Friday, April 29, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

The Sex Pistols. AC/DC. Roky Erickson. Daniel Johnson. The Serial Killers. Bruce Haack. Nightmare at Hanging Rock. Anton LaVey. Crispin Hellion Glover. Kids of Widney High. Residents. Lucia Pamela. New Kids on the Block. Frank Sinatra.
Music forensics discovered on the mixtape of the caretaker found dead in the basement of the apartment building – with a magic marker rammed into his eye.
The caretaker found lying in a fetal position and revealed to be a kraken. Each of his tentacles in fact gripping a magic marker.

Had this been a horror movie, the camera would have slowly panned away, slowly up to the ceiling and round back down – with its obsessed, veiny lens pointing at the complex spirograph scribbled with astonishing precision on the floor beneath the squid corpse.

It becomes strikingly apparent when looking at a bus full of high-school pupils on the way to summer camp – that preening is infectious. 
Not just when the laundry detergents come out, the rustling billow of hands diving into knapsacks – but the claws, the hands militantly configured into gnat attack-mode, poised above napes of necks and parts in hair and undone buttons on chests and gaping zippers above crotches; all collectively, upon merely a single cue from a pair of students in the front or middle row, flourishing their preening implements and the fingers – man, those fingers – though initially horrible to the eye, the subsequent spate of preening, with insectile clicking and rustling heard above the changed timbre in the chatter, a more subdued and amorous timbre, is touching, it really touches the heart.
To see the whole bus so busily at work, so intimately – preening the fuck out of each other.

Every year scientists flock to the site of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster to test the radiation levels in the air and in the ground, and every year they report the same findings.
The readings in the soil and air by this time have become rather hackneyed and predictable, but there’s one finding that normally trumps these and in fact, had it not been for this, scientists would by now probably have lost interest in flocking back there every year – at the entrance to the doomed, spooky facility, placed just beside a metal door post, in the toxic shade of a dilapidated awning: a camber pot full of fresh jizz.
Upon the fate of which a UN edict has agreed not to waste the contents of the chamber pot in the puerile care of the scientists – but to donate unspoiled and uncut to Ukrainian sperm banks.  

The ease of the act which so far has been demonstrated and cockily flaunted by only one individual, or one type of individual (potential culprits had yet to demonstrate their acumen in this regard) – namely, a middle-aged pedophile.
Shoplifting items from the moon base’s only candy store.
Lunar candy stores proving surprisingly susceptible to the thieving feelers deployed by the pedophile, feelers any earth store or kiosk would be laughingly resistant to, for reasons that have yet to be determined, but enjoying no shortage of evidence to support this postulate – namely, that on the moon pedophiles have the upper hand, or this pedophile has the upper hand.
At least when it comes to pilfering candy. 

Pixilated safety razors it is this Nintendo game’s rather challenging objective to wield, and then to administer self-castration.

Bred to cause muffled weeping and/or despair.
100% biological – an impressive feat as far as headgear goes.
The alien facehugger genetically copied from the actual model used in the Alien movies, using a 3D-printer and software developed to guess the genetic makeup of creatures from images scanned into the computer.
In the snug embrace of which facehugger, no one can hear you scream.

No one except the old couple from Kansas City, the only people to ever rhapsodize positively and unctuously about the hole in the ozone layer – inspired by what they called the fraying edges of the hole, at times frilly but mostly on the verge of totally fraying in messy ozone tendrils, a hole they actually claim to be able to see, along with the aforementioned fraying (at times flouncy) edges. Miraculously.
In addition to spending their energies rhapsodizing and composing dirgy ditties about it, the old couple is in the middle of an emotionally taxing property rights trial staking their claim to quasi ownership of the Hole – dirges and ditties they sometimes compose extempore lyrics to on the lawns of people who at the sight of them run for their guns to capitalize on the impunity the state of Kansas has granted them in respect of the Johnsons – singing outside on their laws about (and, many witnesses attest, ‘to’) ‘The Johnsons’ Hole.’
Only to on their return to the front porch, gun heaving breathlessly in their hands, find the couple vanished.

Deep within the fibers of a fresh towel, sometimes not so deep but teetering on the tips of the fibers of a fresh towel – as if in plain view.
The Higgs Boson. The so-called ‘God Particle.’
I guess my roommate, emerging smugly from the bathroom, like a spaceman stepping out through a hatch, steam billowing dramatically around him, had just dragged one of those through his ass.

A man at the STD clinic talking creepily in this caring, whispering voice to a smiley face painted on his thumb. Small clicks heard deep within his nose.
Wet lips.
Porn tulips: more like props than decoration, here in the clinic’s waiting room. The way a hateful idiot passing bumps over one of the props in a fit of hiccups, during which he also exclaims loudly, interrupting the first discussion between patient and thumb-smiley: ‘Whoa! Thank you very much, bitches!’  

The world's most powerful laser.
Stationed, proudly, in Coney Island.

