Fukushima, Mon Amour

Fukushima, Mon Amour
—for Marguerite Duras, Alain Resnais

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(More shots of Fukushima. A street with a burned skull in the foreground. Glass display cases with burned models inside. Newsreel shots of Fukushima.)

SHE: The news films made it all authentic. No illusion, it’s quite simple. One can always scoff, but what else can a person do, really, but cry? I always weep over the fate of Fukushima. Always.

(A panorama of a photograph taken of Fukushima after the bomb, a “new desert” without reference to the other deserts of the world.)

He: No. What would you have cried about?

SHE: I saw the newsreels.

(The coast, empty under a blinding sun that recalls the blinding light of Hiroshima. Newsreels taken after March 11, 2011. Ants, worms, people emerge from the mud. Interspersed with shots of the tsunami moving inland like a wall of raging water. Destroying everything in its path.)

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.



SHE: I saw the newsreels. On the next day, things began to rot in the heat. They found rotting bodies for weeks afterwards. Dead people. Dead dogs. Dead cattle. All of them dead for eternity. I saw them. I saw the newsreels. I saw it all. On the first day. Then on the second day. It’s been that way ever since…

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(A dog with a leg amputated. People, children. Wounds. Burned children screaming.)

SHE: …two months later. Fuckushima was blanketed with flowers. There were cornflowers and gladiolas everywhere, and morning glories and day lilies that rose again from the ashes with an amazing vigor, quite unheard of for flowers tell then. I didn’t make it up.

HE: You made it all up.

SHE: Nothing. Just as in love this illusion exists, this illusion of being able never to forget, so I was under the illusion that I would never forget Fuckushima. Just in love.

(Surgical forceps approach an eye to extract it. More newsreel shots.)

SHE: I also saw the survivors and those who were in the wombs of the women of Fukushima.

(Shots of various survivors: a beautiful child who, upon turning around, is blind in one eye; a girls looking at her burned face in the mirror; a blind gril with twisted hands playing the zither; a woman praying near her dying children; a man, who has not slept for years, dying. Once a week they bring his children to see him.)

SHE: I saw the patience, the innocence, the apparent meekness with which the temporary survivors of Fukushima adapted themselves to a fate so unjust that the imagination, normally so fertile, cannot conceive it.

SHE: Listen… I know… I know everything. It went on and on…

HE: Nothing. You know nothing.

(A spiraling TEMPCO reactor’s spiraling atomic cloud. People marching in the streets in the rain. Fishermen tainted with radioactivity. Tainted fish. Radioactive rice. Poison milk. Thousands of rotten fish and dead people buried…)

HE: Nothing. You know nothing.

SHE: Women risk giving birth to malformed children, to monsters, but it goes on. Men risk becoming sterile, but it goes on. People are afraid of the rain. The rain of ashes on the waters of the Pacific. The waters of the Pacific kill. Fishermen of the Pacific are dead. People are afraid of the food. The food of and entire city is thrown away. The food of entire cities is buried. An entire city rises up in anger. Entire cities rise up in anger.



(Newsreels: demonstrations.)

Fukushima, Mon Amour

Fukushima, Mon Amour
—for Marguerite Duras, Alain Resnais

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2oWVX_2XZI&feature=related

HE: You saw nothing in Fukushima. Nothing.

(To be used as often as desired. A woman’s voice, also flat, muffled, monotonous, the voice of someone reciting poetry, replies:)

SHE: I saw everything. Everything.

(The woman’s hand tightening on the shoulder again, then letting go, then caressing it. The mark of fingernails on the darker skin.)

(As the film opens, two pair of bare shoulders appear, little by little. All we see are these shoulders—cut off from the body at the height of the head and hips—in an embrace, and as if drenched with ashes, rain, dew, or sweat, whichever is preferred. The main thing is that we get the feeling that this dew, this perspiration, has been deposited by the atomic “mushroom” as it moves away and evaporates. It should produce a violent, conflicting feeling of freshness and desire. The shoulders are of different colors, one dark, one light. Fusco’s music accompanies this almost shocking embrace. The difference between the hands is also very marked. The woman’s hand lies on the darker shoulder: “lies” is perhaps not the word; “grips would be closer to it. A man’s voice, flat and calm, as if reciting says:)

SHE: The hospital, for instance. I saw it. I’m sure I did. There is a hospital in Fukushima. How could I help seeing it?

HE: You did not see the hospital in Fukushima. You saw nothing in Fukushima.

(Then the woman’s voice becomes more…more impersonal. She sees the mutilated bodies, skin, burned hair, waterlogged victims like wax models.)

SHE: Fukushima flooded, destroyed, radiated…..

HE: What Fukushima? Fukushima doesn’t exist.

Exopolitics and Big Business

Exopolitics, Planetary Politics and
Business Law in the Universe

Is Earth a Corporate Planet?

Will Exopolitics turn this dominant late capitalism view of our Planet upside down?

What if Exopolitics reveals that we live on a busy corporate planet in the midst of a populated, evolving, and highly organized interplanetary, inter-galactic, and multidimensional Business Society?

Rather than being quarantined for eons from a more advanced, evolved Universe society—what if Earth has always been a busy corporate hub of a Galactic Business Civilization?

Recent Exopolitical research assisted by DARPA time travel and teleportation communications from the Telsa Tech Inc. corporate headquarters in the Fourth Dimension—suggest a supposedly hyperdimensional world seemingly isolated in the Third Dimension, but actually Earth is the vital center of a Fourth Dimensional world of many technologically and spiritually advanced civilizations.

The Third Dimensional Planet paradigm we know as Earth is actually a cleverly disguised hyperdimensional quantum jumping-off point disguise for disengaging our world from this unique, challenging Fourth Dimensional Gateway out of human history into another universe...

Whether this Fourth Dimensional Galactic Corporation is any better than our own “present timeline” troubled Planetary Business and Politics venue remains to be seen. The NWO POV attempt to turn this beautiful Blue Marble planet into a single late-capitalism planetary sphere of influence has many corporate complications and political implications.

But then Terra Politics has always been tampered with, modified with DNA replicant politics, plunged into interdimensional conflicts—and subjected to the usual so-called “nefarious and beneficent” Sugar Daddies, Barons and Big Daddies throughout its own history, e.g. the steel barons, the railroad barons, the oil barons and now the ET barons. Things happen; rules are meant to be broken.

Corporate business, law and diplomacy take on new perspectives and forms of analysis—when time shifts from Third Dimensional Matrix to Fourth Dimensional Matrix phases into and out of existence for us lower dimensional peons. While the Elite who think they are insiders with connections—are just as much suckers as the rest of us Terra know-nothing rubes.

But then, as a wise old Exopolitical scifaiku poet named Bashō once said in his “The Narrow Road to the Deep Fourth Dimension”—

A thicket of asteroids—
Is all that remains
Of the dreams and ambitions
Of ancient emperors.

Interview with Galactic Diplomat

Interview with
Alfred Lambremont

“Adult time travelers were
often becoming insane…”
—Alfred Lambremont,
Seattle Exopolitics Examiner

INTERVIEWER: Today we have the great honor and privilege to talk briefly with the distinguished author Alfred Lambremont, author of the ground-breaking book, “EXOPOLITICS: POLITICS, GOVERNMENT AND LAW IN THE UNIVERSE. Good morning, Mr. Lambremont.

LAMBREMONT: Thank you.

INTERVIEWER: One of the obvious problems with time travel, it seems to me, is how difficult it seems to be on the psyche and physical health of the transportees..

LAMBREMONT: Yes, there were and probably are still time traveler problems—both physical and mental.

INTERVIEWER: For example, Basiago mentions “heart murmuring” with some of his fellow time travelers.

LAMBREMONT: First of all, Project Pegasus needed to use children because the holograms created by the chronovisors would collapse when adults stood within them. That was one problem. Another problem that the program sponsors found was after moving between time lines, adult time travellers were often undergoing various kinds of physical and mental stress. Some transportees were developing heart valve problems and others becoming mildly insane.

INTERVIEWER: Which is why Basagio and young DARPA inductees were used? Conditioning them to avoid time traveler mental distress and anxiety? As well as having young healthy physiques?

