I was particularly nauseated once she started “singing.”
I prefer my meat cut, handled & packaged by burly men. I
prefer my women bra’d high & taut, no room for nickels.
THE FRED MacMURRAYITES
If I found myself in religious frame I’d have to establish one: new & exciting. My flock would follow the teachings of the late actor Fred MacMurray, gleaned from 3 of his movies: Honeymoon in Bali; Double Indemnity; & The Caine Mutiny. I haven’t seen Double Indemnity so I’ll have to rely heavily on “My Three Sons.”
We MacMurrayites are a fierce & independent bunch, full of raw nerve & courage. I believe it was Fred MacMurray or Chairman Mao or doctor Sherwin Nuland who said: “My treatment of Miss Welch was based not on her goals but on mine, and on the accepted code of my specialty.”
It’ll be a lengthy illness what prolongs my agony, as with J.F.K. & his trip to Vietnam in 1951, L.B.J. in ‘62. No welding of the two amongst the Cochin-Chinese could slow the wheels & cool the heels, it was shell & poison, no avoiding that, no weasels likened J.F.K. & L.B.J. could stuff cautious without slurried grinding.
HER CRAZY LOOSENESS could lift & separate those sacks of fat & porous & partially-stringy cells: a looseness of character soaring above the trees’ peaks.
It’s World War Two again & everyone’s fightin’-mad! A hurricane’s approaching Glen Campbell & Galveston is strung out on pills & booze, but that’s okay because the power of prayer is about to kick in.
Twirling a bit about the midruff, hustle-bearing to bear,
half-hearts bolting, & none too stout campus-wise.
I spill my guts for the love of gut-seepage. It’s the wind-eroding qualities what makes managers suffer silently, eights & tens, sixes & sevens, thru marshy waters & stippled skies. I believe it was Senta Berger & David Janssen abed, sorting life’s inconveniences, facing The Swiss Conspiracy {1975}, naked & lovingly together under humptastic pressures only Ray Milland could understand…a rock-tightening concourse of espying & lurking: that’s what marrying a 16-year-old’ll reward you 20 years past — upon the waters of world Earth, my home planet & prison. Stuck, petered out, tattoo’d in hives, her loosey-goosey crazy ass will kill me yet.
Cool, collected, was Lyndon Johnson:
no heart attack to fell him, Fall ‘63.
Seldom heard: “Yeah, the wife & I are gonna finally take that crap we’ve always talked about.” Or: “When I retire next September I’m going to take a 6-month piss through the old West.”
EARLY ACCESS TO TEEN VIOLENCE
Just when you thought it was safe to date women born in the 1920’s, here comes another phony moon launch: this one promising to be a more costly, star-studded romp. Our “astronauts,” will be no strangers to teen violence, having had early access to it, know the difference between a barge & a tug. Once crash-landed they will explore, by moon buggy, all things lunar: a patch of sand adjacent a parking lot on Cape Canard, various reports on teen violence…Strange: It’s cute to have a daughter called Kitty but not Doggy.
It’s just an excuse to aerate a lung, a reason to surface because — I’ll always have my bitter memories. They can never take those from me. May we not abandon {nor recall} what’s been shared: a hateless gift, a mateless offing, a trouble-weary FRAGMENT OF LOVE {”Is Mr. Normal home?”; “No.”; “Well that’s strange.”}
I have tolerance for everything except intolerance. Toleration & diversification my native-Ameriacn-African-Hispanic-lesbian compadres, that’s what I’m into: leading the blind to the top of Everest, widening toilet stalls to accomodate donkey carts. Passion cometh & goeth like beer through sailors, like Gore Vidal through sailors. [Sally home to port Blood LIfe {Gore V.}, take those wicked deeds & sly glances away with literary pretenses & your Paul Newmans.]
When crossing thru jive town exclaim in amazement: “What’s this funky shit?!” You’ll make more contacts than you’ll know how to handle. Remember: “What’s this fucking shit?!” I mean funky…and everything will be okay.
I woke up in a pool of vomit with it pooling in a chunkified mass, an up-chuckish glacier of defeated dinners including snacks, denuded of nutrients, unfit for consumption — I felt compelled to breakfast on more palpable bounty somewhere. I’m no Sybil Danning nor Apollonia Kotero but I know puke.
My big & rubbery lips sucking back into my hollow, toothless maw, buggy eyes & sunken cheeks bespeak of Nazi atrocity. There’s but so much one Nazi can take Gestapo-wise…I’ve tried my best & to what end? I’ll never love another, never clean up a mess nor conspire with anyone who doesn’t know how to love, to dance, to fall apart from emotional collapse. {Emoting fall-bearings, hasps, toggles & fringed suede, running wildly free, my rubbery breasts flapping, flagging my tool-works as I rectify righteously things indignant. This oblong slice of fragmentational love bears witness, fruit & watch. It’s the need for love politick that guides my flailed runners I figure…flailed runners?}
FRAGMENTATIONAL LOVE BEARS WITNESS,
fruit & watchfulness, archetypal minds produce
forced will, gun-use & malcontention.
If I isolate myself & use only my weapons for targeting trespassers then what harm could come of that? These arms have toted furniture, aided & abetted, crushed defeatism & apprehended tax dodgers. Justice comes swiftly for some, others must be tracked to the continent’s end, bound & pistol-whipped.
My pistol-whipping days are nighly through with, what with the breakage of butt after butt {gun butt that is}. My butt-breaking days are nearly done as my chimps are fed & ready for the slaughtering phase of a chimp’s life. My fragmentational love-life bears fruity witness as nothing comes from pistol-whipping the wrong tax cheater.
To be fashionable in America {U.S. America — the only one that matters} discard old clothing, furniture & appliances. Replace these with new, trendy & fashionable stuff. Whenever you suspect something or anything has fallen from fashion, throw it away.
Colder than hell’s hotness, steeper than a sharpened pin & meaner than a wife turned wrongly, this fragmented affection steers its currents towards hateful deeds empowering no one. My wishful thinking is not enough to ruin Christmas this year.
THE ENGLISH IDIOT
English men, they love their tea.
One day one suddenly approached me.
“Whah’ja want?” I asked, a bit startled,
hand on gun so as not to be murdered.
“I’m English, I want tea,”
“Why is that all?” I replied. “Pull up
a cup & I’ll pour you a chair!”
“Thanks,” he said like an idiot.
“Are you really from England?”
“Yes,” he said, ashamedly.
“You ought to be ashamed,” I said,
hoping to shame him something awful.
“Believe me, I am.”
“Enough to kill yourself?” I asked excitedly.
“Surely,” he replied, anxious to force me
to respect him, which went unspoken.
”If you kill yourself I will respect you a lot!” I nearly hollered.
He thought about it, his shrunken brain, shrunken from years of being English, strained under the extreme labor of fragmented depravity. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” I asked, completely dumbed down
by the idiot from England: Land of the Idiots.
“Why kill myself!” He said enthusiastically.
“Yes why?” I ventured. “Why, when
you have so much to live for?”
“Do you really think so?”
“No,” I said, “I really don’t think so.”
Next: The Scottish Moron: “Ho, I’m from Scotland didnae you know? Land o’ Scots. I wear adress like a man, but I’m not a man. I’m from Scotland.
Some are pushy — pushing me into corners, deflecting my love-humps, or: “I’m going to the waffle house, anything you want me to get you?”
“Would you mind picking me up a couple waffles?”
“Well, I don’t know…”
TRIBUTE TO FARMERS
My father was a maniac, he lived up in a tree.
Nothing could bring him down not even a desperate pee.
One morning all was quiet.
I couldn’t hear a thing.
Because my sister was no singer I hated to hear her sing.
But sing she did just like she was a-cursing,
remindful of a first-time mother getting into nursing.
Howls & moans throughout the night made me wish for daylight savings time.
— People continue to make it us & them. All I want, besides variety in tail selection, is a world whereat I can go to bed at night without having to place crinkled newspapers on the floor, a time when I can vote for myself & win big time.
Nextly: It’s love the boring & fractional way with Johnny Cash, Jesus & Nixon. Don’t ever stop the love!
FRACTIONAL LOVE BORING
{Every war-time service has its idiots.}
“Look at me,” the hard, coarse woman exclaimed, “I’m old as rock.”
I traversed her craggy face & dug in to climb the summit. She was heavy with pity & designed for failure.
“Never,” I informed, “should you weather sand storms alone!”
“Thanks,” she cooed, winking at me stiffly.
“Can’t we get by? Can’t we shop on borrowed time?”
Her womanly figure & steady legs stood in the way of nothing as English was my language.
“I love you like flaps on tents, cash versus checks, patients being neglected…”
“Oh, my perpetual rear bumper, my price freezes, my Nixons collating my Coolidges.
“It doesn’t move me into laxity for I’m lent to hard bearing. This {my} fractional love boring strips carcasses of hide, sloops of rigging & other such…”
Don’t ever try to stop the love. Love should be brought on unconstipated. My unconstrained love offerings are more mature-minded, & less deadly. You shouldn’t return to the crime’s scene, the pigs may pig up the scent. I was pig-blinded by the mighty city-wide pig communion. If I’m ever attacked by blood-hungry pigs I’ll oink my way free. One pig-attack too many reflects a lack of bribery. Where would I be without my blender if not blenderless?
Beware of anybody whose number one listed goal is to make it with their sister. Of all the things how could that be number one?
Thanksgiving Day will be here in November {again}: Time to drag out the stuffing! Ma always kept ours in a shoe box. Dad often disappeared for several months. Once they {Ma/Pa} have mulched somebody other’ll have to pick up the pieces because that’s what tradition’s all about.
