La petite Aurore et Guy Damien Lafleur

La petite Aurore, quelle horreur, you lived twelve months on oatmeal and Planters peanuts and doll hair, so I'd imagine, being imaginative, and they whipped you with a belt and burned your hands and cheeks on the stove, and all the good Catholic boys and girls of Dear Québec were traumatized forever because they made a movie about it and put it on TV, and of course there were only two or three channels back then, and this poor tortured girl became the best ever emblem of Québec's mongrel Catholicism and all the little French Canadian kids knew it plain as day, even as the so-called adults prevaricate, just as the plains of Abraham stand dismal and grey...je me souviens...

Guy Damien Lafleur, born in Thurso, Québec the year after my parents were born, but not in Québec, remains an all-time leading scorer for the Montreal Canadiens hockey franchise, his numbers right up there with those of Maurice “Rocket” Richard, the only other player who competes with him for status as most popular among true traditionalist Canadiens fans. At fifteen years of age and a paltry one-hundred-thirty-five pounds, Lafleur joined the Québec Jr. Aces and managed to somehow score a whopping one-hundred-sixty-one goals in one hundred games.

The Ol' Misplaced Derby Hat Job [a Comic Sketch]

 

Mr. Jackboot Jackpots, prophets make prophecies, oye. Yeah, Kid Columbus, bustin' your rumpus to follow us up the snuzzleguts and make a mark out of all of us. The Self transitions in time. Be careful what you insinuate! you got you a fungus in the bungus? a hibiscus in your soiled maroon pup tent? Have you seen my Derby hat? I've seemed to've misplaced it? Jefferson Dildo Hemingsworth! How dumb and directionless your cruelty is. Are you inured to your own cruelty?! Peekaboo, psycho! I know I ought to behave better, but in order to do so you see I must have my misplaced Derby hat first in hand and then atop temporary head. Astonishing. You are like the cunt of a moose unto, uh, things all loose on the goose. On the gander. If...if I may loosen my tie. Goddamn, Baby Brigadier. Money is not real. Money is not consideration. Why don't we test our sexual compatibility before making any hasty decision about the definitely stollen hat?

What the fuck is fucktually fucktioning right now, Little Vowel? We are standing here live from the Great Raid of 1840. Horseshit, and I'm confident as a ram that I'm as credible as I am, Sam. You were once very warm and engaging and you made lenses like Spinoza. You were fired for discrimination but deserved no astringency along the meridian. Why does the body move as it does, as though operated like a puppet among a myriad of filthy and frenetic puppets puppeteered by puppeteers unable to send communications back and forth for some reason? What guides people is mood. And beloved objects like a hat or a broach...or the plump and milky handjob girls at the dairy. The what? The...the girls...at the dairy...who are merciful and quick in their tawdry ministrations. My thing is me having good time, capital-F Fuck the torpedoes. A man at cross-purposes. Muse much? I'm not sure. I've lived 17,300 years and I have not seen anything all that worthy of special acclaim. Well, consider that a kind of hasty beginning.

My father would like to shake your hand. The Great Goddamn Godandus?!! Help! I'm on a popularity contest! Awaketh. You do not know if you are the victim or the perpetrator of a crime we have not yet specified. People don't give a fuck. They throw a throwing star 'tween your frizzed-out eyes. Could be your mother dressed as your brother. It just don't relent. Lonesome and squirrelly, judge piggybacking jury. Are you here to dismantle me and shut me down kaput ad infinitum? Is that the whisper of the machine's walnut wish? Go fish, do what you wish: ain't no demands be crying in on me. Me neither. If you give over the Derby hat you definitely fuckin stole and got on yer this here minute.    

In Consideration of Intelligent Machines

 

Originally, when we were impossibly naive, we would respond to René Descartes’ assertion that one thinks therefore one is by saying how is the thinking thing and the thing that ‘is’ for sure the same thing. They are the same thing because they are separate and also united and this is the nature of molecular life, everything opened up upon a great singular multiplicity, as made plenty clear by physicists and also by philosopher Gilles Deleuze and his compatriote professionnel, institutional psychiatrist Félix Guattari, he of transversal intra-complexive modalities and profound respect for psychotic/schizo insights. The spiritual history of man is his geology, layers stacked upon layers, and even the most dead and inert material things, a stone or a dead branch, are positively bustling. It has been averred that Albert Einstein fell into ultimate despair of his desired but unobtainable ‘unified field theory,’ but let’s a moment get more visceral and say that what stymied and ultimately defeated Einstein were the abysses and voids in the math, a conundrum that has driven future theoretical mathematicians and physicists to get into the racket in the first place! We know electrons and protons communicate across time in ways that defy our metrics, and I guess we know that there is dark energy and dark matter, because even though we have no means of perceiving, measuring, or assessing these opaque principles nowhere to be physically found in physical fact, the mathematics seems to require them. Where is the math headed, right? Artificial Intelligence, all across the line, running your air traffic and city traffic et cetera. And why not? Artificial Intelligence can do wild kinds of math it can’t even explain to us, so pitiably equipped are we. In 2019, the great engineer, inventor, and polymath James Lovelock, who would die in 2022 at the age of 103, argues stridently and pretty convincingly in his book Novacene: The Coming Age of Hyperintelligence that incomprehensibly intelligent machines and silicon-based life will bring intelligence to bear everywhere it is lacking, and sorely so, taking control out of the hands of human beings so wonky in their daily toil and folly that they're wont on occasion to drop souped-up bat viruses on the floor ‘cause they ain’t taking their damn time…and so forth. 

