Prose, Prose anything goes: Mondo Distorto parts 1-?

You people got a lot of nerve. I can’t deny that I wanted to take advantage of their hurt. The words transcend their meanings and meaning transcends feeling and there’s cleansing and healing. Spock here Captain. Time for a bit of logic. I don’t want to fight. I’m not gonna bite. I just want a little piece of the action. I got aviator sunglasses, faded jeans, got a nasty smile like James Dean and my tee shirt’s way too small. I’ve got a pack o’ Lucky’s rolled up in my sleeve, my hair’s all slicked back with axle grease, is that rock-a-billy to you? I got wrap around glasses safety-pinned up jeans, I know all the words to "God Save the Queen", my tee shirt tells the ugly truth. I don’t smoke nothing just speed and talk, my hair’s a green spiky Mohawk, is that punk enough for you baby? You know, I don’t wear glasses I wear a ten gallon hat, Nudie sparkle suits is a-where I’m at, I just got to get me some new rattlesnake boots. I pick my guitar by the old campfire, I ride the range a six-gun for hire, is that enough rootin’, tootin’ pistol Pete shootin’ cowboy?

I’m just the recorder. You’re the decoder. put on your decoder rings boys and girls.

The yellow princess lifts her tiny pink nose toward the sky, telling Jonas, her loyal servant, that New York is simply the most fabulous place she’s ever been and why she simply must lose her virginity to one of those darling people who smoke the "smelly old weed". Jonas smiles for he would love to pick that ripe cherry himself. In fact it was nearly a question of need. In the end she wins and winds up sacrificed to the Vulcans of Vishnu, a feral fraternity of no remorse. Make me demolish my face, allow me to hari-kari my ego, wait, don’t go, I can get you a good seat, I want you to watch. It’ll be like stabbing roaches with an icepick. Just brick dumb stupid.

Baby what are you talking about?
Just say it, you don’t have to shout.
don't be shy just spit it out.

One thing I got to know,

baby before I go,

baby where are you coming from?

baby who are you running from?
Why did you pick on me?
I’ve got eyes but I can’t see,
just how one and one makes three.
One thing I got to know,
baby before I go,
baby where you coming from?
Who are you running from?

Did I know you in high school? Did you ever go to my school? Eastside, west-side who can remember, we graduate come September, I can’t place your name but I have seen your face. Did you ever go to Shoney’s, or hang out at the beach? Dance to Bonie Maronie? eat a Georgia peach? I know you, you’re the girl next door.

Ask me what I’m doing Saturday night. I may be busy then again I might hold a special place in my heart for you. What are you doing Saturday night? If I don’t get me a girl on Saturday night I wake up alone on Sunday morning and it just wouldn’t be right so what are you doing Saturday night?

I make love to her bad poetry and picture myself in the picture. Daydreams shift into memories real life into fiction. I want to be a poet and sip coffee, think heavy thoughts, little off-beat fractured fragments of absurd misfortune. I want to be a poet. A man of letters, make a connection, what could be better? The exquisite laces of Chantilly throw broken shadows along my walls as breezes puff their sails. A leaf rustles in the wind caresses itself and dangles in the lunar light remembering fragmented shadow memories cast to what far reaching corner, what tulip field, what desperate desolate beach. Vinyl tears sparkling in the warm sunshine, dripping from placid plasticine eyes, droplets of acid rain rivers on my cheeks a flooding well of unrealized ideas robbing my ability to speak.
I turn on the radio to screeching static. I’ll chop you up in my new veg-a-matic, here to claim what’s rightfully mine, even though I’m frightfully blind. I can’t communicate with home base. I can’t communicate with the human race. I can’t see that far into space, what am I suppose to do? Who do I tell my troubles to?