The favorites to do exceptionally well in the hundred meter race at this year’s Special Olympics:
The Russian corpsicle; the stop-motion lump of tofu from Indonesia; a bunch of noise selected from primordial radio signals from the Big Bang; the horseshoe lady magnet; the unmanned transporter; the zebra; the Swiss cheese lamprey; and the cocky and perhaps all-time favorite from the USA who always, to the crowd’s inexplicable delight, waves goodbye to the other runners with his robotic arm.
The only one really expected to lose in this race, Fred, if I may venture a guess, is the dildo.
The dildo, yeah. Whom of course everyone’s expecting to this year again lose orientation and start drilling vertically down through the tartan toward the center of the earth?
That’s the one, Fred. 

The smiley face on the thumb of the man in the STD clinic waiting room actually intelligently and coherently talking back.

Really. It’s one hard rule that I live by.
Said a member of the Brigade of Surrogate Wives. I fucking never imagine, pretend, or in a small moment of weakness even speculate what it’d be like to be the real, magnificently and heroically impregnated, wife or girlfriend or shag hag of the cad whose sperm I’m incubating.
For that, dear comrades – that’s a reeeeeeaaaallly dangerous fantasy to indulge in.
Oh my dear bionic ear trumpet – if only I could squeeze you in a bit deeper so you wouldn’t hit people in the face on crowded subway platforms. Many a night I lay dreaming, thinking what if you were to be replaced by a normal, copper, brass, or whatever, ear trumpet, one I could wield at my own convenience and place in my ear when I needed, and only when I really felt I needed, to hear something someone was saying more clearly? Like sometimes I couldn’t quite hear what someone was saying and I didn’t especially have the desire to hear clearly? Know what I mean?
And yet … you’re like a part of my brain now. You’re bionic. Which means you’ve essentially melded with my biosphere. With my biospherical head, yo. You’re half brass or copper or whatever – actually I’m not sure what material the part of you that’s not directly part of my brainmeat is – and so therefore, my dear ear trumpet, I suppose I’ve bonded with you. In more than just a physical sense. I feel emotionally really connected to you. If, for example, someone tugged at you, humorously – in jest – on the subway, and it could’ve been the same person I’d just knocked in the face with you, like in a sense he has the right to tug at you meanly and mockingly, well … then it would be rather like if I had huge ears, right? Like I couldn’t be blamed for having huge ears. And if I then went and accidentally knocked someone in the face with them, and they then turned around and pulled at them, I guess in that situation, I’d still be sort of justified in feeling kinda miffed about that. Like, sure, I knocked them in the face with the ear, but it was an accident, and really I can’t help having these large ears. So the crime and the punishment don’t match up. You know what I’m saying?

In the back of a pick-up truck. A mannequin. Androgynous. Blonde hair. Square jaw. Could be a girl or a guy. No tits to speak of. No penis or especially bulgy female hips.
The typical Austro-Hungarian idea of ‘pretty,’ to be sure. Or handsome.
Since retired from window-posing for the H&M and other clothing outlets, now en route, in the back of the pick-up truck, to fulfilling huge goals set before it by an embittered retired clothing retailer as a champion competitive eater. 

Advancements in robotics that would automatically be billed outr√© if they didn’t incorporate one of the following, indispensable features.
This being after the apocalypse, whereby a certain robotic fashion needs to be abided by. Indeed robotics in this science fiction dystopia has to adhere to a strict regimen of fashion etiquette. E.g. foremost, the reckless, inaccurate, unpredictable, autonomous, Tourette’s-like karate chop de rigeur among humanoid specimens. Meaning the arm of such a specimen would execute a perfect karate chop – but at a point in time neither the cyborg itself nor those around him could forecast. 
What post-apocalyptic weaponry is concerned, a lot of rust and a lot of wool – draped over parts prone to getting hot against a bare, scaly torso.
The rather rapid drop from vogue of actual humanoid robots shall be compensated for by the tedious, time-consuming rehabituation of robot dinosaurs to the strange, blighted, Mars-like surroundings. But where the arm of a perfectly-functioning (i.e. old-school) robot risks the creature too great social shame, a program needs to be installed that brings off two effects particularly when clubbing fake, stuffed seals in the red, sinusoid dust, for sports: the dilated eye is the first. Eyes in correspondence with the actions not of erratic karate-chopping arms but perfectly functioning arms, need to dilate visibly and dramatically, when clobbering to fine fluff counterfeits of pre-apocalyptic adorable furries. And then there’s the mandatory shaking of the fist angrily at the scorched sky effect your old-school, unmodified cyborg needs to learn or be programmed to master convincingly.
In a way – trickily – that doesn’t seem practiced or, for that matter, preprogrammed.

First in, last out.
That’s Allen. When he uses the bathroom of his flat, where he lives alone, somewhere in Brazil. 

Bearing what has instantly become a burden, in his trench coat. The terrorist’s paralyzing fear of cylindrical objects due to their occult influence on his ticklishness. The pipe bomb in his trench coat, walking through the airport, in this case offering much cause for concern – not just the sudden violent involuntary attack on his own ticklishness by the terrorist, thereby setting off the bomb, but the sweat punching out on his face, making him look very suspicious. And then some. His trench coat too – which is to say, his trench coat in combination with the sweat beads make him look mighty suspicious indeed, he knows.
Which only worsens the problem, knowing this. 
Since while usually people are provoked to hilarity via the prods of carefully aimed digits, this terrorist’s nerve endings vibrate uncontrollably when stroked by smooth round surfaces his brain, after intuiting the surfaces’ cylindrical form, finds itself being freaked out almost more than the nerve endings themselves because the way it is with some people with birds, who want to jump out of their skins and run away screaming at the mere sight of birds, so it is with this terrorist in respect of cylindrical shapes.