The Tree of Life

 It is, therefore, a great source of virtue for the practised mind to learn, bit by bit, first to change [relative to] invisible and transitory things, so that afterwards it may be able to leave them behind altogether. The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land. 
- Hugo of Saint Victor, Didascalicon 

Boychile Janebirkin, a Diary

For Patricia Highsmith & Raymond Queneau

I just got out of the hospital. June, 2023. Somehow I intentionally threw out my last journal accidentally, which will only make sense if you are a bipolar person like me or have another chronic psychotic disorder like schizophrenia. I just spent three hours looking at photographs of cherry blossoms ('sakura') in Japan.

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Transect the binary apparatus. I am going to write a book about universal chaos and the transystemiticity of existing on-the-ground administrative realities. Everybody I talk to is either lying to protect themselves or lying for purposes of expedience, and they do this all day long, even in their love lives and their professional ones. They don't have much to talk about so they do indeed generally just Netflix and chill. I came from a generation of idiotic, selfish children. My God! What are the subsequent ones going to look like?!

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It's almost November. My eyes are as blind as sad rhythms. I can't function and any stranger can see it and it's embarrassing. It is like I was laid down and laid away. I tell myself that I once had a chance but that only makes me mad at myself and I guess at God. God is a real lavish prick who blinds you by throwing stardust in your eyes. Did I have a chance? I could not possibly've had. Joy is just the neurochemical reward of a lowborn, slithering sort of species.

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What did Ralph Waldo Emerson think he was talking about with this transparent eyeball business? It sounds more like some kind of H.P. Lovecraft trip. Mar-mar-mar-mar-mar-marmalade! Not everybody needs to be fucking everybody in the ass all the time, you know.

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The Old World is still here and it is still crumbling.

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February, 2024. I can tell important stuff is going on everywhere and that I'll be the last to know. Extrasensory perception is the Earl Grey tea of psychosis. I am going to write a book about God split into three parts, but not the customary three: omniscience, creation, oversight. My personal Freudian primal scene involved a hotel room and a cathode ray tube. Got home late tonight but felt scattered so I plopped down and watched Dillinger is Dead (1969), an absolutely perfect film.

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I Heart Cinnamon Hearts. My mother asked me if I could possibly sink any lower. "This," I said, stomping one foot, "is rock-hard surface." How do we actively think future intelligence systems? Aldous Huxley never came anywhere near adequately accounting for chaos. People don't want to take a hit and thereby ensure they take the hit. I called my mother a simpleton.

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The body will crouch, lean, and pivot to the left (often) in order to conceal something or protect itself. A personal deficit is cosmic accounting. On the implicate side of things virtuality is crunching the numbers at speeds beyond consideration of speed. I remember once when I was little I stole a porno mag and hid it in my dresser. I don't do rote operations or basically follow orders at all.

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Sometimes I think you can tell the quality of a man by how patient and tolerant he is with his children. To process this is a process, miss. Frivolous. Chelsea is running out of what little hope remained after the Pilsners and mob scene. If you had to guess, how many medications do you think I've been prescribed since 2009? I want to share my work and my life. We'll see. Chelsea will go quick into full-on interpretive delirium. We're all just playing Pattern Recognition for Dummies. And you can tell Mark Zuckerberg that I didn't break his rinky-dink website.

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Thinking about carnivorous plants. I once called somebody 'scrumptious' and immediately felt frightfully perverse. Today I gave a homeless man a carrot. I called Chelsea and said I was sorry if I fucked her situation up. The burlap sack is what the cat shat back. Le chat dans le sac. 

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If the people who are after you seem uncertain, do not hesitate to own them. I wonder if Sun Tzu ever advised something like this. The wisdom would probably have to be even older, if you stop and think about it. I mean, really. Human culture and bacterial cultures are fundamentally the same thing. Heart is a Ticker, Brain is a Circuitmobile. I got no pressing business to attend to and I like it that way. People will never get as uncomfortable as they need to be in order to start helping to change the world. The intelligence community runs on extortion. I want a pickled egg out of the strange blue comb jar. I will very slowly attempt to very slowly attempt. The tricks Christ pulled with resurrection, including his own, were cheap and putrid tricks. Even Donald Trump could stage a bullshit resurrection. I remember being little and how much I loved playing "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC on my little guitar. Embouchure. EmbroSure. Now with real embryos. I'll be oh so much more quirky once we land in Albuquerque.

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I did not interact with a single person. Wisest thing I never did.

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Daialogics over Dialectics. I think I found a cryptogram or maybe I'm getting sicker again. Einstein's big problem was simply that he wanted a unified field theory. I am going through a protracted constipation nightmare. Why can't we just get together and overhaul this whole motherfucker? I think folks are petrified in poor habit more than anything. They raised my Seroquel dose. 

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Don't all speak up at once.

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Holy Mother, the sunset is unreal. I am wondering how much overlap there is between 'topoanalysis' and 'calculus.' Captain Sloppy holding strong! Did I get any on my face?! Vincent van Gogh cut off part of an ear because he was an alcoholic and an artist and a sadist. The Brussels Griffon has Geman as well as Belgian roots. Cops sure can suck. Hospitals are crumbling into their foundations. Une petite hachette pour la croissance et la développement. When I'm alone I can do my Bill Cosby impersonation. William Wordsworth's worthless turd births. Very often I don't know if I want to talk or not. Call me gun-shy. That ol' hippie with the walker next door who is always so kind and endearing is it turns out also a virulent and raving racist. It took me aback. At least the woman from last night knew her St. Augustine. It's frightening out here amongst the bodysnatchers. Pass the wiseacre a stone and let it gum up his phone. Cry me a fucking river, Big Red.      

