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Let us nurture in the new year!

Jello shots!

12/12/09 Dream

Lagomorpha

It appears that I had time to get married and my bride

is naturally blond and has a big set of bleached teeth and a very tiny jaw.

We're in a narrow wooden room with minimal lighting and she is in labor.

"They're crowning!"

The doctor announces jovially

"Twins?"

I retort shrinkingly

My wife's seraphim screech's are nearly tinnitus-inducing,

the light bulbs grow dimmer and a gust of moist wind knocks me on my ass.

I am covered in afterbirth, and the doctor displays to me a completely dry albino bunny rabbit.

"Congratulations, It's a boy!"

he whispers

My teeth muddle softly, and every single hair follicle on my body stands straight up as if to salute the good M.D.

"There should be seven more on the way, yes sir, yes sir, no time to waste"

he studders through his smirk

My wife is unconscious and grinning madly,

I can't help but smile a bit but all i can feel in my heart, my gut, and my bowels

is the movement of old black blood and impending terror.

Interesting Note:

I googled "Woman gives birth to rabbits" this morning and found this

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Toft

LAMENT

A toast to you, my brother.

DYLAN

DONNELLY

1989-2009

You will be in my thoughts till the end of time!

You were my twin-soul,

one of the last of a dying breed of free-thinkers and for your loss I grieve.

I will never forget the great times that we shared!

VIVE, VIVA DYL!!!

Sausage Egg & Cheese Makizushi

Despite what you may think, it was fucking delicious!

And quite easy to make provided of course you have the necessary tools

(bamboo makisu mat, sushi rice, nori etc.)

We used Jimmy Dean pork link sausages, fried up a small tamagoyaki, and then topped the hot omelet with cheap white American singles

(the tasty cheese-like product we've come to enjoy in those artery-clogging breakfast sandwiches we love oh so)

The roll was particularly tasty slathered generously in unagi sauce!
A staple in the house of goats...

Perhaps next time we'll try for a stromboli nigirizushi or mole mole oshizushi or some other strange and unusual combination.

I'm convinced just about anything wrapped in seaweed and sticky rice

would be awesome.

Until then...

Thirteenth Step

Tonight you will all be part of a social experiment...

I present to you with blistering enthusiasm

neoteric versification extracted just moments ago
from the illusive Biblioclast manuscript.


Take once daily with food.

Dispense with enclosed patient information leaflet.

See side effects information before you begin treatment.

Keep said contents out of the reach of children.

You may begin, when ready.

ANDROMEDA LAPDANCED (Molly)

From behind the divide, she threw over the edge of the mulberry shoji screen each article of clothing in chronological order of acquirement.
Pant suit, then fire engine pumps, peek-a-boo basque, the epidermis, strands of musculature, cold bones and old organs---her circulatory system matched the curtains and added a certain ambiance that would put Martha Stewart to shame.

-Alostrael “The Womb of God”



[MECONIUM]
Molly, dei of moony atom empathogen bathes…
The reverent, irrelevant world renowned ingenerate-invertebrate high-test unleaded medulla of daft flutter and fanciful surge.

[EMPUSE]
In the honey-crisp striptease of razzmatazz calamus billows over Eros and Psyche and their bulletproof brainpans spill praline marrows and
Masonic shake unbridled hands in dissolute New Amsterdam’s.

[ANHALONIUM LEWINII]
Molly, I don’t know if I want to fuck your pink naptime tot asshole or for a split second languish in Assyrian lunar tide and lay them down to sleep with lays of mass destruction as you often do.
And wash over the scalp vested shrill of mimetic somnambulistic ballerinas as they curb the 9th cloud.

[VULGATE]
Molly, you are my hydrogen bombshell.
Of stasis and catharsis, in the Saturn-natural sheep clothes of cosmic nocturnal’s
I embellish short-term memory
As an apostle of placebos in the Simian simulacrum automatic adagio

[PHOBOS]
I will die your ADAM and EMPATHY if you melt the moody pupils of all those who believe in a scythe of earth bled spurts of soot and sod and pigtailed tresses of asbestos.
Sojourn in the bald- spots of “Alabama’s homunculus weed whisked by a million guillotines” and the hunt of heads will never be my lyric nor my rune as long as she talks a dirty talk through a busted champagne flute to the volute and coil matrix
of my minds eye.

[HECATE]
And this isn’t about Molly,
or all that black shit on her eyes,
her gaunt and jutting trilobite bone structure
or omega Casanovas coughing supernova with sex.
And this isn’t in, or noise-core, sharp pop, fine art, mod, current or an inflated ciao or namaste away from new-school heroin chic.
This is not about Florestan & Eusebius or half & half triads of deviant peptides or delicious head.


[CASSIOPEIA]
And I am not a reverend of radiology’s ion sprung and andromeda lapdanced.
I’m ultraviolet fusty violent fast-acting post-modern no-nonsense shoot-to-kill
low-calorie cerebral martini prowling, tailing, snooping, stalking, trailing, chasing, tracking and haunting that very special someone,
the one that doesn’t press charges.









Footnotes:

Molly- a term for pure crystal MDMA; often in capsule form.
Florestan & Eusebius- Robert Shchuman's imaginary friends
Adam & Empathy- Names given to the first batches of MDMA produced by Merck Pharmaceuticals

Your Temporal Lobe is Shaped Just like Rosalyn Carter

A belated entry, originally written hastily with a green chisel sharpie in notebook #213 through the yellow windows of the evening train...




