Pope Peter & the Moon Child

Pope Peter & the Moon Child

Decipherer’s Preface

The document which sets before your eyes was not written by a human hand.

In fact, it is not the work of any hand at all.

As the story has been related, this work is the product of an eruption of automatic writing recorded during a seance, one involving a group of researchers which had been seeking to contact this now deceased author.

In a brilliant display of supernormality, a pen, setting upon a notebook, spontaneously stood up aright and began, suddenly, transcribing the strange vocalizations which bellowed out of the medium’s mouth.

This frenzy lasted as long as the duration of Mozart’s Requiem and has been edited by myself only in order to render it clearer for the reader.

This editing process required to a small extent a re-writing of a sometimes jarbled text. This has necessitated some simple deletion from the original, but I would seek to persuade the reader, that this was, is of a wholly unintelligible sort of expression, comprehensible to none. If anyone is interested in the original text, one may enquire further.

However, I assure you, the text presented renders this revelation most faithfully. As is clearly obvious, I must and will take the ultimate responsibility for these editorial decisions and hope that this product is pleasing to my dear reader.
James Aire


Decipherer’s Second Preface

We could add to the fire by speaking of such things, and we should.

James Aire


Pope Peter & the Moon Child

Once again upon this moontide frenzy, streams this last twilight, this Night, it gleams… Pope Peter, his head & legs a goat, breasts of a woman, this last of his Noble kind, his nimbus glows, rhythmicly fucks her curvy, burly, blue ass via this white-trash, plastic, armless statue, this Sacred Virgin, raw shit flows out, orvis glows, across scaly scarlet tissues, fluid red throws fleece. ‘Oh, what did you expect to find, … peanut butter & jelly???…,’ (Choosy Mothers Choose Jiff, No SKIPPY goddammit, not that, you lousy Mother fuckin’ whore child, aids & crack addiction! It is Peter Pan who is sublime, only this brand ascends from these dark primeval waters, encircles its own horizons, this Mother dries herself off, casts across libations to those thirsty ones…. she brisquely beckons, ‘Holy water, come & bring, cast in salt for seasonin’, give these zombies, here this plight, ring these bells, hell’s affright.’ As preeee- programmed, these unchoosy mothers stood limply aghast.

As large & long as his face seems, to My sense, as Pope Peter’s Pine at Rome, every bone appears proportionately immense. Ruddy complexion, goat beard, cock feathers, ox tail & burning eyes. An iron chain wraps his neck five times round. It glimmers in this cold, cry dry heat.

He succumbs to his knees, worships her, his heart races… shatters amidst his joyous love, a love sends shatter to her, this most joyous, beautiful one, she shines back through his shining. Jets her hand towards his scruff cheek gentle caress lands drag joy, love transmits across this supple opening. The chicken grows tense as those winds bellow, dark clouds coalesce, consecrates these spectacular spaces irrespective of light or good. For it did not matter after all what was happening as these winds pick up kick pup dancing leaves across fractured terrains, it is aways there, not to be questioned, at least not for now.

Her smile beams as Pope Peter engulfs her breasts, lips open wide, consumes her navel, forehead, dew drippin’ vaginal arena, he swallows her entire luscious bouncin’ body in one gurgilin’ gulp. Bellows out her laughter as she has found this kosmicly kaleidoscopic chance, this opens, she dances, her only time, no piss test in this corporate restroom. He drinks these her eyes, beholds wonder, this dark speck of cereal flashes out its fiery needles on all sides. Air fills this humid corridor, little birds fly about smash into clear, clean glass hit this floor, stand up, shake themselves off, once again begin this endless circuit.

Suddenly, a very small genderless child appears, an innocent, licentious face beams out across among within this joy, blond locks dance across this vortex of utter saturated curiosity, it asks, gesturing with its third hand, ‘Is that this reason why this liberty bell is cracked, is it merely assertion after all, is not our ownmost wish just an echo of this sad implotrix???’ Stuns, adults turn, look at this face as elders will look at evil, demonic children, quietly dismissin’ this rant, these progenitors takin’ this stern hit of embarrassment, perform this obligation, a hoop-jumpin’ diorama of authority vis-a-vis their own child’s subversion, so as to belong, to sniff & be sniffed… this small child hisses at lackluster ass faces, ‘How lovely, so luvey lovely, you live limp your luscious lives….. OH! if I could live soooo verrrry long!!! Bubbly!!!’

