scary stuff


Jaan Patterson

Nice two, feet chew.

After-bitten phone cord wrapped around the pencil tip, led by the inquisition to pierce my butterfly collection with sewing needles.

Red like licked table top, sofa shipping the living stair case, winds the toy top and "I really would like to figure out why the light wont come on..."

Someones in the other cup, winking stair case now in a fold, behold the poker games came after he saw the boiling rice/poker face haste the making of the mother, Instead of watching soap operas the side-show was stealing coat hangaah's, "Was I me or the soap between my feet was wishing to limp home."

Sitting in it's hangar the pillow of pills, dripping in the sight of powder in the nasal cavity which is something you dream about the pill ow! stuck into your brain.

My performed list of going to the dungeon half naked/cold/empty with the slight chance of rain. Digging in the graveyards backyard. The seats that rise from the ground, tissue forming limits. And now the ground features the latest of the blue boobies emulate, the assumptions of ghost stockings, pulled way to high, the thong untied the bow tie, seated viral of the stock-handled beach ball-ism, the scent of mammals the "go go going of something slightly more of achieving", house this brown mouse, the castle fungi in the sleeping quarters, dark pigeon now under a pedestal, your majesty in the guillotine, no helmet just the right arm twisted.

Sounds of a deli/slaughter house five minutes late...

"Teacher, teacher with eh whistle!"
But the bum is watching sight fully, there is no where to go just a silent movie road, that ends with a background set.

The rocks are PHhF-OAM!

Near sighted death experience with the saddle in the night, riders in the day, because the window washer hanging from your noose, that ends with your tongue so slippery wet inside your finger tips, salts in your nails, your tongue is now like sandpaper, and my tongue goes down like a gooey muscle.

Nails are hammered the noise is bearable but your flesh is torn with staples, scorn with the nimrod, the camel reels a particle movie about your ancestors travels, no where to turn just another movie set, with the lights filling the air, melting the butter skin... lights fall kill one by one, knights fall are killed one by one.

Now the sightless treatment, no medication for your oval mouth, seeping meadow now in your cold unattached email.

Your guilds in a rush to kill the spots of germ, bacteria you never cared about washing your hands until your life was at stake, stiff corn hands, with root tips, calluses and a moldy cheese plug, trees crowing off your butt-cheeks.

Never again will it end the same way this time no movie set, just the studio exit, the end of the lot is a blot of white paint over the black construction paper billboard...

Another EXT. SHOT!


Iam gone fishing with the advent of biopower, the scorched etctera: another sip on a billion Vietnams for genitlia where tongues once expanded ontologies: vital routes into mimesis are a pig, too many lit cigarettes flying overhead, an increase in crimes of passion (not naked with Marxism's jazziest flights of improvisational fishnets): chromosomes, my insane metropolis shaking with tight, internal bluejeans constantly reminding me that Iam a telephone: heads penetrated, the special blend of psychokinetic ambushdrunk quickly with what passes for time in this policecar, the back of which is neutered with alcohol and earlobes on a bicycle: allowing androids to disappear in the pulsatingfluid from the brightest pornographic light proves that the urge to experimentation's sky full of swords has the reddest lips, after all


D5 Chapbook II

This is the second Chapbook, Edited by Doriandra. It has no name, only the contents which shriek loudly enough.

Contributors, unwilling or not, include-

Cocaine Jesus
Ruela Pinho
DB Rood
Robert Chrysler
Undress Beton
I Am Not Kek-w
Tic Tac
Dodo Spiessert
Elliot Wisdom
Carmen Racovitza
Cachorro Rabugento Morto Em Noite Chuvosa
Aaron Held


undress'secrets series 8-309

and therefore, it was left to me to stand on that bridge and watch the whole city burn while those around me pontificated with plastic dolls with hairless legs left holding rotten eggs. my moribund companions, left to their seldom given volition's commented on the springy pink hair that had grown along the streets. it was nonsense, really. all of it come and gone like the ash that floats across the world and yet still reigns havoc and burns the shit out of your eye.