Took the metro north to the big uneasy last evening with Nee to catch the Mars Volta.
They were to play when the hand graced eight in the stretcher-bonded alcazar that is the
Roseland Ballroom.

Here are just a few of the many strange and exciting
things that transpired that fine day:

* We eat quac carnitas the size of cow fetuses and drank pitchers of dark french coffee and mystical wheat-grass juice bar potions until we trundled from subway platform to platform like porcine tourists in a hurry to catch breakfast at the local drive-through.

* I was mistaken for a hesidic jew in times square by a rabbi holding an overripe avocado.

* We were dragged into the M&M store
by about twenty five Japanese excursionists in vintage clothes
where I could not help but ask myself the pertinent question

"Does the world really need a variety of 145 colors for single unflavored chocolate button?"

I wonder what the cerulean or sanguine maroon buggers taste like,
oh that's right, they're all the fucking same.
You can have yourself the milk chocolate ones , or milk chocolate ones , or milk chocolate ones,
or milk chocolate ones, or milk chocolate ones or milk chocolate ones with peanuts! How novel.

Call me ignorant to M&Mlore but I truly do not understand the point. Forgive me Jesus?

* We visited a mirrored sex shop complete with nudey-booth nickelodeons owned by forelorn Arab men and saw a six foot seven turquoise real-skin jelly dong in a glass shadowbox.

* The first shuttle we took got hijacked by an aqualung in a double-breasted houndstooth suit coat lugging an empty office water-cooler tank and begging for change for his newly assembled 'non for profit charity organization' titled "Christ Food for Children."

* Spent a good seventy minutes looking for my mates Buffalo Dyl and his drummer Mr. Joe and in the process ran into a chap that looked like Angus Scrimm after a discordant klonopin smoothie fueled bare-knuckle boxing match.

The vagabond informed us that "the po-po wasa tryin to kih hiz hawse!"

and insisted that we should

"Do drukqs and drinqz and drop out ov skoolz and be sumbuttyz wit uh leaffz!"

* Gave fifty cents to a puertorican with an overbite pretending to be deaf in a Jamba Juice.

Can't go wrong with New York!

Our concert experience began with two hours of standing in breezy autumnal twilight on partitioned sidewalk fins near a 50 foot billboard depicting scabies magnified and vicious that read in thick negro trebuchet "NEW YORK HAS BED BUGS!"

The tang of raw sewage, Chinese takeout, trash, nurtured car exhaust and cashews candied in dirty molten sucrose maneuvered like a spectre through the sting of metropolitan ozone.

The clocks hand struck eight across its freckled face like a tyrannous tyrannosaurus loan shark
collecting phantom debts with the use of biblical violence.

We shuffle in with bright white lights in our eyes, tickets between our fingers, bags open, tongues out and hands in the air like fresh detainees at the leucotomy farm.

The main floor becomes crowded quickly as hundreds of martians flood the club to see techs playing chords and testing sound equipment.

Women in canary yellow blazers hand out free blueberry flavored condoms drenched in spermicide once you've reached the bar and balcony sections.

A backdrop depicting the "singular cherubim" Proginoskes from Madeleine L'Engle's novel
A Wind in the Door hangs behind the amps and instruments.

We stand shoulder to shoulder, ass and genitals jostling each other like it or not for forty minutes.

Condoms are blown into makeshift volley balls as a powerful emanation of dirty bubblegum and juicy durban poison pushes through the stockades and richocets above the audience.

The house axed the P.A. abruptly in the middle of Pink Floyd's One of These Days and
Ennio Morricone's Fistful of Dollars signaled the arrival of the Omar, Cedric & company.

The fan howls drowned the intro as the band took to the stage and their weapons with enthusiasm.

The club was suddenly overcome by a rush of darkness and we lost our minds as their complex laser-aided backdrop unearthed itself and they began jamming.




Their set was as follows:

1. Inertiatic E.S.P.
The show began with the Son Et Lumiere segue detonating
into a frenetic kaleidoscopic rendition of the first song from their first LP.
It was a real treat to hear this oldy once more especially with the energy the band exuded.

2. Goliath
Next, they played a slower more condensed version of Goliath more akin
to its predecessor Rapid Fire Tollbooth. Omar improvised a tasty guitar solo at the end and the overheads went down once more as distorted licks and ambiance marked the transition.

3. Cotopaxi
A track from their new LP Octahedron was fantastic live.
Visceral sound with a hunt and kill mentality.

4. Roulette Dares (The Haunt Of)
A usual show opener known for its manic celestial energy and Floydish chorus refrain was instead used as an almost coda to Cotopaxi.
Instead of chugging guitars and Zorn-esque noodling they stripped the deloused anthem into a vulnerable soft cell cerebral ballad with echoes and sweet sex vocals.

The crowd seemed confused and still at times making an attempt to digest the new direction.
I'm ecstatic to see they are still experimenting and not compromising in the least bit their creative animus.

5. Viscera Eyes
The dance floor barreled like a crown of maggots to the Latin tinged riffs and Omar threw up two tight solo's before sound manipulation bore animalistic screeches and electric arc's.

6. Halo of Nembutals
I have mixed feelings about Halo;
Fans and bootleggers can trace its origins to a live version of Omar's solo canticle
Jacob Van Lennepkade which would later progress into a prototype of their epic twenty minute
Intro Jam (used to open several shows including Melbourne and Amsterdam.)