Translating facial expressions into DOS code on a computer monitor, the electrodes plugged into the face of a subject in an office chair also interpret hot flashes – manually administered by technicians wielding nunchucks.
A slideshow of expressions and epidermal glows and abrasions, later on arranged into descending stages of beaten-up-ness in the creation of this, the ultimate DOS game.
The rather large spectrum of reflexes of villains’ hammers, hacksaws, and tendrils – also articulated with DOS code in what is to become a game later described by Gaming Weekly as ‘The clunkiest piece of shit I’ve ever played – but addictive in a way only seeing Chuck Norris with a birth defect clobber bar patrons with his flipper hand can be addictive.’

The slow grueling process of rehabilitation with a Lego prosthesis.
Ferdinand disliked the way his technician scribbled on his clipboard after politely ordering him to attach the Lego arm, and to grip the gymnastic bar whose circumference exactly fit into the Lego hand – and hated the way his scribbles became more frenetic, accompanied by studious ‘hmms’ and ‘ahs’, when Ferdinand struggled to detach the hand from the bar, or when his arm in the process dislocated at the shoulder, the two Lego knurls sometimes totally leaving their holes.   
As if Ferdinand had now done something wholly profound or newfangled, the technician frowning to himself in wonderment and often failing to notice Ferdinand falling to the floor through the parallel bars on which he’d been supporting himself until catching him in the process of grumpily and cursingly climbing to his feet.
The technician’s eyes widening with fright.

In vain, totally – the villagers’ hope that the smallpox outbreak would be at least staunched by the magma flowing in huge leaping waves down the mountain’s slope.
When instead it was only relayed further downstream, to other villages, in virtually unspoiled form, by it. In fact the magma seemed rather to preserve the contagion.
‘Like my grandfather’s spittle,’ one villager mused – referring to the Twinkie he’d obtained from a Western traveler more than two decades before, and had decided instead of eating, to preserve in a Perspex tube filled, for reasons he never cared to ponder but was smart enough to ascribe to the Twinkie’s preservation, with his grandfather’s spittle.
His grandfather, who was known throughout the village as the most alkaline man. 

And that’s when, without further ado, Alfred grabbed the Nintendo console and decided, before commencing to play, to get an emotional breakdown.

An attention-grabbing self-help book.
The rarest of its kind – being totally absent illustrated drawings.

At the fair, the most lucrative stand – of all the kiosks and stalls and shops and even the rides – from which its products sold like freaking hotcakes.
I.e. The Rumor Mill. 

Far from outright deriding the old couple’s behavior vis-√†-vis the ozone hole, scientists and politicians and crackpot visionaries have rather been entertaining the same idea themselves – the cancerous nothingness within the ring of frilliness stirs in one an instinctive, parental sense of ownership.

A talented concept artist like him would’ve been far more popular if he didn’t let luxury and recreation get in the way of his work.
To just take his jet-ski footbath as an example – the whole idea smacked too much of self-indulgence. The artist’s self-indulgence.
He led what little remained of his fans to pleasure beaches of the mind too distant and personal even for them to follow him to.

The manicurist frowning at the suction cups on her customer’s fingers. 

The only – but officially the most boring – ‘movie’ in the village.
Time-lapse footage of the Twinkie decomposing in a vial of unbelievably alkaline old-man spittle.

Headless washed-out SCUBA poltergeist. Epiphanous but otherwise uneventful day in the subterranean dumpster. Bad guy.
Whose shrimp feces makes up the entire ecosystem of consumerism. A society born of ogre matchmaking. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Cathartic. Peeing my bed.
For which I am now gearing up – the second time this week.

With a railcar, preventative measures against falling asleep behind the wheel need not incorporate such drastic utensils as headphones repeating the tao of Freddy Kruger in a phlegmy, sibilant voice, torque wrenches promising hideous unconscious plastic surgery, or the dreaded ennui vortex – a 0.0000000003 frames per second, spirally raping of your dreamworld with scenes of loved ones dying in the jaws of crocodiles, falling from cliffs or the through the doors of airplanes as a result of your sleepy, half-lid, cartilaginous lethargy preventing you from saving them in time.
Utensils and projections that bouncily eject from the dashboard of the average automobile and like a swarm of black, alien insects attack the sleeping driver.
But which with the railcar is mercifully absent owing to the fact that accidents are virtually impossible, with your car running at a constant 30km/h on a rail unpopulated by other travelers – going from the garage, round the house, and back again to the garage. 
The questionnaire Gollum filled out on Facebook to get hold of an accurate measurement of his ingenuity – but which, ingeniously, he noticed on various points as containing flaws.
Such as obvious, leading questions about his personality a person who merely wished to be ingenious but wasn't actually could tick off next to 'Extremely,' or 'Mostly' – fraudulently, thereby, influencing the outcome of the questionnaire.
Gollum, who is known for his greediness and clinginess, but who likes the idea of possessing some manner of ingenuity in order to sustain a constant influx of goods and favors to nurture and satisfy the demands of these, otherwise wretched, needs.