LAMBREMONT: To a certain extent, yes. I’m an attorney not a psychiatrist, so please don’t view me as an expert witness on such matters. I can only say that, according to Basagio, it was hoped that by working with gifted and talented children from childhood, the U.S. government might create an adult cadre of “chrononauts” capable of dealing with the phyical-psychological effects of time travel.

INTERVIEWER: In the case of Michael Relfe, it seems, a rather unique way of solving many of these “displacement” anxiety or mental stress problems was simply to age reverse the transportees and time shoot back to their space-time origin point. That way their memories are blocked.

LAMBREMONT: Yes, in contrast to the chronovisor probes, in which a form of virtual time travel is achieved—the teleporters developed by Project Pegasus allowed for physical teleportation to distant locations, sometimes with an adjustment forward or backward in time of days, weeks, months, or years.

INTERVIEWER: They used “forward-displacement” as well, right?

LAMBREMONT: Yes, according to Mr. Basiago, by 1972, the U.S. government was using “quantum displacement” of this kind to send people forward several years in time to store sensitive military secrets in the future—as well as backward several years in time to provide the government with intelligence about future events.

INTERVIEWER: Would this reversal take care of or submerge perhaps any temporal displacement physical and/or mental problems into the subconscious? Can memory really be erased?

LAMBREMONT: Remote sensing in the time-space continuum is a very complex subject. It was then—and I’m sure it’s even more so now. It’s difficult to discuss such Black Budget problematics, however—especially since the tendency is for Black Projects to get even “darker.” The darker Black Projects get—the less information is shared beyond the tight circles of the typical Breakout Civilization intelligentsia.

INTERVIEWER: Basiago and Relfe seem to have been permitted to be “kosher” whistleblowers about such Black Project matters though.

LAMBREMONT: Well, one must understand that what these gentlemen are whistleblowing about is by now rather dated material. The cosmic cognoscente have permitted such disclosures since they have intelligence about the future that we don’t.

INTERVIEWER: In fact, wasn't Basiago pinpointed by TPTB as a future key proponent player of the forthcoming Telsa technological breakthroughs and speaker in the future for remote sensing in the time-space continuum arena?

LAMBREMONT: It appears that way, doesn’t it?

INTERVIEWER: Along with prognostications about future POTUS candidates such as Obama?

LAMBREMONT: It’s beginning to appear that way, isn’t it?

INTERVIEWER: I mean the DARPA intelligentsia could have treated Basiago the way they treated Relfe. Time reversing him back and erasing his memories so that he wouldn’t be able to report his boyhood adventures, such as getting to hear Lincoln give the Gettysburg Address?

LAMBREMONT: The problem is that if Basiago is a cogent intelligence asset who writes and delivers an important paper about Martian exopolitics in the near future, then how can the cognoscenti erase his mind like they did with Relfe?

INTERVIEWER: You’re speaking of Basiago’s paper on Mars?

LAMBREMONT: Precisely. Yes, “The Discovery of Life on Mars” published in 2008. It was the first work to prove that Mars is an inhabited planet. But they had time-transport copies of the paper back in the 1970s—his father even showed him a copy when he was still an adolescent.

INTERVIEWER: Yes, after publishing his landmark paper, Basiago went ahead and founded the Mars Anomaly Research Society (MARS)—which continues to research life forms and ancient artifacts on Mars.

LAMBREMONT: Yes, Andy is an early chrononaut.

INTERVIEWER: But it’s been quite awhile since his early time traveling dayz. Project Pegasus and Rumsfeld are from the Nixon dayz back in the 1970s. We’re into a whole different cycle of 2010-2012 catastrophic and near-catastrophic scenarios going on.

LAMBREMONT: That’s what makes Exopolitics so very interesting—wouldn’t you agree, young man?
________________________

(At this point the interview ended. I still had many questions to ask—in regard to time traveling. Such as the 2010-2012 catastrophic and 2010-2012 near-catastrophic futures coming up side by side.

1 If DARPA’s Project Pegasus chronovisor technology for probing future events in the time-space hologram was state-of-the-art in the early 1970s—what about now? Is chronovisor technology like Big Screen tech now?

2 Project Pegasus itself was under the policy oversight of Donald H. Rumsfeld as a Nixon cabinet member. What about new Presidents, cabinet members and policy oversights?

3 It may be that Presidential-level decisions about the submerged DC Beltway scenario viewed in the early 1970s have been acted on. With the commencement of underground shelter preparations like the Denver Airport? On the basis of Project Pegasus and more recent time-travel intelligence about the 2012-13 catastrophic timeline—what other preparations have been made by the Elite?

4 How has time-travel intelligence changed since the 1970s? What are the exopolitical implications of viewing/designing hyperdimensional events like Fukushima and other scenarios? Has anybody started playing “God” yet—strategically playing with time lines?

5 For example, the Mars assignments. Do exo-chrononauts still spend 20 years’ duty cycle on Mars and other planets? At the end of their duty cycle, are they still age reversed and time shot back to their space-time origin point? Are they are sent back with memories blocked? Are time travel personnel still sent back to complete their supposed destiny on Earth?

6 Is there such a thing as the Military Industrial Extraterrestrial Complex (MIEC)? In regard to “The Mars Records” by Stephanie Relfe, B.Sc. Vols I and II (Michael Relfe's Memoirs of 20 years at the U.S. secret base on Mars).

7 Are there secret bases on the Moon, on Saturn and its artificial planetoid satellites—as well as forward strategic military bases for occupation or defense in the rest of the solar system? Have we teleported beyond the Ort Belt—into any local Milky Way galactic solar systems?

8 Are past whistleblower witnesses besides Michael Relfe and others still talking? Such as former U.S. Army Command Sgt. Major Robert Dean and former U.S. Department of Defense scientist Arthur Neumann?

9 Are VIP's still OFF LIMITS? Politicians and other Terran important people who travel to and from these strategic solar system bases by jump gate? Are they time traveled back with memory reversal and erasure like the permanent staff? Surely not.

10 Would Dr. Jean Maria Arrigo, an ethicist who worked closely with U.S. military and intelligence agencies, as well as U.S. Army Captain Ernest Garcia, U.S. intelligence—and other expert witnesses be willing to testify in regard to any future exopolitical legal proceedings?

Time Travel

POPULAR MECHANICS:

“Quantum Jump

Time Travel for

Fun & Profit”
By Andrew Basiago

Time travel either by viewing past and future events through a device known as a “chronovisor” or being teleported back and forth across the country in vortal tunnels opened in time-space is nothing new.

Tesla-based teleporters located at the Curtiss-Wright Aeronautical Company facility in Wood Ridge, NJ and the Sandia National Laboratory in Sandia, NM are old hat by now.

A chronovisor is a device that uses a screen or holographic template to locate and display scenes from the past or future in the time-space hologram. The chronovisor was originally developed by two Vatican scientists in conjunction with Enrico Fermi and later refined by DARPA scientists.

Time Travel

POPULAR MECHANICS:

“Quantum Time Travel Issue:
Sunken Supreme Court!!!
Salvaging the Ruins!!!”



Mr. Basiago has revealed that between 1969 and 1972, as a child participant in Project Pegasus, he traveled in time both ways.

http://www.examiner.com/exopolitics-in-seattle/time-travel-and-political-control

During one frightening teleportation incident Mr. Basiago actually saw the US Supreme Court underwater covered with moss and algae!!!

Naturally, this got the Supremes very upset and shook up the Beltway Spook Intelligentsia a great deal. Salvaging the Supreme Court and Beltway Pylons and Temples soon became a top priority with the Quantum Jump Establishment.

Mr. Rumsfeld approached this Task and other Project Pegasus responsibilities with the intent of using teleportation and time travel to the U.S. government’s advantage.

He saw Project Pegasus’s chief mission as the salvaging, teleportation and sequestration of the DC Beltway and valuable Foggy Bottoms Real Estate to the New Capitol on Mars.

Time Travel

POPULAR MECHANICS:

“Interview with Rumsfeld
On Quantum Time Travel”

"Time travel has a tendency to encourage a depressing view of everything."

"Time's untidy, and free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things. Stuff happens."

"As you know, you time travel with what you know, not what you might want to know or wish you had known at a later time."

"I am not going to give you the time because it's not my business to do intelligence work." — asked to estimate what time it actually was while testifying before Congress about multiple timelines.

"I believe in time yesterday. I don't know what time it is now, but I know what I think, and, well, I assume it's the right time now or at least I hope so."