I am absolutely in love with Intro Jam and really wish they would incorporate some of the solos, bass and drum tracks in subsequent versions.

Lately it has appeared live as it did on Octahedron,
as a paired down straight forward 5 minute zeppelin-ish ditty.

They continue to play it safe, short and close to the studio...but I'm optimistic for the future.

I will say though it was really suprising to see Omar sing backup (ex. "Communion Shaped!")
for possibly the first time since their days in At the Drive In.

7. Eunuch Provocateur
One of the highlights of the evening for me!

Eunuch appeared on their first EP Tremulant and they haven't played it in years so it was really incredable. Pridgen's drumming was impressive and eclectic while Cedric dazzled us with extensive blocks of improvised lyrics.

8. Ilyena
"When the chants have cycled! How can I go wrong? There will be no Eve for Adam if your apples have gone gone gone. I need a brand new skin! Incarnated debt!"

Cedric sung beautifully in acapella.

This was my second time hearing Ilyena live and I most say they've perfected it with a interstellar outro and scattish vox and delivery.

9. Teflon
Pridgen set the pace with a battery of gunfire and the "Story Teeth Rotted For" sample slithered from the amps like a futuristic punk soul thirsty homonculi.
Nee's favorite song from the new album was breathtaking to say the least!

10. Drunkship of Lanterns
An epileptic strobe of rainbow accompanied Omar's riffery and marcel's furious slap of conga drums, Cedric danced up a storm with hand-springs, kicks, and an occasional swing of the microphone.

They jammed a bit in the middle otherwise it was a pretty faithful technically flawless homage to Deloused in the Comatorium.

11. Luciforms
The Volta teased the audience by grossly extending the intro riff until the rabid bellow of fans beckoned Mr. Zavala to begin with a delicate whisper of
"How much do you make in that death factory?"
and the crowd went batshit insane!

Luciforms was no doubt an improvisation playground for the band and was really brought to life in the fashion of Day of the Baphomets or Tetragrammaton.

12. The Widow
The Widow is that one song that even folks that don't like the Mars Volta like, its their Roundabout, their Lucky Man and impressively it was able to slink onto MTV's late night rotation and contorted airwaves shortly after the release of their second album
Frances the Mute;
a fete very few of their songs have achieved.

I first saw this number live on System of a Down's "Hypnotize/Mesmerize Tour" and was pleased with the accuracy and musicianship exhibited. I was expecting a tight, short rendition but was instead delighted by a five minute bass solo by Juan followed by an almost acoustic variation.

13. Wax Simulacra
This micro-cut marked the end of their set and another show down.
No more Toltec bones or idle teeth...
A bow and stage vacancy ejected bodies through vomitoriums and to the merchandise table.

or Raven's Excrement...

Here's a new poem which will appear

in an upcoming publication I'm working on called The Biblioclast.

The Biblioclast will feature six compositions divided each into a series of 'blocks.'
Readers are encouraged to rearrange these 'blocks' thus creating new and derivitive works.

HUITLACOCHE

~For Petulance Elm~

[TARTARUS]
From the black ice of Asmodeus I black out in the bootleg collapse of the black-hole cleft in your wives panic-room pudendum;
and my suits and holes are matt black on the back of a missing milk carton.


[EREBUS]
On the backstabbed back-brace of your ten-spined black-hand diamondback psyche
lurks the backlash and backbite of a
glass-eyed megaton of Metatron’s meta-melatonin myrmidons
meandering through the blue mutation pustules of Paul’s prudish cornstalk elytron elegies
that flap but fly nowhere.


[THANATOS]

Sneaking past the widow's peak of carburetors!
His rocker forewarned in summons of mexican chocolate pocks,
I'll pang nonstop for the kiss of your clot
and it blundered “I am the calx of Thanatos!"

[THE SQUARE ROOT OF GO FUCK YOURSELF]
"For you are the bereft or marvelous machines of my magnificent era."
Gimme homesick,
Gimme vervain,
Gimme salt peter,
and quixotic glass-jaws of canopic chests.


[IXION]
Gimme sapid seraphic bonfire libations
served uncommonly at conflagration sanctification’s or bust.
Love me or hate me I’m still in your living room
with a stonewort and skull candied billyclub/macuahuitl.

[INOCULOCIONES]
We caught her anklebones in a corona of steel wools, and dispensed a methylene blue booster shot of pre-chewed corn smut brewed to subdue and Indra’s net rips the taxidermy mount of our splendiferous pinup beast with two backs in Eucalyptus and madrone.


[VERITAS]
Oh how I love the way you wear that riot helmet…
Or I am the serum of the Ganges! Pink as the snub-nosed lichens,
and I’ll see to it that you kiss and tell and kill for me.
Or I am the gurgle and bouffant of lateral exit wounds in the wax of your mannequins.
Or My vengeance will plastic-coat your locust, cherry and rose in a fustet fraud of juggernauts bound and canoeing in blood-blistered newsprint.

[OR RAVEN'S EXCREMENT]
And the frostbite of my tidings is wed demimondaine in
Steel-toe combat boots and spray-tanned birthday suits that scotch-kiss electrons in echelons of Jane Seymour’s shallow Amen‘s or the sexy throaty sputter---her spit in a kiss for me in the marsh-gas that trounced the black of your mass with microbe muses, horselaughs, germs, and a lick of dioxin polish on the nails of her toes.