The Iron Man suit manages to keep a straight face while inserting toothpicks into its joints and conduits – pretending not to miss the bolts and screws carried off to an undisclosed location by a thieving garage rat.
Pretending also not to notice the pesky sort of habit it has developed, of pocketing a VHS tape and the all-consuming chore of hoping the imaginary friends recorded thereon are keeping themselves marginally entertained while it, the Iron Man suit, is held up by other diversions.

A very large being, in whose shadow it is very cold, and in whose electromagnetic aura I can quite effortlessly cultivate a punk hairstyle, has, with its godly knack for hacking, hijacked the circuitry controlling my flamethrower arm – in order to light its cigarette.

The marriage that fell apart – its building blocks, building blocks that had effectively come tumbling down the moment the couple realized the building blocks that comprised their marriage was part of a kinetic sculpture that looked a hell of a lot like Jean-Claude Van Damme in a bushy mustache and a tinfoil hat, building blocks that came tumbling down as the collective marital mind was blown upon realization of its own outward corporeal aspect and the subsequent need to breathe into a paper bag usurping the couple a few moments before total and complete marital dissolution; the building blocks of the marriage otherwise consisting, in part, of a spark plug invented and designed by Watson and Crick, for which they'd won the Nobel prize in the Family & Lifestyle category, and in lazy, swirling, sloshing motions, all the crazy radioactive shit of the joint pair's domestic quirkdom – effectively the reactor core or double helix that provided character and life to the conjugal entity - coexisted in a dalliance of shared, but now shaken, characteristics, in a cardboard tube.

That which apparently is soul-rending to Lady Gaga.
The sight of a Venn diagram.
Or a Venn diagram posing as a bra.

Evidence that proved Houdini was a selfish cunt –
Though it didn't stop the analogy he liked using in interviews to describe escape artistry from going viral on the Internet: 'The body of an escape artist, it is like royal jelly quailing upon seeing a cracker.'
Every contraption, no matter how complex, from which the escape artist sees himself escaping appears flat. And salty.
And the escape artist sees himself as that which is issued unceremoniously and to the accompaniment of wet, farty sounds by a bee's abdomen. With a deep understanding, moreover, of its own aversion to flat, open surfaces – a mindset that apparently is crucial to the mastery of escaping from tight, uncomfortable spaces.
Plus, not to mention, insufferable selfishness.
Hence the nickname 'Selfish cunt Houdini.' 
On the stove, after the Zombie apocalypse – not so much a fighting rink demarcated by found objects in the abandoned kitchen, as a wasteland. Properly so-called.
Globs of cookie dough in the makeshift rink, bludgeoning each other with wooden spoons.
Conceptually a 'wasteland' since the person who'd been busy making cookies here had, like the cookie dough, themselves been zombified – just before shoving the cookies into the oven.

A kitchen from which the cook has disappeared transcends itself from being a kitchen to being a wasteland.
Jamie Oliver himself once proclaimed, tearfully. After having himself been zombified, in the aforementioned apocalypse.

Indeed the kitchen in which the globs of cookie dough were bludgeoning each other with wooden spoons belonged to him.
They were also to be his cookies.

Chiptune music in the busy restroom, tinkling and thrumming within the chaotic, tiled space. Totentanzers.
'Death dancers,' in German.
Having quickly gotten the hell out, one user of the bathroom – to be distinguished from the undead users – observed that the strikingest thing about the flash mob of dancing waifs, since its inception, was the growing predominance of Mark Zuckerberg makeup. Facially and bodily (indeed it became quickly apparent that all were naked), an over-saturation of aimless felt tip markings – scratchings, doodlings, cross-hatchings, angry jagged hackings and swipings in thick moist black felt tip – so that the semblance to the Facebook founder became almost embarrassingly evident.
Could the same phantasmagorical MAXIM centerfold that featured Zuckerberg have been copied by each of the Totentanzers?
That being the idea of flash mobs – to congregate and behave round a common theme. Then, naturally. Yeah, that's what they were all going for.

Lois Lane, regarding her time spent on eBay – describing, on her blog, the huge wave of procrastination that suddenly – and spookily – overtook her actions, including her finger's very ability to click the mouse.
After stumbling upon a beautiful dress which apparently no one had yet bid on. The auction time on which apparently was due to close in like two minutes.

The story of Mad Max and pug dog shampoo expanded – in relation to, and parallel with, each other and in service of a single allegory, about the costume that took a quantum leap in awesomeness after becoming, due to bad hygiene, part of one's very skin.