get to know me

Children of the night




my dog



You are walking on water
1 AK-47
pussyclaat police a go come
fi start talk
talk dem a talk.

an just sekkle an cotch up.
is a one ting. just a cotch.
uno fi just listen becaa mi neu se him a one pussy claat
from marning se him wake up
ina maarnign an brush teet from deya him a pussy.

so mi just sez to di pussyclaat

move from year one pussy.
becaaa mi bun fire pun dem pusy claat is a everyday ting.
man fi get bleeeze up wid a one fire.

mi dun tell a pussy fi goanfrom year.


next ting se da pussy going fi call two uda pussy.

se mi halla fi foursum.

all tree adem pussy well is dem two pussy wa
mi a look fa still. becaa. man na sekkle unless all pussy is dead.
wen i kill all pussy den is a peace mi a come fraaam

nuff a dem fi get shot up!!

play the power
the power is yours. will travel.
if i stand in the palace i can be queen. range.
range. of non existence. never existed. to never have existed.
over here. then there.

will be. am. was. will be. am. was.
my blood is daily. shot up police
shot up bredrin. for talking. shot up bredrin. for nuttin.
shot up mudda for breakfast. shot up brudda fi walking.
shot up friend for friendship.
dis maarning well him did say hello
in a certain fashion.

it takes -nothing.
when i was born i shot the doctor.
when i die i will shoot the reverend.
when i get married i will shoot the best man.
den i will shoot da bride in haar haart.
she get two bloodclaat shot in haar bumbaclaat
fi nuttin.
haaall a dem fi bury. fi wa. fi nuttin.
is hall a dem who am gun bury.

fi nuttin i find pussyclaat waar in a nuttin.
war mi a war. fi nuttin.
ina maarning is war fi nuttin.
in a daytime waar.
afternoon war.



my blood is happening all the time.

emcombass the enemy encombass the heart
encombass the army. paitence moves.
islamic. geometric it can wait.
blood can wait
can count blood. can count to 270. too seventy volatyle.
word are volatyle horizons when the sun is scarred.
duck. duck goose. not got.
never had. is left turn. under. is left turn reaction.
bermused triangle. to his own eyes.

no i did not hear the blood.
i was not there when the blood was washed away.
they aer loading . honest john.sometimes i think was is too real.
coming down from the paladies. i wish for.
i wish for. reading the passport. pissing in a cell.
outside of time
the purple glove trigger.
was you. when i.
DNA trigger.
future triggers.
Emporda trigger.
surface area trigger. if.
not one word. really. i guess. sense tension. extrapolate. is here
and now. i didn't count the blood no. but blood happens.
in english if you recall.
duck duck duck.

goose. moving my hands. with so many violen things to say.
all emcombassing.
if i walk like this. all encombassing

hi grade future triggers.

i think u never existed. polite as fuck tho. like
would you waste my time please. with so much violent things to say

nug. calibre. artificial warlard derilict. 45 (can't spell)


The italian trigger.
The triple trigger.
the female trigger. listens.

smells like formations. rictor trigger.
reaction trigger.
men are at war.


the morning trigger.

memory trigger.

will be. am. was
will be. am. was.
will be. am. was.
will be. am. was.
will be. am was.

until you get it right.

could call. know could call.
not on the phone.
could. step like this.
move like this. look.

walk like. with a step.
and then.

poetry was. when it ciphered.
D-ciphered. sided. with

the elastic trigger.

encombass the enemy.
could be. what you make of it. for the purpose of.
working on. something.

i reckon. commoditiy
oddessy. my blood happens all the time.
my blood is happens all the time.
silence for words.
words fall short of silence.

big guns with small trigger. inside the -not poetry.

is blood trigger lingers. my blood is daily blood.

you pray for daily. bread.

my blood is happens all the time
my time is happens all the time

my blood is happens all the time
my time is happens all the time

my blood is happens all the time
my time is happens all the time

but words fall short of blood.
time is blood when encombassing.

my. blood is trigger.

leave your girlfriend because she si getting you into trouble.
your girlfriend is _

a waste of time.

i move like::
your listeners are. getting you in.

my blood is happening now. will happen tomorrow.

my blood is happening all the pussyclaat time.

suck out!