I look gleefully to the future as I grieve over the past: all the wrongs inflicted upon me by the uncaring. How can I exact vengeance, on my income? Budgeting’s the key: groceries, anti-histamines, revenge. It was Johnny Cash who said it best: something, something, Indian, Jesus…etcetera.
TREASURES HIDDEN BENEATH THE KLONDIKE
are coming to me in ways that deny Arctic go-around.
Look, the man with 2 eyes is waxing nostalgic on true, long-lasting, decades’-straining matrimony. He’s been married 3 times in 18 years, God Bless him his nerve.
Life: its treasures are many, hidden & dike-like. I strain beneath the weight of Sunday schooling. Windows close & the rain gives up. Marginal offerings by shadow puppets, pouring our nuts from baskets, surgery on rotted apples & Dad humping neighbors, it’s 1974 again…
Pish-pash, hover in the fields Jesus do, ripening crops, maturing our saddle-sore women, creating things good from garbage. {If I had a Negro friend I’d call him Blacky out of respect for his beautiful mahogany-colored skin.}
Treasure-troving from areas Klondike, filling our baskets with love, a love unhandled, unblemished, we submerge ourselves into work charitable: Klondikian chores to feed the wealthy & clone the sickly. Elvis {P.} loved me more than pills.Once, when I was bending over to pull weeds, he snuck up to give me a Cadillac. “Thanks Elvis,” I said, “I could use a Cadillac!” Later, after he crapped out in the shit house, I drove to Memphis in hopes of killing everybody who reminded me of the love, the care, the charity that was Elvis {P.}. — From: “Elvis {P.}: His Love Abounds”, the P. stands for pain as in: “It is a pain to pee,” or, “How dare you piss me off while I’m urinating!”
— “Clean up this mess before I kill you!” The dead possess no cleaning skills. I often wonder why people bother, bother to piss me off at all. Seems no future to it, nor rhyme, nay fundemental support…Dress my wound — enhance my bust line! Let’s piss around here no more! Get up & go out! My hair’s a shiny, greasy mess. My pale skin & beardless face enhance my shapeless orbits. Some day Elvis will return with salve & abounding love to lessen the ills of the big-boned.
STEVE & THE ROMANTICS
{Everyone is: street scum, congress men, a little romantic.}
Steve had always been big-boned & knew all the ways of his people {the big-boned}. Once, when he was de-boning fish, there came an emergency call from the hospital: blood was desperately needed from a big-boned fellow & Steve fit the bill for he was big-boned. He had the big-boned outlook on life what makes people {of small-boned proportions} stand up & take note. Steve’s brand of big-boned romanticism was out of place in a room full of midgets so he avoided these types of rooms. He had not planned to marry a small-boned woman. Who can plan love? God damn it! Steve was no different than most men, except in the bone department.
CLEAN YOUR MAIL BOX! Have you ever scooped dog shit into a mail box? I’m sure we’ve all done that. When was the last time you wiped out your mail box? Never?! Imagine how much dog shit has accumulated {piled}. No reason is there to wonder why large boxes don’t fit anymore, much mail.
ESPIONAGE QUEEN
I feel the looseness of her tenseness, & gooseness, the trap door & boobied trigger. She was small-boned & jumbled {like 2 beds that have been pushed together}. I see & feel spied upon, slap-dashed & big-boned. The queen of espying engratiates & endears {same thing, like big & fat-boned} herself beyond any need. She’d hold her breath if nobody else would hold it for her. She could listen in to your cellular phone communiques: “Where are you?” & “What are you doing?” etc. There’s no end to the snooping, the nosing & the horning. It’s like 2 beds pushed together to form an exciting free-for-all oportunidad {Mexican for opportunity}. When the big-boned people achieve worldly-power beds will slide {together forming one}.
Nobody would dare deny the importance of pancreatic health. Once your pancreas goes so goes everything. Here’s a little poem I wrote about my pancreas called MY PANCREAS IS FINE: My pancreas is in fine shape.
There’s no denying that for a minute.
If a hurricane hits I’ll be locked in the bathroom praying like crazy.
Alone, not really alone if you count my pancreas.
For God so loved the world he invented pancreases.
I say get plenty of sleep if you think that’ll help any.
Monitoring for nothing: Here rules my strangulation therapy, sloughing & perforating along jagged lines, rippling patterns of nothing.
The sonorous mention of Iggy Pop — “Success” & “China Girl,” Holopaw & star drivers, executive periphrasis & Raoul Berger, these things butter my bread both sides. Alone, floating on a wedge of flotational help. Monitoring for free. I’m on the losing side of looking fit. My prowess has retreated toward Mexico. Mexican everything: work ethic & peppers.
If it’s hot & it’s tropical, it’s a sweaty time with bran, a walled torment plus foam padding. I’m in 6-pc. precision fr. 1.4 to 3 m.m. Long agrow and farm delay.
Old worldly wisdom’s too much when it creeps in across a threshold, placing itself between gravitational bodies. What passes a dispassionate exhibit when the milk’s late? Changes made weekly keep days transitional. Periods of Egyptian-inspired suddeness, it’s falling backward from this iron chair, running headlong & plunging head-first, stitching scalps back in goodly measure. It’s difficult in earning one’s keep, from cracking center-ways & slaughter. A pensive smile & goodness toward mothers = the key what tumbles any lock.
Oh the mountain-folksy images of frogs & toads, cousins & baby-making, templates & diagrams, disarming our cream stakes, flaking our fake clusters, wowing mystics, charging ahead without a map. Old-time Earthen applications to problems lunar in origin call for staging & photographic artfulness. It’s a dispassion never attacking nite-time, reserved like a table, rehearsed what like’s normal, pitching, wooing, mouthing off to our betters, swooning at trial, knocking our poles from pigeons, sawing somebody elses lumber. We, for love, tickle dangling/hanging tufts.
WEEDS IN MY GARDEN OF LOVE enhance my cross-eyed toasties, wienerless dogs, hogless breakfast bits, sausage-style nuggets, making for a sinless morning that’s hell-dark & remindful of a sexy, short-skirted Linda Ronstadt shaking ass in a Tennessee prison singing “You’re No Good,” 1977, the year Bing Crosby killed Elvis, Agnew throttled Nixon. Love knows no skill, no pride, no hate-minded investitures amongst the law-abiding. Warbling through her night clothes, tambourine against thickly thighs, thinking in Mexican whilst spewing what’s left in American, Hermosa Ronstadt fed the mates & screws a level breakfast: nuts & cackle berries, toast & beverage.
I was never less than unwilling to sink my connector in foreign bergs. Travels & trevails over there have taught me of U.S. American love schemes.
When not addicted to heroin I busy myself as a false prophet bringing together the light & dark stocks. I’m figuring it’s my humanness, humaneness, humanity, humanism, that strike my colors, float my ship of hope & dispassion.
Down the road & tagged for freshness, thrilling my friends & confounding my other friends. I have 2 kinks of bends: the bendy kind & the kind of bent kind.
If I were KING OF FINLAND I’d never finish
expressing my love to Finnish women {under 30}.
Finish me off but good, the fashion, the passion, the mish-mashness. Henry Ford loved women & he drove them in his Ford into rivers, drowning them with their tops down. Topping them with their downs drowned, affecting affections, tearing tears, bearing down for pushing out babies.
Take it — break a little skull off my head bone, rake the derma from my flaked wrap, castigate me like Colgate, round these corners, angle my protuberances, vote me King of Finland…
Finish me off before destruction sets in, crushing defects what dulled Johnny Cash & crazed Reagan. Finish me during a bountiful moment, a time irksome & heavy with impassioned study. I peruse this book that stimulates my simualted resistance.
THE MAN WITH MIXED LOVE SIGNALS
{Geo. Harrison was destroyed by disease & attempted murder.
John Lennon by a successful murderer.}
Program scale scales back the program = I’m happy in my dispassionate way, padded on a dirt road, wrinkled prunishly, warted, pocked, misinformed, disenfranchised, lax & ignored. It won’t be long my search, my urge for tail shall wane & decease.
My drip-halting sphincters & relations will fail my attemperaments. I’ll chisel with flaps down tho I’m unsure how, no matter, success is measured one bean at a time.
George Harrison was rended, stoppled & depleted. All age & reason depart with mitotic advancement…insecurities topple pyramidal adventures.
Please be my fair-minded, weathered friend, my grand-slammed cast-off, elemental course jockey, that is: primal ride piece. This, that & some more, some other trick of the mind, I set out a trip to Norfolk exaggerating the folksy part don’tcha know? It mixes my love signals & stands rejected in Lovers’ Town.
REJECT FROM LOVERS’ TOWN
{Bank ruptures are up, up passed bank balls.}
Program scale backs my filled tank, set-backs, reject-backs & primes of cash-in, ten thousand generations of Buddhistic torsions, & still no skin-landish skin-back…I walk rejected, love neglected, propse I nothing. Give me piece, neighbor-piece offerings — twenty-five & plugged threadless, torsometric stand-bys eat my laminated exhibits…
It’s October seventh, time to plan for the eighth. One can’t be too sure-footed when scaling. My mustache is thick & bristly — enough to combat unreasonable search. Our pigs are never full, never willing to walk away from easy prey. It’s tough-guy mentality, pouring wine into sinks, vilifying weeds, promulgating all manner of espionnage mercenarius. Take away my insecticide & relegate me to secondary status. We’re strangers in this punch-worthy America, slugging along in threat & cocked ear, short change & spending on the marge. I fling my chill monkeys. I flaunt my next plan. {A thousand quarters of anything equals two hundred fifty somethings. MY slugging days are broken by arthritis, quartering ones too.}
L’AGE DE RAISON: I’ll never live to regret long enough the time I was at the post office awaiting the mail man, who was at large & obeyed no schedule. He ambled in 10:30 covered in the joy of new fatherhood. His wife had a baby delivered like the mail should be: 9 o’clock. Everyone, annoyed, planned their time for vengeance. There’d be no peace everlasting once stamps go up again & again.