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The old racist hippie is feeding peas and mango to the birds. He says they'll eat anything that goes slower then ten kilometers per hour. Is humanity actually worth significant restorative efforts? I am not hurt by how stupid people are because it's merely a direct result of how stupid they always were. I don't want to go on being a regrettable thing that happened to people indefinitely. The fact that everybody everywhere seems to be behaving like the German middle classes in the 1930s is serious cause for concern. I got drunk on Cutty Sark and did not hear back from Rosalind. However, Ilana did call and was also drunk, even though she tried to say she wasn't, so we hooked up and both have new sober dates.  

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You can't please everybody, but you may well be astounded to discover all the varied kinds of ways you've displeased them. It can almost be an adrenaline high. Today somebody called me Girl Interrupted as a slur. There remains a future for certain, but it remains unclear as to whether or not I'm going to really benefit from that. I'm afraid that sex has to be done with people whose presence you can stomach. I'm going to put on Claire Denis' Faulkner-homage Les salauds and smoke a ganger.

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I drew with black marker the Pillars of Hercules on the cleavage of a Mediterranean woman in a black brassiere and cherry-red lipstick. No bye, no aloha. THIS IS THE WRATH OF GOD SPEAKING. I'M GOING TO COME DOWN AND TEAR THE APPLE CORES OUT OF YOUR THROATS, BOYS.

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Meshes of Go. The Go board. Wei-chi, Baduk. I have paisley premonitions. False modesty will get you laypersons nowhere with me. What is left in my chintzy plastic cup? Nothing but the howling reverberant laughter of that despicable fiend Maximilien Robespierre. Why am I the only pro around here who still pisses their pants? It's not easy being green. Life will deal a dirty dog dirty. Michelle, ma belle, I loathe you. Baby, stay still, and let me brand this Turkish Crescent on your face. Onanism is a serviceable solution (tee hee). No hablo ingles compañera. Eat pussy for Palestine or whatever. Nobody will address me straight and that is because I instil fear. I need a viewing space not subject to light pollution. I've been studying the flux of geese. Existential therapy for teenage lycanthropes, just like the Cramps promised, and frankly the chosen ultra-powerful weaklings, the fuzzy and fanged cohort, are forever the only thing to grock of any note on the intracosmic CCTV. I AM HOT FOR TEACHER. My website has beaucoup cookies. Paradise is a lean cat. Eric Dolphy was the leanest of the lean cats and he cut it too close to the grain. We are not all human. Some of us are moonmen from 1950s television. Beginnings and endings are very important for movies. I guess I got shittered in the Hot Tub Time Machine or something. Me and the baddy I pulled just by being smart. Ontogeny and Phylogeny. Me, pagan?

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Went and saw Kinds of Kindness at a nearby shopping mall. I did not like the film, though specialized sensors throughout my body did respond intensely to Margaret Qualley, who I've nicknamed Abigail Rottentail because she holds no permanent shape and in this movie has many hairstyles. What is the lesson this movie is trying to convey respective of destiny, pattern, and repetition? The director Yorgos Lanthimos definitely doesn't know. He must have been constantly hounding the script supervisor: where are we?! what is happening?! You know what? Solitude is the ultimate expression of fanatical neediness and I do sure as the tides fanatically need my solitude. High school was a disaster, remember? A sordid popularity contest overseen by stupid and cruel adults. The hollow platitudes of the multitudes. The elephant in the room is that it's not clear there's anything you can really actually do to help the person who is suffering. It's the evening of July 23, 2024. As far as concerns Rosalind? I'm liable to imagine I would do only slightly better given a second chance.  

For Hannah Höch

L’île n’y a pas

 

Eureka

In his 2022 masterpiece Pacifiction, which I had a hand in programming and which I still cannot get out of my head, Albert Serra for the first time in his career finds himself in possession of the money and production resources to make a major international art movie, which is what he does, as though he had always been quietly waiting for the inevitable moment. Pacifiction is like the earlier Serra features in theme and preoccupation exclusively; the form and mode are branching out, hardly looking back. On the other hand, in 2023's Eureka, Argentinean director Lisandro Alonso, who I've also helped program, absorbs the opportunity to spend and deploy more in order to stencil the outline of a more or less conventional international and generations-spanning art movie and then superimpose his own semi-transparent map so that a navigable system can begin to open up—different topographies will be made to do their different jobs and be readymade and permanent in their proper respective places. In the sections set in the United States, Alonso tells a visually and iconographically familiar story of crime, punishment, poverty, and moral fatigue. He moves much more like himself as a director, even when out on a limb, than he does a commercial film director, and naturally a routine highway traffic stops takes approximately as long here as it would in real life. Because of the sometimes lethargic or opiated blocks of uneventful duration and because of the preponderance of blues, reds, and purples in the colour scheme, the stuff in Eureka set in the U.S. resembles very much to me the fascinating and decidedly Grand Guignol 2019 Nicolas Winding Refn series Too Old to Die Young, which none of the rest of movie does. You have to adapt to each eco-locality and space-in-itself. The landscapes and the topography assert their influence and the artist rests suspended in sensorial receptivity. Here Eureka draws attention repeatedly to a certain debt it owes Apichatpong Weerasethakul's sublime Memoria (2021), though Eureka is more an almanac and Memoria a zeroed-in death trip (for a world that's forgotten how to die and to grieve). To give Alonso his due credit, whereas we have recently seen no end of bad, offensively vapid, or just dizzying mainstream films in which the general state of fragmentation would have to be called extreme, from Babylon (2022) to Kinds of Kindness (2024) and even doubtlessly Emilia Pérez (2024), the work on display in Eureka is grounded, controlled, and everywhere evidence of an adept hand. It's a question I would imagine James Joyce asking: how does one use language to articulate for and of the jungle? The adept replies: it depends. Jacques Rivette, our perennial saint, seems to forever have the cleanest and most decisive cinematic hand when it comes to turning one soil, one nation, one city, one room, one girl, infinitesimally downward and inward, each little compartment, into its own fanciful and bustling space-time.