Hip-Hop since its accidental, unwitting inception on the brownstone patio of a poor, struggling, Jewish family in Brooklyn, circa 1926.
A powerful prognostication tool in the hands of rich, already-established investment bankers. 
You're already doomed as a dictator – namely your dictatorship is already a huge miserable failure – if you, as dictator, have stage fright.
And if you have a short attention span. Namely, if you stutter in front of huge crowds arranged in squares of dark tiny shapes far down below your podium, and hanging on your every word.
If in general you're the type who loses his thread in telling a story, or loses the plot when listening to someone else telling a story.
Your final descent into madness marked by the fact that, though starving to death on account of your refusal to grant a single further grain or morsel of food to your imaginary intestinal worms, you believe the taco someone placed beside you on your desk where you're writing a scathing exposition on the political agendas of the Worm Party and the need to outlaw the party and relegate worms to the obscure corners of politics where their opinions and votes don't matter much or aren't really heard, isn't real. Was real occasionally, and perhaps started out to be real, but soon turned into a replica of a taco. Which, while writing your essay, you feel powerfully, or overpoweringly inclined, to beat up.
As seems to be your stance toward all replicas – which the world is rapidly and diversely gaining examples of. That hulking urge to seize them in one's fist and squeeze every bit of fake, Play Doh substance out of them. Until there's just fake nothingness, or a small lump of fake puree, in your quivering fist. The tyrannical pancake someone placed, some time later, next to you on your desk in two facing plates. Which you're going to take a miniscule break from your work to go ahead and dub a mere stencil of a pancake.
Before beating it up.

The exact science behind which is fumbling, or for the time being willfully confining itself to secrecy. The explanation behind how it happened teasing and testing the limits of what good humor our curiosity has left so badly, its absence is menacing at worst – irritating at best.
Scientific explanations for how the quiet house in the suburbs where that old gentleman lived went supernova. And spawned, over a radius of ten blocks, a handful of other (8), smaller suburban houses.
The ninth not really qualifying as a suburban house as its backyard and small dingy carport nudges across the border into the huge, teeming, underground metropolis run by the Mole People.

Incidental inventions and natural phenomena that go to show our civilization's instruments and pastimes explicitly engineered to induce vertigo need to be rebranded, or monikered less misleadingly: a headmounted telescope that whimsically and of its own accord zooms in and out; a rogue aurora suspended above the theater where Winnie the Pooh premiered, resulting in the awful, vertiginous modulation of Winnie the Pooh's voice; falling off the table, the animatronic beast cobbled and strung together from optic nerve fibers and inner ear cartilage, and wax, during its decent relaying back to the laptop unironicaly stationed on the same table signals of horror hitherto uncharted by our most talented fiction writers and movie makers; breastfeeding entertainment software, the object of which is to provide the grown man those lost precious memories of breastfeeding but unaccountably knocking him cold with whooping vertigo; the unmanned safari transporter, camera-mounted – meant to extend the lazy bush lover's grasp of his favorite animals but making him feel kinda dizzy when the transporter buckles over and through anthills and what might be the entrances to either warthog or rabbit burrows.

It is better if a bad person helps an old lady across the street, than if a good person kicks that same old lady's head in.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Meaty hands are the simpler version.
Obligatory hug peanut-shaped - gets pulverized.

The phrase 'You're All Toast' definitely struck a cord with the party streamers, their first real glimpse of a world a little bit crunchier.
Tragic umbilical fluorescence.

Then the autistic typist beautifully coded a mood for our mutation –
the porno store had captured it in a small measuring cup.

My roommate cooked up gristle of emergency Hot Pockets in huge earthenware vats. Chemical protoplasm with too complicated a flavor for a silver wrapper to stomach.
Velcro dollar TV dinner – ripped off with a patch of black hair.

Steam-powered Valentine's Day chocolate, bursting at the seams.
Animated gif takes a turn for the worse. Polymers any gnostic would tell you are superfluous - teeming on the blind side of the red cosmic skein.

Hooters pathos lost in the drudgery of a squeegee, a servile silhouette in the tent disguising the pig brains in their eyes.

I don't mind our Thanksgiving dinner getting carpal tunnel from all the twist-ties keeping it together - should gangrene form in the segments and finally rot off in hot dog lengths, many new and exciting hot dogs could be made.

The entire psychiatric ward was in my hand for at least 2 minutes.
Said the stoic alpha male, staring into the beating heart of the cough sweet – which had now returned to normal.

Whenever I see a Subaru, I think of embalming. I do not think of death, however - I think of a cork, happily incubating in the neck of a bottle of fine wine. This is not a mummy state. Far from it – it is a heavy object losing its footing and instead of crashing to the floor, remains forever floating. I believe myself to be a self-healing paperweight. A ghost, on a flesh-scented hotel balcony – staring out over a dry ocean bed.
Yes, there is dryness.
Climbing in, I think of myself kind of as an illegal intruder – a smiley face sticker on the inside of the Tardis.
I do not travel to other dimensions through cream or fat, in other words.

Press a button, and the Walkman falls apart.

His body lying unresponsive on a patch of a grass, the debate of the group of boy scouts who'd stumbled upon him forever ranges over whether to empty the contents of the Swamp Thing's Fannypack – bits of leftover gum eraser, one stapler grossed out by what it had once done to a frog, a penknife full of adrenalin after cutting a scary-looking mushroom, a roll of duct tape so potently adhesive as to be stuck in time, and an ashtray filled with pond scum – and sell it on the flea market or something. 
Aces up sleeves at this nursing home, during poker games -
punishable by confinement to a special, sparsely decorated upstairs room.

