idle wild

cliche scenario #35839: at a mountain town cafe the ruffians approach the writer who is typing on his laptop:

     Two toughs approach the writer as he is typing away on his laptop. What is he writing about? How about the very scenario you are reading. Let’s keep it simple, OK?

     OK.  The two toughs stroll up the wooden stairs of the cafe. One of them puts out his camel filterless into the ashtray, but leaves it burning, to the chagrin of the lady who reads a paperback but she says nothing. She knows better. With all of the patrons already there, eye contact is quickly averted as these two strut their way up; they might as well be wielding battle axes and broad-swords with belts of beheaded victims dangling from them.  That is the way these two cats present themselves, and that’s the way they like it.

     Anyway, the writer types with a focused fury: damn, this place has good espresso. Real good. The typing is feverous and with a focused passion.  A Sinatra tune, Accidents Will Happen, plays over the loudspeaker but the writer doesn’t pay any attention to that. So focused is he on the words he is typing that he fails to take note the two barbarians who hover above his table, glaring down upon him with a wolfen intensity.

     Alas, one of them speaks: “Fancy computer.”

     Is someone talking? Is that someone talking to the writer? No – they must be speaking to someone else. Everybody probably knows everybody in this town.

     The other ruffian calls forth an ample amount of phlegm from his godforsaken bowels into his mouth and issues it forth – causing a SPLAT! on the wooden decking no more than 8 inches away from the writer’s left shoe – a checkered Vans slip-on.

     The writer glances down at the small loogy puddle, nods his head, and looks up at the two and nods his head. He is very impressed.

     “Very nice,” he says.

     “You like that, huh?” The viking with the dust-ridden eagle bandana on his head asks, but not because he is actually curious.

     “You betcha.”  The writer looks back down at the pool then back up. “First-class.”

     “We like your fancy computer,”  the one with the cracked leather vest and Oakley sunglasses says.

     “Thanks. I like it, too.”

     “We really like it.” Bandana leans in.

     The writer closes the laptop. Takes a look at each one of the toughs –– making certain eye-contact is achieved.  He clears his throat. “I paid exactly $1375.65 for this machine, just in case you were wondering.  May I ask you two fellas a question?” He doesn’t wait for either one of them to answer him, because the question was more a rhetorical one. “If you wanted to gauge the cost of your well-being, let’s say the use of your nose, thumbs, eyes, knees, and balls - would you say it is worth $1375.65?”

     Huh? was the look the two made.

     The writer continues: “Because I think you two are underselling yourselves considerably.”

     The two berserkers registered an “I think he is fucking with us” look. One might call it "bemused bewilderment", another might call it "dumbfounded" and someone of more simplistic taste might say "insulted."  Call it what you will.

     “Well - we want it.”

     The writer nods, pulls his three fake front teeth out, puts them in the case and smiles big.
“This is gonna be fun, boys.” He stands up.  This place really does have good espresso.

not only do these monkeys hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil....

 "Vintage Monkeys - 1800"


the truth comes out – whether you are prepaid and prepared or not. how have we gotten this far? by the grace of God, that is how.  in order to live in a planet overrun by fancy-pantsed card sharped, bull-dyke neo-nazi security personnel, drunk federal reserve captains, espn-watching puppets in chief, a congress of bimbos and a senate of bozos, a media that when is not caught hacking, lying, misleading, and licking ass of the puppet in chief, is out to lunch and trying to convince blue-haired old ladies that the bogeyman is coming to get her – in order to live in this staged reality – you must suspend your disbelief at all times of the day – even when you are asleep and dreaming. Otherwise, you will either crack and wind up in a Honduran prison because you were caught strangling a poor hooker you had accused of stealing your blow, driving recklessly up the wrong side of your local interstate hopped-up on pills you the commercial told you to get and so you took all of them along with a decent belt of Johnny Walker Red because you were inspired by Mad Men, or firing a million rounds of ammo into the boat of a doped-out, thinks-he’s-a-rockstar-patsy because you think you’re Jack Bauer and yeah, you got a gut but so what?  You are federal and and this is your time to shine so light that sucker up!....  When “burn that fucker down” doesn’t mean burn that fucker down, when “pull it” doesn’t mean pull it...when a peace prize doesn’t mean peace...when the brainwashing den is just a little bit too familiar (welcome, citizenslave 0 – this time we’ve got the prime time)...

why you?

