West Virginia

Posted in fiction, Life, spiritualism, Weird with tags , , , , , , on June 8, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

The buildings rose and fell with little consequence to the suburban minds  in the car, and thusly a panorama of distinguished architecture and brilliant symphonies of man power were reduced to a forest of metallic disregard. In a hundred years when those towers crumbled to the ground in a great war or were made reeds in a sea of reflective pinnacles, they’d be as they were then, meaningless, a difference in mere thousands of feet from the ground to which all humans are bound, and still the vast eternity would lie forever beyond.

But they occupying this little car, children of the American drool, had a more direct form of avoiding the reality of life and death. They need not construct monuments to poke at the eyes of existence. Chris unveiled his new Sherlock pipe that twisted in unnatural joints and bubbled with glass meteor showers. Its un-symmetry begged them to make use and they tangled there way southward, passing through grey fields of industrial wasteland. In the distance mutations of pipe and cylinder collided against a starless sky.

Looking out the back window Ross saw the black tongue of the devil sliding serpentine out of the crevice of a mountain. They had shot in-between two cliffs of crumbling iron and emerged onto a rolling sea. Crushes of forest chaos fanned the leaking flames of the sun into the smoke of pre-dawn. It was harmony that made Ross suddenly aware of the depth of life; momentarily the earth became not a vessel of his vision, but a vast influencer, to be respected as a transformer of consciousness.

The sun peered at them from a perch in-between two precipices as their vehicle sped like a clipper caught in storm. The hills of West Virginia bubbled like earthen lava against the horizon.  Ross imagined great columns of men in grey, like flies buzzing across them. This was confederate land after all. He would soon learn that the people here were persecuted. They were made conscious puppets by the scrutiny of their customs. In the presence of an outsider they squirmed like an ant under a magnifying glass and they would present themselves as the difference between a perceived image of a hillbilly and the reality of their humanness and while keen to their self inflicted dehumanization, they’d still continue their transformations into sullen fractions.

1

The music was so earthen, echoing off of its womb the sun, and shaking the crystals from its golden beaches. The shivers of light dancing amongst the drench were stoking the people into an acute mania. They were gyrating madly in a mutant ho-down. The bodies all intertwined and dripping, insects of the riling top soil; a thousand bodies like atoms of nothingness, a hive of chaos with a voice guiding them all. “Lets just rock and roll! Roll baby roll!” the sun loomed like a proud mother through the rain, hanging in a gelatinous sky.

Otherworldly familiar, they stood on the hillside inhaling smoke into respiratory systems that weren’t present, they were visceral sponges, consciousness unattached to the toils of the body. The sensory was more than ecstatic. When Ross and Mike both looked at each other in complete satisfaction, they agreed they could only want more of the perfect chemistry. Mikes hand traveling in a climactic arch placed another tab on his outstretched tongue. Ross followed shortly after.

Hours, minutes, millenniums of child dream consciousness later, the bands switched, and the new one bubbled with phosphoric energy, electric, and neon. Girls in metallic spandex did flips on stage with streams of fire exploding upward. It was an intergalactic industrial revolution, an outcry of satanic Germanic lust. Guitar ripped through the carbonated air, bursting like a million camera flashes, and the drums beat on his rib cage.

A monstrous mumbling creature of a million interchanging parts shifted ninety degrees to face the new display. Ross was digging it, as he had never viewed a mutant carnival, never indulged in the true want for destruction, the melting sex drive of metal. But he was pulled away. “Yo were going to the camp for a while.” Josh yelled through the sound and the light. “Alright” Ross yelled complacently, and he followed their train through the collage of faces. Past a thousand emotions running together in a perfect rain smeared tapestry.

They walked with long purposeful strides up a tent covered hill, hundreds of nylon bubbles pitched at odd angles, neon mushrooms pounded by the rain. By this time the ground was a gentle battering sea melting slightly all across the weeping hillside. They turned and viewed the spectacle. Smoke puffed in mechanical spurts into a nebula lurking a foot over the crowd’s heads. A river of people constantly excreted and dispersed. They stood dripping, staring out over the hive of leaking nuclear zombie energy, and Ross proclaimed solemnly “I can see everything that’s going to happen to me on this trip” Josh looked at him, and he saw Ross truly felt that foresight and he couldn’t help but believe it was within Ross’s power, “That’s intense.” He said with a look of worried awe.

