Just in time for Walpurgis Nacht: an update to the Publication page!
Inaug(ment)(ir)ation Speech @ Bizarro Central
Really excited about this one. I’ve been a huge fan of Bizarro Central, Eraserhead Press, and G. Arthur Brown for years now. Gratitude flows from my mind like butter dropped on a hot metal slide.
Also, check out the latest Ask Maddie: Bizarro Advice Column over at yesclash.com in which Madeleine Swann helps me out with sage advice and metaphysical chemical treatments.
The Dope Pope came in like frogs, burping and wrestling with his own clothes. No one stood in awe and why should they? The Dope was gone. The Pope was a fraud. He had no blessings to give, no material to transubstantiate into flesh or smoke or under-drippings. They took his crown when they came with their roaring vacuums in the sky. You could feel the dope get sucked right out of everything, and the mystery fled.
The court was silent. The air was heavy with hot words and bullets. Everything ripped and fell in holy tatters. The Dope Pope alone glowed with angelic glee. Here it was. The end of all he had known and protected. The tubes were gone now, the dope and hope and all of the maniacal songs he used to find in the morning to awaken the pleasure of his flock. Gone. No one stepped from the sky. They simply fell around him with pieces of metal in their brains and leaked.
There are days when the caps of my fingers won’t come off. I’ve set up ‘pataphysical monitors to watch the air around me as I sleep and have come up with only vague notions of glue and rocks being poured over my hands, but more as an idea of the act than the act itself and my fingers show no sign of wear.
Then why this blockage? Have I offended the ghosts of All Dead Authors that hook hoses to the backs of our heads in our quiet moments and pump their bilge in and out of us? Why, yes, I do remember that night now that I mention it. Pissing on the grave of the Word. Digging up the bones of the Poem. Setting the skull of Art on that bucket and and throwing gravel at it until the jawbone’s smile came off half crooked like it was about to say something haughty.
But wasn’t that a lark, good spirits of the craft? I was certainly amused if I remember my mind. I suppose for now that I will simply soak my fingers in turpentine and strong tea and watch this crow pick berries from the belly of a dead bear until I am returned to the good graces of the Somethingorotheren.
First, off come the pants. The legs are the engine of the imagination and I must have oxygen touching every hair if the day is to be lustfully word engorged. If allowed by the damned imps that knock about my ceiling, I rub my legs with marbles of the finest electrum magicum to titillate the knees and tendons. When my bones begin to sweat, I know that my lower bloods are ready.
Now to gather the ink. I grab my crooked pitchfork and head to the woods. In the woods lies a pit. In the pit live filthy, violent dwarves forever running in a circle, stomping and tearing at the earth and turning to liquid whatever living matter I bring for them to desecrate. Some days a cloud of flies strung together with tinsel. At other times, when I wish my words to take on a more carnivorous bent, I throw to them other, filthier dwarves and watch as they hesitate in their mayhem (if only for a moment.) Even so, they allow me to dip a bucket between them.
With my legs invigorated and a bucket of ink at my disposal, I sit down on a straight backed wooden chair with a self-transcribed copy of Bingely Scruntson’s How to Write Pure Money and Chew the Dripping Fat of Fame, a book unlike any actually written. This I light on fire with a ceremonial marijuana wand and, once scorched and smoldering, toss the book into the bucket where it imbues the ink with a scrotal mouth feel and the aftertaste of a ray gun suicide.
Not much left now but to down the bucket, every last drop, and wait until the vomit of a new day’s composition begins to stir in the bowels of my incorpsulated muse organ.
Every shovelful of grave dirt sounds like sirens in the night. The glint of streetlight off steel catches the outside of my eye as I cut earth and my breath drops into my heart which balloons and a bit of my brain goes black. Shovel becomes clumsy cane. Occasionally, I must sit with my feet dangling above the crumbling hole and paint myself with filth against the prying eyes of those who would interfere.
The ship was almost complete. All I needed was a human nervous system to wire into the mainframe, something fragile and often mistaken, something to create and interpret false stimuli as the void expands around me, providing nothing. If I could take the corpse’s eyes and be done, believe me that I would not make such a mess of this once loving vessel.
But eyes are mere windows, we are told, and I was looking for a door.
I walked lazily through the field with my shadow brothers and my stick, counting the colors of the flowering weeds.
Birds told me news I didn’t feel like hearing, so I shot them with rocks as they sang and they shut their beaks up in fear. I would have peace today. I would have air and exercise. Their indecipherable songs, weaving in and out of the leaves, notes striving for dark bird meat, merely stirred up my brain and cock alike. I would have a quiet body today.
The frogs knew better than to croak. They could taste mammal anger with their bubblegum tongues and would save their croaking for their underwater caves.
A bee buzzed by and my shadow brothers touched it with a cold finger and it fell in the dirt to dance no more. I could barely hear its venom crying out for activity, but could feel the ground vibrate with anticipation. New dust for the mud machine. New death for the soil.
To think that death is silence is to forget we feel the grass growing through us, sawing at our bits like a crazed violinist, unceasing but when it freezes.