Skip to main content

Creep thou loathsome tide

A. final note to all of my (ca.found)

He was going to call himself PrizeMonii but then he got it, as in he understood what it is that's fattest and most special about absolutely everything. Sparkle's always known it's only a game. That's why they all decided, Sparkle, Spaff, and FryDoh were going to be their breakout names that year. After that the whole entourage felt boundless and everlasting. Especially when they were on acid together. When they're high even their heavy shoes couldn't hold them down. So they started kissing on each other back at FryDoh's. But then they stopped the kissing because kissing was too real. It's too too Gunderson, too man on man on man of all things.
They tamped down their woodies and now it's sing along sing along all the way home. Sparkle shivers, the bus is late again. He slides his pen back into his hip pocket and fumbles for the token that he put there this morning. He reminds himself that unlike what Spaff says, all this chunky moss is for growing fat and stoned baby. Sparkle know's that he's more like the moon, he's cold and he can't shine all alone.
- Oh My Piles of David Flesh
It takes some time for Tam's rat poison to ease up. When it finally gives way and that quintessential high to kicks in, Oh MAh GOd. When it does you can't touch the way this shit feels. It's like having an erection the size of a chimney. We're suddenly two chairs under a table being really awesome. We're like our old friends back at Offenbach Press. We're gluttonous pigs with stymied arteries and the rum of all back hairs squat at our center. It's like we're right back where we started and nobody cares.
Oops there it is. It's our guy, Magically appearing inside the depth of the 8-ball just one whistle stop away from shyness and only one working day to go. We're high on the enormity of our now song. Being sung between water and the wheel, it binds and sets our day as we would ourselves to be. Messianic fervor, libidinal fantasies, desire structures that are nothing short of criminal; to whom whats passed, for they are now our question too. Too quick for the quickness of open eyes, Here's to Screwtape in my house. Here's to the old bafflement factory, the cause of the causing parade. Here's to Screwtape again. Here's his toast.
That's right toast the ghost, baby.
Quid pro none, The brick wall behind you is dirty. There are weeds under the counter rustling in the sneaky breeze, Is this it...
It's the place. When we were kids Mom would bring us out here. Me and a couple of our neighbors would get to hang out playing Internets.
Let's look around, I push on a stuffed door in the broke wall. Maybe you'll find something here, something spooky.
Probably not, Tam pulverizes a clod of hard clay under his boot. This place is a wreck, He says. Even the rats moved on.
Tam say's the joint still smells like the same combo of grease and old bush. But I say, if it has to stink like something then, You shrug your shoulders and pull a broken calendar out of the hard dirt. The equipment, the ovens in the back were abandoned decades ago. The money dried up, the people complained at first but that didn't last long. Most of them got confused and moved out before the water started to creep up over the sides of the concrete. After that the lake just got bigger and bigger.
The door in the back is wide open. I can see the fire escape, flaking vermilion steel that's fallen across the buckling exit.
There's a broken bulb hanging over the staff shitter Tam. It's like a hot tiny closet. It kind of smells like Brooklyn in here, The plunger's wreaked and there's mud wasps everywhere. BahDump Pah.
Did you catch that Buick in the lot Tay, You ask me. Man Detroit forever.
I wouldn't say no to that, not right now. Those were some good times gone.
You yell out, Bumble fuck piston getter, eat my fucking song.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too.   We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...