Now the ground was a riling riptide, the grass twisted together and swirled in little happy vortexes. Ross sat and held his lawn chair as if he were on an amusement park ride. Everyone was a spurting faucet of emotion, and they looked at each others streams in mutant curiosity. Ross could barely accept the complete unchained flow of himself into the world, but he was coping. They sat riling within themselves, occasionally blurting out a, “Man I’m fucked, or a tripping sack!” and then mike got to his feet, with his colliding personas, pleated kakis and a tie-dye shirt, his strict orthodox Russian, little man egotist, happy vacationer, free spirit, coming together with the awkwardness of a baby giraffe first glimpsing the sun with membranous eyes. He slinked towards the white cooler and slid the lid off like the seal on an ancient tomb. All of the curious archeologists looked in alien observation. Out came a brilliant organ of crimson, the plastic rap pulled asunder. They sucked in their breath. Mikes eyes ran up and down the cylinder of meat melting into its vast pink universe. After many anxious moments he placed it down with the surety of pre-planned movement, and sliced into it delicately. The strip when deposited with trepidation into his mouth destroyed his face with joy; they could taste the salami through his expression. And then he looked around and noticed his salami tasting was a theater event, and everyone at once shook with laughter, they laughed together in complete chaotic abandon, their laughter becoming the comedy in itself, and so they remained in a state of cycling hilarity for thirty minutes straight.

This rush of joy was so unfettered and powerful that Ross instantly became a vastly sensitive creature. His skin was pealing off and his flesh expanding. The ground sucked upward and ran into him in his thirst, as every moment and every object was suddenly of absolute importance, he was becoming one with everything. He could taste the rain on the leaves a few feat away, sublime, color had ceased to make things different, his soggy shade was so close to the dark greens and browns around, indeed there was no difference, and he was ever closer to the ground. The sky felt further and further and it stretched away until he was a tiny being. From a perch it was as if he might have fell into the spaces between the grains of dirt.

Into this open palate of relation, a sinister animal crawled. “What are you guys laughing about?”

“What?” someone was able to respond, and Chris’s face turned ugly.

“What are you laughing about?” he said accusingly, “What did you guys give me?” “Did you rip me off?” and they could only laugh as he made no sense to them. They had not given him anything. He mistook their laughter as admittance, “What is this bullshit?” he yelled his red rain soaked locks framing his twisting face. The subtle balance in Ross was torn to pieces. An element of anger was brought like a smoking ember into his perfectly functioning chaos, and the ground came towards him, and carried him off his chair.

He was struggling through ten feet waves of grass, his mind furious and in life saving mode amplified the situation. He tried to seek shelter in his tent, but the tent was a tornado of hell, at once trapping him in confined oblivion. The universe of perceived tendril feelers, the antennae of emotion that pulled from the world around, were withdrawn forcedly inside the confines of his skull, and once they were pulled in, it felt like they were literally scrambling his brain matter, pulling ligaments of memory from the bone of order. The flesh of his mind blended into puréed.

He crawled out of his tent clawing at the ground. “Someone fucking help me!” and all of the kids stood swaying in inaction. There was nothing to do for him. “I’m losing my mind” He yelled. They tried to console him. He begged for an ambulance, and they all looked around at where they were. “An ambulance can’t get in here.” It was a plain fact, he was isolated. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” he repeated over and over again, as this new despair multiplied his agony. “I have got to go to the hospital, my mind is being torn to pieces!” he was pacing with animalistic adrenaline. He threw all of items in his pockets on the ground, and sprinted through the camp site as fast as he could. He ran and ran, through the camp in a blur, through where thousands had parked their cars, and onto the long dirt road that had taken them to this secluded sanatorium. Once there he ran out of breath and bent over in world twisting exhaustion. The forest loomed over, leaned in, the ground quaked, his mind ran in vicious half circles, he’d think of death and horrible things he’d done, of his own deficiencies, all in stuttering fragments of brain loop.

He had stumbled wretchedly through the canopy for some time, when a man in his late thirties walked down the path towards him. “My savior!” he thought and he went to his knees in front of the man. “Please sir I’m losing my mind, I need your help, please call me an ambulance!”

“You are not losing your mind.” The man proclaimed at once denying Ross’s plea, ignoring his utter terrible state.

“Sir please sir, please call an ambulance, I’m not ever going to be the same.” He broke into tears. The man took pity but knowing his situation all too well, tried to coach him to the smart decision.

“Listen my friend you don’t need to go to the hospital, what do you think they can do for you there? All you need to do is go back to the music. Go back to the music please.” But Ross only knew despair, his mind couldn’t maintain the solar wind, he was certain with each passing second so drifted a portion of his future sanity. “

Things became blurred and spat in and out of focus. His wet shirt clung to his stomach and shoulders. He was covered with mud from rolling animatedly by the roots of a tree. But every time he regained a bit of consciousness it was filled with hope for survival, and so he continued to crawl up the road blacking in and out.

He opened his eyes to a beautiful soft skinned girl in a green flowered bikini whispering in his ear, “Come dance with me.” She smiled the sunlight pressing against him through the rain. He was too far gone, “Get me a fucking ambulance, damn it!” he spat morbidly, believing everyone to be emotionless slave drivers that cared nothing for his medical situation. He blacked out with her whispers running through the eternity of his unconsciousness, “Its people like you who ruin festivals.”

