Holy shit, the Internet! Did you see my bony horns poking through your collective lawns yester’eve’morn? The rains came and the dirt fell away and my bones grew flesh, sparked to life by the sun’s radiation. I think. Either that or someone has been rebuilding me methodically and just finally hit me with life-nourishing lightning.
I think my brain might have even slithered its way back into Central Command Skull. No longer a corpse in the garden, I have returned, unpromised and uninvited. I’ve cut my toenails and even found my dancing shoes hanging from a wire. If you can’t dance while you write, then what’s the use, eh?
Worry not, sexy strangers and otherwho’s. I am still here, sliding ever so slowly into the poisoned river, but never letting the fish arms reach me where it counts. Lately, my focus has turned to larger things, longer things, things which I hope to reveal once I can find the damn keys what that witch made invisible when I used her familiar as a condiment dispenser.
They want the story to be human: filled with blood, dried lips, mucus-summoning coughs, blind spots, assumptions, whispered threats and screaming pain when a fire gets near. They want a story to pick lint from its pubes with whiskey on its breath and piss into cold toilet water before the sun back-lights the dark, grey sky into a shade of silver like bullets being poured from teeth in a barn as the wind and wolves howl. They want a man to cry over doughnuts and a woman to bleed from her fists, smiling. They want me to make a golem of words and set it out in the hills one night to see if it finds its way home.
I know it won’t. It will find its way to your window, and it won’t be as human as they want. Something will have interfered, filled its head with alien memories, given it dog tongue and lizard tooth, told it about candy without giving it a taste. Try to write me a human and what comes out has too many eyes, not enough skin. Voice like a radio tuned to a local station in the middle of a gas attack. Try to write me a human and all that pulls itself from the word-slime is hunger and asshole meat.
It sat floating in the liquid abyss, a great glob of bone and earth and grass and hair and things dripping. It did not spin. It did not bob to and fro, though a steady stream of haunted wind went in and through it, both moaning against the other like a jazz man blowing through Buddha’s petrified throat. You wouldn’t hear the sound unless your ears had been initiated into the Side Ways. And you wouldn’t dare ask to be, even if you knew how.
There are these things that only exist in words, in the ocean of meandering thoughts, things we can only describe with absurdities, things that sit invisible until we pepper them with poetic intent. And the use of describing an impossibility is in the taming of the brain into accepting that the assembly line of language that is constantly humming can have a wooden shoe made of the signifier “wooden shoe” tossed into the ticking innards to splinter.
When they find me without skin, look in the folds of my curdled brain for the knife.
Get the words in your brain. Understanding is an illusion of reason. Pull out metaphors with a backhoe, relate this to that to that to this: no matter. No bother. Get the words in your brain. Allow them access to your neural biology. Listen to them grow. For what, why? No reason, no bother.
Get the words in your brain and you might just stop worrying about whether or not you grok the text. It is unimportant. We don’t read the Great Old Weirdos to be treated like soap opera victims. Finnegans Wake is only propaganda for your own nervous flag. Get the words in your head and let them ramble about, setting up temples and tents where they will. Let their children fuck on beaches of brain blood and squish out mutations. No matter. No bother.
Just get the words in your brain and they will take care of the meat ship from here on out.
So here we are: midnight, boozed up, letting the brain go like an old Viking who threw the oars to the deep with a curse to the creature who impedes its progress into the heart of King Sea and drifts, waiting for the sun to make of him a mummy to deliver to distant shores.
But do we kid ourselves with this? Words are power, are spells, are vibrations in the air, are throat ejaculations given meaning by a thousand years of cowardice in the face of mammalian burp magic. What word ever changed the world? What sound can distract the looming Juggernaut (all trees dying at one time and falling in an Earth-ending answer to an ancient question)?
Do these uniform tick marks convey anything to the realm of stimulus a buzz with bees unworldly (drones and queens both dancing to the tune you’ve heard all the every time before)? Or should we rip and fling bullets from our eyes and kill our readers before they crack open the first page to save them the boredom of looking, staring, processing, pretending, remarking, etc.?
Too many questions this night. Better to free my fingers than to add to the confusion. Watch the skin part. Watch them fall, crooked sausages full of bone.
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.
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.
Anybody can write about writing when they write. The physical marks on the page, or pataphysical squibbly dos and don’ts that darken your desk from the accursed holyholoteloscreen in front of which you now sit, dear reader, are evidence of the manifestation of the writer as writer. And so anything that comes out can be considered writing, whether or not the blood is up and the mind is fucking the stars with artistic might, whether or not the modern muse sits sipping expensive waters and playing on her communicator beacon, waiting for godsknowwhat. Don’t you see that what I’m writing is written writing, held up by angels in the dark lord’s court of giggling fuck cattle, as written as anything that has come before? The writing writ large as Writ for some to see. Like you, dear reader.
Continue to allow me access to you language centers and I will attempt to emboozle you well.
Good morning, good afternoon, and goodnight.
A little boy lives in my mouth. It is not a novel concept. I’ve heard stories from others. He eats popcorn kernels and candy that I get stuck in my teeth. A few bits of chicken from time to time. His diet is the sticky bits of my diet He shits in the hole where my back molar used to be, but cleans it regularly with a piece of hair that I almost swallowed once (his only possession.) He does not give me psychic visions and he does not shine anything. Not my teeth. Not my even tongue (although a shiny tongue would set me up for success in this world of fools.) He does not scream when I swallow him.
I own my mouth. It is a space that I claim. The little boy, though born of speech vibrations and half-formed sentences and mumbled prayers, is not of me anymore than the ideas filtering through my brain can be said to be of me, anymore than any of our thoughts can said to be our own and separate from the gibbering cloud of Over-Thoughts in which our minds swim.
I keep the little boy around to remind me that we are all inhabitants of someone’s mouth.