It, this child, storms from this house, taking this dog & cat out amidst this wilderness of a thousand cawing crows – within an instant, that house of his father explodes, a bomb this small one happily set under the dinner table, chunks, mom & dad, sister-brother – auntie melba… scatter across, fly around out about over, paint this monotonous scene lovely psychedelic reds, oranges, blues — those insidious elves come out wary, grab all these pieces that they can, retreat into this dark forest to consume these, this, their spoils… A caption reads across this screen… Just Do It! Some one tries to sell him milk, yet, he turns away to gaze at these clouds which slide past this blinding full moon…. Now back to Minister’s Daughters: In Love With Snakes. A brief gray pause ensues…

That cricket beats but slowly this shadow coyly casts, temperatures fall, reduce this ardor, cool careful currents collide, breeze, chilly apparition emanates mutinous mundane monotonous cadence, these little fiddlers dance in those trees, in these cracks of rocks. After this sunrise hides, they become silent, dusk begins to fall… For Myself, Pope Peter would have cast me from the aither into the sea, out of sight, had not Night, subduer of gods & men, saved me… to her did I come in flight, & he, angry though he was, ceased for he was in awe of doing what would be displeasing to swift Night.

In preparation for his festival of love, Pope Peter sprang forth from the wilderness & entered his conjuring lodge. It stands via stout poles, eight in number, planted firmly, covered with wet skins, a small aperture from which he spies his love. Once inside, he carefully closes the hole & commences his incantations. All at once, the lodge trembles, strong poles shake & bend as with the amalgam force of a dozen men, & strange, unearthly sounds, now far aloft in the air, now deep in the ground, anon approach near & nearer, reach MY ears. Pillars of smoke drift, swirl, dissemfumes hashish & eyes of fat Newt, Pope Peter rises from his haze, a stern warrior, embarks amidst this world, traversing this land devoted to utter destruction, bears my command, only this sharp sword.

As a vapor, he covers this earth, makes his airy abode amidst these heights, his throne, a pillar upon a cloud. He turns, waves his arms as a bird, prattles to his heart of sorrow, ‘Do not harm this earth, this sea, these trees, until you have marked each of those suits with this seal upon their foreheads.’ That herd echoes, ‘No Be It!!!’ Each individual consents along within this containment field… Pope Peter stands with bent head & downward looks, gasps, ‘He gave us bad advice who spears the sinners yonder with his hook! Naked, transverse, bars the road’s extent, he lies; & all who pass, with all their load must tread him down, such is his punishment.’ He smiled brightly.

Pope Peter conjures these spacious skies, this magic terrain, brushes, golden fields, amber grain, waves whisper winds, this opens, shadow green valleys, majestic glory ascends, this morning deafens, purty, purple mountains, drapes slither expanse shatters, mist hovers over all, one sea to that next, these great streams, unblemished ones, shine, reflects sun, this moon, no need of this, My own shining. No green here, but discolored leaves … dark, no tender shoots, but writhen, gnarled … tough, no fruit, but poison galls on the withered bark. Wells in his tenuous heart, a space opens, this dimension suggests, these surge, his inverse good thoughts, no order, this lie, desirable domination, malevolent devotion, unholiness, mortality, his gentle, playful spirit.

Pope Peter offers burnt offerings, sacrifices, his tributes to this ineffable chance, this smoke rises from his tiny secret altar, swirls off, away, breathes in these satyr dancing spirits, laughs amidst this annihilates, that wind. He looks at his face upon this handle of this refrigerator door, witnesses these wrinkles, proliferate, this apparition grows coarse, blisters this onslaught, this surge… He knew that each position already had its own alibi…

Pope Peter seizes this incense container, fills it with fire from that altar, & scatters it over across this floor. He drops the foot of a badger underneath the table & grabs his silver cord, a thread of indefinite extension, whips across, mushrooms dust. This crucible burns stench, he shrieks out, mutters incantation, ‘If you are at one with me, rise towards me O Smoke. If you are not at one with me, rise athwart me O Smoke. Either to the right or to the left.’ The chicken begins to sing ‘Which side are You On? but is interrupted by There Grog, this primal bog, peals thunder, flashes lightning, earthquakes from that supple navel of earth.