A raspy voice echoed “we got another one down middle stage, another one down.” “Load up the cart we have an unconscious stage right” “fifty cc’s stat, inject nectomorphine.” “Hold him down, hold him down” “could someone please hand me a syringe?” “Stage left we have another kid down” Ross rose up sucking air like he was drowning. There was blood running down his arm and people in uniforms leaned over him. “Don’t try and hurt anyone.” Someone said, “Lie down” he saw the blood running down his arm and his world narrowed around the edges, slowly the lens receded, the box of reality, the bed, the paramedics a square image shrinking into blackness. “Am I going to die?” he sobbed.

“We don’t know yet.” And the image shrunk to nothing.

Ross could feel the utensils on his skin, the tug of a scalpel on his chest, the warm anesthetized pocket and the blood dripping and then there was no feeling, only the desperate animal of his mind. Occasionally there was a muttering in code, a beeping and compressing of machines, the echoes of doctors discussing his emergency surgery in complex terms. “I’m thinking five percent chance, what do you think Jim?”

“We’d need to get in their quick and scrape out the left frontal lobe five minutes ago”

“What do you suggest for procedure?”

“Coleman’s nerve center T lobotomy, going to need the precision saw, and nimble fingers or else were looking at vegetation.”

Brain dead was the consensus after surgery, trapped for life in unconscious terror. He heard screams, and wheels creaking, he thought of his parents sitting by his bedside while he was on life support, telling him stories. They would grow old and tired. Depression would creep on them, and still they would sit next to his bed, thinking on what could have been. He had time to think of every imaginable discourse, he lived the life of a man whose consciousness was confined to his own head.

Slowly, after days of surgeries, and near deaths with electro shocks and desperate heart massages. After life had been reduced to a grain of nothingness and he was finally accepting his own wretched state. The blackness dimmed slightly. The hospital walls like a ghost floated in front of him, shifting and fading in and out. They were translucent. He could sense the unconsciousness on the other side of them.

His thoughts gradually calmed to an easy breeze. He could now see blurredly the hospital room. He used his arms for the first time and felt the mass of suction cups attached to his chest. Everything was melting and pulling, but he was calm and content with his situation, it was as if he had woken from the nightmare of living as another collection of elements amongst a sea of blackness, into suddenly knowing he could be numbly immortal again. He was very hopeful.

A nurse came in to check on him, she had a soft beautiful voice, calm like grains of sand, “How are you feeling sweetie?” His face wasn’t a part of his sensory yet, and he spoke the alien trip language “Still tripping sack.” closer to wind than voice. She laughed and smiled at him. “Ok the doctor will check on you soon” and she left. He pulled the cover over himself and slept the black sleep.

“Hey buddy.” The young southern doctor said to him. “How are you feeling? Were going to need insurance information, you can use the phone to call a taxi.”  Ross stared at him for a minute consternated. He stretched out his stiff limbs and said “I don’t have anything on me, no money, and no information.”

“Well you’ll have to use the pay phone to call collect to you’re parents and get money wired.” He sympathized with a kind drawl. Someone had started screaming “Maggie!” in an adjacent room, and continued shrilly like a funeral mourner throughout their conversation. Ross held his face in his hands, he felt utterly fucked. He was fifty miles from the festival with nothing but his muddy shorts, still tripping. The doctor left saying he’d bring him some crackers and ginger ale.

Shortly the nurse came back with food and told him how he’d been the best festival patient they had, so polite and kind (all the while that kid still screamed, “Maggie!”), and in short she had taken it upon herself to find another wandering festival lunatic to pay his cab fair. He thanked her tremendously. Ross would learn later, Mike had ended up in the same hospital, and while there, he had grabbed one of his attending nurses’ breasts and proclaimed with ageless sincerity, “The meaning of life is to cum in your face!” It was inevitable that he turn into a legend amongst nurse’s circles in West Virginia, and they probably will quote him for many years.

On the fifty mile drive back to the festival, Ross was sandwiched against a fellow in a horrible state. He’d sometimes open his eyes and stare through a murky sheen, sometimes he laid against Ross’s shoulder like a corpse. Blood and drool stained his shirt, and he spoke not a word. There were six kids crammed in. The overall stench of the taxi was fetid, but the mood was jovial. They joked and chatted idly. They weaved the tale of their re-entrance to the festival: The mud splattered children of dysfunction would stumble out of a taxi in tatters and gowns and they’d drag the passed out guy with his ass hanging out to the closest shade with a large crowd watching. Afterwards they’d be interviewed about their various conflicts and so on.

They got lost at some point. The driver quoted Deliverance, as he was apt to do with all his non-southern clientele “I could be taking ya’all into the woods and guttin’ you like pigs” They smoked cigarettes, someone bought water and crackers at a CVS and distributed them, over the course of an hour they became a happy little disgruntled community and Ross was sad to leave them when they arrived at the festival grounds.