[CALL GIRLS & MOURNING]
Regurgitated through human agency but with no real urgency.
She dressed like a collusive gold-digger at a gravedigger’s funeral (and that’s alright.)
And she wrawled erupt Santeria candles between its santanas legs,
stick your hard candy hand of glory in the gloryhole of gloriole quicksands,

[CALL GIRLS IN SWIMMING POOLS]

Cuz I think my tutti-frutti tissue negligee may just bring a trivial tear to your eye.
Cuz somewhere a sensitive transistor sister of blunt and toothless scissors in assless chaps off pumpkin spiced gloss grizzles in a land of embalmed hiccups and extinguished light bulbs and sips a half-flat lukewarm but thoroughly satisfying can of 8 year-old TAB and skips despondently to her cardboard gazebo dateless to enjoy solitude, the piracy of mutes and beasties.

[CALL GIRLS IN BODY BAGS]
Ogre resins hallow playing cards, soft spots and minefields in
14 karats with a single missing chromosome.
What befell in public pools, a cold shower of snake wines in the latte foam and shores of my skull where birds would sometimes nest; All but goodnight ghosts and empties.

[CALL GIRLS IN LOVE]
Will I eat or be eaten by her fender telecaster?
I decree, I’ve read its mind and its strings want to garrote me...
(And I will not stone the flora of her guitar with the blood we sometimes share)

[PIANO LESSONS & YOUR WIFE]
I declare, I shampoo my hair with nettle, milkweed, and Woodstock and rub the bones of old birds deep into my scalp and always end in sleep.
And that is why I do not play spanish steel string guitar like the terminally ill
in a Tarrytown train terminal.

When There's No More Room In Hell...

I got my fix of flesh-eating garbage mouth cinema last night!

My genitors, lovers, and comrades drenched in popcorn butter, raisanets, and hot tomales screened George Romero's

Night, Dawn, & Day of the Dead all in succession.

Hands down three of the greatest, most important films in the horror genre for more reasons than you can mention.

We also got through the first half of José Mojica Marins

The Strange Hostel of Naked Pleasures which

was quite strange as the name implies but oddly entertaining and absorbing.

Seeing to that it is Samhain and we have more ambition than sense

we plan to finish The Exorcist, Halloween,

Rosemary's Baby, Hellraiser (one through three),
The Shining, and Psycho before dawn.

God help us.

Wire Tap(e) Wurms

The transcribed copy of a block of improv I performed recently
at The Mudd Puddle Cafe in New Paltz.

"Then, when I knew nothing more than the present moment,

I was the breath, the whisper, the gasp and the choke of light and sound.

I was infinity.

I will kill every last one of you, to get back in.
To unlearn.
To become..."

- Fatima Ros

My spastics carry the busk and its ardor in baskets knee-scraped crown wards kept vinegary tayberrys cherubs ignored as their biological genitors fledged

as destroyers forgot and mislaid they.

He was closet-ejected, skinned-out of a turtlenecked vanguard
like the soft crux crucifix of texas barbeque and the patron st. narc himself
is feisty with a hella-fine halter-topped hellion on her lucky seventh sinners diurnal on the
gonnorhea baby-back rack...

And it rains bovine herds and strays upon the strung strings of a
lazaret oratorio in F.

And the duplicity of every last feral gulliver that broke my 4th wall of ferroconcrete's gonna wage war in the oxidized ossuary that holds you and I.

Must love animals, picking scabs, and silent loaded weapons.

Making Friends Is Easy/ Social Interaction

I did a featured reading in Coldspring this last week up a very narrow set of white stairs on the face-lifted shanty second floor of a "healing arts" emporium.

The room was tight and held together by expensive acrylic on canvas.

(One 5 by 8 depicting a few grey orbs on burnt orange and neon lime angrily beseeched 7,500!)

We arrived just as an oily cabal of art braggarts and posturing parvenu's bustled down the stairs drunkenly as if to outrun the amethyst miasma of Merlot that permeated their presence.

I was to feature with Dennis Bressack,

a taciturn elder gentleman who attended the event with his attractive

wife who said a very few words and left before the open mic had begun.

Mr. Bressack delighted the small audience with a forceful presentation integrating political prose with poems about his adopted son and the importance of love in our society.

I read second, and performed a set comprised almost entirely of material from Gehenna,

including the debut of a piece called Strawberry Cough.

Had a few chances to improv which went pleasantly with the exception of accidentally butchering the final transition of my "new years poem" (And Now the Civilized People Eat Each Other)

Some usual suspects were there and a few neophytes,

namely an interesting fellow with long blond lochs that donned the moniker Pinky.

Pinky would end up reading some excellent work, of which on his behalf I now have the ability to reread, review and thoroughly digest.

Glen River read a compelling piece about Eros and Psyche that began with the memorable line

" I am the stroke that slips away hair from your neck"

Ted Gil read an autumnal poem I'm quite fond of,

and Christopher Wheeling resolved the open mic with as he put it

"a piece from the burgeoning Asbestos collection" entitled "Sweat in My Respirator."

Everyone mingled a good bit there after and quaffed mass quantities of poor brown water

and tiny little bottles of unrefrigerated Figi aqua.

The evening was sweet and the dewy balm of ionosphere and the death of leaves deliberately pricked the nostrils with orgiastic incentive and the whole damned wet night swallowed you whole and could only smile as you tickled its innards with the

swollen palms you'd used to prayer with.

