This Be Lit Crit

This Be Lit Crit
—for David Orr & Philip Larkin
__________________

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/31/books/the-adrienne-rich-beyond-the-anger.html?_r=1&ref=arts

They fuck you up—the literary critics
They may not mean to—but they do
They fill you with—their fuck-ups
And add some more shit—just for you

But they were—fucked up themselves
By fools in university—English departments
Who half the time—were sloppy-drunks
Bitchy queens—at each other’s throats

The Muse means—misery to critics
It deepens like—a str8t regret
Not outta the closet—stuck with a bunch
Of ugly fucking—Lost Weekend jerks

Lit Crit misery—comes to poets too
It deepens like—a bitchy review
Miss Orr & Miss Logan—NYTimes queens
Dishing dead poets—like Rich & Crane

Brooklyn Bridge Voyant

Brooklyn Bridge Voyant
__________________

“As I came”
—Arthur Rimbaud
The Drunken Boat

I’m slightly ahead of time—anxious
Impatient to find—the place and formula
Can the door be opened—am I too late?
It’s in the future—beyond Buchanan

Surely I’ll end up in—the Behemoth’s guts
Cosmopolitan swank—archipelago angst
Exiled & phlegmatic—a failed poet
Demon youth—of this being, myself

Metropolitan parapets—electric dawns
Countless cruel days—bottomless heights
Hart Crane voyager—we’ll do tangos
On the Brooklyn Bridge—late at night

Let me voyage—my brooding corpse
Voyant to waves—sad Adieu to Seine
I’ve had it with—myself and villains
The biggest rogue—being myself

As I cross—this impossible Atlantic
I feel a bogeyman—guiding me on
Toward America—naked waiting sons
Foreskins nailed—to tall skyscrapers

What do I care—for Paris anymore?
The English Channel—isn’t wide enough
I need a whole—ocean to getaway
Leaving behind Europe—once & for all

Furious whitecaps—luxurious waves
Emptying my mind—goodbye Parnassians
Westward—great unknown continent
Take me away—from French despair

Angry with that—tempest in teapot
Verlaine the whore—my mousy wife
Kvetching bitch—drowning in ink
More maudlin moody—than even me

Soured youth—disillusioned debutante
Sperm infusing—my milky virgin asshole
My naive drunken boat—sunk by voyeurs
So much for the—Paris intelligentsia

This sleek ocean liner—thru sullen waves
Stalked by whitecaps—slinking depths
Deep in a forest—glass, steel skyscrapers
Enormous Texts—are waiting for me

Forward glances—modern works
Hidden wrecks—prehistoric wonders
Children of El Dorado—orphans of Orpheé
West coast gold rushes—SF Renaissances

A FAKE NOVEL ABOUT THE LIFE OF JACK SPICER

A FAKE NOVEL ABOUT
THE LIFE OF JACK SPICER
__________________

“my vocabulary
did this to me”
—Jack Spicer

The sentences—continuously trying
To turn Jack Spicer—into Arthur Rimbaud
Thinking of new strategies—to make him
Go against—the American grain

Arthur Rimbaud—didn’t write
The sullen kid—was written
We sentences—were waiting for them
Both Arthur & Jack—a couple of suckers

It didn’t take long—to queer them both
Like most poets—they were pretty easy marks
When both Rimbaud—and Spicer suffered
That’s when New Literature—was born

Rimbaud was sixteen—and a love object
Miss Verlaine covered him—with thousands
Of obscene kisses—from his pouty lips
All the way down—to his pouty big penis

He was just a naive—Ardennes farm boy
Aggressive & cute—definitely a sure winner
His boyish good looks—his baby blue eyes
And best yet—he had a huge 10-inch dick

Naturally Miss Verlaine—a rabid chicken queen
Fell for the kid—unwinkingly head over heels
Dumping his mousy Wife—quitting his job
Simply blinded by—the kid’s savage good looks

We sentences are—sort of witchdoctors
A Cult of magic syntax—and semenantics
We love to party—and do the down-low
Especially with young—impetuous poets

We sentences—had big plans for Rimbaud
We loved it when—he got loaded & fainted
Jacking him off—all the way down from
Slutty Lane Dullsville—to tres gay Paris

We wanted to proclaim—a New Age
We were eager—for young Rimbaud to write
Wharf rats running—along the Meuse
Soon were crawling—inside his skull

Sentences are dead—we’re not alive
Even bestsellers—end up rotting on shelves
We needed a totally new—Political Novel
French politics & culture—had grown stale

And so a new kid—got born in Charlesville
A moody sulky boy—an Ardennes prick
R=I=M=B=A=U=D was his new Name
Paris rumors—started spreading immediately

Big gnarly hands—like a hoodlum killer
Big feet wearing out—his big black boots
One look & Miss Verlaine—almost fainted
While all the Parnassians—simply panicked

Constantly running away—from his home
He got what he deserved—in the barracks
The soldiers butt-fucked—his virgin asshole
Out of spite—he wrote a poem about it

His “Bateau ire” poem—a Misadventure
Soon he was ghost-writing—our Novel
As Miss Verlaine’s—Internal Bridegroom
His Delirious Homo—Marriage in Hell!!!

All our Queer—Literary critics in Hades
Gave rave reviews—for Rimbaud’s work
His “long awaited” classic—“Illuminations”
Was soon on our—Top Ten Bestsellers List

But even the best plans—of mice & muses
Can fall apart—and sink down into the Meuse
Or disappear, my dears—in the foggy Thames
Drunk Verlaine—tried to shoot Rimbaud

If she couldn’t—have the young stud
Then nobody else—would get him either
She aimed her pistol—down where it hurts
Took a potshot—at Rimbaud’s crotch

Luckily Rimbaud—protected himself
Covering his groin—with his hand
The bullet penetrated—the kid’s wrist
The young voyant’s penis—was saved

We all breathed—a sigh of relief
We’d picked the—wrong Sugar Daddy
For our young—Rimbaud wunderkind
He fled to Africa—can you blame him?

A defeat for us—and a question mark
The Word puts on Flesh—a Teenager
A sixteen year old—chicken Voyant
Undoubtedly a—young French genius

He left behind—many blank books
We Ghost-writers—left in a Lurch
He’d written him—a blank check
We only got—two books outta him

Off into the desert—Rimbaud went
Our young Poet—into the Unknown
He lived with his Arab lover Djami
He could’ve created—a New World

These gone Literary—Histories
Glutting the streets—far down below
Rimbaud left—just enough poetry
For us—to taste the Prize

Poor cursed—Miss Verlaine
Had to live—the rest of her Life
In The Shadow—of her young lover
Her taste just as—bitter as ours

We tried—once again in SF
Picking Jack Spicer—as Rimbaud’s
Studious talented—heir apparent
How his flame burned—So brightly

AMERICAN T=R=E=E

AMERICAN
T=R=E=E
__________________

R=O=O=T=S
C=U=M
B=I=G
V=I=E=U=X
F=R=E=E
D=U=D=E
V=E=N=U=S
S=T=I=C=K=Y
H=O=N=E=Y
N=O=R=M=A=L
________________

R=O=O=T=S

“A bitter wind”
—Kit Robinson
“In the American Tree,”
In the American Tree

A bitter taste—American tree
His family jewels—genealogy jizz
Flipping out—the first time
Tasting him—his bitter wad
Coming outta—his big veiny root
Stretching it down—deep inside me
Closing his eyes—oozing it out
A pint of—young teenage TNT
A freshman gymnast—college kid
Totally animal—built like a fine
Fucking—brick shithouse
Big biceps—flat stomach
His arching—Botticelli back
Birth of Venus Torso—thin waist
Straining his nut—getting him off
Letting me—taste his family tree
His heartbreaking—sweet ache
His distended face—enough to
Haunt me—the rest of my life
His runny snotty—American tree
Gnarly, veiny—all for me
Pulling its rope—of babypaste cum
Outta him—way down deep
Inch by inch—yard by yard
All the way back—to the big easy

C=U=M

“Not this
what this?”
—Ron Silliman
“Tjanting,”
The American Tree

“Not that”—he’d say
“Not that—again, man”
“What do—you mean?”
“Not—THAT again…”

But I’d just—ignore him
Starting all—over again
Doing him—even better
The runny, juicy—second time
The tired—muscles
In my hand—were numb
Sore from—jacking him off
Biting his tit—gnawing his nipple
Grabbing his fine—loin-cut behind
Not again!—all morning long
My blistered lips—can’t get enough
He’s so moody—and sullen
But that makes it—even better
The way he struggles—and fights
Against losing it—that hard way
Again and—again the way
The American tree—squirts its brains
The way I like him—losing it bad
When he comes—so very put-upon
Who can blame him—he gives a lot
Always more—than he takes
So very sulky and—not wanting to
But broke—and having to do it
Giving me—his big veiny ROOT
His stinky armpits—uncut foreskin
Tart with smegma—it’s just awful
His exquisite—skanky hors-d’oeuvre
Not again he’d say—every time
Playing hard to get—thick as glue
Hot as dynamite—youngmale man