Pope Peter performs rites to make himself invisible from all of those foul zombie clonepods which began to gather at the window next to the green door. He deploys a cloaken gooey unguent from the incinerated bodies of evangelical christians, mixed with the blood of night-birds.

For personal preparation a fast of about fifteen days is observed. When this is past, it is necessary to get drunk every five days, after sundown, on wine in which poppies & hemp have been steeped. Pope Peter assembles those candles made from the fat of hairy nuns & fashioned in the form of a cross; the bowls he uses are made from the skulls of parricides, the fires fed with cypress branches, wood of two desecrated crucifixes, blood stained gallows & needles from deaths via lethal injection.

His magic fork is fashioned of hazel & almond, severed at one blow, this ceremonial cloth is woven by a prostitute, whilstround about this magical circle is traced with the embers of a polluted cross. He deploys this mandragore, unearthed from beneath these gallows in the back yard next to the funeral pyre where corpses are still suspended. Mother Teresa, a Babylonian bitch, one of two of Pope Peter’s dogs, digs up the root & is killed via a mortal blow of his fully erect member after which her soul passes into the fabled, fantastic root… Sharing with Moon, Pope Peter takes a bite of the root, all at once achieving an ecstatic invisibility. With this, the crowd disperses as it is enslaved to the visible. They drift to their hovels to sleep, that these could return to their slavery on the morrow… sighing oblivion… despair…

That creek, chirp churp grows louder … louder, deafens screech screams, suddenly, Pope Peter’s next door neighbor, one of those friendly gatekeepers, Jesus, that one who hangs with those xtc freaks, drips with costly, sweet smelling oils, walks out, this house of his blue haired father, steps down decisive upon this little merry maker, grinds it into sludge, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, from whence it came, to whence it returns, beckons this silence, calls out, ‘Surely you are better than this cricket, surely, do you not agree my sheep?’ ‘Bah, Bah, Bah,’ they assent. The cricket, now only etheric, cries, ‘The whims of luck shall find me undeterred, so let her ply her wheel, the churl his spade.’

Pope Peter shrouds himself in remembrance, this, his still too distant boyhood, visions eclipsed by this windy rain, this tenuous, fragile hold remains still. He whispers, these vibrations engulf his heart, he chatters his silent melancholy as he gently caresses his goat idol, ‘Mild is the word of an Overman, but sharper, more cutting than a two edged sword… gentle is his tongue, yet it breaks these ribs of a dragon. If I am deceiving you, may this piece of amulet choke me!’ He gazes down upon his red-headed lover, a spell smells, a femme carnale, this effluvium, caresses warm, emanates from her lovely orchard, stimulates, rocks, voids sputter his lascivious aura beyond simply madness. Tears well from his gentle eyes, Pope Peter gasps, ‘Such is the stair by which we have to stoop… I will sit behind lest thou take harm from the tail… so do thou mount before… be bold now up!’ Dropping down weary, suddenly wheels away in a hundred circlings, Pope Peter sets far aloof from his master sullen & scornful… so, I say…

Dogs howl out crying to the full moon dances scintille across the sky in its own time… Amidst his choral dance, Pope Peter writes upon Moon’s blue skin via this needle, stigmata, descendent, these scatter autobiographs of his own former lives. Smoke bellows from that backyard funeral pyre lighting up brilliant, flashes pulsate, shoots dance across this water stained white painted wall. Yet, it is still simply too soon to smell this fragrance, as this vexious, pungent odor lingers still, hovers, here intersperses threads, casts this infiltrates film, clumps across slides superfluous sticky humidity. A bird flies right into this window & dies… from its mouth exudes witches’ butter, hundreds of tiny elves erupt into a wrestling frenzy to seize this most precious item of culinary aesthetics & dietary exaltation…