Lena's Fine Contribution

I'm very proud to announce a bit of my slant and doggerel has made the final cut of the September issue of Ms. Lena Judith Drake's fantastic monthly poetry mag

Breadcrumb Scabs!

The books are available for a mere six Washington's,

or if you're low on moolah you can viddy the contents at no cost via a digital download and repent at the pearly gates when the time comes.

Seriously though,

support this wonderful monthly collection of verse, for it's truly amazing!

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/breadcrumb-scabs-issue-9/7569137
Lulu Storefront W/ Most Recent Issue

http://www.breadcrumbscabs.com/current.html
Breadcrumb Scabs Website

#'s

An olde choke disowned for reasons undefined...

SEXTILLIARD

(Why Even Breathe?)

Always Mandelbrot, irritating subset.
Drawings, Julia set, charcoal, no natural numbers…
Pan right 30 Degrees.

No visible properties, obviously linear, no coefficients.
Co-prime reset, left 45 degrees.
Order and Milnor absent.

I realize this is all wrong!

The algorithms are divergent, there is something buried in this.
Something hiding beneath this skin of calculation, something awful, blissful,
something beautiful hiding below these numbers.

Something like the red hoodoo ants in black knickerbocker pairs

that wet their beds every chance they get to take a dip in my morning coffee.

Something like the gematria rodents that clean the caculi, clutter, and muddle

that postdates me.

I will no longer collect biros, loose change, magazine columns, megrims or half-skulls.
I will no longer spend my money on fly strips rat and bear traps,

I will become completely incon-fuckin-spicuous.

I have begun interpreting the integral function of these creatures.
I have begun to identify with vermin, insects, societal outcasts, parasites;
all odds against us in this vast uncertainty.

All in search of sustenance, all in search of the unifying force that binds us.
We appear to be driven by the same abstract stimulus;
an extraneous compulsion to seek out numeric patterns that may reveal order in chaos.

I want to fly but their streams point to Icarus.

Back when I was on the trigonometry circuits, and when I used to tell people lemon tea and honey with a shot of Remy was Hemingway’s favorite drink, I felt as if the 10 and the 3 were no more than a step from being negative and this cold human device perched upon the splintered edge might fall.

I look back now, and see how free we were.

Tending to the soil, nurturing the seedlings to sporelings
which grow in a ratio of 1.618,
ten to the 39th sequence.

Can we break down now,
into digits in the golden territory?

The decimal place is like the kind of vulgar latin cold sweat enigma

that rubs its self off on you while you sleep indecently.

Always trading limbs for numbers, It’s not worth the cold sores or Quaaludes.
And as the esotery disassembles into vagrant integers...

All of our routine, all of our affairs,
all but a convincing abstraction.
Another knot on the quipu.

I don’t recognize the patterns, the equation behind this medication or the prism effect scowling through my window and onto my ripped mattress.

The doctors are unsure if my eyes are real or not,
I could have told you no, but I’ve begun to second guess my reflexes.

I can no longer dodge bullets or absorb thermal radiation.
I have retained human qualities, but its these numbers that dictate my being.

I’ll eat where I please!
I’ll add, subtract and divide what I want and come out on top.

I’ll come out of the fire alive, drinking food through a tube---blood in my stool.

Glass coffin metronome beating, beating, beating, beating, beating, beating, beating,

tasting the burnt sugar---exhaust poses of a dark hued cocoon.

The shocker fails to please, forget soylent green I’ve got grape nuts,
I’ve got call girls, I’ve got these numbers.

I’ve been sucking the dream weed, blessed water running from wrist chasms.
Two versions of the bile rising to meet the postal postal worker---Numbers!

Numbers! Numbers!

Numbers everywhere in everything, forever.

And ever and ever numbers….

This poem was excluded from the newest edition of Untitled (2007, Type-Kallitri Press)

A second edition featuring new material and artwork is now available at http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/untitled/7654719

UNU BIERON (Schlenkerla Rauchbier)

Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier Marzen

Degrees Gay-Lussac: 5.4%
Malt: Barley
Brewery: Brauerei Heller-Trum / Schlenkerla
Country of Origin: Germany

Type: Rauchbier (smoke-beer)

Description:
Deceptive disguises and a rat-trap bond of mud bricks fail to bulwark screwy
Mr. Pig and his homies from forceful entry and lucky for us all the big bad wolf turns out to be an accomplished brew-master by trade.

Nose:
Meat Train derails into nomads boscage outpost amidst Saturnalia,
discharging its cargo of 110 tons of beech-wood smoked back bacon
onto innocent bystanders and sing-along campfires
producing a formidable bark, pork and ethanol vapor
that tickles the olfactics pleasantly to no end.

Flavor:
A sapid seraphic bonfire libation served at conflagration sanctification’s
in praise of mighty Moloch,
complete with sacrificial livestock, hints of smoldering charcoal,
and the dew of sky clad virgins in coven prayer circles
all scrumptiously refined and encapsulated into a decorative umber pint.

Mien:
Preteen High Priestess with dirty blond hair dyed red kneels with her
chestnut frame drum and anointed athame upon a
50-foot ziggurat of a head that tempers with no real urgency
like a collusive gold-digger at a grave-diggers funeral.

Mouthfeel:
Sensitive biker thug with assless chaps refuses a flute of fancy bubbly
and instead opts for a half-flat but thoroughly satisfying can of TAB.

