Friday, May 26, 2017

Expedition Five:

Expedition Five: She says, “I’m sorry I got blood on your new jacket. It’s this damn Stigmata...” A forgetful hotel clerk once saved my life. The lawn was a dense expanse of lost laundry and nothing to eat - Every fifteen minutes they take attendance - whether you’re sleeping or eating or talking or reading or what - every fifteen minutes. The worried old gods with bleeding ulcers dribble divine tea into the open mouths of rabidly anxious baboons. Or so they tell me. A bottle of bloated, sated, ancient mosquitoes sits on a mink shelf; each insect contains volumes of historical DNA from the rule of Caligula - it’s right next to my bankrupt ambition and my bleeding caecum into a teacup - the aging prostitute rubs fresh blackberries against her dry bloodless lips - the illusion of youth, even children want it. I used to play in a stream of ruby carnivorous sewage dyed with the red of raging infection - a slug river of noisome pollution. That was before the dull tools and sharp glass and the constant pillow of pain in my unlikely head. The revolution will be led by dead plankton. The obese American sits in a hay-strewn basement that smells of opium smoke and urine, licking dried blood from a dead cat banquet. It is a low, bell-ringing formaldehyde night and the only radiance in the cellar comes from a pale luminous worm that sits squirming and glowing like a sack of expanding wet grain in the cobweb corner. The American belches and scratches his hairy nodules. A fight breaks out on the next floor – again – “I did seven years in federal prison! I ain’t afraid of you!” The monuments in Washington are built on the backs of a thousand sneering nostrils.” The American lifts his gout-inflamed leg and brings it down on a pile of bones that were never connected to anything. They shatter and clatter on the lunar surface forever. And Jesus Christ, on deformed loan from a hymen-colliding Passion Play will fill your Christmas stocking with thorns and nails and blood-soaked desert sand and Charles Laughton expels nitrous oxide from his groaning fat man’s colon while a vast choir of microcephalic children sings of -“Roads and toads, AIDS and tirades, of apes and rapes and lonely seascapes, transfusions, ablutions, addictions and fictions and roses and Moses and noses, afflictions. Syphilis, chrysalis, rotor and you. Tuberculosis and gnosis and seminal glue. Microchips, radar-blips and Art Linkletter too!”

Only two of us applaud.

Black rabies shaped like the alien genitals of all six sexes. Leave it to the group meeting to explore the stifling awkwardness of...

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