Fernando Béton on such

well it can be though
then we work and sing
as well as bark,
but who knows about us
we can change
every part of a scent
calling secondos

Fernando Béton on date to date

Sardine days

Fringe ample to the node,

I walk the first fishy steps to Sardinia
Stepping alinealine...

now a neat railroad olawntodaytoday marks the first insteps.

the first talk on the moon
SaturnsSaturns a little closer...

rings a little bit touching...
neglecting the limelight.

former amen,...forgive that lung...
knees are creaking to a song
former men, are...

...the touching of the shins, ...touching their shins,

cool tingly hairs, sensing a special buzz...
I can the writer..cage the writer..
forgive the oil cool tingly hairs,
that Tung...Tungfish sensing a special buzz...
A whole new dish.

By Aaron and Zete.





I listen in fragments

I listen in fragments. Multiplication of fractions echo still born but free of any false modesty or illicit cindering. She said ‘do it again, do it again.’ I don’t but rather light another cigarette for which to fill the room with secret desires. Not her moist moments, let me be done with those but rather her fantasies set in crystal and porcelain that hang from her cabinets like trophies. She is without sanity and isn’t quite right at all. I sometimes wonder where her horizons lie. Basement deep. Covered with cobwebs. Grime under her footnote. Is she really that helpless?

I drag down a lungful of smoke imbibing my head with nicotine till my eyes string tears in mock sadness. The moon grins a red face through the slits of her window blinds. A blood soaked apology to the stars. Vinegar leeches the ebony to stray greys but nothing makes much sense anyway. Not this room, not this bed, not this woman. I rise as steam, damp and cloying, and make my way to the door which I break open then flee the apartment. Cool winds sent from northern spheres dry my sweat leaving saline marks on my black T-shirt. A marbled network of tramlines. New York Metro a go go. The Whiskey. Television. Tom Verlaine. Guitar chords weep songs of jade that confuse my memory. Was it seventy seven? What came first the chicken or the big Mac?

My Doc Martens lick the sidewalk leaving soon forgotten sole prints on the rain slick concrete. A sigh of traffic whispers past. Red lights hold up silent hands. I walk when it says to. I walk when it doesn’t. A rage of horns play a feudal symphony that bite Moondog’s ass. A vial of vile tastes that petrol perfume my mouth. I hear some where distant a siren as it scratches a stark nail across the city blackboard leaving the hairs on my neck erect like horny bed lice cocks. The buildings are phallic. Penis’s rise as the insects of helicopters rotate the airstreams with their choc choc choc. Cameras aimed. Prison eye close-ups. We soiled our integrity when we sold our liberty.

I never loved her. I just used her lusts for my own ends. She never loved me. I just supplied her with the where withal to make the days pass with less sunlight and pain. Our moments together were just fragments. Multiplication of fractions. An equal sign on a flickering screen. Credit card numb. Cash friendly, cunt come, cocaine driven dumb. Her syringes decorated her window ledge, her needles tattooed her arm and crutch. She blew me when she could find the way. Her idiot son lay foetal curled in a bed of vomit where the bottles empty flung spun blind, morbid, sentinel careless and strewn like flotsam floating behind a dead frigate. A dead, cod eyed cut up boy. Razor blade blue. Ridges of blood scored across a lily white throat that split open with a dead dog yawn. His feet faced the wrong way. His jaw, open, slack, dribbled the sick of days collecting into minor pools by his chin. Sordid sheets with dark stains. Dried corruptions of body enactments.