It’s important how pig-poned people function, to them at least. We can feel our way through life, living every moment as if we’re to never die, excitement building, our throbbing, ageless equipment saying: “Come, get it!” Women of all weights & densities flocking to flock with you & your flocking organization of organized flockers.
Bowing to craven intent, to graven imagery & soy sauce ruining everything it contaminates, I face this Earthen world reasonably assured, & brimming with distrust. A false Jesus is due any day now, his mission involves confiscatory taxation, enhanced demo/mobocracy, all crass variations of a theme: centralization works wonders.
L’AGE DE THRIPP…I’ll figure mine for what’s mine…I’ll venture boldly {& bodily} angling my massive gut to the crematory…a hot time in the old oven tonight! I’ll keel suddenly before Lord, Prince Jesus scraping together a fantastic prayer-promise, professing good behavior with hours to live & live up to. Red-hot affirmations in preparation to travel as smoke moves. Jesus’ last actions nailed Him. He said stuff he couldn’t take back. The sandal-wearers made a choice, the only one afforded them.
Oh, Miss Hawaiian Tropic, teach me the meaning of love in its full physical expression. I know how to work a mop — Mop from my bucket of love. Let me apply your lotion evenly.
“…My gum bands have loosened…then there are great works divorced from the climate in which they were created…these are the tit-bits of trivial pursuance what I employ. Some say my breasts are held in place with 2-sided tape. They are held by gravity down & helium up.”
Soon I’ll be granular as is salt & roach grain, bone meal & asbestos.
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT {Learning and charity begin at home
as well as scientific investigation.}
My 13-year-old son & I happened upon an injured squirrel on Christmas eve. The poor rodent was scared, so, being the season, we constructed a crude cross & stapled his paws to it but not before trying him for heresy. “Guilty!” My son proclaimed. “Ye shall be crucified until you are dead! May Jehovah have mercy upon your ratful soul-lessness…”
Do you want for nothing yet have a surfeit of concerns? Remember when 25 cents bought more than 38 cents does now? Now your gas tank is empty & your glass milk bottles are extant no more. A trip to Walnut, California draws no titters. Ass, cock, pussy, wiener are innocent enough on their own. It’s wholly differential to conclude, no fun had with carbon monoxide poisoning as my puffy-white beauty purples. I’m in love with a girl who’s got typhoid. Typhoid fever is not strong enough to cancel my love.
My talents lie elsewhere, far off amongst pygmies. My natural inclinations & urological curiosity all point weftwise, the territorial waters of pacific retreat. Soon waves of hatred & currents of disgust will lead us wayward toward a hell of cold space below the activities of molecules.
She was willing & questioning like somebody who enjoys church: “Why do you eat so much of meat? Do you not know that it causes hysterical reservations? Even the insane root: henbane, canst stand against the power-drive mechanics of carnage.”
“Because flesh is a bag within another,” I said, “a bag of water, a pound of compounds. Must not we, us, all serve our lives through dead things?”
”See,” I continued, “shit for shit’s sake…dogs piled upon each other in a hole dug by dog killers. Our final days in heaven & time to go home: a hole; a graven image of Jesus staked to a tree, gnawed upon by buzzards.” And: “Soon the tsunamis of Ocean Indian will finish their God-appointed task. Christians be heartened!” It was just something heard in the passing on the last day to get out. There’s more to sunshine than sacrifice, the legions of well men journeying through outlands, guns at the ready, their thoughts maintain the dear home-front & better times whoring. As memories grow warm & distant & those honored are dead I read a book what tells everything about the Bible. It’s the Christians’ constitution based on pulpit law. WRITE! People spend their time planning sex crimes. Good people don’t plan so much. They get their reward anyhow. Their thunderous cheering can deafen the filthy ears of science and filthy creation {From Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley}.
If people spent more time shitting & less time pissing we’d be further along in fertilizing our farm goodies than killing shrubs from behind with uric acid…
Santa says: “Calling all whores! Calling all whores!” or if he’s in a hurry: “Hoe! Hoe! Hoe!” {I love you & I’ll always be there for you, deep in the heart of Mexico.}
THE POT PASSER {2005}, starring Fred Pot Passer, Yvette Gonzalez, Jose O’Brien, Chang Smith — A confusing yarn about an old man, Hank {Fred Pot Passer} & his young lover, Maggy {played by Fred’s real-life daughter Kitty}. Seems the mob is very interested in Hank’s ability to attract younger women & a serum concocted for such feats. Look for brief appearance by Yvette Gonzalez’s real-life neighbor Ralph Chicken Scraps as Dodger. Rating: 3 hoses for crappiness…or 3 craps for hosiness.
Thru the smoke of the forest: THE FIRES OF DARKNESS!
Bears could barely bear the intensive heat, squirrels scurried, & forest-mgt. people made sugar-sweetened, maple-syruppy, govenmentally-ascribed love amongst the chark-coal, the brimstone & hellishness of a bosky after-glow.
Poorly-managed arrangements made hastily all spell trouble for the contemporary mother of 14. Things must be of timely mention. All’s lost in sea voyages connected to Titanic. {Major vs. General. In military parlance a general outranks a major. In every other application major is more powerful than general.}
Itchy scalp? Why not shave your head & soak in gasolene? Disappointed with your gasolene? Why not add urine? It will boost the octane content helping your engine run more powerfully & smoothly! Tired of beans & rice? Why not shave your head & have your ears pierced?
Having trouble meeting men? Why not wear a sexy bikini?! A bikini, or 2-piece thriller, can call attention to your body. This attention, a stare over a glance, will advance you to the category of accompanied woman, over single, unaccompanied woman. Also enjoy other benefits afforded the bikini-clad woman: choice pew in church, cut-rate abortion, discount dog food…
If a Nazi dressed as a fire man produced a boot at a busy intersection & approached me as I waited in my Jap Nissan truck {built in Smyrna, Tennessee by red-necks} to solicit donations to help Nazi fire men I’d have to decline, perhaps by the next intersection, after some time to weigh the issue, I’d contribute a quarter — not to help his organization to spread Nazi-ism but to aid them in their tireless quest to douse fires.
If I were fitted only in bikini & Nazis chose me as Queen of National Socialism & my biological clock were ticking toward menopause & adopting was a financial impossibility, what with the lousy pay of Nazis & I’d contracted an ass infection in Czestochowa on top of everything else, then perhaps I would consider things in a different light. If I were approached incautiously by a brute who promised me worldly things in a murderous way then would I feign ignorance as to the goings-on of my Nazi benefactors? {Don’t forget those Xmas amputees what with their holiday ways & inability to wave bye-bye and use a post-hole digger simultaneously.} — Kiss me in the dark! We all fear darkness, many of us involuntarily empty our turd tubes at the slightest provocation. We are fearful yet receptive to the lovely embaces received in dim lighting. “Kiss me in the dark,” a beautiful woman may instruct. “Kiss me like a darkie,” doesn’t make any sense though.
Are you tired of taking medications that promise to make a huge difference in your wang’s size only to become nauseated, dizzy & irregular? What is the answer to wang bigness? A comprehensive abuse regimen including juvenile diabetes, shoe inserts & rubber hosing sounds logical but is cost prohibitive. Do what millions & billions of floppy men have done, the Bible-proven alternative: become a minister of the Holy Word! Tell anyone who’ll listen: the crippled, the very crippled, prisoners, fat people about why Jesus had to die & why you’d kill Him again given half the chance. Before your flabby friend knows the distinction between a whore & one with a dental plan {police plant} your paper work will be completed.
”No way!” I told my son. “And if your name were José I’d say: ‘No way‘ then I’d say your name José after I said ‘no way.’”
If Dad were born in Trinidad I could call him Trini-Daddy, but he was born in Texas so I just call him dumb fuck. {Don’t forget those special menstrual days whereat the best, possible treatment from the wife can be had for nary more than a lullaby.}
“Look!” A young boy yelled addressing the crowd, “Isn’t it Fred Excrement?!”
“I don’t like him because he smells,” someone blurted. — Shit big why don’t you? Shit like a large dog! The buffalo died for you. The Indians raised them — the Indians never wasted anything. They were stewards of the land. They loved tradition. They loved each other. They humped everything. They were prodigious in-so-far as humping goes. Humpty Dumpty sat on an Indian & the Indian humped him! {It’s not uncommon to suffer groinal/gonadal strain. Yanking can cause considerable trauma to this area. Frequent yankings can lead strained muscles causing mild to severe crotch — area discomfort.}
BLACK PEOPLE ON VACATION VISITING WHITE PEOPLE — She kissed me like an Italian. Her lips were spicy hot, her tiny toes, her tightly-packed hotchas, her scant knowledge of you-name-it, all by clever design, a way of pitching woo, a compactness of retarded movement, brewing swill in Pig City. I was expecting her bros. just in fr. Roma, Napoli, the cities varied. She would never kiss Italian-style again, even if I chased her with another Italian. When suddenly you’ll know faster sexual relations! Faster, tastier than the Nazis knew during their REIGN OF HOMOSEXUALISM. Nazis conducted many experiments on hapless people but their most important & lasting contribution in homo dating was NAZI RULES FOR MEN DATING EACH OTHER. Hat-pin knew homosexualism was vital if Germany were ever again to know gayety. “I propose,” His-sore said in German, “that my birthday, April 19th, be also known as HOMOSEXUAL-GET-TO-KNOW-ONE-ANOTHER DAY, and so it was & is today, that is what Germany is all about: cuckoo clocks and queer meat.
