It is Snowing Thinly in the Yard

it is snowing thinly in the yard.

Go in the door, and the place is large and cavernous, haunted, and only the television in the back room seems to be working. I hear a bitchy voice, outside, which is “Emily”; and I know she has come to scrounge or scavenge, just as I. Out front, it is muddy, and Granpa sits in a little scoot-chair, pointing to an airplane up in the sky. It is suddenly 1917, and he has regressed to the point of infancy. In the yard, over a puddle, a gaggle of women surround a dispatch runner trying to fix a motorbike. He has on a flight cap, goggles, is extremely thin, and possesses three amazing tusk-like front teeth–could almost be false. Actually, most likely they are.

Then, on the set of Ken Russell’s Gothic. Sitting with the cast in a castle room, and someone somewhere in a room beyond, a ruined room, is weeping. I say “that one annoys me” to the assembled, but move forward through space and who knows time with my drawing pad.

And begin to draw, and even the mountains look good and natural as I move into a new technique.

And it is a weeping woman ULALUME, “La Llorona,” I suppose. But next, we have the Monster laid out on his surgery table, and a whorish slut walks like slippery dung from a duck’s ass down the length of the table; and I think, “Russell’s camera captures everything organically, making no value judgments as it pulls back and lets her slow-motion saunter sexily slide (she is wearing white hose, panties and garter, and what seems a sweater, with flowing curls and not much else) down the length and breadth of the viewers subconscious.” Russell.

Lastly, at a counter in a dimly-lit area of the villa that is, apparently, a sort of modern clinic. Shelley tosses a burning fireball at me, who am Renfield, and I slap it back as Byron, a hulking, cloth-masked character who is playing at being the Monster chases me into a waiting lavatory and I awake thinking of the “Ode to Joy” and Carl Panzram. The End.


The Other, Other (Other) White Meat

In the ancient Greek story of Tantalus, the ancient Greek Tantalus invited all the ancient Greek gods to what, we must assume, was a dinner comprised of dishes eaten exclusively by ancient Greeks. because he was full of piss and vinegar (or, to be more literary perhaps, what Poe would signify as the “Imp of the Perverse”), the merry jokester killed, cooked and served his little son Pelops to his guests. (By comparison, the hairy Hebraic patriarch Abraham, in the Old Testament, was instructed by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. He was finally stopped by a visiting angel and invited to sacrifice a goat instead…Actually, that is probably not a relevant comparison.)

The Gods themselves would taste none of what they knew, intuitively, was a hideous cannibal repast. All save for Deter, whose daughter Persephone was being held captive in Hades by Hades. Or maybe they actually called the realm Tartarus, perchance. I’m not certain.

Demeter was so preoccupied in her vast grief that she nibbled a little bit of the ill-starred Pelops’ arm. Zeus, so enraged at this effrontery, decided he must punish Tantalus in a rather maddeninlgy surreal fashion.

Confined to an eternity in Hell, Tantalus was suspended above a body of water that would, forever, recede just out of reach before he could slake his thirst.
Above him, succulent fruit would grow from a tree, always just out of his reach, so that he might stare at it, smell it, and hunger after it, forever and ever–and yet never be able to grab it and assuage his grumbling, cannibalistic tummy.

But, the fellow did cook and serve his own son for dinner, you will say. What sort of punishment would be fitting for such an abominable, atrocious crime?

“Served him Right!”
Katherine Knight of Sydney, Australia, was jailed in Oct 2001. Why? you might ask. Well, Kathy, who worked as a laborer at a slaughterhouse, was a wee bit upset with her boyfriend, a drug addict that wanted out of the relationship out of a sense of, apparent, domestic terror stemming from his violent mama-san.

After calmly explaining herself via a home video recording, Katherine departed to her boyfriend’s bungalow and, finding his passed-out due to overdosing, perhaps conveniently, on junk, chopped off his head and various other needed appendages. She then flayed the luckless sonofabitch and hung his skin in the hall.

She then prepared three bowls of hot and spicy daddy soup for his three unsuspecting chilluns…

It is said that the investigating officers, some of them, were in “mandatory therapy.”

Not the first occurrence of this sort of thing, of course. A schizophrenic killer named Radzkowski cooked and served pieces of a girlfriend to homeless vagrants in Central Park, NYC. He commented, ‘”It tastes pretty good!”

He served her RIGHT, one supposes.

Now, we’re off for a bit of a nosh.

Bon appetit!

(Source: “True Vampires” by Sondra London)

The Cat’s Meow

There’s no accounting for taste, apparently. Not to a hungry four-year-old boy, such as young Robert Radu of Comanesti, Romania.

When the tender tyke took ill, it didn’t take long for Mama to figure out what, precisely, had left him with a bellyache. Note to readers: you won’t like the mental image.