March Prose Poem

When the promising young lovers of all yesterday’s maybes consummated their nuptials and headed out for the high seas where impressive scenes appear in great shimmering heaves, suspended maybes from Hades set about their curative maiming; it’s hardly worth explaining and we better not hear you complaining.

The Freudian asks Captain Ahab what he uses, misuses, or misappropriates as supplemental fetish object for the Great White Whale, which can be neither captured nor killed nor held at a close remove; Ahab carries around and clutches a pearly pair of silk knickers, and here’s the kicker: nobody knows if he’s the catcher or the pitcher.

My anaconda don’t want none of that Tijuana sun, li’l miss cinnamon, Jesus H. Sundowner Christ, blue of noon in purple pantaloons with pop gun, a lackey pirate passing as a stowaway migrant, then back in windy Winnipeg where I pay for sex and listen to the wind howl and to the creak of all the myriad hotel bits with celestial elements admixed—the pure open market of aether—

Black Onyx

Certain crystals such as black onyx are valued in occult practices and esoteric religious orthodoxies for their capacity to both hold a lot of positive and negative cosmic energy and to efficiently circulate that energy. As station-to-station receivers enmeshed in a framework of both earthly toil and a higher quantum superposition, the crystals talk across time and with parallel worlds. As for the matter of ease of circulation: in certain animist and vitalist traditions, as in many religions in the New World descended from African ones (Voodoo, Santería, Candomblé, Orisha, Obeah), the stone is thought of as a much more 'pure' soul than that of any living thing; being smooth, easy to manipulate/circulate, highly democratic for purposes of independent ritual, the stone is almost the equivalent of 21st century electronic capital in opposition to outdated economic models whose security and collective establishment were based on reserves of cash or gold, which in this context become the equivalent of the inaccessible and obdurate souls of living things.

Art Deco Computer Chip

 

23 Short Songs for Immediate Radio Broadcast: Lyric Sheet

 

I have through fate and happenstance made off with your estrogen pills, I had only wanted to get quickly high before facing the music in the back of a Buick, I knew I had the wrong pills and I did not take them, for what it’s worth I had done a line of crystal off somebody’s Caesarian scar fifty yards from the sushi bar, Canada Revenue nerds was adjusting they ear-pieces as casual as crinkled highwaymen, let me hold you back at the summit of this large hill and behold the blundering vainglory of the bloodletters in their bloomers and powdered wigs, eating fistfuls of pistachio, embryonic in go-go boots and flyers posted hither and yon, marked with the sign of a rapid little bunny symbolizing a quick departure under force of ‘the heat,’ God has become dubious of mind and proper sense, his falling spores dent our pavements and the lady in the puffy blue gown has acquired her renown driven by alien spores from out of town, off the grid, beyond the known unknowns and the paradox of origin, sign me up for the Merchant Marines, I want to float like a cork in the middle of the sea, I’ll bust open, all manner of thing’ll come crawling from me, carrying their incendiary leaflets.

Rowboat, Rowboat how fateful are your transient winds and milling winos clearly on the skids? I remark upon how the elbow of the rowboat catches by the throat, 33 souls in pews and in the scent of some kind of ochre, purebred beast of a yearning for learning, schizzed-out telemetrics give us no way out but through, and boy oh boy, what a to-do; I’ve taped pylons to myself and am advertising a vacant lot, backing up traffic on Freemont, what is the phylum for the species of tick that is very quick to let loose and get slick? It’s just that I got a Grace Slick streak chording its way through me, Zeke, you wincing prune, the doom at noon is mostly because of the monsoon, and I’m sure hoping to meet my maker soon, out in a pontoon, eating sour candies and mashing our tongues to an unpleasant paste so as not to make wastes, cowboy hats bobbing gamely along the periphery, much starch in the march of the wobbly bowlegged assailants, sunspots, I have kicked my spare tire at you in a pique, in the aftermath find myself uncommonly meek, rolled my Ferrari Testarossa on a tight turn on Mulholland Drive, stars pellucid, waxy night, the mechanics of oversight also fuzzy...and I see I’ve gotten my galoshes muddy.

This mascara wand may underscore a point but shading me as you do an abusive hue is I am afraid a point won by me who no longer has to stoop to your stature to see what you’re after, pouting and pointing and minding the store, moving offshore, the money is kept safely in an old sea-saturated coffin, grey of wood, a holy trust with Poseidon, on his glaring white pony with a broadsword in its teeth and casks of wine beneath; in his Texaco hat Gilbert looked every bit the backwood prat, pressed down hard by a barbarous nursemaid with the girth of a Volkswagen, here it all came and all of it hanging, in the aftermath of the Szechuan House debacle we found ourself on PCP in field full of cattle, ambling in their smart-ass way and you in your way dejectedly swaying, the moon is a farce, she said, and I through it, through the moon and through you, it’s only half past noon and I see all of tomorrow’s sins too, basted like a turkey and carved, martially discharged, howdy, Sarge, where’d you park the barge? it’s like asking the difference between far and far, driving a swordfish through the streets, it’s germ warfare moving merchandise, I see that you buy it, suddenly quiet, the swordfish nozzle poking you right in the goggle. 