“Oh Lord,” I pray, “don’t make slaves of latex, set our latex free! And then grant me: expanded powers of retention.”
“Help,” Joe Blow football star yelled, “I’ve yanked a groin muscle!” A common affliction. The groin accounts for most yankings. If I were team doctor, I’m just shy a team & medical degree, I would suggest exercises to strengthen groinal muscles. The groin or crotch or hidden valley is an area comparable to the states Georgia, Louisiana & Mississippi. Florida is the wagging hanger susceptible to rough winds & chronic meterological abuses. You scared me so much as that I had no excrement left = scared shitless. I refuse to distribute shit = I don’t give a turd.
According to German Nazis, killing Jews, queers, Catholics & retardates is “fun,” I couldn’t disagree more strenuously! Killing or, precisely, murdering these “people” isn’t “fun,” it’s barbaric! Tell Nazi Germans how wrong they are & not to follow anybody who ascribes to the teachings of the late Adolf Hitler. Also: Don’t be afraid to chew the ass out of any Hitlerite.
“It’s delightful to see you!” Old Joe threatened. “The delight’s on you,” Patty exported. Years before Joe was involved with Patty in a love affair with each others’ neighbors. “Ants can ruin any picnic,” Patty observed. “It’s worse than typhoid,” Joe added. Indeed it was. Patty had been hospitalized for a number of days, the victim of an ass infection. The doctor chewed her ass out & Patty was in no wise eager to allow him any further gnawing.
For fun in the kitchen: beat the shit out of 3 eggs.
“Don’t you throw that bed pan at me!” The nurse yelled angrily.
“Oh I won’t,” I said as I beaned her with it. Later:
“Don’t you throw that urine bottle at me!”
Some day {in 6 years}: “You think you’re so big living to 50!” You’re only as young as a feel. God closes a door & throws you out a window. One day the good folks at F.E.M.A. called & I chiseled $900 off ‘em. They offered to tarp my roof & I told ‘em to go to hell.
People often lament on how incredibly
exciting it is just to be near me.
MARY JANE’S CIVIL RESTRAINT
Nothing came expected as Mary Jane hadn’t eaten solid foods in months. By now all signs of Korea had vanish’d taking Oriental misapprehensions along with it. M. Jane stooped to survey her options when the telephone rang: it was heart doctor F. Hickson asking personally-embarrassing or embarrassingly-personal questions: “Have you ever retreated on your taxes?”; “Would you marry a chimpanzee?” & stuff suchlike. She couldn’t, for the life of her, figure how such divergent queries pertained to her. Later she concluded that Dutch Hickson was after her nether port lands.
Children! Recognize your abusers for who they are! Merciful death! A guise in schooling, back by popular demand!
There’d be no southern advances as she’d had strength to shore up her Holland colonies. Medico Hickson could bombard till his diplomas fell floorward, it’d make no impression in Thigh Land, civil restraint needn’t be learnt court-wise, love crumbles all, stern ingestions of the bombarded make marks everlasting.
LIPS OF TOTAL DARKNESS…Darkened waters of destructive force pooled around us, soon we’d be submerged about the ankles & breasts, for those with danglers. “Quick,” Mario Puzo ordered, “let’s climb that tree!”
“But Pussy,” {his pet name} I reasoned, “that
tree can only hold 6 & looks like we’re 14!”
“Never mind the details, let’s climb like monkeys!”
Later when I was alone I thought about all what’s transpired: the flood, Mario “Pussy” Puzo’s faith in trees, sagging danglers are also known as breasts and for all the good done by Girl Scouts I can’t help to wonder how much better America would be if Canada were plowed under forcing Canadians to live in trees. Tomorrow’s another day, diurnally-speaking.
The greatest gift given man has been knowledge of God recorded word-for-word in the Bible centuries after without detail lost. Minds crisp & retentive fed by that of the Creator.
HITLER VERSUS THE INHERENT GOODNESS
IN ALL MEN {Except Germans}
{Translated from devilish German} Hitler speaks {to Bormann}: “Listen, there’s no reason to hurt Russia. The Russians are a
goodly people & I admire Rasputin.”
”What?!” Bormann exhorted, nazi-ly rising from his seat, back-handing the Father of the 3rd Great German Empire, one destined to be the greatest since the days of Imperial Rome, across the chops & nearly damaging his moustache.
“Oww-wee!” Hitler exclaimed. “What’cha do that for?!” Then: “Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?” Asks he to quote Patrick Henry to the Virginia Convention, and: “No one following an elephant needs to knock the dew off the grass”…continued Hitler recalling his favorite Ashanti proverb, and that sad day in 1920 when former American vice president Levi Morton died at 96.
For X’mas: “Piddles”; ROBOTIC DOG: The Piddler:
pees unexpectantly! Real dog sniff & lift technology!
Operates on re-charged batteries.
“DON’T SPIT ON MY WALLET, if you do I won’t be able to put it back without getting my pocket wet! Surely if I had a rag I wouldn’t mind so much! I don’t carry a rag — never did.”
See Polacks & Dagos {Big P & D out of respect} live it up outside Poland & Italy in their 2nd-most natural setting: America, U.S.A.! See them talk & act stupidly! What are they like with others? And what about romance? Could one love another & please mammy too? Who knows? Who cares?
With barely enough bun to conceal his wiener Joe Hot Dog skipped happily to Kitty Parsley’s Hut {or Kitty’s parsley hut}. She was his girl friend & he had something big & satisfying to relate: “I’ve joined the navy!”
“Oh,” she nearly swooned, “I’m nearly insane with pride! You
are going to defend & perhaps die for my freedom, my mother’s
& that guy’s across the street.”
“What,” he asked, “the pervert?”
“Oh, all right…” Joe mused. “Hey,” he said enthusiasti-
cally, “check out my hot dog why don’t you?!”
“Joe,” Betty cried, “it’s beautiful!”
“Looks like I’ll be sleeping with men in the navy!”
“What again?” She chided.
With hardly enough creamy mustard to cover his hot wiener old Joe H. Love {the H stands for Hot} could hesitate no longer to get to his new girl friend’s trailer.
“Oh,” she nearly puked with joy, “finally
my prayers have been answered!”
“God answers all of them,” Joe said. His use of religion
greatly excited Patty & she was ready to do some old-
fashioned trailer praying when rang the phone.
“Bad news Joe, father’s had a heart attack!”
“Oh shit!” Joe involuntarily shitted.
“We’ve got to get to the coronary care trailer now!” She ordered.
“Oh piss!” Joe let go with the bag taped to his side.
“Aren’t you done?” Patty assed.
“You have a beautiful ass,” Joe observed, “it reminds
me when I used to drive a school bus whilst intoxicated.”
“Never mind that — check this out!” She cried brazenly &
hussy-like exposing the most symmetrical butt end he
had ever experienced.
“Before we sees Pop give me a gander at your pylons!”
“Sure thing,” Patty said accomodatingly & matching words to trailer court music she removed the last vestage of all womanly resistance. 2 weeks later her sister would fall into the tangled strings of a Joe & Patty Love 3-some. And things said suchlike could be over-heard: “Oh Joe, give me more corn pone!” and “What’s the lot rent on this trailer anyhow?” {Later I’ll show you how one woman’s sexual misgivings cost her 3 puppies & a crate of oranges.}
“Who’s there?” I questioned in frightened
voice like the late Merle Haggard.
“It’s only me Cardiologist Doctor F.
Lee Hickson, do not be alarmed.”
“Doctor Hickson,” said I relieved, “I thought
you were the ghost of Merle Haggard!”
And now back to the trailer & the
triangular love as mentioned earlier…
“Have you forgotten?” Betty reminded Patty.
“What?” Patty ventured.
“We’ve invited cardio-specialist F. Hickson,
M.D. to dine in our trailer this night.”
“Holy crap really? You think he’ll show?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Bett’ asked, somewhat pissed.
“Don’t block your ureters on my account, I was
just askin’! Also: climb down off my ass!”
”Alright, alright,” Batty said. “We’d better hide all
materials offensive to a man in Hickson’s position.”
”Shhhh,” Patty shhhh’d, “I think we’re being monitored
— oh, it’s okay, it’s only the government.”
“Thank God,” Betty said.
REMEMBER: Only a gynecologist can diagnose you gynecologi-cally! And for the LAY-D’s: The national chapter of gynecological patients will meet this Tuesday in a tunnel by the river someplace. Don’t miss it — we’ll be serving dogs & burgers.
Yesternight I dreamt I witnessed Prince Jesus crucified upon
a tree, a telephone pole & the Washington Monument.
“Why?” I asked the mistress of Postulants,
“…must we be photographed in black & white?”
“Shut up and finish your snow-shoveling!”
It was then, as a novice, that I began fearing God’s total power.
I started to reflect on destitute children’s love of garbage-
dump food & glue-sniffing.
“Why O Lord do I lack basic medical training?”
“You’re skating on thin ass!” The cop warned.
”Thin ice,” I corrected, earning me his wrath. “You’re not
going to chew my ass out are you?” I inquired moments
before he chewed my ass out.
Xmas time is upon us & the time to perpetrate holiday sex crimes. Santa’s known for gift-giving to strangers. He flies about, seconds count, dumping his load, with little time for personal concerns; the fat bastard gots to make good while the gettin’s advantageous.