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Circumscribe your head before the final judge. Tell him you are not about to budge, from his evil but informed mind; you fought the war on vice and ah… always read the last page twice. I’m trying to tell you the truth but you won’t listen. I’m trying to talk to you but you won’t even listen. I’m trying to reveal some basic cosmic truth and you just sit there pissing. You are in the bathroom pissing. Tie me to the dungeon wall. Beat me until I bleed, put me down on bending knees, make me crawl. Force me into emotional slavery, jerk my leash, pull my chain. Confrontation; Captain Noah Zion versus the white zombies, the living dead, the totally erased, nothing in their heads. Pre-programmed mechanical motion, got no rights, got no emotions. Dumb as mud, glazed over eyes, cry no tears, lobotomized. bullets rip right through me, I’ve already expired. Nothing can kill me I’m already dead, everything’s been said, my brain’s been bleed.

White zombie goes to work everyday and doesn’t remember how to play. He has no fun, he’s just television’s banished son. Alienation, soaring, like a siren. TV station programing my dreams. Lovetrain coming to you live except for five-second video delay. The alien machine waiting on the beam. Can you hear the screams? Can you hear the insect whine of the lunatic intelligence, the positronic brain. Mutants? Monsters? Steel feathers. Rodent manhole eyes. Television, true-life drama disguised. Alienation soars like a siren. Is everyone insane? No, just alien. We’ll do whatever it takes. We’ll make all the mistakes. and have.

Everything goes black.
Everything goes white.
Everything goes blank.

I walk into a department store and the dick checks me out. A walk in the park, a flash in the dark, reality? Time travel? There’s blood on the sheets and a wet blade in my hands. My hearts pumping to a driving beat, hot and sweaty, in heat, I can’t stop moving my feet. Here in the vacuum we search for a space man or more precisely a space creature of no specific gender, a creature of wild card sensuality, a star child in comic book colors bearing icy crystals that quickly melt in our sweaty palms. Wonders beyond the imagination. King Komik shoes. Strawberry bells tinkling sweetly, lavender poets swimming in the maple pool singing the praises of the old Indian cinderman with the bag of dreams for sale. Sunflower beads swing from his neck and a band of many worlds encircle his atomic glowing moon junk head, his sparkling eyes grasp your imagination, tugging at you, pulling you into their depth.

The sights I see, yellow red white, constant flickering stars, the scarlet sun over my shoulder and the beauty of lyrics and guitars in my inner ear. The British Invasion sounds I hear and the stench of the great universal obscenity that surrounds me mixed up with the horrors and delights of my expected return home.

On the corner stands a young green geek talking up a blue streak "hey man wha’s happenin’?" "nothing, how ‘bout you?" "is it true what they are saying about you?" the long-haired mustachioed boy rested his head in the corner at the two walls intersection. His eyes saw nothing. His works lay beside him on the street. He begins to sweat. With tender loving care he picks up the glassine packet of white powder and empties it into a large spoon and cooks his cauldron over a beeswax candle. When the preparation is ready he begins rubbing the inside of his left elbow then ties a rubber tube tightly around his upper arm and fidgeting with anticipation as a bruised but mighty vein pops to the surface. He fills the dropper through a cotton ball filter, squirts a bit skyward to eliminate air bubbles. Moves toward the fresh blue range of mountains and inserts the shiny 26 gauge spike into a virgin peak and slowly releases the bulb. a tiny river of blood flows back into the dropper. Now he re-pressurizes the blub and squirts the liquid into the blue mountain vein. Removes needle and rubber binding and settles back against the wall. Resting stone eyed reflection.

To Darwin’s disbelief the visionary monkey vaulted on a visionary pole and died a heroic visionary death. The striking thing about this episode is that he bled real blood. But then, the heaven he attained was, again, only visionary. or was it imaginary?

Cast any doubts aside and follow the path. Abide by the four requirements and walk proudly forward until all doubt has vanished and only the holiest of songs are sang. After a series or rebirths the moon of the sixth month parachutes onto the eastern horizon filed with the Master’s words. Kneel and give recognition to the attainment of a heightened state of being. At a time when the lunar disk is at it’s fullest metamorphosis of light and power three great events take place. In Egyptian tombs live the hidden secrets of the Ankh the symbolic neckwear of the Pharaohs. Power enough to empty the oceans. Tales of hidden treasure unknown pleasures sealed tightly in tiny cells under layers and layers of protective dullness.