B=I=G

“Humor my
behemoth!”
—Kit Robinson
“Tribute to Nervous,”
In the American Tree

He really couldn’t—help it much
Being born that way—well-endowed
With his nice big—baby behemoth
Skanky gnarly—American tree
Letting that Root—sink down into me
Spreading my lips—Mississippi wide
Slow & sluggish—down to the gulf
Veiny roots—down thru the bayous
Twisted magnolia—manly hours
Pubes hanging down—Spanish moss
Guzzling cheap JAX beer—getting high
Smoking weed—giving me the jive
What’s in it for me—how much man?
That’s when—all the roofs caved in

V=I=E=U=X

“The idea of the Tree
as I came to think and talk”
—Ron Silliman
“Afterword: A Found For…”
In the American Tree

Big Easy kid—sullen, moody
Vieux Carré—so very sulky
Without his—girlfriend Yvette
Needing it bad—what can I say?
Living in a dorm—it isn’t easy
Especially if—you’re over-sexed
And dick-crazy—like him
Needing to get off—3 times
Three times a day—that’s no lie
Eighteen years old—one big dick
A Big Easy Erection—with 2 legs
What a dreamboat—cute as shit
Call me Mr. Lucky—roommate me
Cheesy cocksucker—to the rescue
How many—desperate times
Coming back—from English class
Unlocking the door—there he was
Beating off like crazy—almost there
Having to hustle—going down fast
Sewanee River—flowing into me
Skipping classes—to get him off
Feeling him up—feeling him down
Waiting to give him—a tongue bath
After a sweaty—gymnastics workout
Sliding my hands—all the way down
His Venus torso—pumped up hard
Long lanky salty—American tree
Sinking his roots—down into me

F=R=E=E

“Writing here has
a literalism of purpose”
—Barret Watten
“METHOD AND
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E:
AFTER SURREALISM”
In the American Tree

Long lanky—American tree
After he came—I’d do the same
Tasting the root—his family jewels
Invisibly becoming—his genealogy
Later at night—dreaming about him
Nocturnal emissions—even at my age
Pouty pubescent—wetdreams again
He’d laugh at me—I couldn’t help it
It was serious business—being in love
Especially with a guy—built like him
Whose bent root—was already deep
Deep down inside me—growing fast

D=U=D=E

“based on fact
of Dante’s Inferno”
—Kit Robinson
“Tribute to Nervous,”
In the American Tree

Pants zip down—to his ankle
His built physique—in bed with me
On his back—looking at the ceiling
Lazy Lucifer kid—Scorpio rising
He’s surprised—when I tell him
I’ve rented us—an apartment
Over in the ratty—hippie ghetto
With all the—druggies & drop-outs
I wanted some—privacy with him
All to myself—with no distractions
There on West Chimes—by campus
Down from the—Varsity Theater
By Highland Drive—and North Gate
The American Tree—took root there

V=E=N=U=S

“The dangers I did know
were preferable to those
I didn not know”
—Bob Perelman
“An Autobiography,”
In the American Tree

Even when—I did him
Each time was—like first time
Each wad—a virgin wad
Each look on is face—first time
First time—and last time
He never got over—how aggressive
I was with him—giving him head
The look on his face—always shocked
Yvette wouldn’t—do what I’d do
She wouldn’t dirty—her pretty lips
She wouldn’t swallow—that nasty wad
But I would—and I did him a lot
I spoiled him rotten—with oral sex
Oral intercourse—fucking my mouth
Pulling my hair—yanking my ears
Making me gag—gag for some more
Getting him loaded—getting him off
On weed & acid—uppers & downers
The way he became—his gymnast dick
All muscles pumped-up—all that energy
Then unraveling it—like a rubber band
Tightly winded-up—then SPRONG!!!
I wanted to—become him all the way
When he’d faint—I had it my way
All that young male energy—oozing
Seminal sap—of the American tree

S=T=I=C=K=Y

“oh it is twelve!!!”
—Robert Grenier
“Sticky Fingers,”
In the American Tree

“Eeeek!!!—Jesus Christ!!!”
“Good Golly!!!—Miss Molly!!!”
“It’s growin, baby—it must be Nine!!!”
“No,” he said—“ INCHES soft.”
“And TWELVE INCHES—when I’m hard”
Oh Lordy, Lordy—I was so shocked
All those young—juicy male hormones
Were still pumping—thru the kid
I started measuring—every night & day
Just think—that stuff’s runnin thru me
No wonder my heart’s—goin like crazy
“Shut up & get in bed”—he tell me
So derisively impatient—to get down
“To bad you’re not a kunt”—he’d say
Maybe I was—maybe I wasn’t
Either way tho—I was flunking out
And the Draft Board—was just waiting
To whisk my nelly ass—to Viet Nam
We were all under the gun—back then
I told them I was married—they smirked
I told them I was gay—“Prove it,” they said
I got down on my—hands & bruised knees
Only after I sucked it—did they say “Okay.”

H=O=N=E=Y

“Honey and Cream,
Silver Queen”
—Lyn Hejinian
“My Life”
In the American Tree

“C’mon, man”—he’d say to me
“Give me some head—before class”
“Oh okay—if I have to” I’d say
Getting him off—quickie before class
Blowing the—back of my head off
With his oozing—Louisiana Luger
He was so mean—and vicious to me
But I liked it that way—Bad Boy sex
Into Rough Trade—rougher the better
Snotty cum—coming outta my nostrils
Erect & quivering—runny with snot
That’s how violent—he got with me
I saw stars at night—shooting away
When he banged my head—really hard
Against the bed’s—beat-up headboard
Sometimes I passed out—couldn’t breathe
With him half-strangling—me to death
The Tree’s Root—way down my Throat

N=O=R=M=A=L

“I was normal”
—Barret Watten
“Plasma”
In the American Tree

Suddenly I’ve got these—new wetdreams
They started again—coming back you know
I was ingesting—much too much spermatozoa
His muy macho—male testosterone wads
They were haunting me—almost every night
Nocturnal emissions—can be so excruciating
Just like during adolescence—outta the blue
Totally consuming—like Proustian flashbacks
Exquisitely involuntary—simply uncontrollable
Miss Tea & Madame Marmalade—what a Story
I started my--reclusive Greta Garbo routine
Wearing sunglasses—to cover-up my eyes
My bloodshot bedroom eyes—so decadent
The more Id I got outta him—3 times a day
The more depraved—and dim-witted I became
I was no longer—a witty gay Southern girl
It was Jekyll & Miss Hyde—all over again
The more male beauty—I got into me
The more depraved I got—it was just awful
But it helped out—being an English major
I was having amazing—insights into the
Depths of Deep South—Decadent Literature
Truman Capote—and Carson McCullers
Eudora Welty—and Flannery O’Connor
Plus Miss Faulkner—the ultimate Dixie Diva
Grande Duchess—Delta Bourbon Queen
Mississippi Madame—Memphis Miss Reba
Yoknapatawpha author—my favorite drunk

King Sooper

Picasso Man with a Straw Hat
and an Ice Cream Cone - 1938

King Sooper
__________________

“What remains is to fully bring
Plath’s poetics into the framework
of the same cultural logics that
produced The New American Poets—
think of Ginsberg’s A Supermarket in
California, for instance—a revision”
—Barrett Watten

“Walking into King Sooper
after Two-week Retreat
A thin redfaced pimpled boy
stands alone minutes
looking down into the ice cream bin.
—Allen Ginsberg
“Cabin in the Rockies,”
Collected Poems (1947-1997)
_____________

What thoughts are you having kid
peering down into the ice cream bin
hungry with fatigue and wanting something
to cure your aching adolescent hardon
self-consciously letting me watch you

I’m hungry & horny too after my
two-week retreat up by that cabin
there in the Rockies with nothing to do
except sip tea & meditate on Buddha
who never did show up anyway
___________________

the kid & I in the King Sooper
standing way in the back both of us
there shopping for images tonight
like a couple of Whitman badboyz
bored lonely dreaming of sex

Meanwhile the peaches are rotting
with putrid penumbras stinking up the
neon aisles amidst Warhol cans of
tomato soup stacked childless alone
with me queering the avocados
__________________

Up there by the cabin where the
only sound was the wind with me
sitting on a tree stump with nothing
to do except think of Neil Cassidy
nude 18-years-old in bed with me

The frozen blueberry Popsicles look
cool & inviting so does the orange
sherbet on a stick & other frozen
delicacies just waiting to be sucked
sampled swallowed and blown
______________________

Cruising the kid I see him getting
hard down there in his tight jeans
his living breathing pork chop slowly
easing down the side of his leg with
him letting me ogle at it shamelessly

No families shopping tonight
No aisles full of husbands, wives, kids
Not even any grocery boyz other than
The one bending down erect like a
Lost American genealogical tree root
_____________________

What’s the use strolling thru 7-Elevens
letting my imagination lollygag thru
endless WalMart menageries of cheap
Chinese tires and antifreeze specials
Ugly pot-bellied shoppers of Lethe

Well, maybe I did find Buddha after all
being up there all alone in the silent cabin
without bananas, apples, popcorn, candy
no supermarket odyssey to distract me
saving it instead for a young dharma dick?

