The Prodigal Gun

Mind redlined, wants weld dream, screams, reason's pieces; self melts, hate howls fire.… Satori. Alone now, the happy thumping led him home.

Jesus At Hammer Falls

I've a cross there

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

FATHER!!

I've a cross there 

FATHER!!

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

Father?

I've a cross…Father?

There.

I've a cross.

Mine to bear, Father.

I've a cross but,

Father, I will not 

Carry it off, will 

I, Father?

Tell me, will it weigh

Any less when borne

By a billion 

Shoulders?

I've a cross there 

You'll leave for 

Them to bear.…

Father.…

Anachronism

In our nuclear age 

I'm powered by steam;

I will not fly, I 

Will not dream. 

I'd still burn wood 

If only I could 

But I have been told 

My smoke makes the 

Little ones choke,

That they'd rather toke 

When they take 

To those skies where

They know I will not go.…

In this nuclear age

I'm no longer a cleric, but 

Rather more a queer relic, 

Vaguely recalled 

By the so-called well

Schooled, 

But by the vast masses

More honestly 

Considered a fool. 

Still, mayhap it's good 

That I no longer burn 

Wood, for where could 

My chimney's smoke go?

Where'd blow the 

Breeze and who'd care?

Since the nuclear 

Fallout killed off the trees 

And poisoned the 

Remains of the air.…

At Last, The Task

The sun in rising,

Decants a destiny down, 

Splashing redly, 

Replete with meaning. A

Full-bodied fate fills

My ill-chosen flask; some last

Splashes and then, o'erfilled,

Leaves my cuff hanging limp,

Leaking, staining 

Crimson the wrist

And the flask-filled hand. 

So, anointed into the 

Weird now appointed me,

A flash of the past pierces,

A gash not mine 

Appears and a sight

Opaque to eyes reminds. 

Time folds His fingers 

'Tween mine in that 

Special way so 

That, overlaid, we share

The impaling nail

And the vision is,

Once emptied, whisked

Away but, again, I 

Must stay.

Eleven

What are you?

Are you as essential 

As the pencil is 

To paper? 

As the lunar light 

Is to raven wingèd

Night?

As, later in the coming 

Morn, the dawn 

Once more will break, and 

When broken, there won't 

Be no light no more. So 

Darling, please, be 

My very own heroin: pick

Out a vein and shoot 

Your life therein.

Let me watch and, as 

I grow stronger,

You'll wither, linger, die

In time no thicker 

Than my little finger.

Once you swore you'd  

Be my friend until 

The very end of ends, 'till,

Though I'd've lost my all, still 

You'd cling, giving no heed 

To how feeble were my

Shredded leavings.

Now, and as Desolation is

My witness, I see

You strive to swim away.

Well, my, my, my, my dear,

Let me toss you some 

Comfort: this lifesaver, custom

Made of lead. It strikes me 

As the perfect payment for 

So casual a betrayal,

A phoney kiss so far 

Off the mark

That even Judas, in 

His well-earned heated pit,

Can't help but bray with 

Raucous laughter,

Though he thrash in

Agony eternal forever after.

So, grasp now my gift, my

Dearest one, drown deep and 

Fast, for there's but a finite

Limit to how long I 

Can or canst keep my 

Righteous vengeance 

In restraint. God may, in

Deed, forgive but yet

From true forgetfulness 

We both refrain.

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.