"Needless to say, the time is correct. Whatever time it was or is or will be.”

"Reports that say that time hasn't happened yet are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are temporal known knowns; there is time we know we know. We also know there are temporal known unknowns; that is to say we know sometimes there are some things we do not know. But there are also temporal unknown unknowns — the time we don't know we don't know."

"If I said yes, that would then suggest that that time might be the only time where it might be done which would not be accurate, necessarily accurate. It might also not be inaccurate, but I'm disinclined to mislead anyone."

"There's another way to time travel and that is that the absence of time is not the evidence of absence. It is basically saying the same thing in a different time. Simply because you do not have evidence that time does exist does not mean that you have evidence that time doesn't exist."

"It is unknowable how long time will last. It could last six days, six weeks. I doubt six more months."

"Well, um, you know, time's neither good nor bad but thinking makes it so, I suppose, as Shakespeare said."

"Washington DC and I agree on every single issue that has ever been before me except for those instances where the Beltway’s still learning."

"Learn to say 'I don't know what time it is.' If used when appropriate, it will often be the case."

"I don't know what time it is — but somebody's certainly going to sit down with me and try to find out what time it is and try to know if that’s the right time. They may not know what time it is either, and I make sure they don’t know what I know or may not know about time."

"I'm not into this detail stuff. I'm more concepty."

"I don't do temporal quagmires."

"I don't do temporal diplomacy."

"I don't do temporal foreign policy."

"I don't do temporal politics."

"I don't do the horses."

"I don't do book reviews."

"Now, settle down, settle down. Hell, I've been time traveling all morning, it's early in the day and I'm still getting my quantum ass back together again.”

"If I know what time it is, I'll tell you the answer, and if I don't, I'll just try to be clever."

“Don’t quote me. I’m not here right now.”

Portrait of a Pope

Portrait of a Pope—
(Ratzinger 2012)
—after Bacon/Velásquez

“The thing that has never been
fully worked out is how photography
has completely altered figurative
painting. Velásquez has been
taken over by something else.”
—Francis Bacon

Two Portraits of a Lizard

Two Portraits of a Lizard

—after Bacon/Velásquez

“I think that painting today is
pure intuition and luck and
taking advantage of what
happens when you splash
the stuff down.”
—Francis Bacon

“Every movement of the
brush on the canvas alters
the shape and implication
of the image.”
—Francis Bacon

“Painting is mysterious
and continuous struggle
with choice—direct
assault on the nervous
system, continuous,
fluid, subtle.”
—Francis Bacon

“There was nothing to explain.
Slowly, an effective barrier of
non-elucidation grew up
around the oeuvre.”
—Michael Pippiatt,
Francis Bacon: Anatomy
Of an Enigma

I Married a Lizard from Outer Space

I Married a Lizard
from Outer Space

Naturally, I was looking forward to a deliriously romantic honeymoon—having just got married to the most beautiful, sexiest woman in the world.

Unfortunately, though, this supposedly “most sexy chick in town" turned out to be nothing more than—a Lizard from Outer Space!!!

On the outside—she was tall, dark, charming and so very enjoyable. I had a decent job at Wal-Mart—selling tires and automobile equipment. I was the top salesman in fact—all the women customers liked & trusted me. I was pretty smart and knew my stuff. I thought she loved me—but what a fool I was. I had no idea he was a LIZARD—a cold-blooded nefarious alien Lizard from another world. A Lounge Lizard —from Outer Space!!!

It was just awful—our supposedly romantic sexy honeymoon at the No Tell Motel at Niagara Falls. I wasn’t promiscuous like all those other guyz at Poughkeepsie High. I didn’t mess around with all those lascivious cute pimply-faced bad girlz—the easy ones who went down on those pushy arrogant muscular Porky Pigs on the Poughkeepsie football team. They tried to get me drunk on weekends—out there at the Snake Pit Drive-In under the stars. But I stayed virgin and chaste to the end—I wasn’t some tacky hustler like all those other guyz...

It’s all my fault, I suppose though—because I fell head over heels for this Snake from Outer Space. I should’ve known better—skanky Snakes from outer space are no different than the terrestrial ones who dated the Porky Pigs. Was I any better though?

Lueez & I ended up living in the local white trash Zero Trailer Park in the back of the city dump. Of all the Tramps in the Universe—I had to get stuck with a Tramp from Planet Zero. There in the Zero Trailer Park. Zero love, Zero sex—Zero everything. It was just awful the way it worked out—but then things got worse...

Lueez's debonair mild-mannered slick-chick façade—it was all fake. There was this monster from outer space behind her polite disguise. They’d landed just outside of town—a whole gang of extraterrestrial creatures. These Lizards oozed their way slowly into town—hanging out at the local bars on weekends. My so-called wonderful wife was assigned the job of Top Priority Nasty Duty #1—getting to know just how easy Earth boyz were.

It was rumored all over the Milky Way that us Earth boyz were easy that way—that’s what all those Grade-B teenage sexploitation movies at the Snake Pit Drive-In were all about. “Teenagers from Outer Space,” “Mars Needs Women,” “The Monster from the Black Lagoon,” “Zontar the Thing from Venus,” “Attack of the Giant Shrews,” “The Giant Gila Monster”—all those crummy sexist Grade-B drive-in flicks. There were just excuses for stupid high school guyz—to neck around and get to know just how easy chicks could be. Actually it was the other way around...

It was just awful—those atrocious double-features out there in the fuckin' sticks under the greasy old K-Y full moon. All that crummy stale popcorn, those awful hot dogs and slurpy, noisy Orange Crushes mixed with vodka. The endless weed & speed & acid trips: all cheap aphrodisiacs.

Those Passion Pits outta the ‘50s and ‘60s are all gone now—abandoned weedy parking lots, ancient ruined relics of us skanky Baby Boomers growing up back then. All those junkers & muscle-cars all the guys drove around in—chopped '57 Chevy's, tons of Ford pickups, a few lumbering, chrome-hog Cadillacs & DeSoto's. Later the sleek garish '59 Fins, Big V-8 engines, used Trojans left scattered in the dirt, sobbing virgins mostly boyz.

Lots of cars, booze, dope, rubbers, popcorn...plus lots of Big Egos. I don’t get nostalgic for any of those days one little bit—because that’s how I ended up Married to a Lizard from Outer Space!!!

"Jeeze, Lueez!!!" I'd say. You want it again? Wasn't once enough, darling? I don't know if I can do it again. That's when she'd go down on me & get a second wad. She gummed me to death; she was pretty good at it. But still I ended up bruised and black & blue. If I only knew... "The Thing" from outer space was actually in the backseat & not up there on the screen.

Being married to a Snake from Outer Space—it was a really skanky thing to happen to a guy. Lueez wasn’t just a normal run-of-the-mill slimy bug-eyed slimy monster. No, No, Nanette. She was the Pits. I just had to end up getting stuck with the biggest & ugliest Slut there was in town—that was somehow my biggest mistake. There’s nothing worse than a gnarly alien ugly Snake—a Skank like Lueez can really fuck a guy's life over.

You know what they say—in sickness and in health? Until death do you part? That’s what happened to me—I almost kicked the bucket in bed one time. Lueeze was pealing my cheesy uncut foreskin back one time. Before blowing it or sitting on it for a long pony ride.

I lit a cigarette & happened to look down at her. Only to have a bug-eyed Lizard creature look back up at me!!! She'd always insist on making love in the dark... she said was shy & felt ashamed about sex. That didn't stop her from draining me every night...fucking it, sucking it and getting her extra-long tongue up my asshole when she rimmed me all the time.

Big mistake... flicking my Bic that night. I got to see my wife as she really was... and it wasn't pretty. She didn't look human... her face was more like an Iguana lizard from down there in Mexico. She had this big slimy slit for a mouth—and a big old nervous-twitching red forked-tongue. Flicking in & out of her lizard-slit... so that was her fiendish French tickler!!! The one she used to tickle & torture me to death with!!!

It was so scary and disgustingly mind-fucking. And wouldn't you know it? I was right in the middle of starting to have an orgasm. That’s how I ended up with a sprained neck & having to wear a neck-brace. Lueez didn't seem to care... all she wanted was to get her lips on it. Milking that last spastic wad outta me...enjoying me going spaz, shooting my poor brains out, getting off on me whimpering & spraining my poor neck....