Drinkability:
Truly a five-star pork soda that deliciously tag-teams stack upon stack of
dark chocolate chip pancakes and demands a sly but good-natured oink
from all but the man behind the curtain.

Final Thoughts:
Thirst-quenching liquid bacon is the sex of blithe brewski epicures.

Rating: A

Your Head Is A Spark Plug

An abstract daddy two-hundred days old and really quite dustward...

CAMELOPARDALIS

A terrine of different live-in's haunt your rusted sheets,

You're a red-bellied cherub roundworm digging indiscreet.

You're an innocent in all of this as the fog fills your skies,

you can see their Iscariout, but still you will not bathe!

He wears full sunken dragon, doubtful dutiful babe.

Raffia weave with a patient tip, wear them forever drawn and wash them

in the lowest depths of your clouded lake.

Woolen leopards edgy bangs and pin-tucked satin dresses dance.

Elctrotype bedlamite springing single-action;

subpoena serving in the bedlam glamour of a misty rose.

Glass-eyed mermaids in mesmeric knights mail

oust another supernova.

And lazy eyes won't look at me,

but they still swore me in.

100 vials, 200 vials, 400 vials---pores downpouring nanites with

SNCC chemistry as it were contrived.

Soaked cornflower blue, cranberried you with chilly awe.

Coat-wig gone wrinkled in ghost sphinx rain tempo, feisty footsteps...

Doorway kicks the charms.

She searches for his hot-keys,

all our eyes, minds, and kidneys.

Lacey they are streaming for all these tricksters suiting.

Abysmal blueprints burning

as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third prat of the rivers,

and upon the fountains of the waters; and the name of the star was wormwood.

And many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.

You're leaking quicksilver on slivers of your ornamental bitches body!

The giraffe, faint like Perseus glimmers in the ankle of her cast.

Nylon whiskers frisk an electrical stagger,

but still they will not swagger up to a hill of dule trees.

Preschool seasoned, high and mighty senses sense radiant regions within the peachy throngs.

Squawk! and weary redheads, you're all my favorite facelifts...

YOUR HEAD IS STILL A SPARK PLUG!

YOUR HEAD IS STILL A SPARK PLUG!

YOUR HEAD IS STILL A SPARK PLUG SEMI-CONDUCTOR!

Crowned original, veiny vintage hall.

In a gibbet where all of us can march!

Fire engine evening for all the coffin-dead,

we are all the same aphids when the lights are off.

Wasabi finish fakes the freight lines---shovel-faced and seduced.

All these answers are inside us.

Where there's might, there's right-handed rabies, speeding tickets, edible snails,

and the squealing mirrors and flaggy fingers rebuking your goddamned soul!

Written on February 10th, 2006

in

The land of Mary

Grandiloquent Delinquency

Dance my beautiful children,

shimmy with your words till the break of dawn!

Opicleide - A barbrous name compounded of the Greek words for Snake and door-key,

which has been given to a [1970] improvement on the Russian Bassoon.

Bodword- An ominous message

Scrogglings- The small, worthless apples which are left hanging on the trees after the

crop has been gathered.

California Widow- The equivalent of Grass-Widow--- A married woman whose husband is away for any extended period.

Biblioclast- A destroyer of books, or the bible.

Ratton-Flitting- The removal of rats in a body from any place they have formerly occupied.

Corvette- A young sodomite. From LATIN Corbita, a large ship for traffic.

Lirp- To snap one's fingers.

More For Amnesiacs

For those not punchdrunk, lovesick, stuck in the bends,
fitter happier and climbing up the walls.

There, There.
I assure you everything is in its right place,
but then again I could be wrong...


On August 5th,

Radiohead released a eulogy in the form of a bewitching descant titled
Harry Patch (In Memory Of)

A heartfelt tribute to last surviving soldier to have fought in the trenches of WWI.

The Last Tommy died July 25th and was buried at St. Michaels Church in Monkton Combe.

For Download Visit (All proceeds go to the British Legion.)
http://download.waste.uk.com/Store/did.html

Five days later, Thom and company suprised their fan base with yet another goody!
A free track called
These are My Twisted Words.

For Download Visit
http://www.waste.uk.com/Store/waste-radiohead-twisted+words.html

UNU BIERON (Gonzo Imperial Porter)

GONZO IMPERIAL PORTER

Degrees Gay-Lussac: 7.8%
Malt: Achromatic with hints of crystal
Hops: Cascades, Warrior
Brewery: Flying Dog

Description:
A psychopomp cranium marinade extracted straight from the
pulsating pagan nimbus pith and nerve-complex of La Santisima Muerte.

Flavor:
Boozy paramour carrying heart-shaped chocolates is dragged by his plaid pant leg through mud pregnant puddles of motor oil by a runaway car-bomb.

Mien:
Pours a Sheikh head short on soap with a fudgy froth of kindling and consummation bedsheets.

Mouthfeel: Velvety sweet-creamy astringent harem of anthropomorphized bubbles smoking
hand-rolled cigarillo's and swatting imaginary bats.

Drinkability: Compliments chocolate layer cake, smoked meats and automotive accidents. 12 oz. of musky love, a perfect choice for Swedish death metal potlucks and days better spent breeding in needle park; plus it doubles as a fuel substitute for heavy machinery!

Rating: B

The 220th Day

Pt. I- The Edification

I awoke at 8:30 with a coif soddened by saliva and a spine realigned for the first time in half a decade due to partial slumber on disjointed floorboards with my girl and
cushy speed-racer bedspread.