Ross felt no fear caressed by that day. He walked with a grin stretched through all of the horrors, dissolving them into nothingness. His lips stretched through life, wide and brilliant, dull and decaying. The future didn’t lie naked before his eyes, but it was inevitable it would be unsheathed. Every fear, every happiness would be a familiar lover when he met them again. He’d seek them out, call their names in the lonely night; this though, was the glorious sun shattered day, and that warmth was the company of existence, propelling him back to the camp nestled like a memory in the hills, the heavenly hills.

Depth

Lo the Monster of memory

Lurking with colorful frills

Condensed adolescent dreams

Conscious wind heavenly breeze

Bottomless black seas sucking

Aborted screams

All one and existence

Please

Just a closer walk with thee

An aborted story!

Posted in fiction, Weird with tags , , on June 4, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

A boy toiled in the center of a hamlet quaint and old, virgin and bold, where lilacs did blossom and burst between the cobbled stones  through shanties and hobbled haggled bungalows down to the river’s ever rinsing undertow. Twas not more than sixty odd people set abuzz in this commune and the boy was the only in poverty of years. In fact he was just ripening in that peculiar sexual way and had started pulling on the robes of men and the dresses of women, staring into their eyes with a budding child lust, imploring wordlessly that he yearned for the exchange of bodily warmth, and they scoffed with delighted chin flails, “Why boy, this is a town of virtue” they’d cry, eyes sowed with laughter. Their words rang out like sirens, and the notes held quivering against the clouds for hours. Meanwhile he’d dance about to the chimes of the buzz of the banter of the people of the wind of the sun, to be certain he was not but done and only beginning to inhale each moment. Little he slept, for a growing anxiousness was churning his gut, fattened by disconnect with people too far progressed. His thoughts swelled with young intrigue. The distant echoes of revelers rebels cascading through his day dreams.

He’d been raised by the screams of laughter that came from the pier, where the old generation (grown young in the head), were burned alive before the rising tide, their lips melting off in molten grins. Hamil Shneed had taught him more than any other, the ways of the village, self interest, and chaos. The boy would wake up to Hamil unleashing a chord of urine onto his face. “Now boy, I had the urge, stay still.”

Bread puffed fluffy white on a stone oven, where Delilah fanned the heat signatures with beautiful meat slab hands. Her careless posture exuded a bursting willow confidence and waves of mellow pressure wept from her brow and made fetal his anxious mind. She towered over him, shading his eyes with fraying horse mane hair, casting a black medusa across his skin. One day he’d carve her image in stone.

Regional forwithernsterm spent almost every moment of coherence balancing like a long legged crane on an upright log, his twenty hand bambal pole stretched forth from under his tilted discus hat,  to where only his exceedingly lengthy pole (taken from the most elastic heights of a monstrous bambal tree) could reach the Cashnu sand worms from his perch ashore. He tied glow fish to the end of the pole with wiki string to illuminate the sand clouded depths in a flutter of fire fins. Peering down through the telescope of the hollow branch, he’d wait for the Cashnu sand worms antenna to come slithering through the sand, and he’d use his great tempest lungs to suck the worms up the length of the branch and deposit them riling into his bucket, always with the same riotous snort of drunken laughter. The acts hilarity hadn’t faded over the some two hundred years since he’d invented the method, since that day when he had shrieked in the tavern and shattered all the mugs with self appreciation.

Regional was fond of telling the boy “Just the right amount of steady intoxication, while sucking for sand worms, is the single most pleasurable ecstasy.” His grayish white hair beaded with flecks of salty sun and sky.

The people seldom spoke at all, they became bored and wondered off mid conversation, there were no disputes, all urges and acts were recognized as important in merging the subconscious with the conscious mind, and when they had conversation, it was filled with double meaning and bravoes shows of drama, or it was to the boy, for he was their son. A protégé to the varying chaos’s and orders in them all.

He’d observed that the chaos increased yearly in them, they were becoming more and more joyful, vast, and ever more noticeably impossible to encompass with his child logic. It split him. He loved them all, with the wholeness of his heart, but he couldn’t embody their contentedness. He loathed their complete emotional abandon and his rages could cause no harm.

He watched them through his years, as they meditated and expanded, and the real old, eldest, the ones who sat in solitude/oblivion, he watched as their chaos, began to shift into order; all of a sudden they began to wish for things, they yearned for blood or sex or power. The ghosts of their ancient past began to haunt them, and when they finally felt the universe in themselves begin to recede, they’d calmly, in some cases with a brilliant smile, decide, “Yes, I guess it’s rather time to burn.”

The day started on a high note. The boy woke to Hamil and another villager whispering high octave harmony, their lips brushing against his ears.

O mi fin Lo

O mi qui yi O

La de de do de

Da de do de O

La O de do la Mi

Qui yi fin de O

Ohhhhh

Ohhhhh (higher pitch)

Ohhhh (higher pitch)

Ohhhhh (baritone)

He squinted in the sun. “Thank you Hamil, Joseph, what a wonderful way to wake!” Joseph smiled and walked off into one of the shanties.

“Why boy, it was my greatest delight, to see our collective voice wrestle a smile from your lips.” Hamil proclaimed with majesty.