I remember the days in the old schoolyard when Iris Eisner first kissed me. It was behind the bike sheds. Her mouth an open invitation. We locked onto each other. All tongues twisting red snake like down the backs of our throats. We were only children driven by desire. Another car whistles past me its horn flaring an angry note as I stumble from sidewalk to kerbside. A drunken sailor walking. The siren moves closer like a rabid stalker chasing its favoured whore. I light another cigarette. The nicotine taste is burning cord. My larynx suffers as the smoke rakes its way down my neck. I wipe my hands down the front of my pants and see the streaks of blood that have gathered there. A collective noun for blood should be, could be, might be a mosaic. That sounds good: a mosaic. I like that. I mentally pat myself on the back but growl down my cigarette smoke with industrial conviction.

I am Trent Reznor. I am steel and glass and pumping boiler rooms full of pistons pounding a perfunctory beat. I rattle my rhythms in metallic staccatos. Brazen as brass. Bold as sunlight. But the midnight of my day crowds in. Lock jaw lamplight. Loose and unfettered. I grain across the concrete with sand paper intensity. There are several million people here in New York City. Each one as different from me as I am from them. A symbiotic collective that feels good in groups but is really a broken contagion. One that is spreading to far and too fast. One of these days nature will cull us all and we will bleed as we fall from grace. As\we all fall from the elevated skyscraper we built for ourselves. I cannot abide these thoughts that shake into my head without a by or leave. Stray thoughts, rogue and uncalled for. I hate them but cannot stop thinking them. They haunt my days and only her warm saliva can compensate for the bile that burns my brain.

But she is no longer warm. She is chilling flesh on cold tiled floors. Bits of her thrown piece meal about the room. A finger here, an eyebrow there. I think I left her feet in the fridge or was it her head. I don’t know, I cannot remember. Memory fails with the neon. I still hear the helicopters. I still see there searchlights skimming rooftops and alleyways. I shadow into them now trying to locate a single piece of shade to slide into. I make my self fade but the spotlights grow sodium bright. The choc choc choc gets heavy. A wind filled with techno beats. A night filled with squawks and grunts as tyres settle down black marks in their determination to seek me out. I listen to them now. I listen in fragments. Multiplication of fractions echo still born with the drear tight fist of the closing night.

A dark that burns so bright that my future fails. The sirens gather in packs. Wolves with fangs bared. Rigid iron teeth that snarl and froth. A rabid hunger that devours as a flash burn, bang, bursts the noise with a climatic silence that breaks into my ribcage shattering the flesh and bone that sits waiting for it. Everything fails to slow motion. A man calls out but his voice is dragged across the charnel streets with an echoing boom that roars as thunder but makes no sense. The sky rotates. Buildings flop against each other. My hand flies up to ward off the stinging insects that bite my chest, my lungs, my legs, my face. I see a woman look my way and point. My other hand leaves me to fend off the approaching floor. A puddle of blood greets me with a sepulchral silence as the sidewalk cracks a welcome to the bones of the already dead.



The Anatomical Brothel



M 1

gentils diables


love let R

Major Linkshot.(newnusses)

New knew knew it was something I’ve never seen...
Blew it away like a dandelion,
Away to the awkward coast of counting.
Another day and paydirt, Another day and sayhurt
Restorate me, into a wonderful portrait.
Or rotate me around the world.
I am a potato digger, with dirty fingernails.
A white mash, with black inked toe nails.
A creature comfort with future pretensions,
Reeling the line with your belly wide open,

Fish fertilizer lying round the camelias
I know the liquid dye surrounds me...
A flower of God for the little drummer boy.
A little peace with a fiddle piece.

nik the antique dresser...


Oh! Summertime...