It was the last time we had sex... for at least a week. She kept me gagged & handcuffed to the bed posts the rest of the weekend. Keeping me loaded on horrible Martian aphrodisiacs... as she & her coven of E.T. whores & space sluts met in the living room. Discussing what to do with me... now that I knew the awful extraterrestrial secret of their cunt conspiracy to take over Poughkeepsie...

They tuned to their Great Queen Bee... the ancient intergalactic swollen pussy up there in the center of the creamy, cumly Milky Way. The order came down from on high—that I was to be reamed to death inside-out there in the dumpy bedroom of our ratty old trailer in the Zero Trailer Park.

The last thing I remember was... Lueez strapping on her killer Sick Zombie Taser-Gun Vibrating Dildo & fucking me to death. It could've been worse I suppose. I heard they had this terribly painful Splooge Roter-Rooter Dildoe Gun... nefariously called “Zontar the Thing from Venus.”

But I was at Death's Door dontchaknow... my poor Earthboy broken heart had simply had enough. Betrayed by badnews Lizard love... sucked dry by skanky Snake-Oil suction-lips. That's what happens... when you marry a Lizard Chick from Outer Space.... But then I was desperate for Love I suppose. Even Snake love from Outer Space—was better than nothing at all & lonely nights. Kinda? Sorta? Maybe?

Lizard Art

Lizard Art

“How singularly
innocent I look
this morning.”
—Waldo Lydecker

Lizard art: Dig it or run for your life. These new large scale paintings by Brooklyn-based artist Alphonse Dick explore the margins between lizard and myth. Dick’s work is a synthesis of human and snake libido.

These creatures & their captives are true to life in size and shape—unbelievable, impossible to comprehend as human. The poor mortal model’s faces obviously mirror their unease, yet butchy gentility and cultivation prevails. Alphonse Dick leaves visible the seams in his snake nightmares, reminding the viewer that the reptilian and human is coexisting in these striking portraits.

Alphonse Dick asks us to embrace contradiction and question man's uncertain relationship with his latent underlying lizard violence—so shamelessly unsheathed just beneath the guise of Dick’s control.

As Waldo Lydecker the famous art critic notes in his NYTimes review, “Becoming Snake: Evolution and Human Uniqueness,” our human features sometimes get distorted and metamorphosed into their own demonic doubles—unnatural, pealed-back, foreskin-esque. Our serpent heritage has allowed for an enormous range of subversively misunderstood erotic expressions.

The ability to provoke outrage, fear, shame, sympathy and even worse emotions—has helped humankind to create an uncivilized culture based on cold-blooded reptilian mistrust in others through these universally misunderstood lizardy expressions.

Perhaps Alphonse Dick’s creatures are evidence of our twisted human condition—striving to disprove a troubling disenchanting déjà vu existence we sometimes experience in our human past. Yet undoubtedly these same wild animalesque feelings may indeed feel the same way about us.

These painting’s unsympathetic lizard faces and the human ones tinged with sexual lust, boredom and disgust question what it is to be human or beast.

Organized by the Claire Crumb Gallery, New York City, with the generous assistance of the artist for the BP Museum of Art.

Invaders from Mars

Invaders from Mars

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2E7p6-yFQk&feature=related

It’s already happened—the Invasion from Mars.

It happened millions of years ago—way back there a long time ago. The way you look at me—the way you touch me. The fire in your eyes—gives me a fever inside. There’s nothing I can do about it—except feel the rush of Snake déjà vu coming back again through you.

When I hold you naked, perfect—so beautiful. You turn me upside-down—you turn me inside-out. When you fill me up with love—I just cross the line. I can never get enough—baby, it’s always overtime.

There’s nothing I can do about it—there’s nothing more I can say about it. Your lizard love is all I want—your reptile romance is all I need. The way you look at me—the way you touch me.

There’s nothing that seems so true—as just being around you. You’re not just a cute naked ape—you’ve been genetically modified so fine. That snake of yours down between your legs—the streamlined genealogy of your Garden of Eden nice big thing.

I know what it’s like—being exiled East of Eden. Every time I go down on you—it’s my own shameful Fall from Eden all over again. The Tower of Babel comes tumbling down—my babbling tongue can’t get enough of you. No wonder poor Eve went for it—I go for it all the time too. Down she went, my little downfall girl.

Zontar from Venus & the Devil Girl from Mars—had their eyes out for humanity’s swanky downfall. When they sent a guy like you—to fuck around with a queer like me. Bad Seed & Bad Biology right up my alley—I’ve always been a Deformity Lover.

The first time you uncoiled it—pulled it slowly outta your pants. I realized then—the game was up. You were Cain & I was Able. You were gonna slay me—every night from then that’s for sure. Mars Needed Women that's okay—but my queer lips needed it bad too.

You had dark kinky Jurassic Park pubes—and a badboy Martian buzzcut look. You had slinky Saturnian hips—and a skanky Venusian bad attitude. Adam and Eve might have been our stupid monkey-brained parents—but you’re the one that had that big awful Plutonian Prick.

It started off—a long time ago. The perversion of Planet Earth—after the Great Cosmic War. You were part of the Enemy Alien black budget—you were genetically designed to counter-attack Earth evolution.

Snakeoid sex & teen Lizard love—that’s what makes you so serpentine & dumb. So smooth, slick & uncut—down there where a million years moans. Pop goes the Weasel!!!—what more can I say? Especially me...and probably you.

Blonde Venus

Blonde Venus (2012)—
Berlin Cabaret Crooner
—for Frank Sinatra

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EvlqjFp5CfA

That's life, that's what all the people say.
Götterdämmerung in April,
Berlin in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune,
When I'm back on top, Bormann in June.

I said that's life, and as funny as it may seem
Those Nazis get their kicks,
Stompin' on the Welt...
But I don't much care, Buenos Aires baby,
Paperclip keeps flying me real high.

I've been a soldier, a Bankster, a spy,
I've been up and down and all around
And I know one thing:
Each time I find myself, in the gutter,
I pick myself up, spit on the human race.

That's life, you can't deny it,
It’s Beltway jackboots in May
But the Messerschmitt Moon in June
Just take one look at me, you think I’d tell a lie
I fly Nazi UFO’s up in the blue-eyed sky!

I've been a Von Braun pimp on the take,
A NASA Blonde Venus on a fling.
I've been up and down in cabarets
Each time I find myself showing a little leg,
A sucker flies by & picks me up again.

That's life, that's how it works,
Don’t deny it, don’t gimme a smirk
Your greedy heart knows it’s true
The Anglo-American Banksters are gonna
Go bankrupt big time when it’s all due.

Darker Than You Think II

Dead Planet LCVIII
___________________________



Darker Than You Think II

Afterwards, the Snake Kid turned his face toward me. Smoking a cigarette as I watched the Arkham landscape slide by us. He gave me a cool, bored look—her eyes were pale-green & slit-slanted. I could feel a cold shudder of intuitive alarm running thru me—as I was becoming aware of some strange kind of illogical attraction.

Had I been hypnotized by his Snake Eyes—there in the back of the limo? I couldn’t remember everything that happened during that long night drive—although of course I felt completely drained of energy. The Snake Kid must’ve got me—in one of my more weaker moments. He was better at shapeshifting than me.

I’d always been somewhat cynical toward human beings for a long time now—considering myself immune by now from ever liking or loving any of them. Their progeny—my young Miskatonic University freshmen whether male or female—I didn’t find particularly challenging or charming. Amusing sometimes—but only somewhat.

But the Snake Kid was different. He was cynical like me—he tolerated human beings as if they were some primitive sub-species. Unknowingly enthralled to the ancient Reptoid Elite. It was just business for me—sucking dumb young freshman human males off.

Although a couple of times—I actually thought it was the other way around. Lizard love for humans could get addictive—many of them were half-lizards anyway. At least down there between their legs—ever since the Fall from Eden.

A throwback lizard schwanz from the ancient cosmic war dayz—when perverse genetic engineering & DNA shameless boytoys had been grown in vats for the Lizard Elite. Like down in the TEMPCO underground bunkers & sex laboratories beneath Fuckushima— before the nuke fuck-up earthquake & tsunami.