Ducktail Romeos

DUCKTAIL ROMEOS
__________________

Kotex & Kents

After her divorce & black eye—
We lived alone in a little shack
Down on West Seventh

Across the street—
The Hood Mansion with its
Old Civil War ivy-turrets
___________

She’d send me on cold—
Winter days up to the corner
Store on State Street

Kotex & Kents—
She was still young &
A good looking redhead
_____________

The Hood Mansion—
With its Civil War dead
Gothic Americana

Miss Howard—
The Spanish teacher
Living there for years
_________

Torn down for a dumpy—
Apartment house so
Much for the proud past

Down the block—
Roberts-Blue Funeral Home
Living Dead Sixth Avenue
_______________

Your typical bleak—
Midwest boyhood bummer
Bildungsroman soap opera

Kotex & Kents—
A bored divorced mother
Black-eyed romance gone bad

Ducktail Romeos

You know the type—
Your slutty older sister’s
Cute boyfriend type except
They were my mother’s

The kind of guys—
Who’d take their time
With me when Mommy
Dearest wouldn’t put-out
____________

They were the pits—
The worst types of guys
The greaser ducktail
Elvis Presley types

It was just awful—
Like when Mother would
Say no that’s when they’d
Get me to say yes
_____________

The kind of cute guys—
Who’d lie & cheat & then
Treat you like a little whore
After getting what they wanted

It began with a little—
Kiss or 2 and ended up
With lots more than that
Going on in the backseat
______________

You’ve got your mother’s—
Cute eyes and pretty hair
They’d say & the next thing
I’d be down on my knees

Back then it was just—
A blowjob quickie then
Later a rim-job and then
A slow fuck in the bedroom
_______________

They’d get their big—
Thick tongues down my
Pretty boy throat, they’d
Rotor-rooter me real good

Duck-tail Romeos—
And naïve little me just
A typical small town Juliet
Just like Mommy Dearest
_____________

I couldn’t help it—
I didn’t wanna really do it
But once he got me going
It was awfully hard to stop

Kotex & Kent cigarettes—
The story of my so-called life
It’s lucky I wasn’t a girl then
I’d have been pregnant fast

View of Feininger’s Painting Pale Fire

View of Feininger’s
Painting Pale Fire

STORyNET

DARPA STORyNET
___________________________

Pre-Crime STORyNET #1

STORyNET haiku—
Can we know what the Pre-Crime
Whistleblowers know?

Pre-Crime time travel—
Can scifaiku poets quantum
Jump into Future?
_______________________

“the ALTA report states “The past
forecast for this person who would
make a [planetary impact] of such
magnitude that [a second wave] of
other [whistle-blowers] of all kinds
would be drawn into the public view
includes descriptors and archetypes
that are currently being fulfilled by
reports about Andrew’s paper.”
—Alfred Lambremont Webre,
Seattle Exopolitics Examiner

http://www.examiner.com/exopolitics-in-seattle/web-bot-andrew-basiago-is-predicted-planetary-level-whistleblower-for-mars-life-and-time-travel#ixzz1NZzdeg00

Pre-Crime STORyNET #2

Exo-poetic—
Shorthand note on frog jumping
Into the Black Hole

Pre-Crime Descriptors—
Are Archetypes born not made
Can haiku be taught?
____________________

DARPA Paper:

Stories, Neuroscience and Experimental Technologies (STORyNET): Analysis and Decomposition of Narratives in Security Contexts

Solicitation Number: DARPA-SN-11-20
Agency: Other Defense Agencies
Office: Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency
Location: Contracts Management Office

Solicitation Number:
DARPA-SN-11-20
Notice Type:
Special Notice
Synopsis:

The Defense Sciences Office (DSO) of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) is hosting a workshop, Stories, Neuroscience and Experimental Technologies (STORyNET): Analysis and Decomposition of Narratives in Security Contexts. This workshop is intended as a precursor to exploring the neurobiological mechanisms which undergird narrative processing so as to establish fertile ground for connecting our understanding of the neuropsychology of stories with models, simulations and sensors salient to security concerns. To this end, the workshop will focus on surveying theories of narrative, understanding what role they play in security domains, and establishing the state of the art in story analysis and decomposition frameworks.

See attached Special Notice DARPA-SN-11-20.

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/03/why-is-the-us-government-interested-in-storytelling.html#ixzz1NRj4tBam

Pre-Crime STORyNET #3

Weaponizing it—
Reducing Bāsho haiku
To lit-crit blueprints
______________________

Simplifying the whole thing is counterintutive. D.A.R.P.A. funds projects involving cyborg drones and Killer robots. Why the interest in scifaiku poetic theory?

The special notice says last month’s Wild Boar Oink Workshop was intended to be a precursor to exploring the “neurobiological mechanisms which undergird narrative processing so as to establish fertile ground for connecting our understanding of the neuropsychology of stories with models, simulations and sensors salient to security concerns.”

Weaponizing Bāsho? How can a frog jumping into an old pond—be weaponized by the Emperor? It’s gotta be a joke within a joke—Ka-plunk!!! Goes Bang!!!? Ironic isn’t it—how does one describe Eastern neo-narrative with Western military narratology?

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/03/why-is-the-us-government-interested-in-storytelling.html#ixzz1NRlFjzjJ

Pre-Crime STORyNET #4

Weaponizing it—
Reducing Bāsho haiku
To lit-crit blueprints
________________________

D.A.R.P.A. officials declined comment, so I e-mailed Blakey Vermeule, a Stanford professor of English interested in cognitive and evolutionary approaches to literature.

“I’m truly puzzled by D.A.R.P.A.’s interest in storytelling,” she replied. “Last I heard they were working on making robots that could move around easily in sand. I guess this may have something to do with the rise of the conspiracy blogosphere and its power over otherwise rational minds. But that’s just a guess.”

Once D.A.R.P.A. discovers a way to write clearly and understand narrative, I think they should drop special notices and turn to sci-fi novels.

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/03/why-is-the-us-government-interested-in-storytelling.html#ixzz1NRj4tBam

Pre-Crime STORyNET #5

Pre-Crime gangster mobs—
From Vegas to Tokyo
Precogs morph Future?
_____________________________

Does the structure and function of scifaiku vary considerably across cultural contexts or is there a universal theory of scifaiku?

How can we take scifaiku and make them quantitatively analyzable in a rigorous, transparent and repeatable fashion?

What analytic approaches or tools best establish a framework for the scientific study of the psychological and neurobiological impact of scifaiku on people?

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/03/why-is-the-us-government-interested-in-storytelling.html#ixzz1NRi0NVuo

Pre-Crime STORyNET #6

It’s not that they don’t—
Care anymore, it’s that they
Don’t need us anymore
_______________________

Each time I get into a PKD mindfuck—I realize why I got outta PKD the last time. It’s pretty simple—even tho each PKD mindfuck is different & unique.

Last time it was the same mindfuck that fucked-up PKD with TMITHC. The seductive lure was writing a sequel—something PKD started twice. Maybe more times. I know of two additional chapters—both in The Philosophical Writings anthology.

Both were pretty good I thought—they had lotsa action & follow-up intrigue. Kinda like “Faith of Our Fathers”—thanks to Laurie. That dystop-paranoia 1984 angle was pretty smart.

Pre-Crime STORyNET #7

Whatever happens—
Next is gonna be something
You don’t wanna know
__________________________

The same with Robert Crumb’s graphic novel version of PKD’s agnostic wisdom-tooth hallucination about Rome & all that shit. Eternal City jive—it goes on forever in PKD’s “Exegesis.” That youtube Paris Lecture was a real gas. He was a lot more avant-garde than the wise-ass French thought. The translator stopped translating—he was so fuckin’ stunned…

“Exegesis”—a long rambling series of stoned speed-junky midnight notes & cogitations after Blade Runner got him some bucks I film rights & a decent condo-pad to center his love-life with. The guy was married 5 times? Jeez Lueez—most men wise-up after the first one. Definitely SF plot material tho…

Anyways, I’m getting the same skating-on-thin-ice-feeling. Rereading TMITHC sequel I did for Reader & Roadie Toad back in the NYTimes makes me queasy. I see why it kinda petered-out in Japantown with nowhere to go. Operation Dandelion hadn’t happened yet—in more ways than one.