Futuristic women are out there: time-lined, slim & functioning robots. They will be well-versed, well everything, loving com-panions but only to robotic men.
Futuristic nephews will rule the avuncular world
setting limits, encouraging viticulture.
Some day, even as a man on the slide to worthless, I will become a nun. The postulancy: grand silence, selfless love, obeyance to the Mother General. How, why, when {if not soon} this will come to pass is in God’s hands. Only He knows the hour when this secular brother becomes a sister.
NIGHT PROMISES: What an eye-opener: my experiences with natural health {& splendour}. Lilacs blooming in Alaska, which is principally frigid. Arabs squatting, people of ungodly bend doing like-ways. I believe in fair play with no competition, Elect Me!…And now let us return to trouble in Israel. Let us not fall slack in our interest in all things Jewish…
Why suffer from hemorrhoids when you can blame & frame others for minor crimes? Those you’ve committed? Shouldn’t you listen to the call of the ancient hormone in delicate matters of stressful, romantic chase? Are you completely stupid in the way you figure out whatever it is you’re supposed to be handling? [One thing has always been with regards concerning me: I don't need to be told again & consequently {or subsequently} I don't need my ass chawed thru.] I just wish that a fire man & a tax man could have a baby together. Because it proves nothing, nothing is impossible! Oh fire-extinguishing man & tax-collecting man — why can’t love be like this always?! Or better: give me your tired & diseased yearning for romance…
BARN-YARD BUDDIES
[Those folds to close...those clothes to fold.]
The enchanted women of Holland fuck with strong
will & abandon. I’ve always admired them for it.
Living below sea level dampens a woman.
When I lived on a farm I was surrounded by farm animals — these animals were my family members — they comforted me in times of international warring when my country was engaged in revolt against our most hated enemies.
Hooray for my knockers! and The pit-falls of sharing — I didn’t attend college because those who do must be exceptionally intelligent. Da, my college education’s really startin’ to pay off with this toilet paper that’s so soft, soothing & relaxing. It will be not possible to stay awake whilst using it.
Sharing reduces the amount of something you get or your share. Some things shared make more, example: disease & racial intolerance. If I had a million I’d use 200 dollars of it to research disease cures, the rest to hunt down tax cheats. Next: A bitter memory: When I was a child my father had a friend who was a tax cheat. He enjoyed it claiming it made him feel good.
Let’s all go to tsunami town & wave at
people…just give them a big wave.
“You have beautiful knobs & cones, why
don’t you make something of yourself?”
“Thanks for the knob/cone compliment & for your concerns but I am well on my way to financial success with KNOB & CONE GEL! Just a dab of K & C will enliven, brighten & perk up your pouched sloggies. Why eat garbage when you can partake trash? Why ride Miss America when you can board Miss Tokyo?”
“It’s true General Eisenhower: Only a broad can identify with
the suffering of a transvestite since Western women wear
pants, ties, button-down shirts & work boots.”
Ike thought about that for the longest time.
“Hurry up ass-hole, we’re losing another world war!”
I said in hopes of getting him off his pocked ass.
During my hours spent dead-tired, when I’m not suffering skin lesions or tooth delay or having my ass chawed hollowed, I enjoy evenings with my wife getting ear-fulls of her sorry job, sorry American bums & sorrowful moments in Vietnam. There are better ways to kill time but first we must torture it. {Wow 50 cents off on your next bottle of disinfectant! “Holp, I’m being disinfected by tunnel-dwelling ne’re-do-wells!”}
If I ever have to kill a cop in self-defense, or out of boredom, I’ll make it a head-shot, quick & painless, a win-win situation: well-needed target practice for me, one fewer pig in the world.
Not long ago, while having my sister inoculated, I willed myself back to a brilliant time of Bible doings when a man could sharple conquest roving hither and thither. If I’d ever killed a cop back then, for self-preservation or spite, it would be of Biblical significance. Fair Jesus would be made aware, His thoughts traced Godward.
F. Red Fairfield {fr. a few pages back} enjoyed the dealings at the hock shop & loved to skin dive in Lake Huron, he wasn’t aware of the one in Michigan. This is the self-same Fred Red Fair-etc. from Misty Falls {as mentioned previously} who loved Amanda: the woman with everything that was popular. Quick titted & mischievous, she knew the why’s & what-for’s of popularity. She’d never concealed those things what made her so. She could out-bone anyone and was comfortable undergoing minor surgery.
“Can’t we be barn-yard pals? Must we be worked to lather like Roy Rogers did Trigger?” Yes, fenced-farm comrades, we’d always be as if a wedding had been amongst the clumps of shit. Who’s behind such gatherings? Why, it’s cardiologist Dr. F. Lee Hickson!”
“Eff me Nixon?!”
”No, F. Lee Hickson!”
“Say, he can be my yard barn slutty any time!”
”Flush safe,” I bade. “It’s like having a secret service man in the toilet with you!” {Isnae it a fine day? The howes bestrewed with the corpses of enemies slain.}
“Effly Higgins, have-a you always been a
cardio-what’cha-ma-calls it?”
“Be ye ware,” Effy Henderson spoke, “of those
things eternal, the barn-yard enemies!”
BARN-YARD ENEMIES…”Do not attempt to corrupt my mind,” I warned a desperate Jehovah’s Witness, “I can witness shit for Jehovah without stepping foot in a Kingdom Hall!”
If you pray extra hard you’ll be able to get extra stuff from God. God appreciates the added prayers & never forgets a favor, that’s how Liberace became queer & why the Eiffel Tower is so ugly.
Clawing my ass like a tigress yet observing proper etiquette, as the opposite of improper etiquette, and pageant rulings, Señorita Americana Norte stunned the Great White World with unbiased bravery & single-minded purpose. She would be in front of efforts to de-nut strays & re-nut congress. Her barn-yard experiences did not afford her the luxury of wild walks on nature trails, dancing for congressional men or feeling poles of the vaso-dilated.
Steve understood, as neighbor, that I was no friend to the racially intolerant & that I have a 6th sense in regards to tax cheats. He, in my company, minded his p’s & q’s knowing full well that if he so much as blurted nig or fifth amendment I’d chew his ass out but good.
“George Washington can’t help you now!” I said to Martha in a dream last night as I pelted her with Mount Vernon-brand apples.
“Take that!” ‘Ham Lincoln. “Here’s meager pay-back for the landwrack!” Yelled I in a dream last night as I threw Martha Washington at him. Let us not sugar-coat our misgivings, for was it not the Lord what said: “I lay my life on the line as example.”?
Why must we build shacks on muddy hillsides?
Manufacture bacon substitutes? Cover our gorgeous
bodies in spectacular evening gowns?
Often dinners wife-prepared include, but are not limited to, these shocking sideral effects: cramps, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, laxative dependency, severe pain, constipation, fainting, dehydration, electrolyte disorders, diverticulitis, dyslexia, eczema, refractory congestive heart failure, sinusitis, sciatica, religious doubts. — “Would you be willing to roll my donuts while I adjust your neck joints?” A wife’s friend bargained. “No,” I said, “because it sounds adulterous.”
UNQUENCHABLE, BURNING LUST —
“Stick with me,” the snot said to the toilet paper.
“Thru thick & thin,” the toilet paper replied.
The way she moved taught me much about female body language. I’m no good at translations but it seemed her nipples were want for air, her other hidden areas were too struggling beneath her frilly gown. She held charge to unquenchable, burning lust, she was super-charged with sexual alacrity & sensual something or other. I knew early-on she would be an excitingly-aggressive lover or an aggressively-exciting one. Her name held a mysterious nature, I would call her Estrella at times & Anitra, Shawndrica & Lulu at others for some reason. Later she would engage me in “the monkey dance.” This dance had its seductive side much like “the dolphin spin” & “the dogs-in-heat tango.”
Her world was one in which huge men could
be large transvestites, Italians didn’t have mafia
connections & America only tortured itself.
“Wonderful! Better than a restaurant! If they made food as
good as yours I’d have sex with the chef!” I told the wife
in a rare display of praise-worthiness.
I desire to walk freely among men or women, breathing
the same air, listening to the same bull-shit, united
behind the White House jack-ass.
“Help police! That bum tried to force
me to take his booze money!”
Self-love got you seeing double? Confused by the witless? Interested in all manner of “sexual harassment?” It’s a celebration of sexhood, a ringing of bells and a how-do-you-do. Make way for “sexy harassment,” the kind what brings cheer to beer, nose bleeds & outs perverts lurking in bushes. Say for fun: “You look pretty good in that sweater!” or “I can’t help but to fantasize about you whilst peeling potatoes.”
Admissions of a cornea thief…
Tell me something about how & why you steal corneas.
— I steal corneas because I’m good at it and it’s the only
thing I know. I’m not “college educated.” I have to steal
corneas to feed my family —
Your family eats corneas?
— Yes & they love them.
Do you know what a cornea is?
— No.
—Everyone makes a lot these days of sexualism & gender identity. Once, & only, I questioned mine. I was at the hypnosis center under the spell when I spoke of the next-door neighbor guy as my “wife.” Everyone tittered especially with all the tit-related abuses suffered at the humane center for cruelty…Like an unspiced noodle I slithered onto the spicy side of our matrimonial bed. The wife laid there dead to the world as if killed by natural disaster, an unsalted walnut or as someone slain by Geo. Washington. She related several desertless abuses suchlike: killing Dracula by hawthorn bush. I want to live a long life full of intrigue & political corruption devoted to tracking down & killing tax cheats, penal sodomy’s too good fer ‘em!