A shadow stands in wait for this fire to fly away, so as to gather together these marvelous ashes, extracts from these potent supernatural powers. Pope Peter, for an instant, sees his own soul reflect amidst this radiant window, he places this light under that bushel, this fire beneath that basket, transfixes this memory, fortune, fate, this You! he purchases at this local drugstore…… then his face grew dark with blood, Pope Peter screams, ‘Why dost thou rend my bones? Breathes no pity in thy breast at all?’ He quakes… blue veins bulge, contours, pale, white skin, splatters, leprosesque, red blotch epiderm stripes… yellow runnin’ welts… green love… black beyond… Wearing his Cactomite dirndl, he whispers to his progeny to be, ‘My righteous love children, you shall justify many, their guilt shall you bear, these sins, this throng, slimy depth incites intercedes for transgressors, seas swallow onslaughts of streams, putrid waters.’ Pope Peter transfigures amidst wind as pure light, then recurs, all remains the Same….

Hail & fire mix with blood, pour down out onto this pink tile floor over across away from, flows that sacred cookie jar. Pope Peter is stunned, but his smile soon returns, his face beams, reassures this, his family, this caste of rope-makers, this throng of cowards, pariahs, witches, traitors, draft-dodgers, perverts, murderers, child molesters, drug dealers, drive-by shooters, weirdos, poets, philosophers, each immoral, a magician one & all, each, everyone, together, an exercise of family values, this coalition of tradition, derek deaned, worship their own idols, these liars to this very end… Yet, each is a healer! Pope Peter smiles dryly, whispers softly to his loved ones, ‘When the wild soul leaps from the body, which its own mad violence forces it to quit, be sure that thost do not wallow amidst this intolerable shit!’ In the family, there are thirteen in all, among these, this jovial high priestess & six couples mix amidst joyous frenzeee, abandon each, this self for four days straight. After this time, they return to the fold which is this, their home.

Pope Peter feels this warmth, this black flame rises, being at home, being there, amidst tender shelter, this beautiful life of indecency, lust, drunkenness, orgies, drinking parties, pot-smokin’… all that innocent worship of these loving, heathen images & illustrious idols with his mother Brunhilde, father, Walt Disney, sister, Anorexia, brother, Jimmy Swaggert… Richard Nixon the dog, Elvis the snake, Apollo the hamster, Deleuze the chicken, Newt Gringrich the cat, Rush Limbaugh the Fat Toad, Cheney the vulture, Adolf Hilter the pregnant ewe sheep, Bill Hicks the Goat, &, those lovely, yet, strangely unfortunate goldfish, including Kurt Cobain, not to forget these innumerable, nameless rats, mice, roaches, eels, flowers, plants ———–> (transmigrationist family values)… dance amidst an excession of commie kinship.

This strange man with a triangle tatoo enters with starking brows, ‘Gooooooooood evening everybody, ladies & gentlemen, welcome to our shoo’ … Tonight we have in our studiooos, with us here, please welcome, all the way from the Calmecacs, this pleasing transmigrationist family, they will sing their own song for each of us.’ Audience of milk & dairy style homogenized products is signalled to applaud, so it does… Slapped in the face, it begs for more & more & more… they engulf their meager portions of pepper pot stew & are glad of this yellow balloon frenzy.

They each all stand up from these felt coven chairs, father, not a single curious eye apprehends his triumphant worshiperection, he plays this pitch pipe, these his dear ones sing together, a family, ‘Momma, you gave birth to a rancid, festerin’ heap of shit, but, we’re not never makin’ not a bit, no big stink of it, we love all these animals, for in each our friends ensoul, it is all, all is one, erupts eternity now under this sun.’ This peculiar man interjectz his praesenz… ‘What a reeeeaaaaaaaaal fiiinnne fiiinnnnne, fiiNNee tune, & everyone must remember that not only are these fine people wonderful singers, but they have been happily applauded by everyone for their mature conduct wherever they have gone.’ The cottage cheese claps.

With this he walks off stage left, is axed to death by a disgruntled McDonald’s employee, pissed off ’cause that one dude looked at me funny, in that way, for goddsake amidst this day above all, I deserve a break, at least today…’ A throng of consumers seizes this skulker, set their teeth into him – rend him piecemeal, & away they frolic carrying these wretched fragments limb from limb… he whimpers as they drag him away, cries, ‘Our image so cruely distorted, so bereft of dignity, that their eyes brim pools, milkshakes spill down to bathe the buttocks at the cleft…’ Closes his eyes, his soul migrates once again, but immediately falls, becomes a human flesh furry fur burger.