The chrome toaster oven reflected the sun’s infernal corruption, all were aflame unto an assumption and this risen trifurcated God complex digging in hard over Tex-Mex, where’s this baby’s 800 number? I have not been able to suck from the spigot any future so I’ll rig it and go on being a bashful asshole in a motel room in Reno, cocaine so bad the cocaine itself is sad, and I’m popping wheelies upside the substratum, gross point annum, slammin’ the biff cannon, sliders sliding on in like hellbent hellfire, sire, with your gimp’s limp, kayak, toboggan, exhausting interspace slogging with the log book and cooked bones, scones, these older women are degenerate plum fairies with rear ends like missed amends, socks on funny, no, not funny, askew, and how about you? how you were were you were? purple noon monsoon of vacations poon and Edgar Allen Poe’s gold bug rune eerily out of tune, mujer, eres un regalo del cielo, it was Tom Waits’s piano that were drinkin’ not Eyes-in-the-Sky, in the beginning purple was the lone and solitary dye, aristocracies inbreed and die, the marigolds of Mexico and the soft little lady from Texaco, Matthew Street, dribbling skeet, t’was up to me to investigate the story of my life, light-lipped accomplices held me overnight.

We had foie gras paté on the patio the other day with Giorgio Armani and the bloke who runs that there economy, twisted up in his britches and whirling around the fire pit half-lit, this is not the same ergonomics I signed up for and please stop calling me buttsore, as though yuz weren’t every bit the sensitive lancing queen your glancing, glad-handing self, to the tomorrows I offer a prank and having got out lightly before the whole place stank I return to the scene of the crime by the seat of my pants as nothing thusly gripped can possibly everlast, with the Eveready now leaping immediately to mind and fore-snout, the latter agent attempting to divine what the smell of trout is all about, the foot with the gout, the Holy Emperor misremembers his presumed labours and ends off sickly and out of sorts, Peapod the pony rears and the rearguard adheres, our Alexandrines supple caramels rolled, the ancient peoples, they wheeled and dealed, and I am Amelia Earhart’s heart, blown over the Atlantic on a single fart, Paris opening her arms to the twee dub star and her clown car répertoire, the alarming information on the console display, panicky voices in the relay, overcast, out through the kitchen and the back door, O will my Everady everlast already?

The shiny silver robot who was to be our mascot showed up late strangled by his ascot, first album by Tort-Tops blasting, sweaty under the hot lights but waistband still expanding, the people who let me and my militant cell down were not insiders by rather nosy undergrads who first took out belligerent adds, bobbing and swaying, another shiny robot in the foyer, look here, fuck nozzle, I am gonna clip the strips that make you spit and slowly watch you die because that’s the kind of guy that is the guy that is I and folks from my neighbourhood know better than to say why, jerky tip of the head to the left, that’s your tell, Cordelia, see ya whence, tell your father he’s a preening goddamn ponce, pardon my while I wipe my gravelly snot on the part of you that part of you is not, a placeholder, multidimensional infrared Rangerover, there are thistles on your garments and I am on me knees, neither crude nor dumb nor ridden with disease, if you siamese please, you, me, curtsying ashtrays and trees, dumbbells in the large empty gymnasium with pommel horse and medicine ball and Bettie Page pinup; the pencil necked geek arrives in many forms and he could well be a crazy kinky sex freak: is it to you to behold or to serve the pencil necked geek? the job is sordid and not for the meek.

This sentiment in sediment, ointment on the ornamental hind-point, the elocution of electrocution with the cardinal sin of omission leaving room for backdoor commission, this rendez-vous point was not thought out and I thought I saw an astronaut driving a station wagon zig-zagingly into all and sundry from Sunday to Monday, interlinked in the pink, show us your sore parts and we’ll get you work sorting the wool over your eyes, partner, my galoshes are full of eels and go ahead and tell me in excruciating detail how this part feels, there are red foxes, little as kittens, darting through the snow, it’s all about who you know, you know, I used to know a rosary-clutching nun with terrible gas and a fiendish knack for cards, the pale, white duke is loose among the sheep and the townspeople gather to weep, we were eating wonton soup next to the stagecoach and yacking up a storm, passing around an illicit bottle of corn, Chuck Boxer hawks a mean sonofabitch loogie at a unoffending lass, making a pass, watching it go, locked into a mode where you’re good and ready to implode, here is my driver’s licence and health card, you can clear them with the slouched wino ahoy, let him come in, it’s cold, poor some corn in this soul, warm him and make haste to host.

Rowboat on in, win, Yankee showboat on in, spacing the rim, trim, about-face nano-place placard of reprobates in charge on the charge, large as a Swedish barge and blonde and Buxom, the eternal put-upon apron of approbation skating the lobby side-wise askance as Chance, buxom, eternal, throwing playing cards at a fan, fanning and defaming in every last vestige of wreckage for salvage on not much option off the top of the laser endorsement, wet cement, inclement, bashing funnels together in proxy pony war for givin’ her what’s for, would you like to explore the less is more uproar amongst the quite quickly downwardly poor, Boston cream donut plutocrat for buxom lass is more than a withholding poetic whore, I want my ladies traipsing in here as though in charge, taking out door frames and slow crows, panther pit parameters and first thing first being where am I and how do I politely isolate the dangers legion in this and that region specifically? in the hopes that the pontoon weren’t forsaken like stanchions of champion dressage horses in their mansions on the golf courses, please read to me tonight from the slippages and pratfalls of the classical Gallic troubadours, singing in Welsh and French, doing what touring musicians do: irresponsible sex shenanigans! 

