PSYCH-OUT

 

Basic Directions to the Yevgenia Song Cycle Live Re-Cycle Experience

 

How much leverage can a woodchuck kneed?

The Laminated Jorge Luis Menu Scenario

 The only performance that makes it, that really makes it, that makes it all the way is the one that achieves madneszzz

- Toffee Apple 

Wiggy's Purple Tape

 ... as close as teeth to lips...eck eck...to the...eck...idea of natural beauty...

GODARD ON GARREL (ish)

IN THE 90s, LATE 1990s:

We would sometimes make compact disks skip on purpose. We ordered fast food on Hi8. We sent tapes to girls in, uh...Marrakesh (?)... 

I WILL

SLATHER YOU IN GREASE

AND I WILL

RIDE YOU

LIKE A SLIPPYSLIDE 

DESLIZADORES

DE HAMBURGUESA

AH, MEC.

MiniEggs

 

Bob's Big Boy

Warlord Barter means get on board or go ahead get under them massive wagon wheels.

         - Melanie

Melanie, who joined us only early in this right-now-living business calendar, is the kind of only sort of circumspect person who wasn’t holding back so much as she was just waiting. What happens when Melanie starts to spill the beans? Well, we’re all here to tell you it’s been pretty fun. Last night at a dodgy local watering hole, recently and emergingly popular with patrolmen imported from the hills and dales of Greater Great Britain, Melanie, half in the bag, regaled Joshua and Lorna from the algorithms division with a story inspired by her ex-husband’s erectile dysfunction and an earlier digression itself inspired by the clientele of the watering hole where our colleagues had collected, this matter somehow repeatedly redirecting conversation(s) back to Freddie Sykes, the boyish English security guard drinking buddy of James’s who assumes a position of prominence in the final episodes of Twin Peaks: The Return (if that really is your name), a limited series from 2017 that many on payroll can still be relied upon to be generally mulling over and/or fretfully spitballing.    

Melanie calls American film director David Lynch “Bob’s Big Boy,” as though that were his proper nouns name. Many people know that the filmmaker David Lynch, who uses boy scout argot playfully and hails originally from Missoula, Montana—which if you think about it a minute, you’ll realize he’d have to do—loves diners and burger stands and Bob’s Big Boy especially. However, to the shock and dismay and also noticeable delight of both Joshua and Lorna, Melanie is suddenly admitting that part of why she calls David Lynch Bob’s Big Boy is because the man reminds her of her ex-husband very much, and that for this reason and a number of others that she’s presently sloppy enough to enumerate, Melanie believes Lynch has got to have an erectile dysfunction problem for sure. 

Joshua and Lorna are All Ears.

Melanie: Josh, look, you’ve already said nearly as much yourself. What is this David Lynch guy, right? You come upon this talking head Lynch, and you want to imagine he’s a caprice and a put-on, affectation and premeditation, and then maybe you grow uneasy or you don’t when it starts to turn out that he is obviously just kind of the dude he happens to in fact be, right? His idea of premeditation is having a plan for weekend activities. Yes, the way he speaks, the whole thrust of how he comes off—it represents the false front of the 1950s televisual commercial colossus, most especially its queasy sanitization of daily affairs that are forever infested with living actual vermin. He’s a local mug with a fishing rod trying to hold the horizon together, except when he’s in a temper and expecting thunder for his troubles. The first thing I learned in law school is that men who aren’t men are just boys, and they’re meaner and stupider than men, which makes sense. David Lynch, like my ex-husband, would like to be a non-combatant in the field of men and boys, but what that ends up meaning from a practical standpoint or the standpoint of a ‘logic of affairs’ is that this figure of masculinst/emasculated ambivalence not only wants to have his cake and eat it—he wants the obscene theatre of having his name logged in the registry among those who received no cake. In Blue Velvet. Don’t you look at me. The most famous scene, a sexual assault and a playact, more than a little hazy. Kyle MacLachlan of Hardy Boys Incorporated—in the closest with the double-ledger. We all know it. Scholars and film critics and boy-men will forever read Freud’s primal scene here, as ‘by the book’ as they’re able to finagle it, certifying that they’re boys—they’re Hardy Boys Incorporated Hologram Collectors. It is surely not lost on you, Joshua, that in The Pervert’s Guide to the Cinema, Sophie Fiennes, that film’s director and sister of the noted thespian brothers, takes Slavoj Žižek by the hand like a nurse and leads him all but right back into that actual closet. It is tremendously challenging for me to feel human feelings with regard to either Slavoj Žižek or Sophie Fiennes. You wanna know something? I’ll tell you what! Every woman who’s been around knows right up front and in her own face that Dennis Hopper is directing that scene, inside that scene, literally, he’s ordering about and issuing directives, whilst huffing nitrous or whatever’s in that tank. What is this scene? Particle Vs. Wave? Nature Vs. Nurture? Okay, we’re in Quantum Psychology territory, where our professional bonafides should be happy to find us, and here’s the kicker: the Baby Wants to Fuck scene is only sort of about Daddy Vs. Baby, because the Particle/Nature equivalent here is a basic Freudian primal scene set-up for kiddo, and the Wave/Nurture angle is way more basically cinematic, because it’s all about the required and pre-required and therefore methodically arranged chemical augmentation of the father. The kid in the closet has the sense and heart equivalent approximately to those of a Double A battery. The impotent rapist, on the other hand, is a free-range monster born of sublimated rage, deep unspoken hurt, and calamitous misdirection.         