Paul Landacre ~ Jungle Madness, 1935 (wood Engraving) - 

http://www.pinterest.com/piedcrow/madness/

the dart from a blowgun slaps against the neck: the sting, the dizziness, the fade-out...
what were you doing there, out in the jungle? didn’t you know if the savages weren’t going to get you
the jaguar would?  or the drug-gangs...or the giant ants...or bats...or snakes...or scorpions…or the madness…or the rain and the mud and the loss of direction...
but you went for it anyway –
and that is all
that matters.

the great hornswaggle of the known biosphere

at times
the person that runs the show
can’t stand it anymore and decides
to pull fast ones on
the viewers
like making them think they are watching something profound
when really
he has simply turned out the lights
gassed the place
and torched it
but because he wears a three-pieced suit
and smiles big and clean
and has sculpted hair
and is a favorite of the president
and gets the ratings
and brings in huge advertising revenues
he gets a bonus
for burning the studio down.
now that’s entertainment.

what's the use in complaining? the fatsos will maintain their fatness

 

"Gargantua" Honoré Daumier 1832

morbidly obese lemmings
                who
breath through mouths
    and
   waddle up and down the boulevard
    seek out
someplace to sit
     and
rethink how they got
to this point...
big-bellied culture –
    representative of the spirit
    of
    our poisoned,
    hoodwinked,
    lied-to,
    shot-up    
    and cast-down,
    brainwashed (whatever is left of the brain)
    and
numbed-out, stupified, zombified
    and made
    to appreciate
    the taste
    of crap
    spoon-fed to us
by platinum-haired bozo-robots
    in
nice suits
    and (quite frankly)
bimbos
    with caked-on make-up
     showing us leg
just to get their scripted, pentagon war-chief written “points”
    across and into
our rapidly evaporating psyche...

agents of change

the clock:
ticks (obviously)
performs
   a one-man rendition of Faustus.
controls.
   your immediate future
resides
   inside the head of the man with one finger on the pulse of society and the other on the trigger.
is
   ahead of the game.
waits patiently in the shadows
with or without your acknowledgements…
grabs you
   when you are not looking.  rifles through your pockets for any loose change.
pretends to be on your side (with its minute-hand around your shoulder like a pal
but stuffs the blade into your back with the hour-hand)
disguises itself as money.
takes her own sweet time at the DMV yet races at breakneck pace when on vacation.
tells of tiny romances and innocence
in a box of photos tucked away in a dusty storage closet.
reminds
   us
of the finite and not-so-finite…of our mortality and someone else’s immortality…
bastard-child of the sun and the moon and great-grandson to the universe and charged with the blinking history of man.
pays no heed to the laws of gravity and can exist
outside time.

Illustration for Poe's The Devil in the Belfry in "Tales and poems - vol.2" (Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 18??)

acid washed

                  from George du Maurier’s dream strip “Tom Noddy’s Christmas Nightmare”

     They showed him quite a bit.  As a matter of fact, they showed him all of it ––  at least all his limited-capacity brain could process.  He got it, allright.  They showed him that his beloved little planet was to undergo quite a reckoning in the near future – “sooner than you think” he recalled hearing.  Then the questions came: why? why was he ‘being shown’ this, why was ‘he’ being shown this?  What could he do with such information? He had never been taught the protocol and etiquette on what to do if hyper-dimensional beings that manipulate time/space reality of human beings were to come to him, telepathically notify him of his status of virtual lab-animal, and the lab was going to be shut down for renovations.  As he was being relayed this information, he knew he would either have to remain mum (and essentially play-act within this soon-to-be destroyed artificial habitat) or be committed into another habitat for insane people, because he would indeed be viewed as totally nuts if he were to attempt to “warn” his fellow lab-animals.  At that time – how he wished his 20 year old brain could just be wiped clean – that he could just go back to “life as normal” and move onward in blissful ignorance of the alien scrutiny he had become aware of. 
     He attempted to meander through the next few years – but in a sullen state of mild despair and nihilistic depression.  He had gotten committed a few times – they wanted him institutionalized.  He drank. He wept.  He bummed around.  Not until he met a truck-driver named Woods did he realize that he had only gotten a certain angle of the story―an angle that was shown for the advantage of the one telling it: yes, there were interdimensional beings manipulating humans for their own advantage.  Yes, they had been around a very long time, and would seem to a young man to be like his gods.  But: Woods had imparted to him: they had mindfucked him to try to get him to yield his spirit – his life-source-code –  to them.  that is what they feed off of.  Woods knew.  He was one of them – and he was rebelling against them.