“You’re too much.”

“What a terrible thing to say to an old man! Why, I had incubated dreams that I was the universe!”

“Quiet you plump bastard.”

“Did you hear that, orphan boy is calling me bastard.” He screamed at the top of his lungs. “Did you hear that people!” “This motherless twat has called me a bastard!” He spread his arms out like he was trying to hold up the sky and brought down a terrible rage unto the boy.

“Hamil, how can you be so wonderful and then so terribly abysmal the next second. I’m sick of your childishness.” And Hamil swung a hand like lightning unto the boy’s cheek.

“You could not be more venomous and ignorant, is this compensation for the love I’ve given you? Does a child deserve less respect than an adult? Are their playful acts of innocence ignorance? Tell me are you ever closer to the universe in yourself than as a child?”

“I’m going to kill you, you slack bowled cretin!” The boys face was emblazoned with a bright red hand print, and his veins were pulsing maps, gushing energy into his mind. Walls of black rage compressed his universe. Hamil laughed at his blush of anger, spraying spittle in the boys face and then he got up and skipped away.

The boy sat there in the dirt, at the verge of tears.  “What is wrong with me? Why am I so different?”

Under the Railway

Posted in fiction, Life, spiritualism, Uncategorized, Weird with tags , , , on May 19, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

Idol moments for a farmer like Maggie stretch into yawning years. When the crops of choice are the chemicals of the brain, idol moments are evident only on the deepest exploration of perception. She was just a simple farmer though, didn’t have any care for looking inward.

Ethereal lighting heads could guide empty sockets through utter blackness, flaring brilliant skin pimples of midnight drool, teasing roiling heavens out of concrete. She’d have to get up in the sick sad morning, through dirt and shit. She’d climb out of the community of happy fungus, unto the stumbling mumbling world of purpose. The streets would be littered with downward eyes, and hers would be the lowest cast, following the lines that perpetually intersected the sidewalk.

The waste the waste

The riches

The distaste of the driven

Treasures to be gathered in the fog-breath dawn

Gluttons hoard of donuts

Cans currency the rock the mighty rock

The game of life and the fire of the rock

Sagging eyes of the decrepit vessel

They came for her this morning, the lonely roving beasts that crawled out of their eyes and scratched at the pavement in sharp shadows. She tried not to shudder as they crawled out of the clean vessels buzzing about, as they sucked the light out of shop windows with a sound like a vacuum slurping. Mom was in her mind, no anxious image just the feeling. There was heat all around trying to stop the creatures from sucking the light out of the city, but the creatures were already inside them all, exploding out of their retinas in animal hunger.

Her body was hoisted, and they were inside her, all she wanted then was her little cot, dirt floor. Her belly rumbled, starved for the rock, her toes were purple, but that was the absence of the energy. The unfulfilled morning made her face crack.  Soundless she let them inside her.

When they were finished playing with her carcass they left. And she floated out of the alley like a ghost. The pain was universal, a blanket, and the reality of the world above ground. Her vessel would work for its culmination, lumber needed for the inferno. Her thoughts split in a pious grin.

“Cans in the cart, cans in the cart.” The roving engine of her mind syncopated, and cans were gathered unto her, and built steadily in her belly. The worthless warmth less sun rose on her. She was dangling from it, stuttering across the blocks.

Sometimes a nerve would pinch in her neck, and she’d scream, running in tight circles of agony. Her world would suddenly seem so dark, and her emotion would seep from her then, intestinal ooze leaking out  like an arid desert breeze.

“Hey you?” Asante the pusher man said.

“Yesa’ yesa’ you be seeing me soon.” Maggie said boring into his skull with dull sand storm eyes.

“You bess’ get to the depository quick. I aint gonna’ be here much longer.”

“Yesa’ yesa’”

Asante was the pusher man, the loquacious money man. Once a pusher man, always a pusher man, business was decent so he was decent. “Fuck crack addicts. Why can’t they be more like stoners? These worthless rambling half beings are scaring the potential money away, they don’t buy consistently or in large amounts, I wish I was selling weed man, shit.”

“Man it’s the nature of the drug man. You take that shit and not a god damn thing matters anymore. I got respect for that. That’s one way of living.” James said. A buddy of Asante’s who came down to the corner to chat.

“I know the nature of the drug mother fucker, I’ve only been pushing it since I was a lil’ one. I’m just saying weed is the shit. You get them rich boys buying eighths for sixty five, money in the bank. Weed here is like water in the Middle East. People migrate to the places where it flows.”

“Yah, so why don’t you make the conversion, trade in all them vials, get dat smelly green dream.”

“Don’t look at me with them eyes nigga’, like you my fucking accountant, like advice is your territory. You don’t think I’ve thought about it? Listen up young ‘in, you sell weed, you gambling, maybe one day you driving in leather with some woofers, maybe one day you looking out of a cage at the city, carnival screams of madmen behind yo’ ass.”