Nelson Magalhães Filho. ANJOS BALDIOS 2009. Acrílica s/tela, 80X70 cm



Cardiovascular Army


New Adventures in Neurological Camouflage

Discharge Site updated... to offer you the perfect summer ;)


a walking tour

Megan took me for a walk behind her new house, down into the woods by a deer-trail which went all the way to the river, and she stopped by a bush with large green berries, and she picked a few and told me to open my mouth. I said, what are they? and she said they're Meganberries. I took a few into my mouth, and they were tasty, sour, and juicy. That's amazing, I said, that they're called Meganberries, as they're just like you, and she gave me a lopsided smile, trying to figure out if I was kidding.

Megan's father spent three years in prison when she was a little girl. I am not exactly sure what the charge was, I know she told me but I wasn't paying attention, which seems incredible as this is a topic of great interest, her parents, as she says and does certain things once in a while that make me think pieces of the collected background my friends all share never got to her, not even like she comes from another country but from another time, and I wonder sometimes if this is in fact not a random chance but something she does deliberately, an affectation, which helps the people she meets to excuse other of her eccentricities, and I think that if I were to meet her parents that this would become clear, if it is a real thing or a falsified thing (which has perhaps become real over time, the way that I tell people I used to have a dog), but still I wan't paying attention, perhaps I thought she was going to leave me, but I do believe her father was a nonviolent offender, perhaps an embezzeler, but for three years once a week Megan and her father would write to each other, continuing the stories they had begun when she was even younger, just before she fell asleep at night, but while she would write a letter and forget about it her father would continue to write the stories in journals he kept for himself, sending her specific passages he thought she would find funny or charming, and Megan had read this unexpurgated collection of spiral notebooks years later, after she returned from her third year of college, and she told me about these stories as well, this endless collection of plots and subplots and conflicts and strange landscapes and creatures described in immaculate detail and travels through time, but of this I can barely remember anything at all, except that her father had written both Megan and himself into the story, wherein Megan was called Jenny Pearl Sherbet and he was called The Hero Of Last Resort.

Megan was worried about her daughter Jasmine, who was eight, and had taken on a defeatist attitude about practically everything. Megan first noticed this after picking Jasmine up from school and asking how her day had been, only to hear her speak about how she was going to be nine soon, so much wasted time, so many things still undone, the best years of her life behind her. Megan considered this a mood, or perhaps something Jasmine had heard on television, and didn't think too much of it, and while Jasmine was not unhappy, and in most ways acted as she always had, she would occasionally sigh and consider all that was now lost to her. I thought this was hilarous, and Megan told me that my laughing at something like this is just another perfect example of why I hadn't yet met her. The first time I did meet her, that first weekend at the new house, Megan introduced us and I asked Jasmine how she was doing, and she told me things were as well as could be expected, and I said yeah, there's only so much we can do with all these worries and failed hopes filling what little light remains before the inevitable call of the grave. Megan shook her head, and Jasmine stared at me for a second, sizing me up, and said worries? I got worries. Dealing with children is a lot easier than I thought when I was younger.



miam 1


Cig-say-more...or bore or...
Defense-cig, lay say more of...
Sippin', can you still ah!

Leave miss sin, sea by the see.
Deci meter, deli cate clay si more.
Decedent... summon her.

Les acoba, wee wee wee.
Strum sea, say by by abba.
Sick, and six tan.

Overshadow by.. say.. boo om.

I am running, seesaw, say low.

Glow, the bright sun.
Sea salt often...stale,
alley ally...cig...table.


Pikatent, Low mohvi!
secrent soso, secretion.
Sing sin, soboe OH.......
Hus Hus I donno Y-OH..
Hungreg, hun red the fish.
Or the sun blazing, sweats
each re-arch.

The fungal mental, sippitoe...
Temmenal say menal, menial arghts.
Rights to the sun chiming.
see the earth turn, burn alearn.
see catty, mouso...thee friends
say bai is ken ken gai gloonanoo.
sanifrani i am mon sole.
or reaching stars...
see greese, the bees.
sea breeze pay ma fiva dol.
seg, seg seg...segretmento, segretmento.
I donno...say
seesa gaga manny momma lan....
pretty be be pretty be be.
sea crowing, calming sensra, gotta her on my back.
say i donno... the lone cone gone go...oh no.