Joshua: Goddamn.

Melanie: It’s hilarious ‘cause you already know this. It was only a couple days ago we were talking about David Lynch: The Art Life. Have you seen it, Lorna? It’s worthwhile and informative hagiography and I’m pretty sure it’s still up on the Criterion Channel. 

[Our friend was slightly mistaken, as David Lynch: The Art Life (Rick Barnes, Olivia Neergaard-Holm, Jon Nguyen, 2016) is not currently available to stream on the Criterion Channel.]

Melanie (continuing): Dennis Hopper’s Frank Booth is a lifelong addict and bullshit artist and shitheel knockabout-type and his game is shit, but so is the town.

Joshua: Lumberton!

Melanie: Fuckin’ rights. 

Lorna: What’s off as you see it with Frank’s game, exactly?

Melanie. Strange fuckin’ question, Lorna. What’s Frank’s would-be creed? It’s not Baby Wants to Fuck. Frank doesn’t want that going public. He’s exposed there. The would-be creed, straight out of the background noises not included in Scorpio Rising and Mean Streets, buried as these clandestine utterances are beneath the same sort of music Lynch tends to prioritize, is I’ll fuck anything that moves. Here’s the cut, Frank Booth: somebody says something like that and all of a sudden it becomes all too clear to any thing or person of sense that Dennis Hopper does not appear to be able to fuck too many things from among those that move, no matter how many things or persons he’s managed to fuck, with or without the aid of a canister of gas and/or totally and unambiguously objectionable pillow talk.  

Lorna: I never even met the man!

Joshua: Or the aid of the as-yet unseen and, uh, unmentioned child. Whose life hangs in the balance. Oh, Dennis Hopper. What befalls thee? We should look for little blue clairvoyant Viagra tablets in early Lynch.

Melanie: It’s funny. And we should. When you’re dating, it’s funny—when you’re dating, you have to deal carefully with the people you’re attracted to, because you know you want the hookup to go off but you also know that you don’t know if the hookup is a good idea exactly. I assure you that smart women watch invasively important movies the same basic way. David Lynch for sure has himself a gold-plated origin story that he’s told versions of all his public life, to this we three are definitely privy. It’s so telltale he had might as well be smack on the analyst’s upholstered couch bringing it over rote, super comfy.  

Lorna: Boy Scouts of America.

Joshua: My God, Lorna, you cannot hold your liquor for the life of you.

Melanie: My favourite part of David Lynch: The Art Life is the bit about Tiny Bob Dylan.

Joshua: Tiny Bob!

Lorna: Ahhhh! That’s hilarious.

Melanie: And it’s the actual Bob Dylan. In aquamarine.

Joshua: And let it be said that actual Bob Dylan is not a tall man.

Melanie: No, he is not. Pretty close to average man size. Which is no astonishing accomplishment. But you see, Lorna, the story David Lynch tells in David Lynch: The Art Life, which is only a few years old, the film, not the story, has our peachy narrator, who famously manages daily life on conspicuous doses of caffeine and nicotine…

Lorna: My God, he sure does!

Melanie: This Mr. Lynch, of our common folksy familiarity, establishes with more equivocation than probably ought to be necessary…

Joshua: It’s a Buddhist thing.