Let’s go on an adventure seeking trip. The truths are just tiny natural molecules of mushroom and cactus and moldy bread. Send out a search party, happiness released on unsuspecting minds too fragile to deal with freaking freely bathing in music and prophetic dancers leaping about in the cosmic opera. Over hill under bridges and all around the psyche. My little menta-puter has sold all it’s color at the cost of a single thought. Cobalt blue flourishes kaleidoscopes and equations of no rational solution. Money can’t buy this. Collect them and hang them in the galleries of your mind. Stand where the angles of space intersect with the angels of the cosmos and soak in the dazzling clarity that you will never achieve again. I wonder how far and how fast it’s possible to go, and what happens in the stillness between seconds.

Electronic birds chirping at the corners. Tambura drone far away but dominate my collective sonic field; enhanced ears. A swirling spiral alternates black yellow black yellow switching to a strobbing pulse spinning top tornado bumble bee helix. Purple blond flower doves flying around, the cheery sound of shy satin voices, remembrances of painted death-mask smiles, photographic memories inside my black box. For him there is not a flower that has died, even the relaxed portals radiating sun drenched silent pulsing emotion. The Captain waves his crimson cloak and expels the darkness. Neon geometric vibrations overlap, each glows with its own gaseous light. waves of color connects each to the infinite sea. Distinct defining formations. A billion yellowing windows blinking behind his cornea his camera, all objects remain in still life knowing all but not speaking. After light-years of meditation there are only hints at cultivating the proper Ka. Vague symbolic phrases posing as naked provocation in some dimensional side door. Whatever flower you wear, whatever cross you bear, it is you who must find the truth. Your method is of your own choosing. Even while seeking the truth you will hear the cries of "I’m all for it, let’s burn Detroit. We’ll start with the motor city…" "we'll burn the whole world down".

The blind eyes that see you slap the mouth that kisses you broke the heart that loves you. Run and get a razor blade, run and get a laser ray man ray death ray sting ray sugar ray. I can’t seem to settle on solid ground. Oh, I’m so upset. I tried to kill myself but just spent the whole afternoon cleaning up the mess. I never buy that brand of blade again. I tried to shoot m’ brains out, missed and hit a mirror, now it’s seven fucking YEARS of bad luck. Oh, I am so upset.

She don’t want a baby,
she wants an IUD.
He says no vasectomy,
he wants the IUD.
no unwanted pregnancy.
n unwanted pregnancy.

She wants prophylactic love
he wants an IUD.
No hysterectomy
she wants the IUD
no unwanted pregnancy,
no unwanted pregnancy.

You could never penetrate
the mighty Copper 7 the mighty
Dalkon Sheild.
Lippy’s gone a little loopy.

It’s like a needle looking for a thread a rocket in space looking for the home heading a decapitated body looking for it’s head, a button to sew on, something to go on. The sea rolls in and the sea rolls out. Not so far away the ice caps crumble and melt, circle in and out, waxing and waning. The salt water has no place to go no way out. It must reclaim the earth, it must take its natural place. We’ve accelerated the pace entered the race to escape to space. A button to sew on, one to grow on and one more for the road. Like a needle looking for a thread, like a body that has misplaced its head, circle in circle out moons and moons waxing and waning the sun, the sun, the sun. salt water has no place to go when the glacier melts.

Morning of the first day, sips the wine slowly shifts from muddy pools to dust. The clouds form drifts of his demonic lust, nly in the shifting sands can he trust. Rides the winds of eiree nights
foward headlong to the grave. In passing blinks his brights, toward right. He makes a lady faire, enslaved by her own tremendous busts, and makes amends by spitting fire from the darkened cave languishing with incoherent poetry, wiping crocodile tears wept by long lost lovers, consistently lost in series of threes and makes it back home. Back to the bottle, the wine of their desire. The princess patiently awaits her King. She is so beautiful it makes the angels cry. History will question why her head awaits this crown, why her finger awaits the binding band of the throne. She thirsts to drink the King’s wine. That much we know.