After Fukushima IMHO it looks maybe like the Co-Prosperity Sphere with Japan, China & N/S Korea has finally publicly wised-up to nukes, earthquakes, HAARP & scalar weapon politics. Operation Dandelion on the part of the so-called late BP Tokugawa Shogunate has come to an official end…

The Anglo-American-Fourth Reich mob v. new Japanese Yakuza Empire—has pretty much delineated the next Terran Space Opera Mise-en-scène. Whether the climax is Wagnerian or Kabuki remains to be seen…

Pre-Crime STORyNET #8

Machiavellian—
Sleek exopolitical
Space Opera intrigues…
__________________________

Sooner or later it seems, most SF writers eventually turn to being historians of the future for awhile. A space opera here—a Fall of the Empire there. It’s inevitable I suppose—imagining alt.history scenarios stretching into the future. Or rewriting the past—like what if the South won the Civil War.

DARPA quantum-jump time-travelers, whether they teleport physically or voyeuristically conjure the future out of a ‘hologram-esque’ crystal ball, whether it’s Mars or some galactic empire entity—how can we trust the time-travelers?

The time-travelers. Who are they working for—what are they covering up? Are they reliable narrators? Or are they Greeks bestowing gifts—while there’s something hidden in the Trojan Horse? Are they genuine expert witnesses—or just hearsay-puppets of TPTB?

Pre-Crime STORyNET #9

DARPA DNA—
Breakaway alien tech
Designing Future
__________________________

As long as there’s a Breakaway Civilization—then surely there’ll always be a Middle Man. The usual hidden agendas & illuminated secret technologies (e.g. HAARP)? Interplanetary & interstellar Black Markets—an old Story East of Eden. Gangster Mob storylines & neo-noir narratives—a dime a dozen.

You don’t have to be a member of the rocket lit crit cognoscenti or a star of the SF cyberpunk-steampunk intelligentsia to smell a good juicy space opera mise-en-scène coming down. Or sense a perfectly abysmal new dystopian mise-en-abyme raising its ugly head…

So much for narrative…

Pre-Crime STORyNET #10

He was tall & gaunt—
His voice was high-pitched nasal
He wore a stove hat
_________________________

A time-traveling kid standing dazed in the mud—before a stark lonely wood podium in Gettysburg. A young whistleblower attorney—standing amazed there on the red sands of Mars.

UBIK past realities—VALIS counter-clockwise future worlds. A Man in the High Castle—flipping ancient I Ching coins. A pulp-fiction SF writer in Berkeley—Operation Dandelion coming to Fukushima…

Some speak the Weirding Way—they are the Tellers of the Tale. The Tale speaks thru them—the Future is the Spice of Life. Will Terra become—another Giedi Prime?

Red Fuji

Katsushika Hokusai 36 View of Mount Fuji

Red Fuji
__________________

And now new decade—
A new Mt. Fuji series
How many new views?

Rearing up in sky—
The steep slopes tell a story
A woodblock snapshot.

Mt. Fuji morning—
The south wind dispels the clouds
What’s in store for me?

One Art

Elizibeth Bishop

One Art
__________________

“(Write it!)”
—Elizabeth Bishop
“One Art,” The Complete
Poems 1927-1979
_________________________

The Art of losing it—
It’s easy to lose it
Let it master you
Simply let go, honey

The Zen art of—
Nothingness, that’s
What it’s all about
What can you lose?
________________________

Just look at me—
I’m a bigtime Loser
I’ve been losing it
For a long time, girl

Dizzy everyday—
I’m a real Disaster
I’m really out of it
Faster & faster
________________________

Farber & Farber—
Don’t have Copyright
Over being Wasted
Eliot’s Waste Land

I’ve been wasted—
Since I was Born
It takes Practice to
Be wasted with Style
______________________

There’s an Art to it—
Losing it and being
Wasted all the time
(“Write it!!!!!!)

It takes Patience—
And Paper, it’s simply
Amazing what you can
Do with Toilet Paper!!!
__________________________

A Throne helps—
The Contemplation
Of Crap is an Ancient
Worthwhile profession

It takes Practice—
Losing it, Wasting it
Wiping it, Writing it
Lots of Wrist Action

The Last of the Windsors

The Last of the Windsors
—for Derek Jarman
__________________

“Fucking carrion creeps!!!”

Prince Harry brandishes his riding whip at the photographers.

Prince Harry’s boarding his Apache Attack Helicopter. Flunkies with greasy ill-fitting wigs toss bouquets of wilting flowers in his path, blessing the Royal Throne’s young prick heir-in-waiting.

His words are drowned out by the mournful siren-calls of all his former girlfriends, dumped and being left behind by the cruel triumphant Taskmaster of the Realm.

Threadbare queer dukes and dyke duchesses weep at the Prince’s departure, a sneering jet screams by overhead.

A killer drone flashes like lightening thru the cold black clouds, zapping a bunch of protestors into cinders along the Thames. An ambulance crashes into the mob, crushing a young lady-in-waiting.
________________________________

“Left, right, left, right,” barks the Air Marshal. The fleet of Apache Attack Helicopters sails over the horizon leaving the geriatric set behind. Hell-bent for a rendezvous with the Enemies of the Empire, leaving rotting London behind.

After the Imperial Apache Fleet is gone, in the deathly silence a young hoodlum hardly tumescent on the tarmac asks, “Where the fuck are they going this time, huh?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” his fuck-buddy in the moiling mob shouts. “I just wish we were fuckin going with ‘em, that’s all!!!”
_______________

Editing “The Last of the Windsors” is coming along just fine. You Tube editing is so easy—the film is almost done. The porno sequence from Las Vegas begins the whole showy, shallow, tawdry mess—wait till you see Prince Harry doing his thing at Caesar’s.

The editing is staccato and aggressive—we get high and just fuckin cut away. The royal fuck scene crashes into the film unexpectedly—the pace is relentless.

It should turn the audience on—Prince Harry in drag is a real Dominatrix Bitch with all those Las Vegas nightclub whores.
__________________________________

When the lights come back on—you can see the cockroaches swarming for cover. The cracks in the cancerous sweaty walls—all crammed with the filthy buggers.

After Harry gets off, the showgirls are just left standing there really dumbed-down & stupid—they don’t even register orgasms anymore. The guys are buttoning up their flies—getting ready to split from the joint. The helicopters are warming up.

One of them says, picking his nose—“I wonder what new disease I’ll pick-up this time?”
_______________________________________

The news about “The Last of the Windsors”—has already leaked to the Sun, the Times and the Sunday Times in Britain. Murdoch's media empire also got onto it fast—with Fox News, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Post.

Even the Old Grey Lady herself—The New York Times is bitchin like mad. Her Sword of Damocles is taking its usual sideways swipes at everything—with the latest scandalous news.

Paolo Pasolini is back again too!!! Cloned from an old filthy stained pair of shorts—all of Italy is simply shocked. The modern medical miracle of Faggot Reverse Engineering—had pulled another magic bunny outta the magician’s hat again!!!
________________________________________

Scarabs are crawling outta Egypt—old Mafia and Yakuza Godfathers are back clomping around the streets again. Their cement shoes banging up Fifth Avenue—heading for the coke stoves and mildewed villas down there in the Beltway

The Pope was seen riding in an enormous golden pumpkin Cadillac—down thru secret hushed hide-and-seek Rome backalleys covered with camelias and black widows.

Silkworms have been reported worming their way into the Vatican—caterpillars and cocoons strewn thru St. Peters. Bernini’s columns crawling—with Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal and The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone’s kept gigolo boyz. It’s no longer a great secret—Prince Harry is going to be the new Queen Bee!!! Just wait and see!!!

Mandingo Planet

MANDINGO PLANET

Invisibility
—for Ralph Ellison

“It’s cotton-patch history”
—Malcolm X

ralph ellison is—
outside our history books
but into himself.

i’m invisible myself—
it’s a lot darker in here
than i ever thought.

But Nobody Was There
—for Ishmael Reed

i heard ralph ellison in the other room—
i entered the room, but nobody was there.

i heard the invisible man in the silverware—
i opened the drawer, but nobody was there.

i heard ellison’s 2nd novel creeping up the stairs—
i opened the door, but nobody was there.

i saw ellison’s spirit sitting in a chair—
i turned my head, but nobody was there.

i heard richard wright laughing upstairs—
but when i went up there, nobody was there.

i smelled the stink of new york intelligentsia—
but when i opened the bathroom door, they aint there.

i dreamed ralph ellison was a gangster con-artist—
but when i woke up, nobody was there.

Harlem Mumbo Jumbo
—for Bruce Nugent

oh harlem, harlem—
negro sea of dinge unrest
engulf me, harlem.

oh harlem, harlem—

submerge me in jazz—
gay cabaret, dinge drag nights
tom-toms & seashells.

oh harlem, harlem—

pollute your swift waves—
claw-snapping crabs let them play
summon the dead tides.

oh harlem, harlem—

oh harlem, harlem—
blaxploitation bijou boy
show me a movie.