In interim with lethargically administered cinnamon gone blue ribbon marathon o’ Shawinigan, pluckin’ up with that plectrum a full spectrum session blastin’ back off the back of Kentucky’s famous blue moon and tendency to swoon, this moralizing robot twat with freshly baked Johannesburgs and Jerusalems throwing gang signs gangplank-wards nibbling a mouse, a louse, nibbling cheese curds, dispensing with sickly green turds on the unenforced turf, she who fails to hold her ground may rewind herself, rewired in ultrasound plus tripple the spiteful dimensions and grim criminological intentions, a fetal pig in the self bobbing in Suspension’s suspense and lattices of remittence, these dimensionless gratuities and annuities, my love never knew what hit her and I pretended I missed the whole thing, pissing on the immediate geology, lancing my remedial anthology like a pustule gone consequential and bust, Telex teletype, midnight’s alright for a displaced fight and the might of memory, of hindsight, Telex, the thumping of incoming information of all the arcane and ornate mental pain you most hate and wish would abate, the sliver of light is like the long finger of a lounge lizard synthetically appropriating cavernous top of ass crack and you too slow with the comeback.

This here new pestilence is here, dear, weren’t for wear we’re warm-worn, space-time fabric torn, scorned, floored and ignored, ignorant ignoble global ones in pantsuit and/or gorilla costume, fuming lunacies of the indoor rig-up, fresh figs give us the willies, pigs don’t throw us under uncertain lockdown in uncertain MoTown with the Shirelles on the high-fi, not gonna lie, not that sort of guy, but then I lie and you can’t tell why any better than I; I am going to dump this extra large carton of popcorn in your lap and head on out, come what may, come corn liquor again, my pregnant friend, my rudely pegged Mr. Ed, forefather of those of us what still got our own teeth, masticating effectively on a joint of jerked beef, ineffective aid relief and the denigration of relations with the chief, Big Comma, the Harsh Wind of Grammar who besieges teacher’s pets and delinquents alike, Madeleine Albright, Goldilocks and the threeway bears, if anybody cares, the whitewash one on this one a real Götterdämmerung, speechifying, mystifying for a better destiny than any the likes of us are likely to see, mercy, mercy me, bedfellows make dread bellow, says I, says I, say what? sigh, I may have misled led you when I led you by the ear to see that I am right here nowhere near.

She’d always hated it when they called her Curly Sue, angry and flustered she never knew what to do and who to screw and whether she could discern who was who at the zoo, the zoologists never retire for the night, getting up to raucous Flaming Creatures orgies a good ways off site, where the night is even less bright lest we fight and overturn our blight, Little Curly Sue, Little Linda Shoelaces, thems older girls have wads of foundation all over their faces, mincemeat disgraces, disk-race-leg-race leg-breakages, four strong winds to Rosemary with her parasol and academic lingo free-flowing from the alcohol and Benzos, like Liz Taylor, the Fizzing Schizz playing crib with Mortimer and Ignatius from payroll, and, say, where did all the pay roll? it wasn’t like I wasn’t minding store, or at least fairly near the door, plus I never had no idea that there were any score to sore, and my asshole were sore, good and properly tore, Little Richard Burton, plunked down in the land of Lizz the Schizz to forge and hopefully fuck stuff, animate or otherwise, rub his own nipples in the sand for company as company comes and company goes to accompaniment of the pounding timpani, her pounding hose of woes, her projectile cloves, the salvaged antlers of a dead deer worn.

All shot to shit, my whole shinny shin-kick plaster trick and alabaster rheumatoid thrombosis in the noses and the throatses, coalesce of vital strictures and origami face locked in rictus, I threw a mean discus, I tossed out thirty-seven would-be brides, packing their piddling bribes, don’t get the snow cone on the microphone, Jones, or did you not peep that microfiche? dig it back alley sidewinder caprice? You and your TikTok accountin’ root beer fountain and all that marmalade I laid down over the sworn oaths, the three-and-a-half indisposed recalcitrant loaves, Peter, Paul, and Mary and Bernard Herman humping a harp, the intransigent mistress of fortune for ill, well, and double dutch candy-o, Rodeo slog in the bog, people’s business, and in the frog totem’s divine reflection, in all of that which we specifically don’t mention, in utter awe of the failure of retention, my lover declines all what’s up-selected and down-selected, y’all, whether it's from her or Iran or Nepal, I put my beer down and everything was good, but now buccaneers enter and glue us to the pains of glass we already went falling through, William Lyon Mackenzie King our mistresses in the bathroom doing rails, assessing her nails, whilst ever so slightly impaled.

Imbecile domesticity domicile inside-style with these prudish matrons around and me with herpes simplex virus, tacos from the drive-ins, squirrelly in my seat of the soul of this greater Soul, orbiting, pink and white, so hot it’s pure damage, Adam on a rampage, tired of working the trades, the trade winds, the innocence of cinnamon, the impromptu rejoinder and outta here, out back through the rear where the questions that ought won’t and can’t are miscreant blue-jeans thieves on bikes burning rubber for all our trouble and treble, if I have a Messianic streak, I come by it very stupid and honest with no angle I can gaggle, José Christianstuff, I doomed, vacuum, chased my out of the room, small canines swarmed, the dogs will eat you when you die, I cannot figure out why, what is love but remorse of the corpse, of course, in course, overtures, strychnine, my malevolent Valentine, see, please, into me, hear my uproar of needful inclusion, unholy profusion, molten on tongue and ear, behold me and behold me disappear, wanting you to hold all the very little particles together like a bundle of oh so very fine raspberries in no kind of February, baked Alaska I’ll ask her: let me be the first one on the thirst trap with a thumb on his grandson, and hit the bricks like a pro.