Grey Old Legs of Misunderstanding

A hairway of teeth. Speeding bullets. The clock chimes "nine...nine..nein..." Whose biscuits are these, O Greenie Sweet? My face has taken a bit of a bath on the stockmarket, old chum; nose dipped to 0.264 on close of DowJones Skindex maybe it'll recover when the HK exchange opens at 9:00am I'd hate to lose one of my eyes, you know...

Nan's body washed up on the shoreline again two smooth round pebbles for eyes mouth full of sand and seaweed some species of bladderwrack I believe her skin grey and lacerated by driftwood dress torn by the tides throw her back in the council don't want to take her away phoned the helpline got a prerecorded message a sharp burst of static and synthetic oscillations then some voice said: "No one left here who cares or even gives a fuck we done fucked off to paris with your money look where working for a living gets you, idiot" followed by more static and apecackle played through an echo-deck.


Silver Legs of Understanding

Eyelids that intercourse ten years of glass, songs of dripping sleep to neutralize lonely afternoons, their 19th century very nearly paradoxical, a cinema of claws trying in vain to conceal what is black for the first time. Wet, undulating piles of grass, its random melancholy mirrored in the sharpest of its cells. The metropolis sees nothing and blithely continues procreating with its own tongue.

Iam the minotaur, the minotaur is me, an array of pulsating beats for long, muscular legs, her vague stare discarded by passing chemicals. The mystery shatters in the doorway to newer, more fragrant hieroglyphs, clouds of belief, the solidity of bodies becoming microtonal.

This meal of hooves is enough to make thin veneers even thinner. She is starless, only visiting the violin's spirit, one tender sun for the ribcage to conspiracy, the sheer Arabic triangle dragging every syllogism down with it. Midnight's cigarette is better before you are encoded, an equation of insects tempted to pretend your lips are more volatile than they really are, someone else's spaceship waiting just outside the window's purplest origin.

Her dark, lustrous hair is a novel, forgotten artillery guitars that are positively Vedic, barely audible cries as more and more opium in the blue of the courtyard. The repetition I once thought I was, mountains swirl and release the serpents, who, drunk on neurons that never existed, begin mixing bluejeaned thighs with the poetry that resides in the zero.

The agency of May '68 is reawakened by the stairway of teeth, circles that become aroused at the sight of antlers swaying beneath the moon....


Dream for a Druid - For the next Discharge chapbook


will be amusing my pale immigrant jailer by blasting off into space with one well worn boot dangling like a mercy flag.


se me subió el muerto

Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, while in bed unable to sleep, I will imagine she is there beside me, her back turned to me, and I will begin to imagine the events of the day we had shared, or the things we were to do tomorrow, and these will always be small events, like going to the grocery store or visiting her brother who lives in the city, and after a time it stops feeling like something that I imagined, but as something which actually happened, and some memory as random as a stone on the beach will cross my mind and stick with me, and I would turn it over and over in my head, considering it from different angles, hoping the skin of the memory would turn translucent so that I could see the organs and bones beneath the skin, the inner workings and secret structure by which it took this form, this form that now infatuated me, and it will seem there is one piece of missing information, and if I had that information it would all make sense, and while I felt certain in that moment she loved me I wanted her to feel it like the cold of riverwater on her body, feel it like the charge of a first blushing crush, and though she did not know she had this piece of information, and only able to see it as a fragment could not know it would be the solution to my memory, the point of access to this immediacy, this knowledge, and so I will turn over in my bed to touch her, to see if she is still awake, and it's only at this point that I remember she is gone.