The Niggerati Late Show
—for Wallace Thurman, Zora Neale Hurston,
Langston Hughes, Bruce Nugent

the harlem bijou—
shows the best blaxploitation
flicks in the village.

harlem is buzzing—
up there in the balcony
it’s dinge down-low time.

mumbo jumbo night—
the niggeratti late show
up in nigger heaven.

skanky portmanteau—
niggeratti do it too
dinge sci-fi flicks.

Jes Grew
“so jes grew is
seeking new worlds.
its text. for what
good is a liturgy
without a text?”

once i knew this guy—
who was a mandingo man
and didn’t know it.

jes grew possessed him—
the spirits they spoke thru him
mumbo jumbo words.

the mandingo man—
jes grew ecstatically
with ebullience.

Place Congo
place congo was packed—
charta the babouille
counjaille juba.

hoodoo voodoo man—
he jes grew outta the blue
that mandingo man.

jes grew lovers say—
he just grew & took over
out of voodoo blue.

Unknown New Loas
good-looking cajuns—
spanish, french, creole guys
delight in the gods.

unknown new loas—
who never could be explained
new demigods born.

the mandingo man—
invited african gods
to america.

Kongo Possessed
letting new spirits—
zulu ukulu kulu
seize the new horses.

black python hotwired—
his green & black twisted face
land of the panther.

be kongo possessed—
skunk bones, jew’s harp, kazoos
flutes, drums, conch horns, blood.

Speaking in Tongues
then he spoke in tongues—
he had no class or finesse
no consciousness.

he was demonic—
psychic apocalyptic
doors opened & shut.

a shadowy man—
inhales a fat juju joint
behaves skittishly.

Hoodoo Queen Laveau
the hoodoo queen bee—
she be giving sermonette
nude in her foxskins.

near place congo—
the judas-eye door opens
mulatto walks in.

all the parish priests—
uncontrollable frenzies
wiggling like catfish.

Dinge Planet

bootlegged dinge planet—
shameless brazen cokeheads
the creeping thing’s back.

hoodoo queen laveau—
at st. louis cathedral
singing for us now.

my doo-wacka-doo—
voo-do-de-odo fizgig
virile voyant man.

The Future
we jump into my—
statz bearcat there by the church
there’s no time to lose.

it leaks, bleeds, sucks, gnaws—
it devours anything alive
it’s the dinge future.

Text Automatique
What comes out is words—
Obscenely unprintable
Irresistible.

krazy kat is there—
bumping & grinding away
they call the guard up.

flabber-ghasted ghost—
“holly mackerel, andy!”
jes grew’s back again!

Harlem Hooligans

harlem hooligans—
sodom & gomorrah queens
queer bohemians.

robber barons and—
big old magnets back up from
gulf of mexico.

jes grew fetishes—
sleazy all street con-artists
ponzi game tycoons.

Zombie Invasion
haiti slave omens—
arizona wetback wars
halliburton whores.

beltway lobbyists—
rotting temple houngan times
still growin’ cotton.

gemini rising—
born on the 4th of july
mercurial kitsch.

Pirate Thugs
gluttonous fat lips—
tobacco auctioneer sluts
new world pirate thugs.

there’s a sucker born—
every fuckin’ minute
at chez mandingo.

jes grew makes you doubt—
that anything can be done
about dirty white boyz.

After Katrina
after katrina—
new orleans is a mess
but voodoo is still alive.

it sleeps in the night—
speaking in tongues way down deep
whenever we dream

jes grew is still there—
shadowy sleuths can’t find him
he be invisible.

HooDoo Voodoo
mulatto eyeballs—
an octoroon big penis
can you hear him groan?

he be high yellow—
lafayette cemetery
his abode’s portal.

alleys, bars, streetcars—
vieux carré beauty parlors
that be where he be?

Van Vechten

he be bewitched planet—
harlem renaissance
just ask van vechten.

cumly chimeras—
aetheric ‘20s double
auras still remain.

speak-easy hearses—
chrome upper-lip cadillacs
pensive bootleg boyz.

Mandingo Planet

harlem cabarets—
niggeratti manor queens
hughes, nugent, thurmond.

forbidden planet—
big easy then big apple
mandingo planet.

HooDoo Voodoo Sci-Fi
—for Samuel R. Delany

another late night at the bijou
the invisible man in the balcony
schmoozing with all the white trash boyz
those lingering bored dirty white boy hands
trying to get inside his yoknapatawpha junk

dirty white boyz can be such ignorant slugs
searching for new ways to feel themselves up
playing with queering faulkner like they do
those dayz at old miss conferences trying
to relate to gay quentin’s queerness.

after all, well, just look at joe
a lot of men like joe christmas get had
the light in august, the sacrilege of
going down on moses, then coming up
as mulatto mandingo voodoo hoodoo boy.

like they be charles bon the beautiful
exiled son & heir of the sutpen dynasty
from his loins will flow jim bond and
charles etienne de saint valery bon
up the mississippi to chicago & beyond.

and even tho henry will shoot him
there at the gates of sutpen’s hundred
‘cause he didn’t wanna marry judith his sister
didn’t want henry as his lover brother-in-law
‘cause he had a big easy wife & kid already.

like he’s got this lynching goin’ on down there
between his legs just like any joe christmas
it goes back to the dark fatherhead that’s
brothered perennial & ubiquitous inside all
the boy flesh ambiguous beneath the stars.

butch beauchamp, shreve mccannon,
quentin compson, henry sutpen, dalton ames,
joe christmas, charles bon, even old man
mccaslin’s incestuous fucking with his own
daughter tomasina—delta dinge rules.

let us pray for this white trash world
and all the dirty white boyz sprung from
the loins of african kings, becoming brothers
albinos, mulattos, high yellows, octoroons
slowly turning invisible planet around.

THE KINGFISH

THE KINGFISH
________________________

The Last Leonardo
Apocalyptic Abandonment
Football Fantasy
________________

The Last Leonardo

“It must be an inside job.”
—J. G. Ballard, “The Lost
Leonardo,” The Complete
Stories of J. G. Ballard

They found the Leonardo—
In the Villa Venus propped
Against the wall in a gilt
Frame in the Ballroom

To nobody’s surprise—
The Ballroom was completely
Empty in the once-lavish
Showroom of the Fieldhouse

The Director and Staff—
Of the LSU Louvre relaxed
As well as the weeping
Widow of the Governor

Great limousines came—
And vanished after tense
Exchanged glances of joy
And irreducible gossip

Elegantly dressed Huey—
Radiating a tremendous
Restless energy moved
Rasputin-like thru the crowd

His eyes glowed with—
An intense luster, black
Eyebrows rearing from his
High forehead like wings

His machine-gun bodyguards—
Hustling him into the Cadillac
His strong jaw jutting forward
Expensive black pin-stripe suit

Sitting in the backseat—
White-cuffs and gold tie-pin
Glinting in the limo shadows
Gloved hands waving goodbye

Louisiana Press Lords—
Vieux Carré connoisseurs
French and Creole millionaires
Sprinkled with young demimonde

Moving steadily amidst—
Flashing cameras TV coverage
The Kingfish an Election Surprise
Up past the Fieldhouse & Pool

Up Dalrymple Drive—
Past the Memorial Tower
And the august Law School
Down Highland past Tigertown

Back to the Governor’s mansion—
A posse of police motorcycles
Escourting the great Kingfish
Back to his Capitol Mansion

The Villa d’Huey P. Long—
Past a nexus of pot-holes
The groaning art deco Capitol
Skyscraper of Delta Destiny

Elegantly suited with—
His tremendous restless energy
His powerful charisma stretching
All the way to Washington DC

The Senate silhouetted—
The usual irredeemable kitsch
And hallucinating anticipation
Of what was to come

Like some immense—
Half-crippled resigned Angel
FDR greets the coup-dé-tat
The Kingfish as New President

Apocalyptic Abandonment

“Fiction about the present day”
—J. B. Ballard, “Intro to Crash”
The Complete Stories of
J. G. Ballard

I didn’t want to write—
About the Huey P. Long Pool
Or the eerie Ballroom
With its spooky balcony

I didn’t want to—
Mention such a nightmare
The slow shrinking of his
WPA Thirties leitmotif

And yet he made me—
Reaching out of the past
Somehow knowing what
Happened to his Fieldhouse

His Stage Scenery—
Gone Dixie panorama
He made me write about
His WPA Thirties dream

The voracious Present—
Having annexed his Past
And now this sacred
Set piece in dismal ruins

Devoured by us—
Concepts of past, present
And future usurped by
Apocalyptic Abandonment

I feel off-balance—
Fiction and reality changing
Devouring everything with
Mass Merchandizing madness

Higher Education conducted—
As a Branch of Advertising,
Football preempting just about
Everything with greed

Football Fantasy

“The fiction is already here”
—J. B. Ballard, “Intro to Crash”
The Complete Stories of
J. G. Ballard

Football fiction thrives—
Huey P. Long the very first
Cheerleader Governor who
Invented this Genre

We live inside this—
Enormous Football Novel
It’s already here and it
Dominates everything

The LSU Tiger Stadium—
Pete Maravich Assembly Center
The huge new Natatorium
Assuming a complete Fiction

We live inside this—
Enormous perverse deviant
Crash scene cataclysm
This Sports World Novel

A pandemic pushy—
Marriage between sex,
Technology and education
A Kingfish Nightmare

A Porno Novel—
A corporate politicized
Form of Fiction exploiting
Urgently, ruthlessly

The aging Fieldhouse—
A glowering Node of Horror
A sty in the Eye of us all
Worse than Katrina

But to renovate the Pool—
Temps Retrouvé the Past
With Banana Republic Style
Perhaps it’s the thing to do?