They tend to get somewhat melodramatic, finally losing all composure and turning into floaty bits of drooping spandex above their mats. One way to recognize the state of terminal sulkiness in otherwise totally unrecognizable beings.
Indeed, shapeshifters are notoriously unfond of yoga - and in consequence way too reliant on stratagems not so much to ease the pains caused by yoga, as to express these pains, so that we might sympathize with them. Around their mats, at these times, you therefore stand witness to the unsightly perambulation of thespian pulp, French bread at an awkward, inconvenient flex losing all of its luster, and knotted balloons trying their darnest to look like sad giraffes.

Dishrag mental image, fingerprint gaining body mass. Screw cap French period wig.

Home maintenance tip: offer your microwave popcorn as bargaining chips to the creepy girl twins that stalk the corridors of your haunted mansion. You're gonna die horribly of screwdriver puncture wounds in the head – weeping blood clots that on closer inspection betray cauliflower aspects under their red shiny veneer.
Reminding you of the small, indeed popcorn-like explosions that take place under the calm exterior of the catatonically shy.

In the eyes of your sadistic pleasure, the victim – not you – is the flagrant offender.

The suicide cult, during their meetings, the formal ones as well as the BBQ and poolside get-togethers, would've relished a sense of harmony and common purpose, a common destiny and the sense of its slow, calm and deliberate approach – if it hadn't been for that one, insensitive jerk in their midst.

Dribbles of Euclidean phantoms vaguely evocative of cows praying, accumulating on the landscape.
Seen by hitchhiking McDonald's employees under the influence of psychotropic drugs.

The surfeit of hand-decorated Easter eggs in the convenience store answers that question – the vogue among women to makeup themselves with lipstick grimaces conspicuously pointing down at the corners. With exaggerated freckles on the cheeks and parodies of whiskers irradiating from the tip of the nose.

Walking in the rain, or the enjoyment thereof – with the ghostly voice of a famous child narrator documenting each step, with a sardonic little giggle at each imaginary, bloodstained milepost.
The worrying condition players of the game World of Warcraft have begun to present with. Returning from each walk with a real, corporeal puppy in their arms. Often to the alarm of their mothers, siblings, or housemates.
Saying, 'If it hadn't been the puppy's birthday, the Child Narrator would have been the oldest...'

A coming-of-age flick about a zit.
Which when squeezed spits smoke – not the usual whitish yolk of really immature zits.

The landscaped garden which for many years had existed undisturbed above the burial ground, in every sense conceivable: having never had the need to be tended or maintained, cleared of leaves, the grass cut, the bushes trimmed.
The plumbing of the cafeteria that replaced the garden, however, would go on to never being on easy terms with the burial ground.

Telescopes didn't gorge themselves on boobs in the sixteenth century. But on planets arranged next to each other as boobs.
Often it was as though the universe was trying to tell them something.

The communal treadmill at the gym – built for heavy traffic, and then some. Able to take 500 joggers, strollers, and breathless flailers at a time. Warmly accommodating. Indeed sweatily accommodating.
But the troupe of Nazi paramilitaries that landed on it last Wednesday was violently shunned.

Dean Of Daft *spoiler*

His body lying unresponsive on a patch of a grass, the debate of the group of boy scouts who'd stumbled upon him forever ranges over whether to empty the contents of Swamp Thing's Fannypack – bits of leftover gum eraser, one stapler grossed out by what it had once done to a frog, a penknife full of adrenalin after cutting a scary-looking mushroom, a roll of duct tape so potently adhesive as to be stuck in time, and an ashtray filled with pond scum – and sell it on the flea market or something.

Saturday, April 23, 2011


Meaty hands
are the simpler version,
she said.
Obligatory hug peanut-shaped,
gets pulverized.

'You're All Toast' struck a cord
with the slimy party streamers –
their first real glimpse
of a world a little bit crunchier –
tragic umbilical fluorescence.

Once only an autistic, 400-word per minute typist
could captured the mood
of mutancy – today your average porno store
can do it in a small measuring cup.

Cooked up gristle of emergency
Hot Pockets in vats.
At the same time a chemical protoplasm
with too complicated
a flavor for the silver wrapper
to stomach.

Velcro dollar TV dinner – ripped off with
a patch of black hair.
Steam-powered Valentine's Day chocolate
for her, bursting at the seams.
Those were polymers any gnostic
could've told you were superfluous -
teeming on the blind side of the red
cosmic skein.
When the gross animated gif
took a turn for the even worse...

Hooters pathos lost in the drudgery
of a squeegee. In the tent, a servile
silhouette disguising the pig brains
in their eyes.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

With my finger I am abusing a little pink, nipple-like nodule that has grown from my skin. Enlightening. A guttural sponge ball that with each press makes you care more about the Klingon plight. My skin has become a great platform for a popcorn wedgie. Recrudescence of a circus. Cereal aberration in bright socks – ignited by the same ray gun a sharp-minded janitor identified as the inspiration behind gonzo bathroom graffiti. No idea how I'll keep this rubber suit monster human-powered. It can make a guy explode.

A game of Nintendo in which the objective is to not allow your Thetan to die of old age in the small intestine, holding a shaky hand-held video even when scenes in the intestine become frightfully like being on a rollercoaster. The sensation of your life drastically condensed captured by the analogy of sitting in a limousine and then being teleported into a very bad neighborhood.
The sound of the Thetan squeaking out loud. Its experiences recorded Blair Witch Project-style with the jittery camera.