Of the family feline she frankly found fur, and finally a few funny femurs. (Do cat’s have femurs? Not certain, but we wanted so very, very badly to continue our alliteration. Alas, no dice. we make no bones about our literary shortcomings.)

She found some kitty remains, to put it succinctly.

The doctors didn’t believe her until they pumped the nauseated lad’s little tummy. Yes, indeed, they agreed, he had swallowed the family pet in an orgy of cruel and sadistic bloodletting. (We must assume most other children would have been sated with peanut butter and jelly.)

He left behind only the fur and bones.

Addendum: We were tempted, for the sake of humor, to name this little snippet after a common vulgarity involving the double entendre of a soft, furry kitty being eaten, and a particular sexual practice. In short, we almost titled it: “Eating a Little…”

Oh, nevermind.

(Source: “True Vampires” by Sondra London)

Eraserhead (1977)


Spent the wee hours this morning watching Eraserhead on You Tube, projected against a background of shifting, animated stars. I suppose the uploader did that to get around the copyright restriction. The film reminds me of my life twenty years ago, starting university in Muncie, walking around through old buildings and rooming houses, bars; buildings where you can still feel the tired, worn-out but undeniably real energy of another era. Little Chicago, 1928, or even 1898. You can still feel the shuffling, forlorn footsteps of old ghosts, lost on their way to the Light, forever perambulating their musty, nocturnal hallways and empty, dust-choked rooms, in search of an exit. If you listen closely, you can hear their murmuring sobs, their old, tired, petty arguments and passing thoughts repeated endlessly, the music of their lives flowing down the frequency fields of space, trapped in the walls, as if the very environment were a vast, brick-and-mortar tape recording device. But, I wax too poetic for four in the morning. C’est la vie.

Eraserhead “In Heaven”

The Moloch Caper

One of the watershed moments for me in life was when I realized I had dreamed the exact images of a movie before I had ever actually seen it. Say what you want about that, but it always stuck with me through the years. I fell asleep one night, and witnessed what I can only describe as a scene of horror, hundreds of people screaming in a hell-like agony, and marching into the mouth of some hideous metal demon. The last I remember was an onlooker below them crying out in terror, just before seeing his back disappear through a set of heavy iron double doors. Later, while visiting relatives, an uncle brought a videotape of an old silent film for my other uncle, because he was an enthusiast for the Roaring Twenties. This was maybe 1988 or 89, so VHS cassettes were in use. As I was watching it, it was then that I realized that the thing I had dreamed was, in po0int of fact, the EXACT visual images from the “Moloch” machine explosion scene from the beginning of Fritz Lang’s “Metropolis” (1927).

The Metropolis Moloch Scene

Kim’s OxyContin

The dreams of the last few nights.

All I remember was moving into a dorm room at some Xtian college
with three rapacious girls.

They took down my Black Sun banner and image of Kali, which I had to hide.

Maybe they weren’t keen on sharing their dorm room with with a fashy Hindu fetishista

…. Anyway, we are all lying in bed (not the same one), and the room is getting progressively more crazily quilted with Xtian and girlie wall hangings spreading like undifferentiated tissue across the face of the sober, sundappled walls… Next, we are all in a bookstore at the mall together, and maybe this is 1997, and A and J are there. The Xtian girl has an ugly McGangbanger boyfriend, poisoned cornrows and a tattoo deftly and ugly sitting atop his brow, and I sit, we are all sitting in a line facing each other, and I try to palm read him. A, (with a disapproving face), gets up and walks away.

Next, riding in a van with J

And probably A too, and J is a brewer of microbeers. We are headed to a south Marion bar that is actually a dream college bar I have dreamed before.

We pass a business that says “Kim’s Oxycontin” on a billboard out front

and I laugh that they are allowed to advertise they sell Oxycontin. Once we get to the bar, the Xtian girls are there, walking around naked; no longer so Xtian.

They have enormous, tube-like cunts

as if someone has stuffed a vaccum cleaner attachment up there.

J is in another room, and I go ask him if he has a certain brew he can deliver.
He shakes his great hairy head


(The bar itself is a sort of weird, ramp-like affair, the bar wrapping around in a sort of square as it goes up to meet an upper level.)

The naked sluts are sitting next to some long-haired barbarian boy metalhead like a guy I use to work a shit job with as a fry cook, and I ask him if his tee shirt has a barbarian on it. He’s going to get the (huge, gaping) pussies, and me none of course, but I say

–You don’t want me, you want this guy.
Im a bookworm.

I remember

at the dorm putting posters or whatnot on the walls
and some hillbilly maintenance guy got blonde curly hair and a moustache is kneeling beside me examining the wall and he try to crack wise but I make fun of his stupid cracker accent and he get up all offended.

The end…