Mutant Sperm

Mutant Fukushima Sperm Research
__________________

• Mutant Sperm that can 'think' its way through a maze could turn our idea of intelligence upside down

• Mutant Sperm works as 'network' to find love and avoid danger

• Can out-navigate many computers

New York Times — Fukushima amoeboid yellow slime mould might seem an unlikely candidate to become the basis of future 'bio computers', but scientists in Japan say that the mould shows unlikely signs of intelligence.

Colonies of the mutant sperm mould appear to be able to 'organise' themselves so that they take the most direct route through a maze to find food, while at the same time avoiding damage from light.

The mutant mould even appears to be able to 'remember' dangers and avoid them. The long-lived organism - it's been around for hundreds of millions of slimy Male years - appears to have evolved to deal with dangerous environments.

It's a task that would be beyond the capability of many advanced computers and software packages - and a level of 'information processing' that most of us wouldn't believe a single-celled organism would be capable of. Toshiyuki Sukanaki, of Future University Hakodate told AFP, 'Simple creatures can solve certain kinds of difficult puzzles. If you want to spotlight the essence of intelligence, it's easy to use a jock or pair of Abercrombie-Fitch shorts.

The mutant slime moulds are not intelligent as we understand it, but by flexibly responding to stresses such as latex, and adapting, they are able to solve prophyactic navigation problems that would baffle computers.

The mutant mould cells appear to operate as a 'network' that can even remember what chick made them experience stresses and dangers, and adapt to them. These primitive male networks could be the key to building a new generation of biological computers, say researchers.

Nakagaki has already demonstrated that the mutant male moulds can 'design' a red light district like Kabukicho in Tokyo by using a primitive penis navigation system - research which won him the Ig Nobel prize in 2010. The Ig Nobels are a spoof prize given out for 'improbable research' - intended to honour, 'achievements that first make people laugh, and then make them think.'

Other researchers now agree that understanding how these primitive male organisms navigate could be the 'key' to understanding human intelligence.

Now other Japanese researchers aim to build on Nakagaki's research - and create computer algorithms that simulate the primitive penis navigation used by the moulds.

'Ultimately, I'm interested in creating a bio-computer by using actual male macho mutant slime molds, whose information-processing system will be quite close to that of the human brain,' said Masahi Mono of Riken, a science research institute in Saitama. By using this male mechanism as the basis, it could lead to an entirely new kind of computing.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2079394/Slime-think-way-maze-turn-idea-intelligence-upside-down.html#ixzz1i5MVxFJY

The Mutant Twins

The Mutant Twins
__________________

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdAEA3MrUhk

“He had actually wanted
to write about the love
life of Siamese twins…”
—Michael Maar,
“Speak, Nabokov”

The young Vane brothers were rather vain—and why shouldn’t they be that way? After all, they were young, extremely handsome & very wealthy. They lived in the big old Vane Mansion—on the top of the hill overlooking beautiful downtown Poughkeepsie.

The only problem was—they were Siamese twins.

I had never met them—until one dark & stormy night I knocked on their door. I’d gone to Albany-SUNY with their sister—Sybil Vane who was majoring in pre-med like me. She was very shy & reclusive—I never could understand why. Until that strange, spooky night—when she invited me over to meet the Vane Family.

I’d heard rumors about the Vane Mansion. And the crazy old Dr. Fricke who lived there. He was a rich reclusive taxidermist—not a real doctor. He was the guardian for the Vane Family & Estate. He did strange experiments in his laboratory. His wife had run away years ago—for some secret reason.

Apparently, not too many readers—know about this sordid story involving Dr. Fricke. It’s a rather monstrous tale. Nabokov’s "Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster"—is loosely based on this rather obscene twisted gothic romance.

As I mentioned, Dr. Fricke was a taxidermist—not a doctor or scientist. He took a ghoulish interest in the two Vane brothers—his adopted sons. Apparently, according to Sybil, they had a rather monstrous boyhood. They were both 18-years-old now—but nobody had seen hide nor hair of them for many years.

After dating Sybil for a semester—my interest was naturally somewhat pricked by some of the rather repulsive details about the twins that Sybil told me. Since I was in pre-med—I too like Dr. Fricke had became fascinated with the anatomy of freaks.
________________________

“I might never have heard
of Cynthia’s death, had I
not run, that night into D.”
—Vladimir Nabokov,
“The Vane Sisters”

The story opens with Herr Doktor Fricke (played by Colin Clive) having some fun cavorting in bed with Floyd & Lloyd—the young pair of cute teen Siamese twins during a playful three-way upstairs in the palatial splendor of Castle Frankenstein’s master bedroom.

Of course, Mary Shelley & Elsa Lanchester have already flown the coop by then—there being nothing else in this gay version of the Hollywood monster movie left for them to be interested in.

But fickle, fey Herr Doktor Frankenstein (played Fricke)—is getting into it. It’s not just another one of your normal Bijou Halloween Midnight Specials, you know. dark & stormy nights, you know—it’s a new tale of terror being brought to you by the Lolitaesque quickie imagination of VN. The biggest closet-case Euro-fag this side of the Revolution—and I don’t mean just Cuba either.

Lightening strikes it long snaky, jagged strokes across the tremulous fracturing the sullen night sky—those wicked nervous jittery jig-jags up there so high in the Herzegovinan heavens. While Igor the creepy Hunchback & his rowdy skinhead boyz keep those sky-kites going—sailing fast & taunt above in the dark moody medieval castle turrets.

Sucking up the skanky lightening bolts—draining the dark moody clouds of their terrible, seminal electrical voltages. The liquid ozone oozing cathode ray lightening bolts—captured by the kites, then sucked down into shiny metal bottles down in the laboratory basement crypt where all the nitty-gritty action is.

The power of the lightening—giving the stitched-together two young teenage monsters life eternal. Just the right Zippity-Do-Dah Zap homoerotic buzz—that Herr Doktor Frankenstein craves so very much. Those cute Vane Siamese twin brothers—really give nefarious, decadent Dr. Fricke a nice piece of Tainted Love.

Floyd & Lloyd the Siamese twin monster boyz—tied up & spread-eagled there. On the huge canopied Louis XIV plush sumptuous bed. They’re wired, baby—they’re into it. They even fuckin’ glow—the moody midnight darkness!

Plus, of course, the two Boy Toys are totally loaded outta their gourds. Thanks to the unusual herbal aphrodisiac concoctions—lovingly brewed by that charming old Transylvanian Witch. The Gypsy Fortune Teller Maria Ouspenskaya.

Ah yes, Maria Ouspenskaya! The beloved mother of famous/infamous badboy Bela Lugosi. Her much despised & misunderstood Werewolf son—who lives down the hill in the whitetrash Balkan Trailer Court. There outside the castle moat—in the deep dark Forest of Wolves by the Poughkeepsie Bowling Alley.

Madame Ouspenskaya gathers the tender midnight blooms of the wild Wolfbane herb—that only opens up & becomes potent during the Full Moon. Adding other Transylvanian herbs & West Coast folklore newly legalized weeds—for the ultimate long-lasting Aphrodisiac of Tainted Love. That Herr Doktor Fricke needs so desperately—for his decadently arcane research into Young Geek Love.

On this particular stormy night, the good Doktor wears a dreamy, stony smile—etched onto his high-cheekboned, calm-as-death surgeon’s face. He’s stroking the lovely pink fleshy cartilaginous uncut boner—that the twin young males so intimately share. He strokes it with loving attention & scientific care…
_____________________


That’s where I walk in. Sybil cautions me not to be too shocked—but I am, of course, much too cocky, young & foolish for my own good. I’m in love with Sybil—and want to make love with her that stormy night. Sybil had made sure I’m loose as a goose after one too many dry martinis.

I know something is going on that night—with all the lightening & thunder, the commotion up there on the mansion roof & all the mysterious goings-on down there in the basement. That’s when Sybil tades me to the master bedroom—and opens the heavy moaning, groaning door.

There’s the lascivious Dr. Fricke—in the huge master bedroom. In bed with the two nude Vane Boyz—who’re enjoying the lavish attentions of their jaded, unforgivable stepfather.