Having studied the various articles, op-ed pieces, complaints and subpoenas surrounding the release of the Briggs Surrogate Vacuum-Based Apparatus it seems there are two primary complaints. The first, and personally the most discouraging and often simply slanderous, is that the BSVBA is immoral. These claims, which often use libelous terms such as "rape doll", claim the device feeds on our most base and predatory impulses and in fact encourages such impulses, essentially affording a kind of training for the application of abusive treatment towards actual human beings. The second is that the BSVBA, simply put, in no way resembles a human body, either male or female, resembling a kind of protean mass closer to the sort of fever-dream Hans Bellmer might have after an overdose of Salvia Divinatorum. I have said, and in fact continue to say, that both of these complaints are in fact intentional, and when coupled prove the BSVBA is in fact a superiorly moral device gradually freeing the world of the acts of social degenerates, who find the device so deeply satisfying, so entirely absorbing in its abilities and modular sexual organs that the idea of pursuing any sort of physical or psychological abuse upon an actual human seems entirely unsatisfying and shallow. We must agree, at this point in human development, that the attempts to sublimate and ignore these impulses have constantly and tragically failed throughout history. Likewise, more recent seemingly "progressive" concepts that such behaviors can be made acceptible in everyday society, that by allowing and even encouraging the behavior we diminish its transgressive aura and so diminish and finally extinguish the appeal, have also failed. The only real solution, as my company has shown in study after study (all available upon request to accredited professionals), the real solution is to veer in an entirely new direction, reorienting the impulse not in its form but in its receptacle. This in fact is the primary reason we have not made the BSVBA available for public consumption or even display. Rumors that modifications are available which allow the BSVBA to become pregnant and bear miniature BSVBAS are grossly exaggerated, as are claims that the newness of the BSVBA by definition mean the prouct is underage so that intercourse with the BSVBA is in fact child molestation, since this product has in fact been under development for over fifty years and in fact each BSVBA comes with a certificate of authentication stating each and every BSVBA available is at least eighteen years of age. As for claims that certain patients have escaped from hospitals and now prostitute their BSVBAs on the street, there have been isolated cases of this, which is certainly a tragedy, but at this time all the BSVBAs have been recovered and destroyed. We believe our ongoing efforts to improve the device have lead to real gains not only to our shareholders but to the world at large, and in fact offer a thousand dollar reward to anyone who can prove us wrong. In closing, I would like to thank the members of this esteemed committee to allow me the forum to explain in full the nature of our work, and firmly believe the senators present are truly just and wise enough to see the truth behind the endless claims and lies of our enemies. Thank you and good afternoon.

the witch is riding you

That was the day the mosquitoes began landing on my eyes, attempting to puncture the veins with their proboscises and feast on the blood therein, which would not have been so bad if that was where it ended, but their wings contained some sort of material which became sticky when combined with saline, and so their wings stuck to my eyes, where they remained until the mosquito either died or pulled off its own wings and fell to the ground in an attempt to free itself. It became painful to close my eyelids, and soon I could not close them at all, the exposed portion of each eye now fully covered with the wings and bodes of mosquitoes. At this point I could still make out vague shadows, but with the eyelids unable to close and the sheet of mosquito corpses across my eyes preventing tears from reaching the iris or pupil the eye began to dry up and atrophy. I went to a hospital to seek medical help, but the first doctor was convinced such a thing would never actually happen in nature, as he was an occasional viewer of The Nature Channel and thus considered himself an expert in the habits of all creatures great and small. He proceeded to call two orderlies to escort me to the psychiatric ward, convinced I had done this to myself in a sideways attempt to seek psychiatric assistance. I fled the hospital and took the bus (driving being now impossible) to another hospital, where a doctor was convinced this was a treatable condition with eyedrops saturated with insecticide and a mild corrosive agent to eat away the gluey substance holding the wings to my eyes. The eyedrops he prescribed came with instructions that the bottle was to be diluted, but as I could not read the instructions I assumed the solution was to be taken unadulterated, and so my eyes soon dissolved into a kind of pulpy mush entirely unsuitable for sight, and then while startled awake early one morning by a sudden realization whose details fell away immediately after awakening, the mass fell out of my eye sockets onto my chest, leaving the sockets empty. While this was a bit unseemly, it mattered little to me as I could no longer see the reaction of others gazing in horror at the exposed holes in my face, and indeed it was an unintended boon, as now I had a convenient place to keep my change.


somewhere before dawn he died, the mule shortly thereafter. i of course, lived. such is the way of luck and lust.

