Archive for May, 2009

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 – 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 – 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.


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.


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 – 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.