Had a petite Styrofoam cannican of the good doctors fine black elixir and
ate muddled embryo's with my freckled love

and our darling consort metrist and partner in crime Ms. Jones

before heading into the lily-livered haze of the morning to attend the

Calling All Poets Poetry Marathon.

The event ran from 11 AM to 11 PM and I was to feature in the first block of readers.

We arrived at the Howland Cultural Center early to find a small audience and an assortment of New York style pseudo-bagels, zeppole, and other breakfast morsels.

Sharon Butler dazzled and took no prisoners with a piece about the Muhhekunnetuk river

and the calamitous tribulations of the Iroquois nation.

Enoch Nixon performed a strong set;

closing with a shrewd poem dedicated to his brother entitled A Little Left of Center.

I was the final reader in the 11-12pm slot and performed mostly material from the new book including a piece called Orphans which I sung a cappella.

The audience appeared fairly perceptive to the tornado of stream-of-consciousness shrieks, shticks, quips and antiquated idioms if only by their xanax-blithe head nods, tick smirks, finger snaps, and the sonance of heavy hands slapping together.

I sold several copies of Gehenna before I was aborted into the gravely streets of Beacon to arrange for discount tickets to catch Marilyn Manson at the Mayhem-Fest in Hartford.

Pt. 2- A Thousand Yellow Jersey's

After an hour of stalking ATM's, a $5 dollar service charge and a slight wardrobe change,

a mutual friend of ours Amanda joined the lunatic posse and we set off for

the constitution state to heed the second coming of the Anti-Christ Superstar.

We were suddenly engulfed in a sea of churlish inebriants, shirtless testosterone monkeys, and tarts shoe-horned into vinyl corsets and 6 inch stiletto's.

Neophyte nymphets ranging in age from 16-45 in corpse paint that purchase the cliche mass delusion of miserable angst at shopping malls for $9.49 a pop, and fail to understand that their entire subculture orbits around fashion and nothing else.

Not individualism, not the practice of a counter-cultural ideology
or the perceived rebellion and resistance to the mainstream.

But enough about that,

A hurricane (a frozen fruit drink prepared with Southern Comfort)

fetched a migraine-delivering $12 USD.

A singular hot dog went for seven bucks and a small cola, coffee, or bottle of salty dasani demanded Abe paper.

I needn't describe the beer & wine list for the prices are designed to depress,

but lets just say you could buy a 12-pack of foreign for what they wanted for a half a bottle of poorly refrigerated domestic.

The first band to grace the stage upon our arrival was Kill Switch Engage,

who played a short set complete with pyrotechnics.

Guitarist Adam Dutkiewicz attempted to jig around and duck-walk in boy-shorts like

Angus Young but was sloppy,

I suppose if you were generous you could consider his effort an incomplete success.

The lights dimmed after about an hour intermission and hordes of contused,

sweat-soaked droogs in carpenter jeans with slack jaws and the word Slayer carved with hunting knives into their pellucid bacon-like backs and hairless chests flooded the primary pit and bordering grasslands.

I want to say I enjoyed seeing and hearing Slayer's performance,
however Tom Araya's vocals were barely audible through a wall of double bass drum and I'm quite certain the gun-blast repetition of power chords at insufferable volumes for 60 straight minutes has left me sterile.

We left the stands short there after to assess the quality of our hearing range and the extent of damage we had just allowed our eardrums to endure.

The ladies sucked lung-darts as we relaxed between a plastic rock climbing cliff and the unisex bathrooms and were hounded by a hipster and his doe-eyed girlfriend who were trying to sell counterfeit VIP bracelets they'd made out of rolling papers and scotch tape.

We snuck away just in time to see Manson kick off the show with an energetic rendition of the Irresponsible Hate Anthem.

He played a few songs off Mechanical Animals, Antichrist, and the newest album and ended with his haunting cover of Sweet Dreams and then an exhilerating encore of Beautiful People.

It was evident throughout his performance that although this was not the angry radical that proselytized with the heathenry of Holywood, Mr. Warner still had a few fresh tricks left in the bloody bag and just a few threads of heresy left (even if dwindling) in his act and in his voice that we could relish and enjoy.

The night ended with a dinner of honey-roasted peanuts and a long excursion of random playlists, backseat canoodling and interesting conversation on all parts.

Despite how it may seem after reading all this,

August 8th was a damn fine day!

Gehenna

The new book comes out

August 14th!

Available at

http://stores.lulu.com/deadtrees

ANNIVERSARY

Start your livers ladies and gentleman,

and let us toast to our first astronomical year in cyberspace!

One revolution around the sun and a hive of whatever it is you'd call all of this.

I've come so far, to say so little...

And have loved every minute of it.

Thank you for the the support, your faith in chaos,

and for actually taking time out of your day to read this

curious collection of juicy lil' ephemerons.

Brace yourself,

for this is only the beginning...

Exhumation

I found this poem by accident in the endless mirrored corridors, false windows and trap-doors
of the pandemonium that is my PC, while trying to locate my recipe for puerco pibil...

It was written about six years ago.

There's some tasty morsels I feel, but by my standards these days it seems a bit

"My bleeding heart is oh very deep, dark and hollow,
and infested with mascara-wearin ravens with hearts that bleed exponentially more

or at least at an equal rate to thine dark lord of Arlington Highschool"

It kind of has a Takashi Miike thing going on,
while simultaneously exuding an angsty vampire-mulleted batcavey teenager sensibility.