“No water or supper can slake the
raising desire of my burning lust!”
“What about Miss America?”
“No! Not even the Miss of all Americas including the Falklands!”
“Well…perhaps…perhaps some day you’ll experience fiery longing, unattainable elephant musth, the gorges of the Grand Cañon, plumbers on vacation, vacationing with plumbers & then suddenly returning to their offices. Latch on to the worst idea ever: one that even Miss America cannot conceal behind talent — a talent so unattainable , so cañon-profundo & mild like the re-assuring babble of a lawyer, & Swiss-holed with a cheesy placenta,”
Perhaps this late, when I get to Cuba, there’ll still be openings for education-brigade members in Camagüey, one still’s hope, revolución is what it is, laxative dependency & conscription. I hate it when the bus driver has a heart attack.
She threaten’d to rub my ass with a bar of soap.
“You promised!”
“What?”
“To rub my ass with a bar of soap!”
”No I didn’t! I threatened to do it!” or “Hey sexy cow-girl, want me to rub some salve on your saddle sores?”
Her barn-yard extremism haunted the barm felt, everybody enjoined a clasp at thr pipe yard, bit you canst stance the stunned nor plunge further the cripplement of the imbecilic…lyrical moorings, croodling into the night life {Henry Miller}, stop gaps & fuss-pots, currents off exchange, ameliorating penship, pissing in surges, protecting, drowning in air as had the Phantom From Space.
Oh Deare rub something the Wong way — make me pine for Chine & all things Hunan. Protect your brain from crashes & don’t lie with the penned: pigs & ducks spread the influenza from Hong Kong to Shen Yang.
Never a person who enjoyed dental work I was hesitant to submit to more, even minor, tho it was, cleaning. I had a world of respect for the dentist. No one was more knowing in Saigonese & Viet Cong strategy. He’d been recommended me by a wife’s friend, another 5-footer. I’ve always preferred my women 6 to 14 inches shorter than me. I have my reasons.
Every woman’s yearning =
ARIZONA DREAM BOY, every man’s best friend…I’m so excited I’m suffering from goose acne.
I was born in Arizona just as my mother’s pregnancy was ending, I was a tall & robust baby. The delivering doctor said I’d grow to be in excess of 6 feet, but first they’d better get a diaper on me — no telling the damage I could do to white shag carpeting. Once restrained I was instructed in language, math, history. It wouldn’t be long if I didn’t start tucking it in. My teachers were dumb-struck or -founded from early on & many committed suicide rather than to go on living. One who decided to {go on living}, was Mr. Timothy, he was a contrary individual who would not kill himself, perhaps he had Vietnamese nightmares or couldn’t eat without utensils. {Prison is a waste of my precious time…fr. “Arizona Dream Boy”}.
One day was like any other & I wasn’t about to let anybody chew my ass out & get away with it. If I had to fight the ass chewers — spilling blood, crushing skulls, breaking ribs then so be it! True, I was a dreamy boy from Arizona, & sexy as a girl just off a bus, but I had an active mind & holy shit! I was going to prove it!
Finally we arrived beachside, mother had thrown up a lot because she had anorexia nervosa, father’d gotten lost & couldn’t concentrate because he had bi-polarism, sister had attention-deficit, hyper-activity disorder & she had it bad. I told her stuff & couldn’t remember it. Looks like I caught it from Sis. Maybe drugs could save me?
One day like I knew from nothing. My eggs were runny like an acne cyst. If I had a cat, I wouldn’t have treated him humanely. Sadly, mercy could not be afforded Moslems, at least not with the current state of fourth generation warfare & what not.
Next: Cooking with UN-natural gas, the kind of which nature never intended.
Help me if you must, just don’t chew my ass out! For the sake of children I never engage in public matters that are better kept private. My private life is such: I work at the horse-food factory, play tennis with queers & love a woman twice my weight. I do not intend to marry outside my gender. I collect srem cells as a hobby. My father died before he was born & I enjoy ridiculing people who have risen within the central government.
The French are so artistic — what a Frenchy can do with a bar of soap is astounding — everything but use it. Never one to know better I began my brand of “French.” Sure, it was mostly farts & hisses, low groans, black-board gratings, cries for help, but God damn it, it was frog & the amphibians lifted their arms in triumphe. “Enough of that! ” I begged. Pray I don’t catch something uro-!
I’ll never forget coming home after 2 weeks of honey-mooning in Scranton to find the house infested with niggers & not just the little ones that get into your underpants but big, woolly ones. I called professionals & they said that nigger infestation was on the rise. What to do? I say, kill them! Kill them all! Or, at least, subdue them somewhat. Either way it would be expensive. I asked if Ethel Merman were available. No, she had died in 1984. — The Italians are such fine artists. Every thing they douche has a vinegary thrill to it. I’ll never eat amour unless I can do it the “Italian way.” {When the love hits your face like a fresh can of mace…}
Remember children & dumb ones: Jesus died for Christmas. He was crucified on a pole and gifts were placed around it — that was the 1st Christmas tree. Later a heavily-bearded, obese, white man became Santa Claus as his midget friends were elves.
Fred Fairfield missed Amanda, they had lived in Misty Falls since February & now he was alone. Disheartened by her sudden mental illness, yet bolstered by penicillin, Fred moved cautiously thru nearby Holly Meadows for fear of waking the respectful teenagers who slept at the youth hostel. Never one to expose himself, he felt the need to expose the injustices in contemporary society. If only Amanda could be normal Fred could resume Christmas festivities in warming comfort or comforting warmth. Quick-witted, inquisitive teenagers would be of use Fred reasoned. There’ve never been more in one place than at a youth hostel. Perhaps if several were engaged as detectives, gatherers & espionage specialists…but who could know? General Washington bathed in the river & Ambassador Franklin enjoyed San Quentin quail. So many complexities…
Mr. Timothy, a trustful teacher, often walked alone — a true atheist, a right-thinking humanist, he knew which side faced north: yellow; which part tipped south: brown. You couldn’t pool the bull over his thighs!
Last night I worshiped Jesus King crippled upon a tree. He was in no wise well. He had been bruised & put upon & unable to lower His arms. I suffered first watch {under God’s total power}.
So much to enjoy in this wild world of take-it-or-leave-it: digging for treasure, eating left-overs, walking with my legs funny. {It’s difficult to figger what’s sure in this wide plane: leg transferrals, babish concerns, unfettered breast development, things suchlike…} For fun, somewhere other than the kitchen, beat the eggs out of 3 shits.
A MAN OF 76
“Not bad for a man of 76!” I said to the Nancy Reagan look-alike.
“It’s lesbian-inspired torture,” she said.
“Convolvulaceous,” I added tho neither of us knew what it meant.
“Are you still planning the Mexican whore-house trip?”
“Yes. Won’t you please join me?!”
“No,” she said sternly, “I can not!”
So that was that, I’d have to experience Mexican whores alone, forlorn, with barely a grasp of Mexy slang, Mexy sex: which I believed had changed since 1972.
“Don’t regret too right.”
“I won’t. I’ll be with whores but thinking of you,” said I somber-like.
“Yes, how sweet…better go.”
I would not see her again, the road was lined with whores. The president was a whore. As long as they don’t chew my ass out what do I care?
The day after Xmas 2005: Help! I’ve gone totally nuts for God! This was the Xmas that pushed me over. I was just sitting at home eating a meal, thanking nobody but myself when the voice of terror {God} struck fear into my wife, it could’ve been nazis, the self-same ones that Sherlock & Watson Holmes had to deal with in Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror {1942}.
I am not a superstitious transvestite but when God speaks you’d better prick up your ears & everything & listen. The citizens’ band radio nudes {buffs} used to ask: “Have you got your ears on?” Then, they were just a bunch of sodomy-loving neighbors, friends, family & loved ones. The decapitated Julia Child or some moron during the American Revulsion said most eloquently: “I have butt.”
Cats: neutered, spayed, all kinds of stuff done to them. Look out, here comes another self-confident catterino! Breaking the back of a membrane, remembrances of Goliad: the fire-wood fiasco.
THE DAY LASSIE BIT ME
One day I was picking dandelions for poor children when Lassie clamped down on my ass. I let out a loud, defensive fart temporarily stunning the bitch. Moving to a safe spot I assessed my wounds which weren’t too serious. Lassie was wobbly & incoherent so I smashed in her skull with a brick.
The day I was attacked by Rudd Weatherwax, jr. {Lassie’s husband}. One day I was picking pockets when I felt R.W., jr. clamp down on my ass, etc.
The day I retaliated against various people at the insane asylum. — All was well & peaceful at the insane asylum & the brooms were put away for the evening. The crazies were all sitting around the T.V. urinating thru their clothes whilst the warders played grab-ass or stink-finger or whatever they call it in these days o’ double -speak. I’m no Paul Bunyan {or Regis Philbin or Cloris Leachman} but when it comes to getting the job done ofttimes I’m hard to come by, but not today — Today I’ll fix ‘em with vasectomies.
Lovingly I vomited my love oaths & they gushed projecting everlasting love. My girlfriend loved it & rolled around like a beagle, then like a monkey, then like a beagle again.
The day Hairy-Ass True Man tried to give me a nelson or a wedgy. — I was sitting up when it all went down. Snuck from behind up on I was shocked by surprise as lifted my undies became into the all-crack zone of my crevasse . I shifted my bun weight averting serious rope burn & rolled around like a beagle, then like a girlfriend, then like a monkey.
Give someone a hug today except lepers, stay away from them because they’re lepers.
My old mother complained of pain & her car & a number of things. I enticed her into a shed. She’ll be safe here, I reasoned, pad-locked till morning.