Dream for a Druid - The End Is The Beginning...



Shredded leaning...man, woman...leaning.Ding Ding, newspaper all over the floor,
The dune does not dissipate, we see the See the fire wind, combine silver airliner shave the tip of the mountain white beds in a row. The quails callin' the kitchen cupboards...winter to emerge like a ballerina...from the whistles to fall, lengthy and the sponge soaking the sores. the train falls short "Pinkish death coal" Desperate thinking tucked away in snow.The same name becoming sentences. Down and out, cut...paste edit...suicide Now's the time to reveal. Electronic mincer...shes for real. Repetition, holding delicate flowers, rapes field... with your heart. The man still plays on the roof. Waiting to tie fingers, divide the spirit My knees deny me...in your love

...falling......Can't catch myself just yet. (You suck the marrow out of me...........Peculating me from the inside...), force me in a box.,,with six legs.. Now she talks slowly, lips moving Folded swan, rich cemetery lawns... Pull me from my outer shell The pulling off the torso. Feeding the wild hawks withered dust. Cursed with chalky breath."I saw through a lens, underneath my pillow..... Printed.ON.I don't think so........You don't have to explain no more......her hearts a putrid honeycomb Listening to our thoughts reading newspaper.

....STONE....Heart bleeping...hes out back raking...what is left of the...then he leaves Harp bleeding....Ding Ding lost fugitive. ding, See I came to the front door first, it is more fun, down and out, cut...paste edit...suicide with the razor blade...give me an F. Over productive, over dramatic, obsessive o travelin'I must be traveling on...see ya. Hard plowing, herd then something occurred,pounding,..someday, overalls, never Nostradamus... made me think, then it was thought. ...FUN... There's a line where you stand, and wait.never seen her eyes open..shut.Waiting for the heavy rains.Figures Somebody watching -See I came to the front door first, it is more fun, down and out, cut...paste edit...suicide with the razor blade...give me an F. Zone out, zoom in.center focus, dead beat,Happy..or sad who cares.hot seat,savior.DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN.DiD...


The Process #6: Xtul

Collective blindness, pawns to power, purpose a binary closed circuit;
we await the questioning of it -
experience that surpasses experience and determining levels
The place called through the core of knowledge and open nature -

the divine universe as in Hermes.

Xtul detaches having existence beyond grinding wheels of state - cultures, societies, governments, moralities based on abstract fictions. People thinking ‘rationally’.
The hermetic tree with Yucatan branches. By inverting fear we termed it The Xtul.

Xtul is opposed to all we have been told about ourselves.

Written by A.D Hitchin, 2009.

kitab al-a'rad: the fonzie scheme

This is a con Vons Serin taught me, and it almost always works: people will let you get away with anything if you can convince them they're cool, and in being cool the square rules no longer apply. This is a variation of The Big Lie, which states that the more outlandish a falsehood the more likely it is to be believed. The key to this is having the lie down, as people are predisposed to narrative and will believe a linear falsehood before a jumbled truth. Pulling this off is a summary of small details, of how you dress and how you stand and how your breath smells when you lean in close and confide the secrets the proles aren't fit to know. Being cool, being professional, being a grownup -- these are all different facets of the same jewel, and once you can pull it off you can easily implicate others in your actions, pull them into the wake where instead of taking cues from the general public they take cues exclusively from you. "Now is different from then," you whisper, "and there is a new law."


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