Shitsong Cycles and Miscreant Chants: One

For your amusement I pluck baobab trees out of my eyeballs, grab 747s out of the baby-blue sky and  blow h-bomb kisses to memory mirages as you pine away on greyhound buses, last stop, last drop, smack your gumdrop, pop rocks, pitstops off the kentucky eye seventy-five seduction zone, last one on, ghost gone alone, piss rivers flow, hopeflowers born drowning in gutters, crybaby lakes and fashion snakes tighten around your gleaming last gasp kiss every asp disaster dream, force-fed ice cream and deep in the dead the dark the cold damage done, the stolen twins plotting a cabal of knots and gnarled wonders all through the barren winter, lovers made of wood petrified and smiling, penis bloodied, a harem of splinters– 

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Flies From An Open Neck

I’m obsessed with pez dispensers. You add the little candies to the plastic thing and when it’s full you snatch an individual candy from the top. I have a variety of different styles, with neat cartoonish heads, a rainbow of colors. I love them intensely, perhaps too much. My tongue itches for a candy to suck on from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall into kaleidescopic sleep.

I was given my first pez dispenser by my sadistic and delusional great-grandmother when I was five. I used to visit her on the weekends so my hippie parents could go off to their LSD parties or whatever, and she would always tell me scary stories. One was about a seven foot black man with a stovepipe hat who came a-knocking on unsuspecting women’s doors while they were at home alone waiting for their husbands or whomever to return from those agonizingly long ‘business trips’. For some reason the women could never resist letting the massive black man inside for a late night supper or a cup of rhubarb tea (he always asked for rhubarb tea, a slice of lemon, a pinch of sugar). The woman of course never had a prayer, for the man was an evil spirit and did unspeakable things to her, summarily ending in her demise. My great-grandmother would make a slicing motion across her neck at the decisive moment in the tale. When he left, he would turn into a wild cat and slink off behind the rock outcrop on the edge of the wood, or so the ‘legend’ went. My great-grandmother took enormous amounts of pleasure telling me these stories, all of which were spun from her disturbed imagination, knowing full well they would terrify a five year old– but that was how it went with this woman; she had a screw loose for sure. 

So, it got to the point I became so terrified of her stories I refused to go stay with her. My mother finally gave in to my pleadings and told me it was okay, I never had to go back and stay the night with her crazy grandmother again. One weekend not long after, my parents had a party at our shabby, pot-smoky apartment, and I somehow came across a blotter with daffy duck printed on it and put it into my mouth. 

All I can recall of that night was how I turned into a tiny greenish lizard and scurried across the walls looking for flies to eat, filling up on flies as the night transpired, holding them alive but captive in my belly like little pez candies. My parents quit their partying ways soon after this and got a divorce. My great-grandmother died later that year too, and in her will left me a green pez-dispenser, with a lizard head,and a black top hat (perhaps the very one that had inspired her allegorical yarn). What were the chances? Turned out as well she had nearly a half-million in assets and willed it all to a millinery for the homeless in Brussels. Her surviving family was of course not too happy about this development. She had always said, “No one should go hatless in this world.” Even now, sitting in my room filled with nearly ten thousand pez dispensers, some haphazardly piled to the ceiling, while others are neatly stacked on shelves, or in specially made glass showcases, I tend to agree.

I always eat candy from my lizard head pez dispenser with lightning-quick tongue. I wear that same black hat too when I go visit my girlfriends at night. They always think it’s funny.

Learn To Like It

“I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.”  Friedrich Nietzsche

–Pain is discovery. Pain is the meditation of insanity. Of the consciousness candle set on fire. Look here at how these men writhe in their beds, the lurid light of Sirius pelting like sleet upon their feeble and sorrow-soaked brains, calling out to blind night for their long dead mommas and their divorced wives who sulk away in fashionable mansions, their mold-infested pussies hiding all the keys to their hearts. Look at all the little girls in chaps and black-velvet riding caps weeping for their dead horses, having been flogged to death by a single roving gang of defrocked, denuded, deflated priests. Look at the grayed-over eyes of the horse-faced couple under perfect rows of japanese maple, holding hands, grazing for hay, already reducing a particular sunset to the glorious retirement of sunsets, the myopia of senile aesthetics. They are perfect fodder for this cosmic diet coke commercial: passing cold cans out from the back of the silver and red streaked van to the homeless lined up for miles to strangle the city, jonesing out of their minds for an aspartame fix. The shrieking orchestra of stabbing suicides filling the night streets, waking up all the old ladies who instinctively reach for their canes and stab at nothing real as it turns out, nothing real at all or ever, just the mocking images created from pure pain-drenched music.

–The bums on calabray street were licking up the horse shit faster than the horses could drop it. That created a problem for the bums, so they had a meeting in the alley between the Diet Coke Building and the 55-story Blue Heron Twin Towers and it was decided by direct democracy that eating horseshit, while still a fun and rewarding thing to do in moderation, was inhibiting their long-term mental and economic well-being at their time-honored rate of consumption. It was then they decided to adopt a diet that was exclusively dog star turds and diet coke. A parade ensued.

–One day, some bright day with Sirius shining down on my life, with horses dropping out of the sky, and diet coke rivers bubbling over with aspartame dreams– shit, this isn’t going anywhere, fuck it.

–Pain creeps up on you like a clever cop, calculating your felonious downfall one little misdemeanor step at a time. Takes you down like a hungry greco-roman wrestler, all hairy and sweating and stinking of feta cheese and cheap semen cologne. Pins you to the donkey moon, and your life is a child’s tale, told generation after generation, even your name lost to the changeable winds of language.