Aprés Moi, La Folie

(with appurtenances)

My God! (and this one IS mine, dammit! So don't even bother trying to pray to Him because He don' give a shit about YOUR problems because HE is MY God! Is that clear enough? Hmm?)

It's happening again and it is eroding me! This time it's Philip K. Dick! The man is DEAD. And that interview of him going on over there on the right was recorded in 1979! And it is Rare; not like I have heard it before you should know that much by now I would have THOUGHT if all of these damn great artists keep sneaking up on me and I BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH HA HA HATE is ALL they know! W  h  y  c  a  n  t  ?

You seeeeeee it??

Just the fucking noise and I did NOT steal from him or her yesterday or James Fucking Joyce ladedadaladedah Puke! Even Pueblo Puke-Asshole and, what did you call them? No; the all of them the whole group?  

I Do Not Have The Time To Waste.… So, now…just name them and things will go your way out of the range of your spray of essence. Bukowski didn't. Shakespeare didn't (though Banquo may have) and not even Salinger hid all that well when you get right down to a space dog's biscuits (was Latka hungry while dying for the sins born of inexpressible cowardice? Dying. AND hungry? Oh, you Lords of Lourdes! What have you done with Latka's NAILS?? How the fuck are we going to get saved NOW?

bastards why not slowly replace the oxygen         with nitrous oxide  been a last loving betrayal nail nailnail) (and if she wants to get fucked? (Her wörd) well, if her paradigm is all that wet, well then NAILED! TO! then just you pose and I'll be your very own Mjölnir!! Holy hammer and you will never get the imprint of those planks out of your flesh so proudly overFÜcked with a WHale of a nail 2 that floor! See? That floor.… SEe? THAT floor, bitch!! SEE IT NOW? Goddamn Russian dogs have more foursites than You did and didn't even leave your scent for those fuckers no you faked or at least gasmed for HOW MANY? And you dare compare my dick my dear to the holy anonymous what, 12? And joked about the bloody Peters? w h y NOT grow your own? Queen or queer, you've a cock at least my deer so until Jesus throws with mighty thews a brick through that door aback of you and while, now dead, your cunt's unmoved I or Lie-ya as bucks we'll mount you pale tree-nayled and have your butt like you while live were never.…drilled!! HA! Lost it lost it who wins now? Jesus, Hejus, mayhap the Dog? You were to Latka save with that great Gape you gave and gave and gave which trade would have an ifgasm gaved or whengasm but what's your butt's gonna give a damn when they're you nailed, all dead and rot

I hope yore soiled soul does all true regret all the whatgasms you ain't not Got! Who keeps CLEANING up I said all Down Down all and Only! Jesus! Oh, my God! Even He ain't wholly!!

(I said didn't I didn't? That HE is mine? Recall? Remember? Once and that should've sufficed! He is MINE! Still you frigging, fucking, somehow HAD to prey! I Heard you once (suffice!) twice (Suffice!!) no you thimply hash to still sit even THRICE and here as my life's cold flow down those demon's drains goes and yet that THRICE the thrice damned Thrice!! Your final insult, high yet higher last curse, some morbid Cupid's oozed lipids greased so your hole My God, His staff? His ROD the pole will be it evil be it ill but for eaver you'll stay Upright (Unclean) UPRIGHT UPRIGHT for my evers in this Hateternal night I have now for mine, and Hey-Zeus! Loook! Can't see no sight but small ill thrill You did at least as that last Homer's Boner ceded all 2 to Frever Knightnight. And still by Jizzez, by dumb UnDonne ChRiSt!! E'en after all, e'en as ALL ends…that crisp corpsicle Cryst, ya couldna melt e'en played mit plush, so in no scent didya pile the stile on Cryst, forgotten pursed-lips slit did promise that that Final Defile'd be t'least half nice. . . .