“Oh and your safe from that out here you ignorant bitch?”

“The city has no beef with me. Look at these haggard bitches, like barnacles on my dick. I’ll cap one of these motherfuckers for fun, and they wouldn’t be any different, the world wouldn’t change in the least bit. The city cares even less about these people, if only everyone could be so unconscious, they could reap an even bigger profit. So they let us feed off of these hollow flesh bag bitches. Weed makes nigga’s more acute to the corruption, and so they crack down on the distribution. It’s all a grind.”

“Yah you like playing all hard and wise and shit, but yous’ a bitch. Way I see it, you afraid of selling that green. You my cousin son, I know your shit. You entertain the dreams of going into the weed game cus’ you feel like a dirty ass nigga’ pushin’ what you pushin’ now. But you aint ever gonna’ get into that slightly less filthy ass profession cus’ you’d have to accept that you’ve fed these haggled nigga’s self perpetuated coma. You’d have to accept you a bad man, in the eyes of any lord, and worse you a bad man to Asante. You’d have to accept it to get out of the game. Lie to yourself nigga’ that’s fine, but don’t think im not gonna’ call you on it.”

“Why you gotta’ come down here and unload that shit on me? College boy, go back to your ghetto loans, leave a man down here to make his way. Fuck off school boy nigga’.”

“Alright man I’m speaking from here though man.” He said pointing to his chest.

“Pshh get yo’ skinny ass out of my face nigga’.”

“Peace man.”  And James walked on down the sidewalk. He felt real good whenever he had a talk like that with a brotha’ stuck in the game. Something about it just felt right and courageous. It lent him some type of extraterrestrial energy.

As a kid he’d been obsessed with the old school NWA videos. Real boss guys with big chains and ladies dressed in tight bright neon skirts, crib walking down the sidewalk; spray paint scribbled on the bricks behind them. His brothers sandwiching him on the rickety couch, in front of the 12” TV, smelling like weed and sweat. Rapping was all that shit, mixed with his love for himself, and he let it out:

I breaks it down to the bone gristle
Ill speaking Scud missile heat seeking
Johnny Blazing, nightmares like Wes Craven
Niggaz gunnin, my third eye seen it coming
Before it happen
You know about them fucking Staten
Kids they smashin
Everything huh, in any shape form or fashion
Now everybody talking bout they blastin, hmmm
Is you bustin steel or is you flashin? Hmmm

He was getting into it, accenting the lines with his hands, and dancing. The city unreal, had that card board feel, same as the video, except he was the man now. He was on top of shit.

A black BMW with out of state plates approached him from behind, inside Sam Wadsworth and his wife Betsy Wadsworth, were lost, had taken a wrong turn somewhere by the luxury hotels and had ended up in this place. “This isn’t America is it sweetie?” Betsy proclaimed. “You’d think we were in Botswana, with the shambles, and look at this senseless nigger convulsing about, and talking to himself! My god Sam, get us out of here!”

“Sweetie! Watch your language. What if he heard you?”

“Keep the car away from him, for gods’ sake Sam. He has those big hungry eyes. He wants what we have, oh and he’s seen death look at him, he seems so much older than us.”

“Do you want me to let you out so you can speak with him?”

“Sam, stop it I’m not attracted to him you devil, he just seems so primal, he’d probably tear me to pieces.”

“Oh I’m sure he would babe.” “I’m pulling over.”

“No!” she shrieked in terror.

“Sweetie I wouldn’t ever do that to you!” He chuckled.

“Oh baby, baby, baby” She kissed him repeatedly on the cheek.

The jet skinned monster receded into the pavement behind as they crawled further along under the shade of the towering skyscrapers. Business was waiting to be consecrated in some lurking monument.

Star Trek ing

Posted in fiction, Weird with tags , , , , , , on May 7, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

The days are not frigid or sweltering; but confined in longing for abstractness. The days have ways of sinking away in colors seen too many times. Shades of the universe are simple and limited. Electro suns are mechanized by corporate worlds for the generation of mass funds. Income slides down the hungry gullet into the mother fiery pit of insanity that is earth. Where still the conquest of the mind isn’t promoted, as old bio-mechanical nation statesmen sniff brandy on their verandas. Caring nothing for the self inflicted shackling of the common man. Greed like black matter splatters across solar divides, connecting all the human conquests with taint. Man has made that which incubated its own existence, with grease and sweat and science; but bliss lays hopelessly away, a spectacle like the stars of an earthly childhood.

Asteroids scatter tastelessly across the black sea. The ocean is endless. When a being leaves the earth and initiates the transformation to living amongst the stars, they morph from a creature of emotion and soil, to a monster of pure stimulation. There’s no conquest for frank, greed although present, is ultimately as meaningless as, say, rage was on earth.