Full bust’d — deep cunted — FUN AT PARTIES! Now hiring out sexy women all legs & teeth! Dine out or eat in, swim, apply a hair piece, swive me about the sweet breads, witness a moider, collect a rare disease that’s tropical in nature.
Toist of the Town = her keepers are whoppers, her whoppers are arm-loaded down for easy totin’ — Don’t kill no one who ain’t attacked you foist or stole your shit. {Fully registered @ K-Mart & ready for love. My K-days are over as I inter-net my access up in the distance…}
For fun: brush teeth backwards. For an even greater sense of fun tighten underpants with a tourniquet what like they used to free Irak, Somaliland, Haiti, Panama & many other once-sovereign countries.
Gen. Ob. {general observation}: Few of us enjoy underpants that bind, grab & twist. My family was so poor I had to sneak up on cows & steal their milk.
Orange City: Facing the day daily with a confident, full-head of hair, as teen-agers day dream: I didn’t ask to be born. All’s peaceful & quiet save a bird singing outside my window. I wish I had some bird poison what with these big pot-guts on my ass, large pots of dago simmering in Mary Grace’s kitchen, several mobsters kicking someone once they’re down, a crooked president collecting bribes. It’s a bribe-collecting, kicking-someone, big-pots July. I remember July 7, 1977 when people bet 7s in Pennsylvania’s rip-off lottery. [Nobody dared blame Milton Shapp, one-time, maybe 2-time governor.]
Nextly: How to make the back of your house look like the front of your house, or: How to make the front of your ass look like the back.
Never will I regret our loving nite of passion. You tried to leave or even escape which you claim is now in fashion. I held on tight with all my might to wrists & swollen ankles. You wouldn’t shut up so I called the cops, & Never will I regret our passionate rite of loving — your kisses, hugs & recriminations & all that goddamned yelling. You bitched & carped, raved & ranted. Your ass hit the floor like the room was slanted. You wore nothing except your clothes — covering your cunt, tits & toes. Walking about on your legs like you do, using your feet one in each shoe. Negotiating turns, driving a car on the turnpike. You act a lot like some cross-dressing bull lesbian — Sudden-like this thing has hit me unlike the DAY LASSIE BIT ME…
NEVER WILL I FORGET our passionate night of bowlin’
I placed a ringer on your finger
Now it’s greened & swollen
You looked at me with mournful eyes
Eyes which could not linger
Like ever-largening cherry pies
Even redder than my dinger
NEVER WILL I FORGET OUR PASSIONATE NITE OF KISSING
I placed my lips upon your lips now I see one is missing
You looked at me with your one good eye
An expression so strange & telling
If someone bit off my lower lip you’d hear a hell of a lot of yelling
NEVER WILL I FORGET OUR PASSIONATE NITE OF WALKING
We walked & walked in sun, in rain
Was not the lightning shocking?
It knocked you down to the ground
My poor, poor burned-black lover
You didn’t breathe, you didn’t move
As I ran so fast for cover
NEVER WILL I FORGET THE INJURIES YOU SUFFERED
The shattered bones, the puffy flesh
Your legs & arms & numbness
Your mother cried o why o why
Till your father could not take it
Seems a lot of people visited you
Sorry I couldn’t make it
AT THE DINNER TABLE I really started feeding
Eating everything what came my way
Till my nose holes started bleeding
I filled up fast & nauseous like some guy named Luke
I heaved & heaved for quite some time till finally I had to throw up
TODAY WAS A DAY just like there’s been no other
At home was I, my dog & cat & poor decrepit mother
She suffers the cold & flu & sometimes allergic reaction
The dust & mites, mold & fleas & the odd-ball, molar impaction
Her sinuses cannot tolerate my half-blind dog named Lucus
Her head swells, her chest heaves as well as an increase in mucus
HELPING AN OLD WOMAN ACROSS THE STREET is a lot different than helping yourself to an old woman…across the street. {R.J. + R.X. Thripp}
DEAR MOVIE EXPERT
1. Did Humphrey Bogart become lion shit in The Wagons Roll at Night?
— No, but he was mauled & died as a result. His body was not digested by killer lion Caesar though.
2. Did Eddie Albert pork Sylvia Sidney in The Wagons Roll at Night?
— There was no porking in the movie. Incidentally, Albert ends up pawing a young & toothy Joan Leslie {playing Bogart’s sister}.
3. Did Sylvia Sidney abort Nick’s {Bogart’s} baby in The Wagons Roll at Night?
— No. There was no mention of a baby although Sidney played an unporked fortune teller.
FISHING WITH ANNETTE — Yesterday I fished with Annette. We caught many bass & 3 carp. Annette was very pleased but had to throw up anyway for reasons unrelated to anything that happened in the boat.
TOO MANY WOMEN
I used to think that having to bed a different woman every night was a pain in the cock. So much emphasis on performance. It’s so hard, or should I say difficult, keeping women in line, once one strays she must be harshly disciplined as a living example to the others or in the case of the mafia: not so living. One night I had to do a 19-yr.-old gal in a hurry. Her dad was a trapeze artist & her mother had lost 2 toes to diabetes, a diabetic elephant had stepped on her foot. Any f,’ this gal was anxious to have it done with, so I put the hammer down. The next night, different motel & different strumpet, when I suddenly remembered the elephant story. I laughed so hard I nearly had cardiac arrest. It just goes to prove: there are too many women or are there? Yes there are…
In my new book, Gay Fire, I delve deeply into those 8 turbulent years of Bill Clinton.
In my new book, Homosexual-Lesbian, Dyke, Muff-Diving Criminal, I delve into those 8 turbulent years of Hillary Clinton.
BUZZ & ME
“Would you like to use the lunar-command module?” Buzz asked.
“Thanks Buzz, I think I will!”
Later Buzz asked: “Would you like to use the lunar rover?”
“Thanks Buzz, I think I will!”
NEIL ARMSTRONG & ME
“Would you like to monitor the lunar surface?” Neil Armstrong asked.
“Who are you & what have you done with Buzz?”
and LATER {on another mission}: “Buzz, where are you?”
“I’m operating the guidance mode.”
“Where’s Neil Armstrong?”
“He’s operating the command mode.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the shit house.”
NEIL ARMSTRONG & MY BROTHER
N.A. to my bro: “Would you like mustard on your weenie?”
“Watch it Neil!” I cautioned, “My brother’s more of a burger man…”
THE DAY STEVE CAME OVER
I’d been preparing for Steve’s visit, he’s our neighbor, for quite some time. I’d cleaned the toilet thoroly & all the plates, spoons & forks, Steve would be pleased. Then I vacuumed everything that stood still. If I had a cat I would’ve put it out & the stinking shit box but I don’t so that was something I didn’t have to be concerned about. I’d planned Steve’s visit for noon, any earlier & I couldn’t’ve coped.
Steve arrived at 12:02 & we sat down, or at least he did, for a sumptuous lunch with wine followed by dessert, a short film & prostitutes. By 5 Steve was headed out: “We ought to get together again sometime!”
“No way Steve!” I said. He laughed: “No, really.”
“Steve,” I began, “if you ever come to my house again I’ll shoot you repeatedly.” Next: Preparing For Some Guy From Work Who’s Dropping By.
RACHEL CARSON “worked” for the central govt…& in 1962 published a “book” Silent Spring about the under-handedness in America’s box spring mattress industry. In 1964 she was eaten by snakes.
See also Carson, Rachel {1907-64}, Snake Taunter.
SECRET PANTIES
She had lived a private & secretive life for years. Her breasts were delightful & her legs, hips & on-her-way-out portions too. She’d lived for many years with her diminishing beauty unaware of a package of unopened panties in a box tucked away in the attic. When questioned by the government the subject hadn’t come up or when asked by her doctor for a stool sample or by the pool man for a water sample. The secret panties remained what they’d always been: a mystery. {Or: The mystery panties remained what they’d always been: a secret.}
ATTACKED BY SECRET PANTIES
Throughout the time her panties were stored, forgotten, unopened, Gloria Johnson lived an active, single life. Her panties were inanimate & thus incapable of attacking anybody, but one night, when things were moist & virginal, Gloria felt a strange sensation: that just such a thing was possible.
SADNESS
Timmy asks: “Why is the bathroom specialist so sad? And why’s he squatting over a coffee can behind that tree stump?”
“Because Timmy, he, the bathroom specialist, has spent so much time hooking up toilets for others he’s neglected to provide a toilet for himself.”
“Holy Christ, that is sad!”
CARY GRANT SAT MOTIONLESS as the mayor proclaimed it Cary Grant Day. He would receive the kegs to the city & a plague saying he was better than a wino {or: He would receive the keys to the city & a plaque saying he was better than Ed Sullivan.}. He rose mechanically, when time came to say some thankful stuff, and approached the podium. Hissing & crackling sounds he began with then whirring, sparking pops & scratchy phonograph record-like noises. Smoke wafted from his nose holes {nostrils} & one eye grew dark {opaque}. He raised his left hand to cover it for the lid had locked at a peculiar angle. By this time a burning-tire smell was coming out his ears. Some suggested it wasn’t Cary Grant but merely a cleaverly-designed machine. They couldn’t have been more mistaken because that nite was his honeymoon & he didn’t mess up at all.
COW SCRAPS…Scraps of cow littered the butcher shop’s floor. “I’m not that kind of a girl!” The butcher man’s hot date said. “What kind are you?”; “The kind who knows how to get the most out of 180 lbs. of ground meat.”
It’s not what I didn’t say but how I didn’t say it.