The Peter’s humble sweet home is perfectly cubist, as wide as it is long, as it is high, casts multitudes of fractal perspective: shines across shadow, casts dimension, fifteen hundred triangular inches or so centimeters. This foundation stone is made from a mixture of blood & mortar. Their small white picket fence, covered with Chilean postage stamps, Pinochet’s picture, with this caption, ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’ is speckled with lovely jasper, two hundred, sixteen centimeters high, each foundation stake exudes, displays a different stone, respectively, if you could see this, you would observe jasper, sapphire, agate, yellow quartz, beryl, topaz, chalcedony, turquoise, & amethyst. Each of these twelve lovely gates is made of a single pearl covered in coagulate blood of which, from time to time, the elves partake amidst a noble & joyous feast.

A woman, Truth, wears a glittery red dress puts her fingers together, this hand sends across parallel to this ground & out, but just before she reaches maximum extension, flips her hand over, opens up, cups it to this sky. Each pearl is a drop of semen from the feverish cock of their youngest, most promising son… he jacks & wanks his knob over & over upon an image, for a picture held him captive, this which blinds him, he chants his vespers over this spews, ‘Hadst thou but waited to find what I was looking for, I think perhaps thou wouldst let me stay.’ He spills this with stern evocative gestures, eternally, this alibi recurs… outside it is snowing, swirling across the lamp.

Pope Peter lifts his cacodemon arms in primal rapture… from under each sprang two great winged wings that well befitted such a monstrous bird as that… Yo! Dude! – plumeless & like the dark pinions of a bat their fashion was & as they flapped & whipped three winds went rushing over the icy flat… He joins this end of that circle to its beginning, squares the very same circle, tracks out, about across, rugged trails, traverses this woodpath, he builds fences, bushy shrubs around this verdant wall with Pops, now a only a name for a psychedelic cactus,moves this stone, //////cuts down this Spikenard, gathers this firm, fragrant leaf, cherry trees tower, these of Asherah, via that old, two-man saw, these ones his dead ancestors had planted, for himself to burn, chop down, each shit as this scarab lives….

He feels this surge, a well targeted axe, hears that gnaw steel, teeth bite, hard wood, in this instant smells this, burns steam, paints his dusty skin, stings, his squint eyes… Pater, Simon Peter, yacks up green flem, hocks it over, across, it flies, smacks this tiny tree, this ever so gentle caress… hangs, droops suspended as ice sythes… Little animated Buer birds fly amidst, land upon, each, this, their shoulders, whisper delight, greetings, secrets, joy… rub each other’s body with fats, fragrant oils, relax muscles, dries up, antidote to fatigue… myriad memories by & by burn build muscle tension after all…

Pope Peter erupts from his nostalgic forgetfulness, breaks this din, his boredom, this gooey vision entranced monotony, ruttin’ this churnin’ chick, fuckin’ this bouncin’ babe, resolutely, he simply readjusts this slushy madonna via his only hand, increases force, intensity, introduces variation into directions, his penetrations become chaotic, these glushy overtures slither, supplements slow circular tongue caresses, dance upon her quiet ankles. He descends his mouth towards this supple, her lovely ass, bites hard, tears into this, severs seven layers skin across subdermal mesentary, rips small chunk away, chews, voracious swallows this small bit of her, she screams, gasps, then smiles, turns her head, just so, whispers ‘Your seductive breath enchants me, & I utterly love your propensity towards cannibalism… Pope Peter, that is why I love you,’ Moon turns, seals her eyes tight, falls back into this blue masquerade, this ghost dance with claws & sceptres.

The kitchen table suddenly levitates in white light a height of eight inches in the wake of Bill Hicks the goat’s growing excitement. Pope Peter, jolting in rapturous carnivorous frenzy, screams out, ‘Ibi hibi mimi maw maw,’ fribulating to & fro… but, vexed to hear its name thus vexed so slightingly, mimi maw maw, one of those shadows came to life & fetch him a walloping blow fisted closed on the rigid belly, which thudded back like a drum… the dog howls in accompaniment, the chicken smiles – all applaud when signaled to… slapped, whipped, lacerates scatazen.