Out of the field of minerals Bison Bob hovers like a moth to the flame of life. (Bison Bob was a nihilist, and in a dashing show of conviction, developed the neural combustor. A sound wave emitter that destroys brain cells massively and then gradually in order to preserve unconsciousness, and simultaneously preserve biological longevity.) The neural combustor warbles Bob’s chins like a pudding jackhammer. He gurgles at frank, pointing playfully at his crotch.

Happiness like a foul liquid pours into the black sucking hole of endless want. Frank holds it fragile, breaking in its essence, flowing away from invisible leaks. He rolls slightly left and rinses in debris; meditating, holding premise star-ward. Pockmarked moon sways to a depressive symphony. A choir pines for times when games were played, social games of give and take. Mental dams that dispersed chaos sociably. A stream of antidepressants uncoils into his brain (pulse strips spider web through ear cartilage); but chemicals can only make secreted mental obstacles shine with a sickly shimmer.

Confined ice sweat, thickly woven polar blankets, trapped in a tissue constructor. Focus runs and screams, but has little endurance struggling against the vastness of the stars. Frank presses a button on his wrist pad, and his depression stabs into space in a hypnotic light show.

“Hello Frank”

“Hello suit”

“You are feeling lonely, and confined to you’re thoughts”

“Yes, suit”

“Would you like to schedule a visit with the traveling mother?”

“I suppose so.”

“Imagine a bark mosaic, seething and foaming, dripping with fresh rain water. A trickling creak gurgles against wet leaves and dirt. The mother seethes and foams for you.” The sound of a forest buzzing in the rain amplifies through his suit.

“Yah.” he sighs.

“Your serotonin levels have approached even and your heart rate is normal. Brain function indicates you will tire of my description, and ultimately recede back into a depressive state. Farewell.”

“Do one thing for me.”

“Yes Frank?”

“Please implant foreign consciousness one hundred twenty three.”

“This will be the last time.”

Walking, fresh growth, cool air, nostrils twitch with pleasure. Sun seeds in the heart. Bounty is everywhere to be had. Soil crunches under a rubber soul. Joints compress, cartilage strains and pulls. Trees, great ancient monoliths, life emulators, soil suckers. Fields of them stretch in chaos, slanting against the wind and rain, the sun prisms through in a sad mist.

A girl, red hair and acne scarred face, sits humming into the woods. She’s love and worry. Death controls all of her features, pushes lust out of her pores. Frank resists rubbing his leg against hers.

A mountain crumbles in the far off lonely distance and sun light rains through the dust storm of her laugh. Her mouth open cry: rain to an aching soul. Slender twig body feels like pain in rough hands. Frank prospers, overwhelmed. She smiles, and emits a sliver of light the likes of which a man could never make with grease or sweat.

The Pony Don’t Lie

Posted in fiction, Life, spiritualism, Uncategorized, Weird with tags , , , , , , , on May 5, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

Josh Scobee walks out the side of the fishery munching on uncooked cod. Face grizzled and flecked with fish flesh. Waltzing puffy eyed down the block pinching little rivers out. “Oh my sweet baby I miss you” he squeaks to himself. “I miss you so much”

Jim the mechanic holds a shotgun to a nun and screams “By the saint’s cunts, there is no god” and blows the nuns brains into Josh Scobee’s face. Flittering, filching, light swelter, flesh splatter; “oh babe please holds it close for me.”

“Fucking got nun on my cod!”

“Can’t we all just get along”, the nun says picking her brains off of the ground. “In the name of the father the son and the holy fuck, don’t point that shit at me again, that  shit hurt. Anyway tell me, why did you blow my head off?”

“Well you were looking at me all judging and calling me wrong with your eyes!”

“Oh sweetie, my sopping wet nun pussy does crave the cock. You see, penises are fluttering like a million smelly butterflies; and because large erections doth flurry about like snakes through the grass of my mind.  I have no space for judgment there. All things in life not directly related to penises are very strictly taken word for word from the bible. Do you think it a bad practice?”

“Well I suppose they are virtuous rules, but how can you consider yourself a woman under god if that’s all you think about?”

“God is the feeling of a big one deep in there. God is squirting five yards onto your man’s suit and having his whole office smell  pussy the next day. Glorious, glorious muscle contraction.”

“I like the way you jive, say I was to offer you a deal my little Vatican lady…”

“I’m listening?”

“My penis needs resurrection, ya’ dig.”

The nun’s gown shreds down the middle and her tits flop to either side. Belly flesh is careened apart in a mushroom of acrid smoke. Her pussy lips flap like hawk wings, slathering pussy spittle in all directions. Jim recites “Oh father lord in heaven hallow be thigh name.” face drawn in the premature dusk.

“Now hold on just one second” The local sheriff intones from the saddle of his jet black pony. The pony rears and unloads a steaming pile onto the asphalt. Sheriff dismounts with the moon haloing the nun’s fractured skull. “Now you look here. I done heard them gun shots. I done heard that groanin’ and a gruntin’” “And I wants to know, who thinks they can get away with some typa’ shenanigans on my watch?” He spits tobacco at Jim’s feet. “Jim, you bess be telling me why that shotgun smokin’?” “Why this here lady under gods bleeding copiously and convulsing like LA in an earthquake?” “Why my dick is suddenly stiff with anticipation of your story?”