[Nostril inhale/Gut, chest, out mouth]

I am as far past speed as duration is past non-existence. If Newtonian terminology could be beaten into a shape that might allow for a vermiform Air Canada stewardess to claim and win a wrongful dismissal case only to trip over a Strange Attractor and become the inspiration for Vera Lynn's "We'll Breed Again" then I might settle for the letdown of mere velocity. Which will prove to be the only bribe that could then have the Sun of Ghad lock Wayne Newton in the eternally burning brimstone pit in which he finds himself to be its only intended occupant. The entirety of existence still shatters into less than there was before there was anything but now everyone feels much better about suffering through a German-Jewish vision of wasted real estate to get there.

[Coda: ]

Everywhere else this ended up I made two small (at least from my point of view) changes. 

1) It begins now with the second word, "I." You have a beauteous and noble name but I decided to jettison all reasons which might require it's explanation. I wanted it written but not as the Doom of That Fine Day of my Youth.

2) The word between "brimstone pit" and "which" should be changed from "it" to the correct "in." A simple typo.

An effect which I did not expect to happen when I am quite literally typing as fast as I can, is the near pristine state of the first and only copy. Here: a single-letter typo and one editorial change (which or neither may never have been necessary at a less breakneck pace of the typing). And I knew that was a lie as I wrote it. I could NOT have typed any slower than the emergence of the content, else a backlog would have finally brought it to a halt when it was but 15% composed (a naked guess--all that relates to but is not a part of the organic original, can be read for interest only for it has no authenticity).

{Bowed, I beg a boon, O' Thee,

 Mother, Sister, Moon; Thee Three}

Oh, Lord of pointlessly 

perambulatory 

peoploids! 

Let it End!

Leave it rust or mould, each down their assigned avenues of dissolution but let the Backup, that insidious faux certainty that will NEVER come to be until it's we, not our 

copy,

that communed, 

subsumed, aether's 

runes, and so equipped, 

All-singing 

spins eternity.

[Cue: An exeunt to Wagner (rotate) ]

[Anecdotal closing credits; slight haze]

I must be devolving down into an entirely altruistic state of Wagnerian epic pomposity, roaring if not quite on a Roll, spewing out outré short comedy with not an iota of benefit for the fuel, border crossing fees, sci-fi conceptions of alien detritus like royalties or the care of the duodenal ulcer that is the weird I carry for the ONE time that I was too involved in this my curse and neglected to laugh at a jest of Loki's!! Fucketh not with a God especially one who has never had need of megalomania because he IS a GOD and you know what? Immortals have Very, Very Good Memories and the time to indulge them!

…Then Everything Ended

Alarum! Alarum! O! The Day of Judgement must be nigh unto us!! I am cooking during DAYLIGHT HOURS!!

O, woe unto us! (I was just catering to a hankering for some roast chicken, I SWEAR that's all it was! Really! I didn't MEAN to trigger the End of Days but, just as I'm sliding the pan with the chicken parts on it into the oven, BRAAMMM!!! Suddenly the archangel Uriel is in my kitchen, dumping a bowl of some sort of lumpy liquid the colour of "sick" (the only word I know that even comes close!) out of my kitchen window and onto the lawn below! Fuck! If I hadn't been upwindward I'd'a DIED; it stunk worse'n Chicago in '68!! RrrgAH!! (sorry but just couldn't hold it no more.…)

Done with His dump, Uriel chucks the bowl up and far away, turns to me (I haven't even closed the oven door yet & the left side of my face is feelin' hotter'n Hell), says, "Better you than me, buddy. The stairs down there and then a left? Right; thanks. And if I were you, I'd get as far as I could from this place, and Fast!"

"Get out of the building?" Uriel just looks at me for a moment as if God had only recently created idiots and I was the first one He'd ever seen. Then He walks out and in about a minute I can barely hear angelic footsteps whisper down the stairs and out of Creation.…)

I closed the oven door.