Moon whirls her bloody, juicy fruit red flows succulent ass high up into this electric air, Pope Peter pukes passes promptly pita pieces about to people properly prepared… her supple joints, her succulent lips, this tender mouth, her savage throat emits dry continuous groans, joyous moans, she slobbers soulbreath through her teeth, both hands fever plunge, immerse, her drizzly, grissly snatch. There is a place low down there underground, her wombs deep, not known to sight, but only by the sound of a small stream which trickles down the steep, hollowing its channel, where the gentle fall & devious course its wandering waters creep… a spot that gets her hot… but you ain’t been to it!…

A tiny male elf sports a dress, sets upon his holy head, a colliding parabolic crown, asks her if she would like to have a glass of holy water. She politely declines, thirst a far better, less salty, torture.

Bill Hicks hexes that shade down with his incantations, his most sublime magic. He again levitates the table with a lattice of rods & threads, tiny etheric, putty pillars, which she constructs from out of the ectoplasmic stuff. He deploys ordinary cantilever assertions to initiate these desired movements. Attachments are made via his formation of suckers at these ends of those red rods, which he also deploys for this generation of rapi-didley raps, percussive effects via their elasticity. He screams out joyously, ‘Listen to the sound of my tool!!!’ setting off a couple dozen rounds from her AK-47… The steam from this trail of carmine powder stings all their eyes. Bill Hicks himself stinks of it…. but no one seems to mind as each loves him.

Moon pushes both of her hands into her hussy hungry pussy, these disappear, absent to this site of vision, conceals this playful dance of light, shadow, these vibrations of space, she tickles her cervical spiral, tickles conceal cryptesthesiac dance, frolics, pulls apart, awaits his entry, between this hearth fan, Pope Peter inserts his organ, utters, ‘I am a humble man, myself, this meek one… I was anointed with living toads at birth, puberty, & marriage, I have been through this act of ritual purification in that I was detected a violate of tribal taboo… & I sang that song! If, in this event, that any of you have not seen what I have seen, neither will I tell you by which right I do these things!’— With this assertion, he falls silent, becomes acutely ecstatic, rocks amid this vaginal, penial, orgenzy interlock.

There is a sudden knock at the green door, at first only slight, it increases sporadic, a women’s voice yells grotesque, ‘Open your goddamned door, I know you’re inside, shit, I can hear you motherfuckers!’ All turn, each turns to the green door, yet turn back to this, their glance away, resume their, each of these, their own escapist, nihilistic activities. Simon Peter wears the left eye of a bat, sits quietly in his manic wheelchair, intent, solice, innocently plays with his testicles. Lou Salome just sits makin’ that leather circus whip that she’s been workin’ on for a long goddamned time. Someday she hopes to deploy it, to thrash that sick weakling asshole shit… she better do so soon or she might wind up in a circus somewhere, at least from My index of expectation… all I can do in this end is to whisper with blind impotence, ‘When I tumble into this coop I find them there… they are never given a turn or a kick, nor will to all eternity, I dare swear.’ Lou Salome hears these whispers, ponders this wisdom.

Pope Peter’s mother, Brunhilde croutches next to this dew bleeding wall, barks docile, impeturb, quiet, lull, mute, suicide, noiseless, silent, still, hush, low, soft, calm, peace, rest, site untrouble, passive, mild, sedate, dormant, inactive, motionless across, these rapid roaches infiltrate, scratch at these dew drops, each emanates this, her single, terrorifying reflection. Pope Peter’s sister, Anorexia, merely, simply, solely stares, fluctuates molten lava. She gazes deep into this sickening truth, this call, this bath of frenzy, this stream buoys her up as pristine, this ideal, this beauty. And like a man who dreams a dire dreadful dream, & dreams he would it were a dream indeed, longing for that which is, with eager aim, as though it were not… so I, speechless to plead for pardon, pleaded all the while with her by my distress, and did not know I did… but I know that it is vulgar to enjoy that kinda thing… I already did a couple thousand years ago.