Looking in his snakeskin pocket for a cigarette—the kid appeared modishly severe, but plainly expensive. He’d cunningly chosen me as the one with the most to lose—so that he could restore his bleached, famished, vampiric desires for the weekend. Before the long flight back home—to the Amazon rainforest.

Something to maintain his albino process—keeping his pale white skin-color & human-like complexion going for awhile. He preferred a big basket—with thick coils of wiry snakeoid pubes stuffed down there deep inside a man’s shorts.

“So you’re a leg man for the Arkham Gazette?” the kid asked.

He said it with a certain soft, throaty vitality that was mysteriously exciting, somehow revealing, yet his manner kept remaining casually impersonal. Crisp & vigorous—like somebody immune from getting a shot of semi-poisonous snake venom.

“Yeah, just a job,” I said, not interested much in Arkham business anymore or enlarging upon that modest fact. Not after experiencing more obscene enlargements & major seismic shiverings in my groin area when he grazed down there, getting what he wanted.

I wondered if the kid got off on the ones who truly heard the siren calls of Snakes—entrenched in darkness & hidden powers of evil long before he even made his move. The banksters and the boards of directors, the politicians and the preachers, the tenured faculty professors downstairs in Mondrick’s den—were these his usual prey?

We were in no particular hurry—putting the commandments of the Reptoids into practice, even though they'd become incalculably much more 'stealthy' than during Crowley's time.

Their genius had been to mouth the pabulum and the platitudes of Western liberal democracy—while sucking it dry down to its foundations. The Snakes worked literally around the clock to destroy human manhood, personhood and autonomy—while throwing humans off the scent with the mewling drivel of their babbling witch doctors, their televised talking heads and their postmodern puppets in the Professoriate.

“Was I Snake or human?” I asked myself.

Surely not all the way one way or other—that was just the usual anti-Reptoid rant. The one humans came out with all the time—almost like a knee-jerk reaction.

But confronting a stunningly goodlooking Alien Reptoid like the kid was completely different—it caught me surprised & unawares. As if I were suddenly standing there before him—completely naked like the dumb naked ape half-human half-lizard that I was…

The Snake Kid had me in the palm of his hand—and he knew it too… From then on when I said something silently to myself—I knew that he was listening to me. Even though he was yawning—bored with what I said.

He could hear me think. Everything I said to myself parenthetically—ended up more or less nakedly telepathically apparent to him.

Darker Than You Think

Dead Planet LCVII
___________________________



Darker Than You Think

“Why, gentlemen, are snakes Evil?”

The darkness of the night suddenly became darker—the deeper darkness of the unknown. The Ayahuasca had begun to define the dark study, the tall gothic windows shrouded by dreary curtains, the fireplace providing the only warm, the mantelpiece with some candelabras for light. But not much…

We could all feel it—it was a “creeper.” But Mondrick had already been there & told us what to expect. A slow-acting hallucination—this rainy, stormy night. A mysterious visitor was coming to meet us he said—but we had to be in the right mood. He wouldn’t say who or what it was—but it had to do with his recent expedition to the Amazon rainforest jungles.

I was a reporter for the Arkham Gazette & taught a journalism class on Cthulhu Lit at Miskatonic University. I’d read most of Lovecraft’s rather ridiculous, depressing, desultory cheap pulp fiction novels.

My rather dense young adolescent undergraduates—especially the young freshman males—believed in the outlandish plots & gothic horror. What naïve fools & small town morons. But even tho I scoffed at such ridiculous otherworldly plots & melodramatic scenarios—I could still sense the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up tonight for some strange reason.

But my young college students weren’t the first to scoff at the Lovecraft novels I’d selected for the class—reading anything actually was a major accomplishment for most of the usually dysfunctional college misfits these days.

But they were online which helped somewhat—their email assignments & discussions flowed here & there with a certain listless amount of intelligence. But also there was a certain undertow of foreboding fear…when it came to Cthulhu Lit at Miskatonic U.

I must confess I probably cheated Mondrick that night with the Ayahuasca—I’d heard about the nausea & hallucinations that Ayahuasca evokes. So I’d popped some strong sedatives & only imbibed a tiny sip of the supposedly hallucinogenic Amazonian drink. I was skeptical of Mondrick’s theories…

Of course, everybody else went into a trance that evening except me. I had no intention of rolling on the thick Persian carpet or vomiting my guts out in the bathroom. Nor did I particularly believe that Mondrick could share anything worthwhile with me. Playing Don Quixote with the Amazon Indians. Already most of the group were in a relaxed laid-back stupor—when I decided to get up & leave.

I was much too old for any hippie hallucinations anymore or babbling away with some stoned peer-group circle-jerk entertainments that night—with Mondrick as the ringleader maestro of his aging bored ex-hippie colleagues.

I got up & tiptoed to the door to make a graceful exit—that’s when I felt a sudden shiver that made my skin crawl & my teeth grind together. There was no reason for it—I didn’t feel any frigid blast of fetid air from the crypts or the rainy night out there.

I slid-open the heavy doors to the den—and there it was. It looked trimly cool & handsome—like a streamlined snake in a kimono. It was just a flash though—surely just a tinge of mild Ayahuasca illusion. I rubbed my eyes—then looked at it again.

“I don’t blame you,” it said. “I was too bored to come down & face all those helpless, stoned sycophants in here. Mondrick himself, well, he’s bad enough as it is—without being loaded.”

I smiled, stepping outta the den & closing the doors behind me. “Mondrick & his esteemed colleagues are already much too loaded to opine much about anything tonight—except maybe their bellybuttons.”

The mysterious stranger shrugged & we stood there in the hallway. It was no longer an “it”—but rather it had shapeshifted into a normal red-blooded human being interestingly enough. A gangly teenage kid—oddly dressed in a kimono.

We went into the kitchen & had a drink. For some reason I thought it was the Ayahuasca that had given me the first impression of the kid being something else. He seemed quite charming though—I assumed he was a young hustler or kept boy that Mondrick occasionally lived with now & then.

“Enjoying hanging around the creepy mansion?” I remarked casually, smoking a cigarette sitting with him at the kitchen table.

“It is kinda goth isn’t it,” he said. “Mondrick flew me in from my Amazon village the last night. I’m not that impressed—it’s kinda cheesy here in Arkham isn’t it?”

I nodded knowingly. I was impressed. The kid was no inarticulate naked native from the jungle wilds—he was rather sophisticated instead. Probably a local landowner’s son just visiting the States.

The next time I looked at him—he was wearing a swank dinner-party tuxedo. Surely I was more stoned than I thought I was—either that or the kid was some kind of shapeshifting Amazonian wizard?

He talked to somebody on his cellphone & then said “Let’s get outta here & go for a nice little ride, what’d ya say?”

The stretch limo was waiting—it was my turn to relax & do some shapeshifting. I was good at becoming a bump on a log. I was bored that evening—it was a Friday night. I had the weekend in front of me—with the usual task of sitting around my apartment grading e-papers. I needed a change.

We went for a long drive instead—this young handsome young strange visitor & me. After a joint, I switched the empty conversation to who he was & what his name was.

“Snake,” he said. “Snake” Plissken is my nickname—that’s what Mondrick usually calls me. Half-jokingly when we have dinner together. He likes retro-horror urban guyz like me—straight outta “Escape from New York,” dontchaknow.”

I nodded knowingly—perhaps too knowingly. I had the young guy’s tuxedo half-open already—the rich scarlet velvet sash & then the puce lavender dinner jacket spread open to show off the goods.

The kid wasn’t wearing a shirt—and didn’t have any shorts on. Just the bare goods—and then some. I usually wasn’t so aggressive with strangers but there was something immensely attractive about him.

“My god,” I said to myself. “He’s got a million dollar body & the weirdest glowing-in-the-dark fuming flame-red pubes down there. Plus something else—lurking & sliding around & down his leg. Like a dark, evil Anaconda snake?”

The kid yawned. His blank face confirmed only a bored expression—as if he were the one loaded on Ayahuasca & not me. Which I later found out was true—he’d imbibed a huge portion of the drug up in the bedroom before coming down. Although he didn’t act like it—probably used to it, I said to myself.

It was supposed to be a surprise—all of Mondrick’s guests were gay professors or at least fairly homoerotically-inclined colleagues in that fatal little gathering in the den. The more gay the more they’d be able to accept the inevitable—the kid as a Voodoo Snake Visitor from the Amazon.