Melanie: It’s a Buddhist thing, Joshua, you’re onto me. You see, Lorna, David Lynch of Missoula, Montana, transcendental meditation enthusiast, compulsive artisan, and definitely a living adherent of some kind of Good Southern California Living—this David Lynch tells us he likes a glass of wine on the regular around I guess sunset, but that cannabis, which is cool if it’s your thing, is not his thing. Which I understand. He had an amusing experience but likewise deduced that marijuana use was liable to impede his experience of daily life. It makes sense. Different strokes. I know I never smoked crack with a boss twice, if you’ll excuse the iffy boundaries. 

Joshua: And get this…

Melanie: That’s right, get this: the one time David Lynch, who was a boy or young man in his formative years inherently awkward and ever girl-struck, did on one mere occasion take good proper Midwestern lungfuls of the Lord’s Good Herb, and upon this auspicious occasion, Lynch… 

Joshua: It’s almost an Event.

Melanie: Call it whatever you want. In the Spluuuge of this Eveeent, Joshua, our buddy, our big boy, went and he saw Bob Dylan perform, and if you do the preliminaries in your own head, no requirement of pen and paper, you’ll understand Dylan would have been at the height of his early pre-Newport and pre-motorcycle accident folkie renown—this performance as experienced by Lynch becomes for Lynch a phenomenological memory-territory of great specificity and humour, and therefore a properly archetypal scenario. You see, Lorna, Bob Dylan becomes for Lynch a kind of tiny bluely lit marionette, smaller and smaller, actively diminishing in real time.

Lorna: Little boy is going flaccid, is the gist.

Melanie: Well…would that were all that it were...

Joshua: As it were.

Lorna: Or weren’t.

Melanie: Or weren’t.

Joshua: The weren’t hurts the mostest.

Melanie: I won’t quibble. The puppet theatre the unlucky-in-love boy beholds as agent of all beholding is funny and he feels it’s a good laugh at the time, as he recollects and recounts it. In David Lynch: The Art Life. It makes for good talk. This is now market fact.

Lorna: I definitely need to see this movie.

Melanie: Ha ha. Lorna is sold, the facts loudly declare themselves. I don’t dislike at all David Lynch; he makes cool shit. But I would not hook up with this man no matter how rangy my hormones or precarious my situation. Once bitten, twice shy. I know you know what the boy’s blue puppet theatre would have to symbolize here, Lorna.

Joshua: I give Lorna licence to comment on the film she wishes to see in advance of seeing it. This is an instance in which I find that recourse reasonable.

Melanie: It’s just the hot water talking.

Lorna: It’s infantile penile obsession. Sensory-motor impulsion and compulsion. Is what it sounds like.

Melanie: That’s because that’s exactly what it is.

Joshua: You guys!

Melanie: You aren’t fooling anybody! And loosen your goddamn tie.  

Lorna: Dennis Hopper does not appear to be able to fuck too many things from among those that move. That is absolutely hilarious.       

Melanie: You know what we need from you, Joshua?

Joshua: Just let me loosen my tie…

Melanie: You’ll have to go way further than that.

Lorna: How far do you pull up your socks?

Melanie: Lay it out for us. What we demand of you implicitly, always, Joshua. I need proud boastful things from you that lead to the shameful places. Or I shall strike you hard with this very pint glass.

Lorna: Seconded! [Hiccup.]

Joshua: I can’t say “not fair” because then everybody sits here in silence.

Lorna: It’s true. You can’t say “not fair.”

Joshua: When I was a boy I never did comprehend how I felt about women’s undergarments—and I—I don’t think—I suppose I still don’t—

Melanie: Well…nice, okay. We’re doing good work here tonight.

[Snorts of laughter from Lorna]

Joshua: I’m almost sad that I’m not going to regret sharing this with you two later. Hear those police sirens in the distance? Which one of you two brats they comin’ for? This thing with…panties…and bras. The rest. Lingerie. Teddies. Heh heh. Okay. I think this is actually an interesting thing about me with maybe even somewhat universal implications, so sue me. Lorna, you're plastered. When I was a kid on the schoolyard but not exactly on the schoolyard, you understand, I told an older boy this one time that I thought pictures of girls in their underwear were hotter than pictures of girls with no clothes on at all, and this older boy looked at me like he knew at once and once and for all that I was fucked in the head. Cleary, what happens is I’m sort of maybe paying a little more attention to in fact how complex my fascination with the pictures in the Eaton’s catalogue or whatever is for a good long while after this quiet shaming. I never get anywhere as a boy trying to figure out why the underwear is so stimulating to me. And then you’re a teenager and you definitely just want to get past the panties in the manner of the dashing hero, and there isn’t any sound reason you’d have at this macho time to imagine somebody someday calling you on this Baby Wants to Fuck Freak Scene. Unto What-Stays-in-Vegas All of What’s His. Credo. Melanie knows the score. Lorna? Lorna knows the score.  