My name is Abramović and I’ve asked several times may I please have a sandwich, they left ink stains on my digits having taken a set of prints, halfway to the doorway already with the hints, like, words I won’t mince and haven’t seen slagged since, Vincent and the trans woman obsessed with Tallulah Bankhead come sweeping in naked and elated, oops, who put the shine in shimmy-shimmy so-so, on my way with Mike Love to Kokomo, yellow of entrail and onward God knows how to who knows where, the scent of lavender in my hair, getting drunk with the night call nurses, all five of us on one pink heart-shaped bed, get your lead out or forever, be remembered as Mr. Unleaded, with a fungus in his bungus, I am painting a great big landscape to add more miles between us, suffragette statuette, wet from the lead in the lead poisoned head, always a remark as though wearing a wire, hair all on fire, smell of burning tires, the skies are raging firestorms and I’m down here with you and the trans woman and Tallulah Bankead and my God if this isn’t Lifeboat; who is the seething obsequious Kraut among our perversely arranged managerial mariners? prefigured end-to-end, the advancing army encounter chilling winds of what it’s got coming.

Susan, I’ve scanned your deepest thoughts while my wife supped greedily from the trough and I am wondering whether or not you might take some pointers whilst shortly I join her, enmeshed amongst the mashed cash brasseries and modest lunar trajectories, mons pubis, alarming moist newness, bronze Anubis, data flow topocomplexivities, broadsword Burberry, mashed is syntax is cross-kneed is card-keyed, less hard-boiled than open freeway flambé, playing a cassette tape of the Cowboy Junkies and smoking an unfiltered Camel on an open channel, wasteoids of the great cosmic highway crawlspace rightbeneath the stairs to Eternal Suspended Reward in which we knock boots at 10% the speed we done in ordinary life, a-wallowin’ on a hogshead of tobacco halfway up the rainbow to slaughter me a leperchaun, the sweet superannuated swing keep swingings these jeans on a line from A to Z but a hellbent stunt rider always believes that the shortest distance between two points in pure spectacle, woggin’ down hard on that pussy juice popsicle, not a care in the world for the crime of destiny, I’m sure I can, I’m sure I can, said the hurricane, said my ex-girlfriend Meagan to president Reagan, however many pumps of Eva Perón’s, said never and no and also also.

At the bold soirée featuring only the largest of ladies I overstated my case, retired to the lavatories where skillful evil Deifenbaker Diefenfaker gauges through his nipples ripple, a silk shirt of dicey origin in interplanetary misfortunes, high-power glue gun bun run, this is the steeple falling on the people and here’s the Chinese couple who feed to whole town, its situational eco-politics wound down and the citizenry renowned for their frowns, mi casa, su casa, Micronesia, sheets of green and gold, God, the old man feels old; none of this godforsaken experience of inhabitance suggests we’re anything other than divine excreta being slowly flushed down a garbage disposal with the jaw of a dragon on some damn American poet’s bright red wagon, the calciferous dust slowly painting us either survivors or skillful liars, pockets full of confetti and spaghetti, the spectre of Mussolini in Sardinia in busted-to-fragment light of no night, of alright and out of sight, pocket full of posies, lithesome Eliot had not written “The Wasteland” yet and I was a power forward for the Winnipeg Jets with all their ‘as yets’ and the beasts of burden they would have yet for pets when having gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Tristram Shandy has lost the thread.

I’m told that in Calcutta they have no air and I find myself wondering what they breath over there, clogged arteries of despair, the Emerald King in his sodden underwear over there where the missionaries no longer care and Heloise was got up grand in her couture, paving the marmalade avenue at this late date in reverse rearview, punching it hard but heading nowhere in the overweening glut of space sluts and lemonade-selling kids with buzzcuts, foresworn forlorn fuzzbots and golden-haired impairment officers of the loin, we’ve conspired to arrive here together to make a point of spiking the punch and speaking ill of the dead who reside still in Emmanuelle’s head, her in the church hiking her skirts, come what may over the Marconi, whose underwater cable all but shank solid comprehension and I promised I would’t mention, but who the one what done it? Take your cute know-nothing face as the enemy’s resting place, show yourself here again and it’s to Calcutta with you, boo, there is no bad manager like a bad disaster that is a self, so keep properly mum and own none, I first beat my meat while out shooting skeet, if I had your dog I’d give your dog a treat, if Charlie Skeletons is merely a cretin how come that cocksucker still lyin’ there breathin’?

Alexander, Alexander ever the innocent Slavic bystander with the widower’s scowl like clockwork on the hour and one’s private death gathered together in red satin with trowel, easily Italy evades me and I free-range keep-the-change and rattling the keys dangling from Orion’s shiny astronomical belt and the pool table felt and the Ace of Jase fallen with the gout, king me, king salmon sashimi, wipe that cool intrepid breeze off my back whilst the Princeton amp feeds back, everybody jonsed in a burlap sack, playing call and response, throwing it all back, a-skat and be-shat, holding on with skeleton rings to the dangling apron strings and string-like vertices where the waveform pulls back and reveals its defeat real neat, like sitting next to talkative goddess in the next seat who’s come bearing ointments and Alexandrines of finest cadence and cut, the buxom creature a going concern and balletic grifter, sinister witch hunter with a chokehold on a cucumber, unencumbered road runner blowin’ off the spoiler in hasty departure, Desperado Roger, a real cream cheese codger weezing on his important French cigarette, merci, mon ami, c'est génial, I send my decree by barn owl to thee, I am on my knees to drink poison: I thrash desperately, pissing my pants, annulling the irises.