I yawned too—I wasn’t particularly impressed. I’d never been much a Don Juan or Valentino or Lounge Lizard. I found all that rather adolescent & infantile—like “Devil Girl from Mars” & all those Godzilla remakes on Netflix. Sex bored me—I preferred the classics like Dickens’ “Tale of Two Cities” & “Great Expectations” if you wanna know the truth.

Yes, my favorite film, for some reason, had always been David Lean’s Great Expectations (1946)—the opening spooky graveyard scene, for example, with Tony Wager as Young Pip & Finlay Currie as huge, hunky, butchy Magwitch the Convict.

There amidst the weeds & old leaning tombstones—under a grim cold English scudding stormy sky. It had always stuck my imagination—a chicken & a convict both caught up somehow in the best of & the worst of times. Kinda like that dark night in the limo.

I suppose I still identified with Pip being manhandled by that rough-trade unruly convict so rudely—and then being spoiled by Miss Havisham later on in her dumpy abandoned mansion. The story of my so-called life—forced down on my knees in a graveyard & made to make love with the living dead.

The sleek black limo drove thru the night—the robot chauffeur minded its own business. We drove & drove for hours that night—I got to know quite a bit about Reptoid jungle romance & skanky Amazonian Snakeology. Nothing I didn’t already know already—but definitely lots of dark Voodoo Nightmare Alley youngmale mythology stuff…going bump in the night.

Nothing that I wasn’t already aware of—after spending so many Mardi Gras long lost weekends down there in the View Carré. French Quarter decadence & New Orleans Mardi Gras cross-serpentine sexualities—nothing was new to me.

I was born decadent I suppose—just like Snake Plissken & those like him. The only difference was I grew up semi-human down in the Delta—I was simpatico with Snakes in the swamps & bayous long before I got it on with anything else. I’d been had by bigger things than just water moccasins—I knew what Delta dinge queens knew only too well.

“What’s that?” he asked me.

“Oh, you know, don’t you? In childhood, Cajun children are taught that if they are bad the lou-lou (boogeyman) or the loup-garous (werewolves) will get them. And they did—they got me for being bad. Once you’ve gone lou-lou—there’s no turning back.”

The kid nodded—it was his turn to nod knowingly now. We were both Snakes & we knew it—that’s why we were both telepathic. We could read each other’s minds inside out. And it wasn’t pretty.

The lou-lou lizard brain doesn’t begin or end. There’s no closure to its consciousness—a prehistoric synchronicity rules its various connections & time-lines. It’s hard to explain with the Queen’s English—but we both whispered in each other’s ear. The hissed utterances—that most humans don’t hear.

The Snake Kid

Dead Planet XCVI
___________________________



The Snake Kid

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSU2mgcu38U&feature=relmfu

“A cephalopedalis.
Well. How nice.”
—Philip K. Dick,
The Man in the High Castle

I was pretty skeptical at first—skanky rumors were always circulating in the Red Light District as usual. I discounted them as nothing more than just some more juicy horror story hearsay. I yawned in kitschy disbelief.

Then I met one. It was a “stormy, rainy night” as the story goes. I was coming home from the Zero slightly tipsy—hardly drunk though.

It was a Saturday night—the Tokyo fag-noir slick rainy streets were sullen & moody as usual. I was walking down the alley to my place—taking the fire-escape up there. Cause the elevators weren’t working late at night anymore.

I stopped to light a cigarette. It’s then I noticed it—I was being followed. By somebody or something. I had this uneasy feeling that I was being stalked—it sent goosebumps up & down my nelly spine....

The hair on the back of my neck—bristled & stood straight up. The last time I felt that way—was the time I got rolled by the Octopus gang. A lowlife bunch of Yakuza wannabe punks. They hated mutants—and faggots too, of course.

“Gotta light?” the kid said.

I turned around & there was this gorgeous number in a trench coat. He had shades on even at this time late at night. But I could tell he had really strange slit-like snake-eyes starring at me—I could tell because they glowed in the dark.

I flicked my Bic & he steadied my hand—I was shaking pretty bad because I was so nervous. No surveillance cameras in the back alleys—making them perfect setups for crime & murder. But by then I didn’t have time to run. Besides the kid was kinda cute.

He was smoking some kind of weird Hong Kong “funny joint.” He blew it in my face—exhaling it in a long series of smoky ghostly circles of lust. He didn’t need a light—he needed something else.

Before I knew it—I was higher than a kite too. That Hong Kong weed was dynamite—must’ve been laced with opium probably. I motioned to the kid to follow me. Down the alley & up the fire escape. Into the darkness—since the electricity had been cut off. To save bucks—since Fukushima.

Up in my dumpy apartment—I lit the faux Liberace Vegas candelabra—all the Tokyo queens had them for tricking late at night, coming home from the bars. I fixed a couple of drinks—without asking him what he wanted.

“S-s-s-s-s-s…” he whispered in my ear.

“Does that mean you like me—or you’re gonna kill me, huh?” I asked, smirking.

The kid smiled. He let me see this long snaky forked tongue—it came slithering outta his mouth. He had these tight cruel lips—he was so new-born & vulnerable. Just outta the vats. He wasn’t used to smiling. But I could make him smile...

We stood there in the kitchen—totally amazed at first. I’d never seen a guy with a tongue like that—of course, I’d heard rumors about Fukushima snake boyz by then. Everybody had. This was before I really started getting into it. Enough to take a chance on love...

I was easily seduced though—he was my first Snake Kid. His tongue was at least a foot long, forked at the end & quiveringly pink. As if he were smelling me out—you know, the way snakes check out their prey? He got it halfway down my throat & I tried to keep it together. It was hard though...

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I said sipping my tequila. Trying to make a joke of it all. Surely it was just my stoned imagination—like I surely hadn’t felt that obscene snaky thing tickling my tonsils dontchaknow? The tequila tried to make me forget—Johnny Walker was scarce these dayz. I wished I had some though...

The kid just shrugged—he was good at it. He played it low-key—but he was definitely tres radioactive hot stuff. Probably just in from Fukushima was my bet.

“I remember,” I said to myself. “It was that kitschy Mexican flick outta the Sixties—you know don't ya, “Brainiac.” Directed by the famous cult director Chano Urueta—known as “El Baron del Terror” the brain-sucking vampire from hell?”

The kid just shrugged.

“You know,” I continued, trying to loosen up the conversation. “About that fiendish reincarnated Baron—who comes back outta the past to get even with all the relatives of the guyz who burned him at the stake back during the Inquisition. What a fuckin weird flick, man!!!”

The kid just shrugged. He narrowed his eyes though—checking me out to see if I was for real. For some reason I amused him, made him feel different, funky.

I fixed us another drink. Yeah, it was an awesome horror flick—garish, flamboyant, even baroque. Kinda like what was going on now. Impossible yet appealing in that satirical Mexican trashy kitschy way of dishing American juvenile drive-in sexploitation movies way back then.

I looked at the kid—he looked at me. I was wondering to myself like what the fuck was under that mysterious trench coat of his? He wouldn't take it off. Suddenly there went that long, skanky tongue again—flicking in & out. Nervously checking me out. Jeeze, how creepy. It turned me on to no end. This gotta be a dream I said to myself.

The fiendishly infernal Baron would seduce his prey—and stick his long snaky forked-tongue down deep into their brains, piercing the base of their skulls where the reptilian brain resided. Then the fiend would suck & slurp with his long rubbery icky serpent tongue—all the gooey soft succulent brains outta his screamy victims. Mostly chicks...goodlooking ones. But some guyz too...

All of this was running thru my over-sensitive hyperactive mind—kinda like a “sudden fiction” fantasy. It was the way I had of reducing the terror & horror of living in doomed Tokyo after Fukushima—trying to make a sudden short story now & then outta the whole thing. A sick satire, I know—but it got me through by day to day.

Then, there it was again—the kid’s slithery snaky tongue checking me out. But this time it kept slithering all the way down—down the inside of the kid’s trench coat & out between his legs. It was the biggest, most evil-looking tongue I’d ever seen. It crept down the edge of the sofa & onto the floor.

“The last mutant guy I had—was a studly albino Iguana kid,” I said to calm my nerves in the surreal situation I found myself in. Again the kid just shrugged—sipping his drink. It’s then I realized he wasn’t hearing anything I said—his ears were plugged with earplugs & he was listening to some weird dubstep music from London. It had lots of base—and he obviously liked it.