Melanie: Did you have trouble stimulating yourself?

Joshua: I did not have any such trouble. Oh, man, I’m—I’m just realizing this. When I was, like—what?—fifteen or whatever, I saw.... Haw haw. I saw the cross-dressing movie, you know, the Polanski!

Lorna: The Tenant. It’s fucked. I love it. That man is an atrocity.

Melanie: It’s a very good movie. Written by Roland Topor.

Joshua: The source text, at any rate. They were friends. Him and Polanski. Or said so. Whatever that meant to those guys. They would appear to have drank hunched and profane in their grey peacoats in grey establishments similar to those featured in The Tenant.

Melanie: And with girls like Adjani.

Joshua: Right, oh, God. That’s both a type and a trip, Mel. It’s scary I guess when you see yourself get made like that in the movies and still have no clue what it’s all about. Edward Wood Jr. Glen or Glenda. Johnny Depp as all the disarming three at once, essentially. It was me and it wasn’t, and what is it exactly? 

Lorna: Cross-dressing. And young girls. 

Joshua: I never put on women’s clothes. Or underthings. I never had any special thing for young girls.

Melanie: It’s called sublimation, and I guess it’s ‘cause you’re a gosh-darn poet, honey.   

Joshua: Here I am. I’m fifteen. It’s right at the end of The Tenant. Polanski, this sketchy guy, looks a bit like a weasel, which sounds like it’s me saying it’s about him being Jewish—to which there’ll never be any rebuttal—when what it actually is for me is more—it’s about asking myself, me, what’s on the screen, and who is and isn’t—on the screen…and why it is and isn’t me…

Lorna: Lovely.

Joshua: And I find him attractive. Just as I am slowly beginning to have faith in the act of love.

Melanie: That’s cute.

Joshua: I’m speaking about a fifteen-year-old. I’ve never afterward found sex and relationships a source of reliable grounding.

Lorna: It’s not a matter of your not knowing physics, sweetheart. They can’t either.

Melanie: Speak to me, fifteen-year-old boy. 

Joshua: You, the actor. Act two. Action. The three-brained creature whose second brain calls and responds to Action. The dress you’re about to put on—what is your purpose, Gardenia?

Melanie: Be careful what you wish at.

     

Lorna: Yowza.

What is your purpose, Gardenia?

 

What is your purpose, Gardenia?

is 

a LABOUR DAY MONSTER MASH-UP

by ANTHROPOTECH

starring

ROMAN POLANSKI

&

THE PINK ELEPHANTS

IN SIX CLEAN TAKES

Les Mizzzérables

 

LOU REED ANDY WARHOL SCREEN TEST | THE SOFT PINK TRUTH 2022

 

MIM-EEYORE-GRAPH

TO: O CHLOPERNICUS FLOPS
RE: UPCOMING ZOO EVENTS 

Sadly there is but one remaining polar bear, the other three having thawed to death and, needless to say, I am up to it something fierce with the resultant paperwork. The form after form deal. It's been a busy week. Yesterday I tried to find a female polar bear in Boston capable of being impregnated by Beardsley (our remaining bear), but, despite all the forms I did manage to fill out, we came out empty-handed, broke, and drunk on vodka sevens. Now I have a headache and Lisa is arguing that we ought to maybe think about breeding Beardsley with a light-coloured black bear. Which basically on the face of it would appear to mean we only have one polar bear at Papanack Park-Zoo to go with our no more damn money left.

This brings me to our upcoming Charity Ball. We can't even afford Papanack Park-Zoo stationary anymore. We're pretending that the Ball has to do with raising money to protect endangered species but that's actually bullshit. The fuckin zoo is broke, okay? Nobody fucking cares about zoos anymore.  The zoo is going out of business, babe, and we really need some help, pronto. Get your ass over here and help us. If you don't come, well, I'm afraid there maybe won't be any polar bears at all left to worry about.

Pretty, uh, little head...worry about....