The Mormon math tutor resembled Major Dad, do you remember my lad? sorting sportlings, incubating rotating chickens in fishnet stockings of the rocker, pop-the-locker, cop-in-the door, as though he’s been here before, ceiling fan dispenses drone of lore, pontificates on the apple core heretofore, rotten rhubarb chalk line around the scene in and around Belize, I believe, mockingbird lock up your store, bring down the less is more uproar, and Bertram in his ‘Pantalones verdes’ put on sideways no-way no-how buffalo chicken wing gobblin’ goblin thing, the ventilating swarm of the midges astray, beeswax entree of glass and saxaphonic back-blast, oopsie skoot, and a hail of rebuke; she stick up her snoot he snoots up a foot at the root of the question, of the primacy of any integral one of me, a girl on the side and two skinned knees for brother Caprice playing shuffleboard spillin’ tea like a pair o’ old grannies, two or three of our lesser interests contracted dysentery simply from drinking the tap water in Sudbury, which probably tells you what kind of awful state we’re in, listening to Camper Van Beethoven on the eight-track ceiling install and me trying to be high enough to jank up: I’m dressed up like all fifty-five years of the Ice Capades, naked as a jaybird as the lights fade.

Waltzing with Waldo Digit is bound to make you fidget, if you’re thinking about thinking about it, frankly I’d forget it, eat a crock of ribboned goose, pause on the highway for a crossing moose, foot loose and fancy free, pretty sure Waldo infected you, this whole thing far outside our pervy purview, Neanderthal smoking menthols, crack rock eye socket, sock puppet, Emilia corrupted, I can’t clean the stains off my vision working this sinewy venison in Edmonton, White Avenue is a hell of a ways away as I stand there in the selfsame place, crust punk disgrace, outweighs the veils of surveillance intended to contain us and arrange us, our muss, kiss the obelisk in midwinter prairie catamaran situation, rolling a blunt under Satan’s sun with your mom or my mom, I can’t remember which one, whichever grinning albatross avatar, the exposure of the sex organs lessens the onerous researches of the intrepid visionary wind the whole dolled-up trollop estate we rescind, lizard blizzard, lampshades made of human skin, I batter out a beat on the washbasin for criminals and reprobates from all explored and unexplored regions, like Waldo’s crude little chord, international accord, Wheelbarrow, Wheelbarrow, wherefore art though, Wheelbarrow? plonking pie-in-the sky the colour of Canada Dry, yawn.

I leant Edwina the Genealogy of Morals and she went and turned the pages back into pearls, I leant Edwina a miraculous costume and concealable dagger with the eyes of a wild horse and of course I was paid back in course and had no remorse amidst the uproar in the downpour, once upon a spout is what this streetwise beansprout’s about, the 5th arrendisement, the young chippies from the Sorbonne got up like movie star busybodies, stockpiling all the antibodies, reading Paul Celan and enjoying a good laugh off a robust huff of nitrous gas, alas, watching footage of the war in the Pacific, those kamikaze wildcats sure are terrific, turfed and angling like ancient answers to the not-yet-asked questions, too many to mention, let alone intention, here in this fortress of somnambulistic intervention and inescapable detention, where once I was the main guy to draw the eye, Indian Welles, Venice Bech, Toledo, Ohio, me oh my oh, on the bayou trying to wow you in my death’s head trunk and touching the pulse of the now in the noose hung from the rafters in the Rockies, I drive my Kawasaki into Milwaukie and have off with the circus and its miserly kinky brood: it’s been seven days since I’ve had food, but I’m sick of the soup kitchen nuns’ attitudes.

I went to Waikiki but there was no place to pee, but nobody makes a fool of me, you see, so I went to Lebanon on a contract from Enron and smoked hash in a small aeroplane for the first but not the last time, Enron had me moving heroin on their dime and supplying the labourers with a coma in which to luxuriate before the diamond jubilee sex wax syntax, this is an occasion for obliterating a nation, and I went to Taipei and then to P.E.I not that I’m trying to imply you asked why, axe to the sky, great unrelenting bleeding cunt of the prelate, soften me with your Venetian side-ways and caffeinated plazas, I went to Saigon to play professional ping-pong like Forrest Gump and ate turnips and puked on a gas pump, Daisy Duke me all day you agonizingly slow bitch-goddess proud of her people’s progress, I went to the farmer’s market on Fairfax in Los Angeles, a friend texted to say that another friend had just died in a cheap hotel room in British Columbia, and then I went to The Silent Movie Theatre also on Fairfax and me and Shelley Winters watched Miklós Jancsó’s The Round-Up with Paul who had had the wherewithal to call and was off to a Mozart opera in Nepal, Don Giovanni in particular is the best shot you got outside of becoming an ocelot. 

The first rule of hockey goaltending is: keep your eye on the movement of the players in relation to the puck in the back of a flatbed truck, doing it doggy style so nobody has to smile, on the Argentine pampas is where I want to be with them diabolic screech owls comin’ after me, appetizing O.G., with a propensity for throwing out his back when the tough gets going, bowling ball in the groin, vamos, industry of vamps to Tennessee like tramps, polish my boot good with your swollen sour tongue and we’ll do bump and grind in front of everyone in Tucson, all the lingering free masons and lethargic lottery ticket-buyin’ middle-agers in their despair of who, what, when, why, and where, the gaucho with his cheroot oversees  the pilfered loot, look, Captain Cook, I ain’t the godforsaken imbecile I seem to look, do you remember the exact exit in Last Exit to Brooklyn? Do you know what they done with Christ the Saviour’s foreskin? the one eye of the goaltender on the pressurized centrifugal convergence as though it were anything but not this, the whole cosmos an L.S.D. trip, swamp gas ball lightning, Lightin’ Hopkins on the Wurlitzer, whoever it was was sort of a blur, I went off in the hope that it was her, stopped still in the street and stand in the street still.

John Barth can have a fistful of deez nuts. ‘Hot topic’ is the way we whitewash history.