The Elusive Long-Taled Short

Beg yer pardon if I unintentionally draw forth a ghost of the concept of matrimonial rituals but I've a new spin on something old.…

Once more my lack of attention paid to the uninteresting resulted in a ransacking of my apartment by myself. I had not lost my cigarette holder, and though of interest to me, was of no assistance when looking for a bayonet. A modern one may be familiar. The odds in favour of that being the case are comparable to my wearing of blue Calvin Klein boxer shorts at the time I write this. Had you bet one of your vital organs you would be feeling that you had not wanted that matched pair of Phyllis Diller shoe-keepers all that much anyway.

I was looking for a British-made Sanderson bayonet manufactured to fit a Lee-Enfield Mk I. It was in the original sheath, was made in 1907 for the Boer War and, in its sheath, measured about 23" in length. It usually just lay on my sleeping spot amongst the ordinary sort of clutter to be expected lying about on a masculine chap's cot: a shortwave radio, the SAS survival manual (compact field version), cookies, several coiled bootstrings, 3 variations on the combat knife, 6 teddy bears, air-powered dart gun (loaded), an Eng.-Latin-Eng. dictionary, BDSM bondage guide, 3-medium sized bags of drugs, 1 container of ultra-high calorie-count fried bread, box of scalpels (opened), selection of electronics products, Kerouac's "On The Road," skin grease (high-lipid % hospital grade), box of latex gloves, minimum-trace assassination devices (or not) (could be imaginary, could be patent-pending), sci-fi, 8+ bandanas, dirt, tobacco powder, stiff wads of Kleenex, etc.

Because this antique accessory never left HQ nor was there a Lee-Enfield present that was in need of accessorizing, the space allotted for the missing item and its seeker seemed not unreasonable as a point of egress into the material survey. (Like, why not? The place is getting wrecked anyway.)

At this point the only relevant information required is that HQ is in a one-bedroom apartment with a large living room the floor of which, as well as every horizontal surface of every piece of furniture, is covered with a museum quantity of nearly infinite examples of what is meant by "stuff." There is a good sized kitchen similarly arrayed with the notable exception of the counters and cooking surfaces, an L-shaped entrance-way with a junk-surrounded passage through the centre of it, and finally, a bathroom with a bathtub/shower and the usual other Western world sanitation facilities. The HQ can also boast of three built-in clothes closets though there is no motive so to do.

Having first half-emptied the "bed" and searched its surfaces and crevices to no avail, the search continued methodically through the entire apt., using a three D-cell Maglite to focus the one-man investigative crew's attention, using up an hour to attend to every space, crack, crevice and gap. Boxes and bags were moved to check both behind and under them. "Junk" was moved to allow closet doors (which had not revealed their interiors for years) to be opened. Note: the item sought had not been seen in about 4-5 days. This is pointed out only to illustrate the thoroughness of the rescue efforts. Though much perspiration was indeed brought to light none of it was found to be hiding a bayonet of slightly less than two feet in length. Abstruse, arcane and even occult theories were built and were in their turn discarded. The morale of the work crew sank to the depth of the Marianas Trench (the deepest known point of all of the oceans of the Earth). The crew was returning to the starting point of its search, prepared to do it all over after regrouping and refreshing itself, when a small cardboard box which had once been filled to overflowing with first aid supplies was noticed on a nightstand at the foot of the folded-out couch that served as both support-for and platform-for the sleeping/day-rest pallet. Much too small to either contain or cover the cold instrument of impalement it was nonetheless moved aside so that it could not be recorded that any coordinate within the dwelling had been ignored.

Behind the box was revealed the hilt of the death-dealing steel, which had lodged diagonally at such an angle that no part of it was visible unless its seemingly insufficient disguise was radically relocated.

This is a first for your humble correspondent: not only was the lost object in the last place that was looked into, said which truism's humour resides precisely in its inevitability. The find was also made in the last place there WAS to look!