I understand what you said about your husband's new professional responsibilities, but I will confess I'm having trouble seeing what it has to do with me, the stressed-out cuss over here up the posterior of his own Fauvist posture. I miss so much your long hair and kisses, and also acerbic rejoinders and boastful declarations of trashwothiness. When you doe-eye, me toes dance. Neither of my eyes is to be taken seriously on its own, not really. Oh, Blue Angel. Your blue eyes are the crueler blue, it's so. Not cruller like the pastry. O, greetings my Dynasty! I imagine you both double to myself and also the future of womankind and solar energy applied. After urinating and then lazily playing with myself on the floor, I have woken up from naps on two occasions this afternoon, and the word 'mung' entered my thoughts both times, which saddened me enormously for no clear reason. 

Oh, Chlopernicus, Inscrutable One!

Sex with anybody else is like licking postage stamps, comparatively. And I'm such a sour homunculus. How's life in the butterfly net?

Lisa is pestering me. I'd eat dung for you, old girl. Wish we could fuck. I mean make love. Got to clear all this shit out of the warehouse. I feel like I work in a depopulated urban wasteland, and that can't be good for morale. I want to grow peaches someday. New York State. That upper part. Or the Azores, Lol. Remember when I told you I wanted to be International Light Inspector? I wanted to watch translucent squid die on the decks of my rig. Little paper boats, made by children, would collect in my quarters, and I would sometimes visit the shoreline and dispatch one. I would redefine the profile of my relations. Late last night when I found myself wearing the table cloth, I thought of that chat we had about the Amityville horror and, though wobbly, I loudly declared to all in I guess earshot that I hoped they all might find it in the deepest reaches of themselves to bleed just a little bit more, just a little bit longer, on all that grotty flooring they're swamped in, 'cause it's another fuckin morning without Chlopernicus present and accounted for and it is my requirement at the present time that she be here and be prepared to head out to Old Chelsea with me, on the Quebec side, and raise the precise sort of hell we discussed.

All Our Love,

THE PAPANACK PARK-ZOO    

Late 90s / Early 00s Ottawa Concert Flyers 

  

Who Wore It Best?

 

                         Jean Epstein

VS

                                                                     

Jaesop & Hermes

Shutter Speed

*Two men. Well dressed. Sitting over espresso.
A giant angel in a golden prism painted* 

*the roof of*

*stylized men’s room at* 

*Café
Klieg.*

Reading the list always seems to make it get flustered. Why is this? What is missing?
Why is it always just out of reach?

... ... ... ... ****

*Sunday morning. Bottles of**milk shimmering in a 

wooden box.*
A bird at the windowsill. Empty milk glass on the wash*basin.*
*Girl on backyard tire swing. Bee sting on 

left knee.*

When the Plainclothes Barrister in the Parking Garage accosts Mio Mae, Mio Mae sits on a chair there, overseeing passing fancies of no consequence, perched at an odd angle before the list and a pitcher of ice water, the latter motionless upon the surface of the cluttered desk in the parking garage. Harsh underground fluorescent lighting. A bookshelf stacked with a stately accumulation of rare volumes lurks by the old Wagen, outdated verse and such. Some stacks form tilting towers to our left. Papers are crumpled beneath the transparent jug, the fluid contained within amplified, the print all dancing visual distortions. A trick of light is committed to the space of the interview. Is this an interview? Mio Mae recalls no scheduled interview, but the interviews are after all endless...  

The interviewer run-walks up to the desk, hesitates, running a finger along coarse edges of paper. The interview is not actually an interview, though, as established. We feel pretty safe determining this Plainclothes Barrister in the Parking Garage a Criminal Assailant, and instead of editorializing any further on the subject—or instead of commencing to properly editorialize in the first—we refer y'all now...to...THE TAPE—

WE ADVISE: DO NOT ADVISE US

WHAT IT IS THAT'S

IN OUR REMIT

SIT THE FUCK DOWN. Mio Mae sits facing him. He puts pressure on the shoulders to prevent Mio Mae from standing. 

*Two men stop to talk. They exchange fierce gestures and their faces redden. A car backfires.*
*A cat bats a toy* car around* in a small puddle. He leaves paw prints in a sandbox. He disappears from sight, tracks of mud* marking his path.*   

*A film by a French director 

which attempts to explain 

his last one.*

PLAINCLOTHES BARRISTER IN PARKING GARAGE: Are you ready to explain to me what all your shit's about?