PLUMBING FOR LOVE
So many people engaged in the plumbing profession, often single men with sexual deformities. They’re unable to perform in any manner — more worthless than castrates they are. Often you’ll run across a “married” plumber only to find his “wife” is just some other plumber in drag. It’s so sad only because it’s so common.
FALLOPIA: the girl with the tubes…We met in a tunnel. She had many tubes.
On her face she wore a variety of rouges,
Reminding me of 2 or 3 of the Stooges.
She had a low-slung ass & was broad in the beam.
She carried a pocket comb & a pair of scissors.
She prided herself on fast & accurate results.
I believe she knew the meaning of auto calibration.
Once, whilst in the throes of dispassionate love,
she pulled an alligator from her purse.
Of course it was small…you couldn’t fit a
full-grown one in a purse.
If ever I suffer from myopia,
I will no longer see Fallopia.
UTERA: the girl with a uterus. She’s all girl — she’s got a uterus!
Bragging about her uterus, Utera found herself addressing a crowd outside a butcher shop. “We want chicken prices to come down!” They shouted.
“I too,” proclaimed Utera, “would like to see poultry prices stabilize.”
“Utera?” Questioned one innocent chicken buyer. “What’s up with gas prices?”
“The war in Iraq for one, altho whipping countries with a shit load of oil should bring prices down you’d think.”
And months before: I would eat my dinner out of a bucket for you. I would allow buckets to become a regular part of my life, more so than now. My money would be stored in them & family heirlooms, worker-men’s compensation &, cross your fingers, my lottery-lucky tickets what supported education in Florida.
“You’ll never work again,” the dr. warned, “unless you give up your life in buckets.”
“You’re crazy,” I responded from a giant bucket. “I’ll never forsake my buckets. I’ll die in buckets!” {My feet are so heavy what with the add’d wt. of beautifully-accentuated toe nails. The rims of my adenoids & the shoals of my swelter hole, the cliffs of my gob & Mt. Cream Cheese, snugly attached parts too, all in one bucket.} My left knee itches. My right ear twitches.
THE THREATENING DRIVING TEACHER, Elvis died for our sins as Jesus makes 30 stupid movies…
Let’s listen in {to the driving teacher}: “Wait for the light to change or I’ll rip your pancreas out!” — Pretty threatening wouldn’t you say? & later {same teacher talking}… “How’d you like it if I pushed my foot half-way up your ass?!” — Wow, that is super threatening. Wait till you hear what’s next: “You give me a look like that again & I’ll drive this car, like a proctologist, up your ass!” — Graphic heh? You really get a sense of the threatening manner this guy uses. If that wasn’t enough…”Brake! The next time I say brake you better brake or I’ll walk an elephant across your wind pipe!” — That is extremely threatening especially when you realize how heavy an elephant must be, even a small one!
SWEET MONKEY LOVE…There’s a little pygmy in all of us. I don’t know his name…
The sweetest love I’ve ever known, even sweeter than a wife’s attentive touch, has been sweet monkey love. My first monkey-love experience happened at the zoo. I had been greasing weasels when a lonely monkey caught my eye. I never learned of what sex it was but I’d like to believe it female. Any hoo we made sweet monkey love till several other monkeys attacked us. I’ll never forget my first monkey lover. I’ll never know another monkey sweeter. There’s a special place in my heart, the infarcted part, for my monkey honey.
SWEET-FIGHTING MONKEY {Wild & constipated}…
Girls come & go but a monkey’s love is no one-way street. One day I was at Wal-Mart greasing weasels when a c.s.m. attacked my ass. I was somewhat appalled & wished K-Mart was still around.
News of an exciting Easter. Once Easter arrives I’ll use nothing but rope of durable 100% polypropylene.
MY PROTECTRIX & I, we prepared for the most exciting Easter ever! It’d be an Easter that’d kick in the testicles all Easters past. We’d celebrate the Christian feast of the slain, the car-less, the idiots & apartment dwellers. Her purse would be heavy with Kate Smith’s meat: rhino, chimp, polar bear. I’d hang myself on her wordiness. Her ass, her aspirations, her message to all Israelites. Never would I doubt her, nor could I resolve the differences between my Mohammedan bros. & the one-worlders.
SELF-MASSAGE IN A PARKING LOT…This can be particularly relaxing alone or with the police demanding identification. Local self-massage involves: the right to an attorney or to have one present during massaging.
Beginning! Begin w/s.m. {self massage} by locating hands, place these palms down over targeted areas, with direct pressure {d.p.} smooth blood clots from distended appendage. Use shoe lace if necessary. Call for ambulance.
Remove Fungus the $99-way! For under a 100 bucks you can remove fungus! How? Buy the guaranteed $99 fungus remover. Not available in fungus stores. This offer is limited to 5 million orders — so hurry before your crack snaps! {?}
Mole Retreivers Needed. Experience a plus. Requirements = ability to pursue moles & vermin in underground situations, small pointed head, long arms & short legs. Apply @ county mole complex you freakin’ Morlock!
ONCE THERE WAS A COP made entirely of toilet paper. Whilst walking his beat he was shot. The emergency room physician approached the cop’s wife. “Doctor,” she cried, “is he going to be alright?”
“Yes, fortunately there was only slight tissue damage.”
Once there was a cop made entirely out of dog food. Whilst walking his beat he was shot. The emergency room physician approached the cop’s wife. “Doctor,” she cried, “is he going to be alright?”
“Your husband took a bullet below the waist.”
“Oh my God!”
“I’m sorry but his kibbles were shot off.”
FREUDIAN MA
“Though my pimp may control my body he doesn’t control my mind.”
“What’re you talkin’ about Ma?”
“Oh, nothin.’”
MY MIXED BERRIES: It’s like a 2-4-1 sale in my fruit drawers! Sun: the external giver of life. Tho far from Earth it provides us with light, heat & tanned, attractive berries. The weather looks inclement but my berries are firm & juicy! Try my mixed berries — they are a mixed blessing!
PUSHY WIFE
My wife’s been on my case for 10 years pushing me to get a sex-change operation. 10 years! Once she asked what I wanted for Xmas. Jokingly I said, “anything but a sex-change operation!” She exploded into little sex-change tears. It seems she had been saving for years — had the Swiss doctor & clinic all arranged. She’d even been secretly slipping me hormones. I tried to smooth things over telling her I’d think about it. “But you promised!” She sobbed.
“When?” I asked flabbergasted. “In my sleep?”
“Yes! And also in our marriage vows!”
”Our marriage vows?!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Here look!” And from inside her panties snuggled against her brunette pussy hair she produced our marriage vows, they were a bit stained but nonetheless from them she read: “Do you {my name} take this woman {hers} in sickness & health, through richness & sex-change surgery —
“What?! Lemme see that!” But she’d put it back before I could. “I’ll get it later when you’re asleep!”
“Just have the surgery, have it, be done with it!” She begged.
“Why don’t you have it?” I railed.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The doctor says you should only have one sex change in a lifetime & I already did.”
Boy was I ever surprised.
ROMANTIC STEVE IS BACK & he’s more romantic than ever. It’s almost like he never left us. Never minding he’s older & uglier.
Romantic Steve was at an age where romance didn’t come from his largely-swollen nuts but from his largely-swollen heart.
“Oh Romantic Steve,” spoke sweetly his new, vivacious lover, “you are every woman’s jack hammer, every man’s adjustable pliers.”
“You’re one crazy ho,” Romantic Steve said as he amended his medi-care application.
HOW TO MATE WITH PORCUPINES {Other porcupines do it, why can’t you?} Experience the pleasure of all God’s creatures with the magic doings of beastial delight. You’ll be nunning like a run. You’ll feel like Bess Truman at the post ofc., Lilian Hellman tying her shoes or Oscar Wilde doing his thing.
Once there was a cop made exclusively of THE PUTRID REMAINS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, and whilst shuffling to the beat a piano fell upon him. He was crushed to little more than a powdered sugar. His sugary remains were analysed & manufactured in bulk eventually ending up in diners in small packets as a sugar substitute across North America.
By now millions of happy diners have sweetened their coffee with this uniquely derived blend of synthetic Lincoln corpse material & police know-all.
“Doctor,” the cop’s wife cried, “is my hubby going to be o.k.?”
“Yes,” said the quack, “he gonna be jes’ fine. Now you alls goes home & gets some sleep ya hears?!”
“Oh Lord Frank!” Hysterically rattled she was. “His kibbles have been shot off!”
— Forever awaiting ass holes beneath me — a world rotating its own way. Born alone {save mom & the delivery room staff}, die alone {different people likely}.
60 degrees in Florida in December is bundle-up-fucking-cold weather. In New York it’s do-a-titty-dance-on-your-car-hood.
UNFLATTENED OR FLATTENED EYE CARE
It’s hard to have sex-change surgeries year after year, back & forth till finally doctors warn against it, even ones in Mexico. And you know that if Mexican doctors are unwilling then it’s impossible to get Brazilian ones to do anything. That’s the beauty of Brazilian physicians: they never second-guess their Mexican cohorts. It’s too bad how normal some can be whilst others are extremely abnormal. We must strive very hardily to understand our perverted brothers & sisters. They are demanding tolerance. Let us stay normal but not at anybody’s expense. Talent runs screaming & crying from Bob Zimmerman Dylan, untapped, untrapped, a soldier & stranger to winning & wit.
Thru the years I’ve learnt a lot about what’s involved in pleasing “a woman.” They’re not like rodents. It’s not the same as, “can you train my hamster Mister?” or, “My rat’s an idiot!” As a married “man” I’ve reached the point whereat a shit is all I have left to give.
It’s an unflattering world