The kid spread his legs—and started unbuttoning his trench coat. It reminded me of a scene outta that campy, kitschy “Cobra Island” Grade-B trashy flick—with that exquisite Venezuelan bombshell Maria Montez. Worshipping this simply huge King Cobra monstrous Snake—and having all these naked screaming male lovers thrown into the flaming pit of this huge continually-erupting Volcano.

Suddenly I felt awfully denuded & nakedly vulnerable—like Sabu in “The Thief of Baghdad.” Having rubbed & masturbated the magic lamp—until finally it had a wet dream and began ejaculating the Evil Genie into existence. I had three wishes to save my fucking ass—my first one would be to get the fuck outta there.

The kid just smirked at me—I really can’t blame him. I was a real fruitcake—I seemed to live in a constant state of kitschy Grade-B movie horror & fake fantasy.

I kept trying to snap outta it—my eyes were bulging out. The kid let me see everything. Like he wasn’t wearing anything under his trench coat. Not even a pair of pants or shorts or even a jock. His military boots were knee-high—the trench coat went down to his ankles.

I sat there stoned & totally amazed—hypnotized by his young male Lizard beauty like a doomed bird by a snake inching closer & closer. He was covered with these shiny snake-scales that glowed iridescently in the Tokyo night. His muscular physique & flat stomach coiled & uncoiled like an adolescent Anaconda deep in some Amazonian humid swamp. His penis was this huge Gila monster. And it had beady eyes lookin' at me...

“You Fuckushima guyz are really something,” I said.

He must’ve read my lips—because he nodded & smiled. He was in his own world—higher than a kite. The trench coat was so filthy & rotten it virtually just rotted off him, shedding like some discarded, useless snakeskin on the floor.

The Snake Kid kept coiling & uncoiling—like some mutant kind of half-human half-lizard boa-constrictor. He’d completely distended into his Snake Kid alien avatar existence—lithely stretching himself & expanding his muscular body like the beautiful genetically-engineered serpent-wonder that he was. A huge thick Snake with two arms & two legs—and a manly Marine-style buzzcut that made him appear even more macho male & streamlined.

I’d heard it thru the Yakuza grapevine—the Jap Elite black budget Snake Shock Troops had been grown in underground vats secretly under the nukes. They were part of NWO hidden agenda for covert endgame times—and it wasn’t gonna be pretty.

The Snake Kid had been part of a cold-blooded, ruthless, alien-enhanced, back-engineered Klone Army from Hell—like Herr Doktor Pretorius announced in “The Bride of Frankenstein.” Except something went wrong…

The nefarious plan for world conquest—had been rudely detoured & sidetracked by the Fuckushima fiasco. Internecine warfare had broken out among the nasty NWO factions—things got down & dirty. HAARP & Earthquake weapons—had been turned around & used at their former allies, zeroing in on Japan. An Illuminati bitch fight was going on—between Big Oil, Big Nukes, Free Energy, Big Anglos & Asians, Big conflicting Spheres of Influence.

But all that came to an end—with the Fuckushima Fuck Up. The Jap Lizard Army rebelled—the Yakuza Faction got pissed off. Hidden agendas—fell apart. And now there were these young Lizard runaways & escapees—fleeing to Tokyo, Bangkok & Hong Kong. So much for the Old NWO—but what was next?

I didn’t know—and I didn't care. I didn’t wanna know anything. All I wanted to know was this kid—this cute Python Diva kid. This Snake Boy all erect like a Cobra & stretched out on my sofa giving me the eye. Oh baby—it was the Evil Eye that made me do him. And did I have the Snake blues bad a week later...when he said goodbye & left for his Bangkok rendezvous with his buddies.

Fukushima Mutant Bad Boyz

Dead Planet XCV
___________________________



Fukushima Mutant Bad Boyz

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXgc0I0zsYs&NR=1&feature=fvwp

The first thing that the Tokyo Red Light District queens noticed—was that the new Fukushima Freaks weren’t UGLY. In fact, many of the Mutant Bad Boyz were extremely handsome & seductive in new & strange ways.

This sudden realization was quite a pleasing & rather disturbingly unexpected erotic development—soon giving rise to a Kabukichō Rush Hour of the Godz to the crowded Shinjuku bars, taverns & whore-houses.

Not only that but there was a sudden Reverse Migration—wealthy Business Men, big time Banksters & tons of Tourists who’d fled Tokyo because of the Meltdown disaster began rushing back to the scene of the crime. It’s amazing how quickly the new Internet Gossip Mills, the various skanky FOX-TV News Reports & shameless Hollywood Confidential Scandal Sheets—picked up on the startling new Japanese Mutant Sex Rumors of Rampant Replicant Mutant Orgies taking place in the once doomed Tokyo metropolis.
_______________________

A Reverse Migration of Big Business, Big Tourist Trade, Big Foreign Investment, Big Black Budget DARPA Funding Deals, Big Bad Bormann Berlin Bunker Bucks—to say nothing of Lucrative Argentine Ort Cloud Mob Communiqués & Martian Moon Gang Bang Offers of lucrative Shares in the well-heeled Asteroid Gold Racket Market picking up. All of these exciting Exopolitical Genetics developments happening—because the Newly Revealed Secret Stealth Sex Market coming outta the Fukushima Freaks Earthboy Closet!!!

Naturally I yawned & shrugged at it all—I’d been jaded a dozen lifetimes times over & over again this way. So that it was all just old business to me. As far as I was concerned—the so-called New World Order was no different than all the other Ratty Nerdy New World Orders that had come & gone since the Fall of Rome. It was all tres kitchsy Kabuki Killer Theater to me—this latest Jap Fag Noir episode. It wasn’t any different than the American Forties-Fifties Gangster Postwar Period with all those crummy Grade-B Noir butchy badguy flicks like “Outta the Past” (1947) or “Concrete Jungle” (1950) making me feel fag noir foolish & more decadent than I actually was back then. But that was back then & this was now.

The suppressed urges & greedy appetites of the Tacky NWO Elite Leisure Class—was no different than just another Titanic crammed with screamy rich folks going down, down, down. Call it ennui or weltschmertz or just plain boredom—whatever it was it would take more than a Mob of Mutant Kept Boy Fukushima freaks to get my Hopes up. My Post-Fukushima Hopes—and anything else that was otherwise on the same old boring event horizon. Like Tokyo back then was another fuckin limp wet noodle, you know what I mean? "Wake me up," I said to myself —"when it's over, will ya?"
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The Kabukichō (歌舞伎町) entertainment and red-light district in Shinjuku, Tokyo—was the first spot to notice the strange influx & invasion of these young male Fukushima Mutant Freaks. Naturally or perhaps unnaturally—they’d probably gravitate here just as soon as anywhere. I was glad that Tokyo was Hip again—and back into illicit sex & male prostitute business once more. That'd be good news to any old queen—even a has-been old queen like me just back from a crummy soirée in the Clarence House back in London. Queer quantum jumping aint fun...especially if there's a lizard in your closet.

The Jacuzzi Tub Mob had quantum-jumped my skinny ass—back in time to post-Fuckushima after sending me on my mission to schmooze with a couple of Royal Reptile boyz. The Abdication had mysteriously fallen through at the last moment—the so-called "Operation Dandelion" (Philip K. Dick's Man in the High Castle) had been left in place because of the totally unexpected recent lucrative Fukushima Freak Mutant Mob Success Story. At least for now. Prince Harry just smirked when I said goodbye...

Things had worked out just fine for the Mob—the Yakuza Mob, the Royal Reptile Mob, the Beltway Mob, the Bankster Mob, The Black Budget Space Patrol Mob—and all the other various & sundry greedy Gringo Gangs up & down the Terra Feeding Chain waiting to colonize, terraform & rip-off the rest of the Sucker Solar System.
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I just happened to be hanging out at the Zero Club the other night—one of the less conspicuous Kabukichō hole-in-the-wall Sake joints. Bored & really not hungry—I was thumbing thru their Sushi menu looking for something new. When in thru the door came this Octopus Kid—with 8 writhing tentacles growing outta his head & a slinky sluttish look in his eyes. Each twisty tentacle had dozens of drooling, quivering suckers—all nervously attuned telepathically to all the other ogling customers in the the joint.