Folds hands together. Surface of the desk. Holds folded hands together. There. Folden.

P.B.P.G. (continuing): Let’s begin with the list, shall we?

Shuffles spot causes chair creek ever so.

Mio Mae: Yes, let’s.

Uncomfortable is sometimes hard to get down t'business going through the motions. Any possibility of possible intimacy. Intimacy redundancy. Contemporaries.

P.B.P.G.: Some people, and it is probably better on all fronts if I don’t mention any names here, I’ll leave that to your…shall we say…discretion. People have raised certain…certain objections concerning the list. They say you got water on the brain 'cause you's a soft old drunk. Now what I suppose these people question is the very purpose and nature of listing itself. Why list? What is to be gained that could not be gained in, say, a poem…or…perhaps, say…I don’t know…

Very goddamn much like a perfectly normal interview situation, fuck's sake.

*Love without sex.*

*without*
*Sex without love.*

*Pliers in the snow. Love*

and Labour.*

YEV

M.M.: Well your question as I understand it I—I think I do—it's really (cough) two questions. Or rather the questions you almost imagine you could maybe ask, heh heh—certain critical interests (chuckles)—concerning—well—concerning the purpose and nature of listing—well, you see—that’s just it. The purpose is in the nature. If we look at the nature of listing, that right there is already almost maybe a purpose, or rather some purpose is exposed by the very nature of our having begun to search for the nature—I mean now of listing. But also, you know, of—of anything really…

 
*Tabatha’s listening to Boris’s heartbeat with her head against his exposed chest.*
*Boris’s current* lack of thoughts. His not listening to anything.*
*A letter not quite sent. Almost.*
15.   A nun on the nicotine patch.

The interviewer looks eyes with aspect of. For some reason this. Making it possible to.

M.M.: To list you must throw everything away and start at a zero placeholder place. Beckett’s novels were lists. Molloy is a device through which listing may be measured on a kind of nerve meter as Artaud would have it. Frequencies beyond the zero but never more than zero. Prospective zero-ish flourishes out on the limbic precipice. To list things as they are presented before consciousness, and provided a sort of fluid residence there, we must begin with a first object, a one intensity that established the tone, an entirely made-up and arbitrary idiot thing, such as either one of us. We must bring with this object, this one, all traces of that which precedes the actual act of listing, a point of departure which is completely arbitrary, although necessary, and which will condition all that which is to branch out from it in degrees or in precipitate sheddings. Variations on a single tone, like eastern music. The location of consciousness proper. In short, two and then three and then back to zero. Bam! The higher you count, always counting back to a rangy placeholder zero from which you always again emerge.

16.  Halloween costumes in a Dumpster.
17.  A skier who bit his tongue off in California when he fell off a large cliff.  
*The exchange of a syringe hidden in an empty pack of Camels.*

P.B.P.G.: Wait one holy second...

Fuck a rubber duck. E're we go...

P.B.P.G.: Would you then say that listing, as you see it, could serve as a model 

for the purification 

of expression?

 Gonna hurl.

M.M.: Well, fuck's sake, you know, that’s all well and good, to talk that way, 

but we—you see, why say that? I mean that exactly? Purification. Expression. I 

mean, Jesus, I should know, you know—I should know about listing—listing! After all…

Down at the list stupidly confusing adjusts metal piece in right ear with his right hand whisper to conspirators.  

M.M. (continuing): I made the fuckin’ thing, didn’t I? 

I mean, buddy, come on now: PURIFICATION? 

There is nothing pure about making these goddamned lists all day fuckin’ long.

And little good it all does me. Go fuck yourself.
     

P.B.P.G.: Look...

M.M.: No, no, look—I’m sorry, ouch—you're hurting me—I’m really sorry. Just 

tired, tired! Jes haven’t slept a wink…you know?…and….and—and you know 

what?—you make a point there. For real, you do. Absolutely.

Matter despite how unbelievable sound of life-death, namely: my-you life and my-you death. Why hell else 

would peddling art destroy? Have lost seventy or so pounds. Have all lost all wives. All have all the heart 

problems going and cannot for the life of us get it up, short with the little miss after having come up short 

with same, but still this horrible impulse to resist in the face of death, guided by the angels on the roof 

of some dump.

M.M. (continuing): I got a little upset there for a moment, I know, 

and I am deeply 

sorry, just let me tell you, 

just so as you know. My dad, you see, he was a Catholic.