If you don't understand why DIY types are chronically in need of hugs before, and shortly after, birthing their mechanical innovations, one famous industrial tinkerer will answer that it's his T-Rex's heartwrenching inability to drink from a straw that generates this need.

The ultimate weapon is thronging.

The blind think the world of sight is kept from them only insofar as it exists in a cocoon – full-color spectrum reification of the cocoon's contents takes place viscerally in the paintballs the blind have instead of bellybuttons.

A special jetpack launching platform for the judgment-impaired.
A bruise or scab or little cut on your knee – for which there is unfortunately no preemptive measure against the inevitable case of band-aid shift.
Space, embracing the torrential flow of human freedom, splitting into onion rings.

Congenital heart conditions of gunslingers. Enumeration of the many ways the spectral presence in one's chest can indeed be grappled with, rather effectively, on the strip of dirt in the middle of a draw. Over a hundred accounts about eerie chest pains in notable Wild-West gunmen in one cute little anthology.
More than just a beautiful leather-bound scrapbook – an algorithm, when read backwards, that glows, Ring of Sauron-style, on the transcendental disco ball – no, soul – cached within every reader's ribcage.

In jumpsuit, now a little angrier at the world.
After the Park Board failed to warn me that corralling everything Pastoral and Rustic in one minute with a notepad and pencil, with rough sketches and little lines of poetry, can make a guy explode. I'll be so many shreds of polyester, I think – hanging from a tree.

Bedridden alligator skin, from a recumbent position holding up old acne paraphernalia for inspection. Could harnesses the occult with these – faulty wiring cemented over with the plowing technology of evangelical zeal.
In an era of mainframe computers.

Your three wishes?
Viagra fire truck.
Heritable disco ball.
Car chase foot massage.

The clone master who is hopelessly enamored of genetic roulette, a practice that allows for only one in a trillionth probability that a perfect clone would emerge from the cartoon egg in which clones are manufactured.
Who marveled lustily at the diesel condensation on the glass dome of his white rose clone, and the vile mid-air cursing of his Angry Birds clones – chuckling to himself only half-knowingly: the well mechanism attached to the edge of the denuded egg had dragged out a fire-breathing groundhog, which was cool – only someone who cloned without regard for repercussions would see something positive in that – but it did bother him that his personal signature on the genetic disability responsible for the Easter Bunny's unseemly manly swagger – and complete disinclination to hop – was missing. Verily as though it was the work of someone else.
A human he'd cloned over a thousand times now couldn't provide purchase for the spiny grapples of the well mechanism – the fetus smoothie slopped around at the bottom of the egg and looked delicious, he saw; but he'd never drink it, figuring something that didn't explicitly bear his own signature, or on which said signature was terribly blurred, perhaps from overuse, was somehow a little too disgusting to wholeheartedly call 'his'.

Videocassette saturation – lusted for by alien invaders.
Whose idea of Earth culture is a diagram of potato chips.

Chewbacca's towel suspected of involvement in manslaughter. Finethread, sentient only insofar as it 'thinks' itself no longer able to see comedy in its situation.

A nature TV presenter claimed the Tibetan environmental disaster – a rather major landslide – as being.
If it hadn't been triggered by a motorized wheelchair. The wink, after adding this, was somewhat uncalled-for.

The FedEx pennywhistle bicycle represents only half of the truth about the universe.
The bumper sticker that tried, with its caring message, to make life on earth all about the physical safety of others, representing the other half.
One thing sex offenders have going for them – at the mere twitch of a limb or sliver of facial flesh, the most amazing solar flares can afterward be seen in the locker room. Having something to do with the excess glucocorticoids they're packing in their fibers.

A Hobbit spending all his money on lacrosse gear – and in the same breath ushering in a new era of darkness for the Shire and Middle Earth proper.

No cookbook would be complete without dotted line schematics connected to hungry-looking scissors on the parts of the brontosaurus you wish to slice up and eat. No cookbook worth its salt leaves out the chapter to do with organ transplant. No cookbook neglects to explain how to first contain, then prepare, labia supernovae.

Nightmare-inducing measuring tape. Its squid system caught up in, and aligning perfectly with, a wizard's brooding multi-tasking.

Matzo vendor. Matzo scrapbook. Matzo cardboard. Matzo used to enslave and instill coherence in the hivemind. The mystery of the matzo, unsolved. Matzo tricked out as Tarot. Sexy matzo conga line. Matzo with Coca-Cola. Mortal Kombat matzo. Matzo used to make dentistry glamorous. Matzo as rocket. Black Beauty trading rocket stilettos for a pair of matzos. The domino that tried to be a matzo, and failed.

Monday, April 11, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Laughter in an arthritic sweatshirt.
Balance of human element in lymphoma.

For the continual thunder is an old hand at this, baseball cap on backwards – it is always comfortable in any itchy butthole.

Think Chucky the Demonic Doll's offensive slogan at the same time. Hustling pork around any synagog or special-ed kid playground won't cause feelings of insecurity in yourself.
This is snake oil for the modern life - our values only stimulate absurdities.
Hedonistic Sasquatch Kremlin – with his dick caught in ex-girlfriend blight.
Fraying is one of his many talents.