Take it or leave it,

I thought it was deserving of a tiny sliver of the key limelight,

even if just for a moment.

PARISIAN CEREBRUM

Her shoulders when viewed through an infrared lens
mimic the frail battle shimmy of savage devilfish swindlers two-fold;
tempting but disposable, whimsical with weakness
and furious like bleeding cuticles on a
dying shrine carpenter.

Dancing illegally and fed sinking teeth and circular saw secretions with cannibals.
We were left suffering to our own devices,
stained in charming marble nurseries by the reflective river currents of
mercurial transcendence and self enlightenment.

We were clothed by the Parisian sun,
embraced by the ashes of your urn, divine and inerrant.

Loosening her Geta with rose water,
she drew an orgasmic bath where
she revealed to me the nature of her scales
and the penalty for denying
the thick leech costumes of sensory deprivation.

Death in the afternoon* was always suitable,
and we’d shamble effortlessly unto bearded-Mary mezzanines,
perching against elderly banisters unctuous with sulfur and petrol
from Molotov cocktails.

We’d spend our mornings overlooking the intersections
in an assiduous squirm of possessed life-contestants,
rabid for parking spaces and monitored overhead like
writhing infants by officious overlords.

With cleavers of the clover ward,
I’d plant a frenetic talking board thirty feet below the sward.
And they'd prison-break and watchman-evade
as long as I remained the red of your wine.

Good food fulfilling free love for drama queens,
free of consequence.

As jolly Rogers, cadgers, draft-dodgers and jailors
take turns playfully nibbling the
wrinkled gizzards of disintegrating coffin-dodgers.

As my sisters drew straws to have at the hogtying
of dimpled cheesecake dolls;
the Cadillac of kidnap and trophy-shelf breed of the belated 5th grade.

Fat on plasma in the solstice washed up and disjoined,
we were knee deep in the open sore syndrome of blackmail.

Trading shark tank pyrotechnics for kissing booths,
I withdrew from the dharma façade of protest and excrement
and fastened my beloved valentine in soft brown rope.

Stuck in a trunk pleading in common decibels,
all the while makeshift gags disguised
selfless saboteurs self-mutilating.

she would carry on ordinary, a stunning mutt with long wasp legs
sheathed in the shadow of nylon fibers,
rendered as useless as her voice in the lame shore of bastard percussion.

All the while makeshift gags disguised
the delicious skills of freckled jailbait,
pinkish with spunk and puckish with minion pubescence.

The scalpel ballet was revisited in ether dreams
in the form of oozing pineal glands,
and the convulsion of eyelids engaged in the hollow optic mantras of yesteryear.

The wretched dessert nap left us feeling fatigued with scabbed knees,
betwixt the finer flesh of fractured thighs and languid human windmills.

Alas!
Balloon tanks against raw nerves,
sharpened slits gasp for air in a hum of amphibian catharsis.

Serpentine nails slither to bind my shallow meat
like the rod of Hermes on a Kaleidoscope holiday.

All the while makeshift gags disguise
the Parisian Cerebrum lurking in sane sight.





* 1. A nonfiction book about the ceremony
and traditions of spanish bullfighting
by Ernest Hemingway.

2. A cocktail prepared with Absinthe and Champagne

- Parisian Cerebrum [Beta] first appeared in issue no. 16 (spill) on http://www.spreadhead.virtualave.net-

All Indians, No Chiefs

Some time ago,
I took the opportunity to snivel and bitch as I sometimes do
about the disturbing nature

of "chicken pox parties" in my I Object panel.

I said something to the effect of
"I know the vaccines contain neurotoxic aluminum,

but there's something inherently sinister

about intentionally exposing your children to infectious diseases."

Currently I stand firmly by my annotations;

And must assert that if a

quasi-intelligent compulsion of light and sound

responsible for our very existence resides

somewhere in the ever-expanding universe,

I can thoroughly appreciate its vexatious,

vicarious nature and decidedly obsidian sense of humor.

Having said that,
put down the kiseru and take a quick gander at these choice cuts,

let out a snide little chuckle of superiority and rest easy knowing

that the hairless monkeys are at it once more with one of their "great idea's."

http://schott.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/07/01/swine-flu-parties/

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/8125191.stm

Sounds like some first rate fun!

Swine Flu Parties!

We've come a long way, and this is where its seems we've ended up.
In a panic fueled by fear-tactics,

deliberately contaminating each other with variegated pathogens,

viruses and infectious agents in the middle of a pandemic mind you.

You can see the elegance if you close your eyes;
Assorted blue-blood beautiful peoples rubbing their emaciated elbows as they quaff

triple sec-heavy cosmo's, crudites, tongue kiss and cough down each others throats.

Boy,

what a beautiful blue world it is to live upon!

In a Skiving Nox of Alligators...

FORMAL EDUCATION?

LOOK MA, FULLY-AUTOMATIC!

I'm not sure of the context or where these photographs originated,

but they sure do raise some interesting questions don't they?

I haven't wrote anything on the eggy-web in a while;

It's times like these I'm relieved that blogs

do not die like Tamagotchi's from negligence and malnutrition.

However,

I'm quite excited to announce that

A new book of poetry is in its final stages of development,

I don't want to say too much just yet,

but this one's sure to blow some whistles,

bark up trees, and groove with a shameless fools funky mojo.