Insanely hard pill to swallow. A heavily and horribly purified pill, Jones. 

And you said purification there, in your rank bluster, fella, and you got 

me on thinking about this damned grace thing and, you know, a synapse 

doesn’t fire right and it all goes 

proper red. 

P.B.P.G.: Fine, fucker. You like you eyeballs picked at 

like grapes?

Rutting through trash with a fine-toothed comb.
A beating from men in suits and a free ride to the outskirts of town.

P.B.P.G.:: No need for histrionics, dramatics, or impassioned outbursts 

of an otherwise unprofessional nature. 

We can continue calmly and we can discuss whatever 

you wish to discuss or not discuss all that 

which you would rather that we not

or, alternatively

you're binned and we go and we just bin you.

Interviewers are an odd variety of beast, always sort of funny 

in more or less this exact way…

M.M.: Fine, thank you. Well yes, then, I would like to suggest that what you call 

purification with respect to expression…

Fucked-up thought processes interrogator-enthusiast a Strange. Contents of the private existence never quite 

verified.

M.M (continuing): …is nothing 

more than 

a logical extenuation

if you’ll excuse it

my putting it... 

Light reflected but by what exactly?
Crazy about pottery.          

23.   Since when 

are there 

red school buses?

M.M. (continuing): The numbers themselves reflect 

nothing other than the language of listing. 

They, at a certain point, must be 

removed from our understanding

how the list produces meaning 

or identification i

n the reader. The numbers must be put aside 

if we are to take out of the list its infinite 

possible lines of connection and

abstract cohesion….

its various fragmented systems of…linkage…

Linkage?

M.M. (continuing): But listing

listing

and sir I love your 

machine sir

I'm pointing at

listing breaks authority 

marginalizes all holding pattern franchise platforms. 

Fuck. 

I mean, when I list I works with connections

interfaces

points, all points

—conjunctive, disjunctive— 

Pornographic! 

Bodies meld, forms meld, multiplicities meld. 

The I, the subject of the list, is 

infinite multiplicity

morphology. 

The list makes sense of senselessness

all senselessness

without centre…

Wait…

M.M. (continuing): I list. 

They point a gun at me 

and I keep up with the listing 

they shoot me and I stop 

so I list.

Dangerous yap, aardvark's vark. You's sho' as fucked, yup…

M.M. (continuing): And 

 fuck it. That’s right, sir: 

FUCK IT! 

YOU HEAR ME, FUCKER? 

AND FUCK YOU GLUEY-EYED 

ON A SWING 

WHILE WE'RE AT IT

YOU SOULLESS FUCKIN FAILED NURSEMAID—

 But still the interviewer is the ideal Other, superior even to the psychoanalysts…

M.M. (continuing): As my lists are clearly bereft of any 

meaning, or so it seems, at very least, when one first directs one’s 

attention towards them, I find it a very valuable operation going 

through a methodical defence or breakdown of the whole jimmy,

but you ain't privy, bitch, bein' a shivvy. Can you flip-flappin' 

dig it, Jack-son?! 

Of the hidden meaning inherent within 

bitter liquorice twist. 

You Sodom and 

Gomorrah, you, in your idiot clothes, 

waiting to get rubbed out...

Pigtails

P.B.P.G.: Cutie pie! You get carried away. And the 

thing is: you get carried away, 

waterhead, and you'll get carried ooff.

M.M: Try it, Jackson.

A wound sustained in infancy leaves a scar 

that can only be removed by lasers.
Lithographs in the mail from Rome.
The last leg of a long journey. 

The driver is tired and nods off to the radio. 

His children are with his ex-wife overseas.

West of here there is no more west.
Golf addiction.
Pederasty.
Glandular dysfunctions.
Asteroid fever.
Legs dangling over the fence, she makes a face 

like sucking on a lemon. The French doors 

blow shut and something 

falls 

to the floor.

Flourish of activity doors swing open and three men in white and a bunch 

more people all audible on the TAPE and BANG! knock chair backward 

bounce head off floor looking up two men holding down other finding a vein 

with the syringe he has produced from his lapel. 

P.B.P.G.: I gave you every chance. 

You brought this on yourself. This one’s had it.

…Feeling…very…sleepy…

The last hour of any given journey.
Four more heartbeats.
The end or the not end. Life and death divorced.
Calm. Alertness.

Mio Mae

Final Words on TAPE

Crazy Fuckin Garbled