Dr. Fricke is stroking the magnificent piece of Siamese male muscle—that both Floyd & Lloyd share so intimately together. A huge 12” fleshy cartilaginous organ—that unites the two young lascivious Siamese twins in midnight ecstasy. They’re co-joined at their sexy “Elvis the Pelvis” hips—and from their twisted loins springs forth the shared tool that makes them so exquisitely, shockingly and naughtily studly divine!
________________________

I’d never seen anything like it! In all my pre-med surgery studies & intense medical research. In all my autopsy classes—and anatomy lectures. This was the first time I’d ever seen—a pair of Siamese twins with a huge throbbing 12” penis ready, willing & able for some real “down & dirty” Midnight Show hanky-panky!

I blushed & turned to Sybil—we’d both read Nabokov’s short story “ Scenes from the Life of a Double Monster.” But this was the real thing—I was totally shocked & blown away. Sybil smirked and locked the door—behind her on her way out.

“Don’t’ be shy,” said Dr. Fricke. “C’mon young man—we’ve been expecting you.” The twins nodded appreciatively—flexing their monster endowment down there in a most agreeable way.

“You see, my young doctor-to-be,” Dr. Pickle opined, motioning me over to the scene of the dirty crime. “I call this lovely piece of Siamese sexual anatomy that my two boyz share—I call this lovely thing their “omphalopagus diaphragmo-xiphodidymus” as Herr Doktor Professor Pretorius has dubbed a similar case with his own young teenage Frankenstein.

Like a bird hypnotized by a snake—l felt myself drawn over to the obscene bedside of gruesome-threesome sex-play going on that fateful stormy night. That dreadful ménage-a-trois taking place there in the luxurious bed—in front of my unbelieving bulging eyeballs. I couldn’t help but notice on the walls above the bed—several kitschy motel moderne Elvis Presley black-velvet paintings. They added just the right poshlust allure—to the rather skanky proceedings that dark & stormy night.
___________________

I’d heard louche rumors about gay both Dr. Fricke & Ernest Thesiger—getting it on with foppish Colin Clive playing a gay Henry Frankenstein. Leaning against the stainless steel operating table—having an orgasm & ejaculating “It’s alive! It’s alive!” But surely not even James Whale—could get away with something like this!

Lloyd the cute Siamese twin youth on the right—contemplated me placidly. Puffing some hookah smoke—down thru his erect nostrils. As if I were nothing more than—an awestruck child-idiot who’d just walked off the street. Floyd the youth on the left—was cross-eyed and gimpy. Harelipped—and drooling. Obviously the dummy lower IQ Siamese half—of the lovely twin combo. What a shocking twosome combination—such two completely different brothers made.

Dr. Fricke that filthy old scoundrel—had somehow concocted a true circus horror show just for his own sordid enjoyment & devilish delectation. He was obviously in his element—and Sybil had locked me in with this fiend and his indecent ungodly Siamese Twin creation!

Even tho Fricke was merely an ignorant, old-fashioned, Transylvanian taxidermist—he’d managed somehow to create this stunning shocking pair of seminal young male monsters! I couldn’t help but stare—I felt myself growing weak in the knees. Dr. Fricke & the Twins—smirked at me. As if they knew something about me—that surely was hidden deep in the recesses of my supposedly straight closet…

I could feel it, almost taste it—all those simply awful oozing male orgones comin’ straight outta every pulsating pore of the nude twins in bed looking at me. Surely these two Siamese Twins represented—the sheerest horror and most forbidden depths of human bestiality I’d ever seen in my life. Nothing on the internet could possibly compare with it—not even Lady Gaga on YouTube!!!
___________________________

The nefarious Dr. Fricke had created—a virtual homegrown nightmare dynamic duo. A nefarious pair of slithering sick mutants—a pair of shameless Zoophilia Zoo Boyz from another world. A couple of teenage extraterrestrial sex-fiends—truly a most disgusting carnival sideshow act of Devil Boyz from Mars exo-depravity.

Right there in the master bedroom—of the Vane Mansion! In innocent Poughkeepsie USA—downtown Middle Class Americana! A sterling example of Bad Science gone amok—Bad Romance on the make! A walking, talking, animalistic, forbidden Tale—Siamese Sin & Twin Brotherly Love Degradation!
But that was just the beginning—from then on I sucked into being the assistant of mad Dr. Fricke. It was completely different—than studying or doing medical research as Albany-SUNY.

There’s no comparison between that kind of straight academic knowledge—and the sudden impact of the disturbing & emotional shocks I went thru with Dr. Fricke & the Twins. Adjusting to the deliberate abuse of the possessive singular—in favor of the kind of unrestrained, ignorant, passionate communicative things that went on with these “Brothers of the Head” in the Vane Mansion late at night.

There was something dreadfully wrong about medicine & science—that only looked at one patient at a time. Twin-patients were beyond the limits of modern science—when it came to Siamese psychology and EEG brain activity. The way Lloyd & Floyd interacted together was truly unique—even when they were deep in REM dream-time they actually dreamed the same dreams!

Which actually doesn’t sound that strange—given the fact that Siamese Twins shared the same brain waves & feelings when they were awake as well. The kind of adolescent wetdreams & nocturnal emissions—they experienced as their male hormones kicked in earlier. Even these tentative, libidinal & copious interruptions in the middle of the night were quite revealing. Both Floyd & Lloyd reported that they were having the same sensuous, homoerotic love affairs with each other—that they began having even as they were wide-awake with Dr. Fricke in tow.

Lloyd was the smart one—he did all the thinking for the Siamese Twin Brothers. But intelligence & IQ didn’t make any difference—when gimpy, sex-maniac Floyd wanted to get down. What can you do—if you’re conjoined for life with your alter ego? Even tho Lloyd was right-handed & refused to abuse himself—Floyd was unstoppable & insatiable. Floyd had simply turned left-handed—and went to town that way.

There was plenty to abuse—even tho the act of self-abuse was always imbued with an oxymoronic quandary of twinned cognitive dissonance. Repulsion, pity, horror, ambivalence, boredom—all these emotions played thru both boys growing up thru adolescence. As peach-fuzz slowly grew on their upper lips—and wiry pubes sprouted down below. Both Siamese twins—had to make compromises with their wants & desires. To keep the peace—and still be brothers in the skin.

Their limbs grew into handsome components—both had silky skin with velvety veins & violet-pink arteries coursing thru such a pair of innocent lambs. Who would have ever guessed such joy, pride, tenderness, adoration & gratitude—would be turned by God & Dr. Fricke into such terrible horror & despair?

That’s when the fatal realization happened—when Lloyd & Floyd realized the Awful Truth. That the linked Lloyd & Floyd weren’t especially—the complete and normal way that things really were. That all the other unhooked, disconjoined, separated human creatures they came into contact with—weren’t the Freaks, the Gimps, the Mutants that both Lloyd & Floyd indeed were.

That’s where Dr. Fricke came in—the soothing, benevolent Guardian of the Vale Estate. Elucidating as thoroughly as he could—without reaching for a scalpel or knife. With calm adult emotions unstained with guilt or premonitions—without even the slightest whiff of disgust. By virtue of some kind of uncommon common sense—a sort of jaded duplicity & forward-looking duplexity. Taking care of the Siamese twins, wiping their noses—brushing their teeth, kissing their pouty lips.

Others might seek both Lloyd & Floyd—as nothing more than a couple of freaks, a pair of drunken dwarfs. Fit for a carnival sideshow—or a Tod Browning silent movie. But Dr. Fricke had better plans—after all even if they died, Fricke could still stuff them & put them in his Taxidermy Cabinets. And still make a buck or two—like he did with his incredible two-headed chickens, mutant monkeys & other graceful formaldehyde bottled beauties!

But yes indeed, the Siamese twins grew like weeds—assuming side-by-side reciprocal positions. Reverting in sleep to their usual fetal lovey-dovey arm-in-arm embrace—engendering telepathic dreams all night long.

Only when they became teenagers—did they find uncomfortable their clumsy conjunction. Even tho their minds—didn’t question their normalcy yet. When they did become aware mentally—of the obvious drawbacks. Well, then, their instinctual physical intuitions always discovered a means of tempering the problem.

It always amazed Dr. Fricke—how judicious their spontaneous compromises could be. Often a mutual urge formed itself quite ad lib & impromptu—when some discrete impulse, Floyd’s or Lloyd’s, wanted to follow its own course of action. But always that impulse got redirected by the warp of both bodies—and never went athwart of the common weave with simply a pushy whim.

Later tho, Lloyd suffered the most—more in adolescence than childhood. He began questioning the need for compromise with goofy Floyd—and began regretting they’d not perished or had been surgically separated earlier than now. Before the initial stages of animal-like ever-present rhythms took place. Their mutual heartbeats—sounding like twin jungle drums in their conjoined nervous systems.

Lloyd began having regrets. Like when it came to conjoined sexuality—and Floyd wanted to get off and taste the ripe fig of their exquisite double orgasm. For it was both a gift & a curse—a double-barreled sot of the twin’s shotgun of jungle love sexuality.