The kid sat down next to me—and ordered a squid cocktail dish, the specialty of the house. The squids were all alive & squiggly—you’d dip them in this special teriyaki sauce & feel them squirm like earthworms all the way down your greedy gulping gullet. I smiled & ordered him a double bourbon. He'd need it just to do the squid cocktail right.

The Octopus Kid was cool—seductively icky & octopodal like most young teenage hustlers can be. He was simply oozing with young mutant male hormonal overindulgence. Obviously a messed-up, malignant Mutant Boy—probably the klone offspring of some fucked-up Fukushima Lab Genetic Experiment gone wrong. “How much wrong?” I pondered to myself. Thinking of all the exquisitely disgusting nightcrawler possibilities...
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The Kid seemed to read my dirty mind—and smirked at me, playing hard to get. Homoerotically perverted psychic powers were the name of the game with this new species of Nexus sex-replicants. Japanese Mad Scientists were madder than most—they made the Herr Doktor Professor Pretorius types hanging around those sullen Count Frankenstein fetid Euro-Laboratories down in the basements of those dirty old dumpy castles back in the Thirties look like Amateur Two-Bit Las Vegas Used Car Salesmen on the lame hustle. Where did James Whale dig up that faggy Ernest Thesiger anyway—outta some dumpy Weimar cabaret Berlin bar?

By the time I got the Kid back to my place—I was already enthralled, enraptured & intertwined with his totally unique eight Tentacles of Suckered Sushi Sake Love wrapping & winding themselves around my neck & leg. I stood in front of my full-length bedroom mirror afterwards—gazing at the dozens of sucker-hickies criss-crossing my poor skinny pale naked body. I left a rather rude magnificent black & blue hickie of my own on his you know what—on his huge ugly mutant piece of primal octopus meat. My hickies felt like shameless subterranean tattoos—made by a strange boyish mermaid creature who was more octopus than man.

Admittedly I felt somewhat guilty and shameful—indulging my way for that first time of weird sexuality having Exo-Zoological Sex with a Mutant Kid that was more Octopus than Man. But I soon got over it—in fact, like many Tokyo denizens of the ongoing Fukushima Freak Show, I kinda liked it compared with the same old usual Naked Ape Bomba Jungle Boy Sex Routine. Those Jap mad scientists sure did dream up some nice Succulent Sushi Sex Toys to get it on with—the Zero menu had expanded muchly.
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Yes, Japanese Exo-Zoophillia Sushi-Sex was a winner Zeitgeist Zinger ever since Fuckushima—Tokyo had become the raunchy radical Stem-Cell Sex Change Capital of the World. People were consulting their Crypto-Chromosomes & Dirty DNA Strands like Tea Leaves...with underground geneticists reading their fortunes. It was like going down esoteric Grocery Lists or Betting on the Vegas Slot Machines or playing the Horses. The once Esoteric Genome Project with its realm of computing wizards—was now on everybody’s Lips & down their Greedy Gullets.

The next time I walked into Zero the dumpy Shinjuku Sake Joint—their new Mutant Menu proudly displayed a whole new Repertoire of Reptilian Boy-Toys just in from Mexico. “Ever Experienced Iguana Love—Humping Away in a Jungle Hammock?” I’d noticed a homoerotic upsurge in Reptilian Raptor Ratboyz—moving in their Rough Trade Mob circles & taking over some of the Japanese Mutant Market profiteering slots.

There was a Big Squeeze going on now—probably the Yakuza Mob was behind it. Snakes, Crocodiles, Alligators, Iguanas, Lizards & Boa Constrictor Badboyz—were all popping up in the burgeoning Alt.Genetics Sex Industry Business in Tokyo it seemed. Reptile boyz, Lizard boyz & Snake boyz were definitely "in" after Fukushima—the same with Lizard Girls etc. This New Cross-Species Transmutation Market of Mutant Freaks—was fraught with many Future SF Fuck-Ups & depressing Dystopian Downers, I said to myself sipping my sake. Then the Octopus Boy walked into the Joint...and things started to look up.

Fukushima Freaks

Dead Planet XCIV
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Fukushima Freaks

They were known as—the Obscene Boyz of the Mutant Night. They started showing up on the streets of Tokyo soon after the earthquake-nuke disaster—mostly in the Red Light District.

Something about the abnormal genetics effects due to the radiation exposure—accelerated the mutant effect. What showed up in Chernobyl took several years—mutating the vulnerable embryos into distorted young freaks. But something weird was happening at Fukushima.

The Plague of Mutants started happening overnight—pouring outta the doomed city. Alarming reports were concealed at first—the shame of such a Nuke Freak Problem was quickly concealed by TEMPCO and the compliant media. How could such a thing happen? Hiroshima & Nagasaki weren’t this bad?
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Apparently TEMPCO was conducting secret DNA research in a secret lab beneath one of the reactors. It was obliterated by the nuclear detonation—caused by the deadly earthquake & tsunami in March. But by the fall there were already reports of strange mutant boyz & freak creatures haunting the suburbs of Tokyo. Who or what were these teenage creatures?

Apparently a consortium of Yakuza-Corporate nefarious interests financed by Elite’s own Japanese secret “black budget”—had been developing a klone army of neo-kamikaze advanced techno-genetic superboyz for purposes yet unknown...

The huge amounts of energy needed for such reverse-engineering experiments involving DNA-mutated freaks—resulted in chromosomal monstrosities that were highly advanced & greatly appreciated by the Mob & TPTB who had plans of their own for financing a born-again “Asian Cooperation Sphere” known as The New Rising Sun.
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Already the Yakuza mobs had reaped nice rewards from its underground investments—the Japanese “Concrete Jungle” had rich investors from overseas in China, Korea & SE Asia more than willing to help finance klone hoodlum bodyguards & advanced android assassins to enforce their take on NWO corporate corruption.

The intake from klone brothel Red Light District businesses across the vast stretches of Asia and the Pacific was quite lucrative in itself—with drugs, prostitution, gambling & the usual Jap Mafia business specialties enhanced by genetic perversions catering to all the usual decadent Western tastes.

Mutant pimps & freaky male/female Mutant prostitutes had just begun entering the Market—when the Fukushima disaster struck revealing the Freak Economy. The Kabukichō (歌舞伎町) entertainment and red-light district in Shinjuku, Tokyo—was the first spot to notice the strange influx & invasion of the Fukushima freaks.
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Soon followed by the Patpong District in Bangkok—with its main street & many bars of various kinds. Especially Soi Jaruwan—sometimes referred to as Patpong 3 but now best known as Android Size Queen Silom Soi 4. It has long catered to gay men—while nearby Soi Thaniya had expensive bars with Thai hostesses that catered almost exclusively to Japanese men. The market was already there—waiting for new kinky, shocking erotic innovations.

Mutant multilimbed male & female hostesses started showing up in Bangkok—soon after they started appearing in Tokyo. These creatures long prefigurerd in ancient mythology & cotemporary cinema animation—could dance with a dozen arms & legs.

Some had multiple heads—and other intriguing organ transplants specially grown in nutrient stemcell vats deep underground. Rumors of klone replicant army & space navy bases beneath Denver, Poughkeepsie & Topeka KS—buzzed the Facebook gossip lines & swamped the Beltway Bimbo Bubble-Head TV reports. What was up?
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These bizarre Fukushima sex-creatures—seem to have broken outta the Underground Jap Freak Labs after the earthquake, tsunami & meltdown. Rumors quickly spread throughout Japan—that these virile Mutant Boyz had been grown for TEMPCO executive sex parties by the romantic seashore.

These Mutant Boyz had entertainment purposes—such as female orifices throbbing like mutant pussies growing outta their muscular physiques. The rich Elite were now being blackmailed—by the Yakuza mob demanding their own cut & action from wealthy Japanese businessmen. Tokyo despite being contaminated by radioactive air & water—was now being flooded with even more sex industry tourist trade wanting to enjoy the new exquisitely disgusting Mutant Boyz entertainment veue.

It was in this freakish Mutant Twilight—that I now prowled the Tokyo streets & dark alleys, preying on the latest young male hustler abnormalities to come my way. It was a nasty, lonely, dirty, perverted business—seeking out & taking advantage of young virgin Fukushima Freak hustlers & brainless well-endowed mutant male prostitutes. But somebody had to do it—and it might as well be me.