“Sheriff, there aren’t no laws here, and you done  decided to question me on the wrong day!” They both draw and the sheriff’s head caves in. The pony rears up and takes a pack of camels out of his ass hole. Lights one up and stares at the moon with shiny pony eyes.

His big buck teeth seem to be grinning but he don’t feel nothin’ but contempt. “You humans don’t befit the gifts evolution gave you. Any time I choose I can stick my dick in something, blow a load mighty quick and be on with it. I enjoy looking at the stars Jim. Do you understand that? The grass feels like heaven against my lips.” His mouth trembles with emotion. ” Any one time I open my eyes I see a network so complex I could spend a lifetime looking, and wouldn’t be done finding. You done think you can put a fence around us, ride us, and you think the same thing about your brothers and sisters. When are y’all gonna’ live free? See that moon? You only gonna’ see it maybe twenty more times full. And your life is as bright as them stars. Yous’all just a Buncha’ ignorant asses.”

“Did you see me just shoot the sheriff in the face. I say fuck the order too!”

“That’s just the beginning. You gotta fuck the order that’s inside you. Then you gonna’ start to see clearly for the first time.” He drags deep burning down to the butt. “Peace.” His voice calls out as he sinks into the asphalt.

Bruins Just Lost I’m Shitfaced!

Posted in fiction, Life, spiritualism, Uncategorized, Weird with tags , , , , , , on May 3, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

If you are wondering what a writer can produce while shitfaced and masturbating at the speed of light. It is not a ten foot arch of semen, No, it is enlightenment. As skin and skin rubs together, and dust is created in a maelstrom of friction, a magnetic dust field is created. Whilst eyes tear with effort, and with ball dust, one must concentrate on the fast twitch muscles in the wrist. It is impossible to ejaculate at this speed and so the artisan must maintain the anal tensing and muscle contraction in continual light speed orgasm. When an hour is spent and the muscles are ready to shred to pieces, when the euphoria of mind is too long lasting to maintain its injection of serotonin, the mastorbatopolous that is this Jesus Christ of pole shacking, explodes into a netherworld of unconsciousness. This is the only known enlightenment for a western mind. Zen Mastrabotoriasm.

Desert Island Albums

Posted in Music review, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 3, 2009 by benwaysrustyscalpel

astral-weeks

Astral Weeks – Van Morrison

Van Morrison was borderline starving and homeless when he pulled together this album. This album is its own genre of music.  One of the most beautiful albums ever constructed. The poetry is ethereal. His childhood flows out of his subconscious like a winter flurry. The first and best of many stellar productions by Van the man!

cheap-thrills

Cheap Thrills – Big Brother and the Holding Company

This is arguably one of the best live recordings of all time. BBHC in their absolute prime. Janis Joplin lays down some positively breathtaking vocals. Slathering a blues drenched soul ripping blues cry. The lead guitar tears a lot of the songs to shreds. Complete chaos knife mind distortion. Nothing complicated, just hard grunge psychedelic blues.

buddy-miles

Best of Buddy Miles – Buddy Miles

Where should I start? I almost didn’t put this one up, because it’s a treasure to me. I’ll make this a simple explanation. Buddy Miles was one of the funkiest drummers in the 70’s. Now match that with him having a voice that has the soul of an angel and the anger of the sun. Some of the most amazing blues session guitarists laying down world bending licks (Buddy Guy, Jimi Hendrix), that maintain that old black blues feel even with their speed and intensity. This is my favorite funk album of all time.

joe

Legends of Acid Jazz: Boogaloo Joe Jones – Boogaloo Joe Jones

Boogaloo is one of the most interesting jazz guitarists. He lays down continuous licks. The whole album is filled with spontaneous guitar melodies that he masterfully shifts and invents. This is really clean jazz. But anyone listening can instantly tell it’s a masterful creation. The drumming is phenomenally funky throughout, really subtle and groovy. The sax has a way of tricking your ear, syncopating in a way you don’t expect. Boogaloo Joe steals the show though. He is a phenomenal guitarist. On a completely different level then most guitarists.

apostrophe

Apostrophe – Frank Zappa

Frank Zappa is weird. I don’t expect anyone to like him immediately. A lot of really good music needs to be listened to more than once to understand the craft. This is one of those albums. Instrumentally his band is very sharp and compositions are complicated and interesting. Frank Zappa is a really excellent guitarist, and maybe an even better composer. One would think he doesn’t take the music seriously with songs about stink foot, Eskimos shoving yellow snow in people’s eyes, and saint alfonso’s pancake breakfast. But the contrary is true, the music is great, once the listener gets past reveling at the oddities. When ever I’m sick of what I’m currently listening too, I always throw in Zappa. He never gets boring.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.