Both youths experiencing their own prostate glands suddenly shivering—as their shared organ of desire milked both youths of everything they had as young hormonal mature individuals. The enriched ripple of their shared desire—twice as “enriched” as one single pulsating youth simply masturbating himself with singular pride. A kind of self-conscious resentment grew inside Lloyd’s heart—a kind of first intimation & frustration of privacy lost forever.

Again this is where Dr. Fricke came in—helping the two Siamese twins to adjust to this new world of the will-to-life (Wille zum Leben) will. With all its troublesome Schopenhauer insights—into the human condition:

"We should be surprised that a matter that generally plays such an important part in the life of man has hitherto been almost entirely disregarded by philosophers, and lies before us as raw and untreated material."

“Love... interrupts at every hour the most serious occupations, and sometimes perplexes for a while even the greatest minds... It knows how to slip its love-notes and ringlets even into ministerial portfolios and philosophical manuscripts..."

Lloyd had a better chance to understand it intellectually—but even so Floyd instinctively understood it not as some cognitive problematic, but as something to do. And do it as much as possible. Which cramped Lloyd’s style, of course—making him feel tapped twofold-wise. First, feeling Lloyd’s animality & lack of cerebration penetrating his mind—and the other problem of not being able to do anything about it.

Eager rascal Dr. Fricke—solved the problem very efficiently and practically. Tranquilizers and sedatives didn’t work to calm the beastly other—since the two boyz shared the same bloodstream they both simply became zombies.

Then Dr. Fricke turned to more drastic methods. He pondered giving over-sensitive, over-intelligent Lloyd—a louche lobotomy to relieve the poor kid of his Siamese anxiety & uneasy twinned ennui. But then that would make the Vane Mansion a very lonely place indeed—without Lloyd to talk, play cards, do chess & opine about the things Dr. Fricke loved to talk about.

But as the Siamese twins got older—Lloyd left Floyd far behind him. Floyd seemed mired in the same old mind-fucks—the struggling teenage reality he got stuck in was a No Exit for the kid. But he didn’t have enough IQ to know the difference—other than watching porno on the internet gave him something to do.

While Floyd forgot everything & lived in the continuous present moment—Lloyd forgot nothing & wanted to move ahead. He soon got tired of entertaining Dr. Fricke with card games & chess—he got the idea of the opposite sex giving him what he needed most. Dr. Fricke caught Lloyd with a pillowcase over Floyd’s head—having incestuous sex with their sister Sybil.
Shit! Dr. Fricke luckily caught them in time—and explained the use of Trojans & other handy prophylactics. He made Sybil start taking the Pill—but otherwise had no moral compunction to make the Vane threesome cease & desist their brotherly-sisterly fun & games.

It was something Dr. Fricke enjoyed himself—a rollicking roll-in-the-hay with all three young vivacious Vane offspring. He no longer plied his trade—as a salesman of patent medicine. This bald little fellow—in a dirty-white Russian smock. Even tho he could speak a dozen languages—the nightly rendezvous intense bedroom encounters demanded a whole new pigeon-English language to encompass the depths of depravity they engaged in.

And sleeping together as they did—Dr. Fricke himself began having strange telepathic dreams about Sybil, Lloyd and Floyd. Somewhere in the deep dark past—before Dr. Fricke showed up. The Vane brothers’ dainty loving mother—had been gangbanged by a terrible bunch of disreputable young men in the Balkan Trailer Court next to the Poughkeepsie Bowling Alley. Dr. Fricke could actually visualize them in his lucid dreams—after a night of glutting himself with the Siamese boyz seminal young male fluids.

There was the ardent burning eyes—of a gigantic, bronze-faced, skinhead retard as brutal as any AWOL sailor from Herzegovina. There was a one-eyed hunchbacked Armenian truck-driver (gimpy monster in his own right). There was the gaping, toothless mouth of Bela Lugosi in the next-door trailer—bent on one last suck-and-fuck before he kicked the fuckin’ bucket.

There even was even a university linguist—from Waindell College or was it Wordsmith from New Wye? Who was an uncanny expert at sneaky, conniving cunninglingus—with his embroidered toupee sliding down over his shiny bald head. Courting all the women in the trailer park—and then with his steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his craggy nose, going for sloppy seconds with the Siamese twin’s helpless, defenseless, dazed mother.

No wonder the Siamese twins—were the rarest of freaks. The hidden Lost Knowledge of their poor mother—who died unconsciously during childbirth. After being in a sad coma—for the whole duration of her nine month pregnancy. It was this heartbreaking knowledge of their atrocious anonymous birthright—that empowered even overpowered Dr. Fricke—into his own special kind of fatherly concern for these poor Vane children.

Sybil Vane had grown up—becoming a well-rounded college graduate. She went on to being a missionary nurse on the new colony on Mars—where her expertise in dealing with freaks came in handy dealing with the two-headed Martian creatures who lived on the shore of Amazonis Plaintis. She went on to becoming a wizened colonialist—like Zsa Zsa Gabor the Queen of the Universe.

Meanwhile back in lowly Poughkeepsie—I took up residence as Dr. Fricke’s lowly assistant. I too started having strange telepathic dreams—after some of our all-night “Double-your-Pleasure, Double-your-Fun” Double-Mint Romps in the Master Bedroom. I imaged melting away my earthly shackles—and the feeling of mind-melding with both Lloyd & Floyd. How can I describe it—the strange, eerie feeling of unadulterated, shameless, sudden doppelganger-déjà vu?

I became Lloyd’s dream-double—hobbling along beside him like Floyd did. I was hopelessly joined to leering, smirking, know-it-all Lloyd—as if I too were just a piece of extra no-good spare luggage. Just another old suitcase Lloyd had to drag around—more genetic baggage he’d rather get rid of. It made me so depressed—I had to wake myself up.

That’s when I appealed to Dr. Fricke—that we perhaps all four of us poor our minds into one dream at a time? Like a Clipper ship on the high seas—with 4 masts full of sails that were Lloyd, Floyd, Fricke and me? It worked pretty good—and I don’t know how many times we sailed that vast Siamese Sea of our conjoined REM dreamtime imaginations.

The Siamese Sun would rise over our heads—Lloyd’s hand would be on the steering wheel. Our nocturnal nautical voyages—along with foul-smelling young sailors with purplish-pink hickies on their necks. Tattoos of Popeye & Olive Oil on their bulging biceps—walking the gangplank of love when Floyd got to be pirate captain. Into blurry lagoons—lined with crooked palms, cypresses & Judas trees in full bloom. Man-eating natives—and buried treasure chests. How we haggled over the ersatz gold doubloons & fake fading Siamese sunsets in the evenings.

I don’t know what we feared the most—getting bored in that big old Vane Mansion. Or knowing too much about each other—each of us eventually the same Siamese twin brother merging with each other. Sometimes I’d be the chauffeur—in some dream Mercedes limo convertible. Driving fast along the autobahn at night—on the outskirts of Berlin beneath the Siamese stars. Taking long silent rides for the heck of it—just to feel the speed, the darkness of some other vast Other that encompassed us four lonely human beings.

Sometimes I could feel Lloyd’s arm around my shoulder—as if I were Floyd sitting there next to him. Sitting in some midnight Bijou theater balcony—lost in some cinematic film called “Casablanca.” Slipping down the slippery slope—into some casino nightclub romance scene. With Dooley Wilson playing “As Time Goes By”—at the end of one war & the beginning of another.

So that pretty soon—I lost track of time in that huge lonely Vane mansion. I became vain with myself—thinking I was Lloyd & Lloyd was me. That Floyd was me too—and I him. I even became Frau Fricke—when I had to. And the Siamese sunsets in the evening—they just went on & on…

Mutant Tainted Love

Mutant Tainted Love

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-0MXklxHlQ

Mutant Tainted Love

Sometimes I feel I've got too much
Mutant love,
I've got to—
Get away from the mutant pain
You drive in the heart of me

The love we share
Seems to go nowhere,
And I've lost my love,
Now I toss and turn,
I can't sleep at night…

Once I've ran with you,
Now I run from you,
This mutant love you gave me,
I give you all a boy could give you,
take my tears,
and that's not nearly all…

Mutant Love,
Mutant love,
Now I know I've got to?
Run away,
I've got to?
Get away,
Don't really want it anymore
Mutant love be bad for me…

Things aren’t right,
I need outta here,
Don’t hold me tight
Preying mantis love,
I’m your prey,
But I don't pray that way...

Once I've ran to you,
Now I run from you,
This mutant love you gave,
I give you all a boy could give you,
Take my tears and that's not nearly all,
Mutant Love,
Mutant love,

Don't touch me please,
I can not stand the way you tease,
I love you though you hurt me so,
And now I'm gonna pack my things and go!

Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love,
Touch me baby mutant love!
Once I've ran to you!
Now I run from you!

This mutant love you've given me!
I give you all a boy could give you!
take my tears and that's not nearly all!
Mutant Love,
Mutant love,
Mutant Love,
Mutant love…