Nonsense! 1.0

These are the weird little things that occurred to me during my late night paid binges of fluorescent light, that give me pause mid-task to jot down in my little notebook these squiggles, making me wonder if there is such a bar defining normalcy, whether I would frighten some people I knew if they read this.

The ride was called The Psychedelic Swirl and upon its completion he stepped off and remarked dizzily to his companion, “What a revolution!”

He dressed it up in his mind as something ephermal and transitional in nature, and accorded the respect due to such a state of mind.

“Life’s all about moving up the rung.”
“So what was there before ladders were invented?”

The laws of reality are being rewritten as we breathe, a monotone voice says as green-spectacled leprechauns caper around the fairy circles that blotch the White House lawn like ringworm infestations, Secret Service agents targeting with laser scopes the little green men, laughing to each other and going, “Oh! This is better than target practice in Afghanistan,” where they shot dark-skinned youths in loincloths who sprang from the smoke-bombed cave harems to run across the hot dust, a flurry of red dots converging on body parts.

Her crotch consolidated in the vulpine geometry of a fox’s head, its eyes glittering of fallopian secrets, its pink tongue slightly revealed under sharp teeth. Her toes fluttering like intoxicated moths, wafted in the light. The fox grin yawned and he fell into its pink gnashing kiss.

The CITRUS VIRUS, it soured out its victims until they become unapproachable by most members of society, including close friends and family, and gradually sink into a depression, to culminate in a wasting away disease, often anorexia, or a suicide, in which they take their lives in a befuddled state. What happened to me, how did I get here?

I am being written, she tells him. I don’t understand the language, the vocabulary; I lack the context, but I know I am being told, my purpose spirited from—wait… listen! She cocks her head and searches for the narrative that runs through her mind always. You’re mad, he says. Mad! She looks at him with a sad smile. If I go mad, it is because I am made to go mad.

A nervous state of mind, in which I translate contact with individuals in terms of a reverse temporal current: angry men, vapid women, sallow faces, hard lines and laugh wrinkles, plump tendencies and corpse sentimentality, there are all kinds of people, and gazing upon them, I cannot help but try and see them when they were young, unblemished by the joys and agonies of Experience… their skulls shrink, decalcify under their tautening flesh, wrinkles regressing with small shudders until what remains is a child’s small frame draped with oversized clothing, the weight of the world that grows with each succeeding year bursting from their shoulders in a bitter vapor, leaving behind innocent eyes that glitter with the exultant anticipation of Experience. Their smiles grow, crack to reveal gapped teeth, goofy and true to human nature… then there are these sad, tired eyes that quickly break contact with mine to desultorily stalk the ground. Sour sweat taints their wake as they pass me by.

midnight thoughts

a writer’s reality is arbitrary. things gain a life of their own. teeth may speak in mouths. voices may clamor from the surf. dreams are inspirations and the death knell. why the obsession with words? just soundthings given written form. meaning uttered from tremblings of meat. bounces of sound and light; pushings of atoms and photons. what defines importance? the inherent properness of living life? the RIGHT way to live? arbitrary. the consensual song denies arbitrariness and demands a code of rigour, a method to the madness, a conforming charade.

well, i won’t waltz. I’ll tango in the stead.

Bebop

…orgone vapor streaming off hot flesh like heat haze world shot in jazz hues of cobalt gunmetal subdued saxophone glint pulse of trashcan rimshot crashing chocolate rollercoaster form swishing thin sheen silk skirt rump rumpus twisting fists threading smoke strata filtering cyanosing disco glints in thin mist of sweat rain from jogging chests to heliographing hips in whirlpool of whirring feet flashing lycaenid dream daze zombie thrust ultamarine jive glinting in open sagging mouths gold glistening teeth flared nostrils rounding wild eyes circling circling the sapphire twinkle flashing on that chocolate ear heavy tongue tracing snail trail of sweat down nappy nape the shag and the bop of soft womanly pressure rub rub rubbing his hard boy pressure in delicious friction grinding cold orgone vapor streaming off hot flesh like heat haze…

The White Red Chiaroscuro

A stranger approaches you one night. Perhaps you are alone under the only lighted lamp in a shadowy streetcorner, or it is an empty bus you ride, sullen in your seat and feeling the late hour. The stranger approaches you with bead black eyes and a voice like yellowed parchment paper rasping against dead skin, and submits a choice in the flickering light of street or bus, of knowing the exact circumstances and instant of your death, or an eternity approaching others with the exact same proposal.

You chuckle at the strange turn of events and choose eternity. His bone white face crinkles into a rictus that is, you realize with growing horror, a smile. It is a slash that expels a hot carcass wind and sprouts a jagged range of yellowred fangs filling your vision like some poison portrait of Transylvania. Suddenly that corpse breath is digging at your neck, and you can’t but marvel at the utter corniness of the beast’s next words: You shall live forever in the hearts and minds of your loved ones! You manage to squeeze off a b-b-but I have nothing, nobody! just before your cartoid spurts arterially. A spark of irritation, in your dying mind, conflagrates into a full-out bloom of fury as you behold your very last impression of life, a grinning white red chiaroscuro.

In the white hot incandescence of anger, your thing we call soul like moth to streetlight, away from death  hanging on to that lashing frail thread of vengeance’s lust, back, back, back, your life unspooling to a connate snap where a white cold glare brutally greets you with a hand slap to the backside, heckuva set of lungs this one’s got! You progress through the various stages of human development in a tense anger, the cloud of premonition hanging over your head. You wonder where all this repressed rage comes from, and your high school psychologist keeps on saying you keep it bottled up until you’re forced to find something to bottle him up. One day you slide into a vacant bus, or stride into the littered halo of a lone streetlight. You choose to know the exact instant and circumstances of your death, and he tears out your throat on the spot.

Round round round the merry-go-round you go, the wet warm splashing to a halt with a connate slap in cold fluorescent glare and laughter at baby you boiling with pure pissed off and you grow up kicking at dogs and breaking windows, become took with carrying a pair of pliers about without really knowing why and one night you step into a bus, or you find yourself loitering an empty streetcorner. You fly at the pale thing with the rat eyes and bad teeth, you know this how, without even looking at these poison lips, on pure instinct and sheer reflex, and there is screaming. This time around, it is not you that screams.

Well, mostly not you.