politico

i have to admit my sister might be right about obama.
haven't done the research but i must say if i got a choice
between skeletor and some sexy new world order
i'ma say get me a 666 and microchip.

skeletor's court today is held on the deck of an offshore oil rig near galveston, texas. the one that was missed by that pesky hurricane last week. skeletor's baseball hat is front and center to show you how much he's like you, not like those young sideways cap sportin, boxer short exposin, card playing, tire inflating elitists ova theh. yo. he says "my opponent does not believe in offshore oil drilling my oponent does not believe in nukular power, my opponent wants you to stop driving your harleys and your humvees and put away your b52 records for god sakes my opponent is racist against beehive hairdos and bees and butterflies..." and at that moment the man who ws supposed to release the butterflies from the the skeletor stasis field was discovered choking on his own vomit and had to be airlifted five miles back to the beaches of texas, which were enjoying a brief respite from white sand thanks to the oil spill last week. back to you jack.

&^%&%^&&^6557%&^&^&%&^%

notes from inside the web


school is about to begin, i've infected
my son with ennui, nothing seems to catch
his attention except guitar hero and south park.
tonite we watched three episodes together, family
nite in reverse. my ex, my son & me spending
quality time watching tv. now they're doin what boys
do, talkin left /up/ up/ down and plotting civilizations
in vampiric universes. i worry about the future,
but in a vague after my eightieth birthday way. every day
i feel more and more irrelevant. i realise they have to deal
with the system going entropic in a very real way.
blade runner morphs into a stacato matrix.
the ways of marketing burn the disc into a repetitive
fresca. bubbles on the rise. fruity loops combined with elemental
screams, it still feels good to thrash when the trash
comes down. i wish i wasn't so cryptic now, sometimes
i read those and wonder the hell?


i had a thread. let me sew it up. the dryer
breaks down. window leaks. in another home, ford prefect,
the male kitten, refuses to eat real food. he wants
to nurse. his mother is eaten with fleas. poison lines
the floor, poison on her back, three different kinds
and still the fleas thrive. he tries his best but bugs
evolve in a day. nothing the chemical companies produce
affect the invasion. ford's
are the eyes of an angry, hungry, willful boy. his nose
is lined with black, his tail lined with bloodsuckers.
the bubonic plague was carried by fleas. i have a boil
on the inside of my thigh which i attribute to the ancestor
that survived that viricide, but it's prolly due
to caffeine and stress.

i wonder if bubbly dark matter is sorta like an ocean
or if it's the lightless chasms between aorta and ventricle.
where in god's body do we, as a world in fractal throes exist--
maybe his toe? the big one? beauty? i can hear you scream
as the bone is broken, the cusp formed. after the origami
nightmare is finished, she lays on her side on a divan panting
in small rigid gasps. he kisses the circle of her foot
where his cum keeps the skin soft and pliable, his
mimetic cunt where he can watch his pleasure
be real. sometimes the things we do to each other
defy any rationalization, so it must be at the pleasure

of the gods. take the girl in the window. her feral
experience a national news story. gifts pouring in as if
she were an abused pet. everyone wants to adopt her now
but she might have died and no one would have known
least of all herself. beauty? the way it tears at the roots
of what you were to help you become something
symmetrical and bleeding. crimp your hair, wax goodness
on the inner thigh, stilletto and seams. princess dresses
of pink chiffon and piled high hair. rococo buildings
with hour glass columns. the yatch at the mooring
in tiger bay where the sampan cities block the bay.

she never gets the names correct but it really doesn't matter
it's an alternate and alliterative universe. she realises the incoherence
is annoying but fails again and again into failure. she understands
it's all been said, every pieta, every scorcese film, each and every
oprah show a paean to normalcy imbued by high school. how can she
even pretend to her son the value of socialization when cliques
inevitably form, when isotopes gather on the edges of the high school
and threaten to hang the niggers from the rope they strung up
in the old oak tree grown for whites only? the future? frantastic.

if only the old growth forest would get out of the way but
no, it's all about longevity with those joshua things.
why won't you die hangs in the air . even the chainsaws
are beginning to fail. the bark hardens like iron. old fuckers
are hanging on for... what? novelty? when was this ever different?


i'm beginning to like the plot of soylent green.
that's when you couldn't trust anyone under thirty
when logan ran and escaped because his skin
was beginning to wrinkle, when the botox retropicalization
was all shiny and new. suicide not only was ok
but socially sanctioned so we could feed the new.

well? why not? do i really want to live into those future decades
with all this nostalgia for idealism imprinted into me? i think the soylent
green building should be called the kervorkitorium. i liked the way
logan's people turned it into a game, where you go out in a blaze of glory.
i realize those movies could only have been written by the middle aged, and
i sometimes hope we've bred a generation of natural born killers out there
in the desert. someone who could hack the head off the man in the seat
next to him on the greyhound bus in a methodical manner as if from
a demon. the screams of beauty echo in from the luggage compartment.
the mountainous main highway, where peaks describe beauty
in majestic, vertiginous terms. the softening
of her breasts as the bra is removed, the almost imperceptible
decline of centuries of wear and tear. even the mountains
wash to the sea.


























and then again.
suicide as option?
well why not. i still think
i'd like to survive most days.
beauty is so ephemeral
i wanna see what butterflys by my window
tomorrow.




*^*&&^


in which i realize that vampires deserve their own universe



in the bedroom where the game has been downloaded
onto the new computer, purchased for an online career
in agoraphobia, males stroll thru the story,interacting
with existent, existential beings. some of this is preplanned
some of it a combination of bits collapsing into each other
but none of it is unwritten. unless the machine really does
have ghosts. the lucky star motel, room 2.

aladdin has pointy shoes, left outside the door
as if this were a hotel where jeeves will insure
their return, patched and neatly peaked. my own feet
still hurt from when they were broken in the fourteenth
century, and i wonder if this is where my dyspepsia for paterfamilia
begins. if i use the words wrong, it's just my struggle with hanging
this landscape we've been debating. there's a bit of room
of the walls here, but mostly the ancestral visages
age along the corridors while the models are out being dorian gray.

in my vampire universe, that's how they do it. and if the blood
isn't drawn then the drawings seditiously take their revenge.

i was talking to you last nite about beauty. you called me vain.
didn 't seem to get the point about why we crave it, the truths
i unearthed just mosquitoes buzzin around your monitor ears.
not everything relates back to my bog of skin in a direct manner.


isn't the death of a star a beautiful thing? they say jesus was born
on the first night we saw a supernova's ghost in our sky. the light
lit up the desert for months. i don't know if that's the actual recorded
values, you know how myth receeds from truth over time. formulaicly
m>th/tx. and maybe there were lives inside that star system
maybe there were other babies being born inside that explosion.
i would mourn them. i do. but the past is not regrettable
if you never lived it. the regrets of not doing are a different simulation-
i'm well aquainted with it.