How many elaborate traps configured of tiny chicken bones does the subconscious mind lay for the unsuspecting conscious mind?
Prom meltdown depicted exquisitely on a 3D chart.

The pervy drunkard who fingers gravestones in which woodpeckers aim to hole up future criminals and maladroits has one Achilles heel - he balks at the fermentation of vegetables.
Radish in particular can sense fear.

How to continue making coffee if you've already fucked up every important step in making the morning's first cup of, incredibly important coffee.

A ghost town that annually celebrates the time Batman came cruising through on a Segway. On which the latter's vigilantic sense of purpose apparently thrives most pungently.
I.e. on a Segway.

If you speak ill of the Beard, this is what's in store for you:
Hefty. Confrontational.
History giving you a piece of its mind.
A high-pitched burp.

You could not possibly exaggerate the unforgettable gastric sirens that, in protestation, instantly sounded. A gathering of deflating fossils beneath a third layer of green sedge - the eerie whistling emanations of decomposition.
Beginning to finally understand – and learning instantly to speak – Neolithic street slang.

Survivors of the apocalypse, why do we take pictures of driverless tractors?
Whence this morbidity?

Every time I leave a chair, a massive, glossy, colored decal is left by my buttocks on the chair's seat -
'Vote Republican,' it says.

How peeping Toms market to boring old hags who might otherwise never have heard of them or thought it likely to need their attentions.
They pitch marquee tents below said hags' bedroom windows and sell merchandise on the theme of Peeping Tommery – T-shirts, mugs, stickers, placemats, mousepads. Occasionally from these tents, reclining lacklusterly back on a fold-up chair and scratching their balls/beards/bellies, reciting poetry heavy with propagandic import over a bullhorn.

Narrow road wending through pretty, patchwork farmlands. Red, tinted-windowed, MAG-wheeled Ford Cortina speeding along purposefully.
Thus nature launches the opening of its very own spectacularium.

The object of murderous desire, longevity will soon be verboten.
When we're all dead, it will seem like mere whimsy.

Apparently, diabetic sex addicts have been doing themselves in – pussies don't have frosting. Only white noise 'glazes' the female mons pubis like a blanket of department store static. Basically, trying to brook a false allure of this kind into sexual fulfillment activates a pleasure principle that causes the heads of esp. diabetics to explode.

Its instrumentation choking on a ball of hair.
The hairclip that gained sentience nearly decapitated her. 
I've been a doctor for twenty years. In all that time, I've been eyeballed critically by my young assistants only once when performing a vasectomy – and that was in a dream. The 'finally, he gets something wrong' look. It torments me. The dream image is incredibly vivid in memory, still. Those looks. My confidence hasn't been bruised as such, but since then during all my vasectomies I keep a look out for it.
It is in that dream of mine in which the patient's crotch writhed with pale transparent tentacles and getting my scalpel to them was incredibly difficult.
Normally, vasectomies aren't this intricate: no way would my brow ever break out in beads of anxious perspiration the way it did during that procedure.
Nevertheless, I keep a low constant subconscious scan going at all times, now, during these procedures – for those critical little sneers on my young assistants' faces.

Why people are so yard-sale obsessed – since that teleportation device was sold and tried out on site, and people waited in vain for the human remains to return, which whispered from the beyond: 'It isn't over yet. I will return as a collection and categorization of my parts.'
But then never did. The diabolical nature of the wait soon gave way to boredom as shoppers and browsers at the yard sale became increasingly terrorized by notions of which they had no understanding.
'I reached second base and farted in the shower simultaneously,' came the bubbly-lipped voice. 'At least, the medium through which I am being teleported feels like being inside a shower. In which I'd farted. And then felt my hands immediately placed on two objects I have now with certainty ascertained were, have been, and perhaps still are, breasts.'
'I am now a snuff film traveling around the sun.'
'I wish I had GPS on this thing.'

Large breasts.
A woman who'd been browsing porcelain plates and cups was then reckoned to have gone missing. She would not have been thought missing had the voice from beyond, coming at them through shower vortices, fart-powered & plowing through dimensions of roiling space, hadn't mentioned the word 'breasts,' in conjunction with 'shower.'
For when she was last seen, she had been wearing a shower curtain. Her clothes: she was not wearing normal clothes. Browsing the cups and plates at the yard sale. Scratching her chin ruminatively. Polythene, sixties flower-patterned shower curtain for a dress.

Second base shower fart. Misplaced erotic fantasies.
A novelty transport medium. Prototype.
Predecessor of the yet-to-be invented bath turd.

Sunday, April 10, 2011


An ambulance with an air of leaving the TV on
In a living room of don't give me that look!

Hemorrhoidal oversleep, the new scent from grinding a burst
VHS electrothanasia ray -
kerosene expression of vignette

What could be simpler than duct-taping a cube?
A skeletal grid of buttons
like a wire-frame acorn, dead inside
predicament solved with extra layers of itself

Small window of artificial pattern, moxy of welded-together pieces
Block Buster rentals washcloth - instinctively prefers Horrifying Enough

Dead weight touchscreen, beady eyes control panel
can feel a little of voice relay bypass
Bag of chips tutorial distinct lack of riveting

Held cloud of white fluffy tube in a grip of terror
pungent depictions of spectacular leaps

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