No one stirs, Pope Peter fucks Moon’s ass with the alleged wife of joe the carpenter, her lucy fruit pussy, his cock pulsates betwixt absent guides, her hands. These knocks become these expounding pounds, scratches across outside the fragile, green door, her voice vents heinous, ‘You sick, sick bastards, open up, now!’ Without any break of rhythm, Pope Peter exasperates, ‘Could somebody, for godssake, open that fucking goddamned green door, can’t you see that I am fuckin’ busy here!’ No one stirs…

He turns his head to his little brother, Jimmy Swaggert, this bearded demon boy, this one sits there & here wankin’ his knob at the kitchen table, ‘Hey, you goddamned good for nothin’ freeloadin’ penile parasite, why don’t you just get th’ hell up & answer that goddamned fucking green door!’ He throws a bald eagle leg over across, right at his face, but Jimmy Swaggert ducks just in time, catches it, & in a flash, shoves it up his ass, through his loose, howling sphinxerhole. Pope Peter, miffed, displays the heart of a bat on his left arm, conjures up the Bealing Bells, this revolt inside his eyes. But, then, he, Pope Peter, took the form of a nursemaid, & began enticing Jimmy Swaggert to wander in the woods out upon the dry, dreary cloud scene.

Jimmy Swaggert hops atop this table, stretching his body over atop he hops onto the neck qua shoulders of Pope Peter, shouts to his grandfather, ‘Oh King Walt Disney, most mighty, who reigneth in the land of evening, I call upon thee & invoke thy name in the name of Supremacy. I command thee in the name of the Most High to present thyself before this circle, thee & the other spirits who are thy subjects, in the name of Mickey Mouse & Goofy, for the purpose of replying to all that which I demand of thee. If thou dost not come I will torment thee with a sword of heavenly fire. I will augment thy pains & burn thee. Obey, O Walt Disney!’

How after this stunning earth shattering proclamation could he, Pope Peter, thrash this pathetic boy who has dived to roll around upon this kitchen floor fucking a genetically engineered duck with a human vagina? Pope Peter aptly asks gently, ‘Dear brother, could you answer that green door?’

His gaze focusses upon a meat cleaver hangin’ on th’ wall. Jimmy Swaggert unaroused by this request, stops, stares, glues eyes on Moon’s stenchy shouting pussy, sweats profuse, stinks, turns to Daffy, jacks off & off & off, off… chants this idiot child, ‘That’s all folks!!!’ doo-dadoo-doo-doo-da doodoodoo, doo-doo-doooooo daaaaaaaaa dooooooooooooo…

Pope Peter shakes his head, the pounds grow louder, like the heart beat of an elephant on eighteen hits of acid, he scoffs under his breath, ‘Lousy shit imbecile stinkin’ asshole mother fucker!’ Recovers quickly from this, jolts crisis apparition, this phantasm, his life, he turns sudden, ‘Hey, what about you Grandma, a little help, please,’ he remarks, gestures nice groove across at her, winks to his current interaction with this one whom he adores, loves as dearly as his own sweet, saltry self.

Lou Salome stands sullen, dejects, falls amidst this unknown limbo, vortex annihilates her joys, her magic & necromancy. When she was younger, she would flutter a camphore cluster to bring a priest home, in an instant, to do evil things… joyous, divine seduction… Now, with this sodden withering of her flower, she thinks differently, burns sacred plants, herbs in temple fires off, away amidst her small, yet ample space, purifies this spot of her secret practice, quietly immerses amidst this spirit world. She covers both her head, her face, inhales deeply, becomes intoxicated via fragrant fumes. She travels, departs from this prison amidst opaque realms cascade this, her dreamz.

Lou Salome’s scowl face turns away, resists, her hands grip her shoulders tight, tighter, tighter, seethes under breath, ‘Who do you think I am, I do enough for you lousy stinking sons of bitches.’ She returns to her sea-side pier, gazes at her crystal ball, says she sees all sorts of weird things after that awful cloudiness dissipates. She whispers to her dusty mirror,

So truly loves a friend his friend As I love thee, O Life in myst’ry hidden! If joy or grief to me thou send; If loud I laugh or else weep am bidden, Yet love I thee with all thy changeful faces; And should’st thou doom me to depart, So would I tear myself from thy embraces, Am comrade from a comrades heart. And if thous hast now left no bliss to crown me, Lead on! thou hast thy sorrow still!’

These pounds grow more intense, yells of that faceless female become bellows, quake, shatters stillness of graceful actuality. Each stares at these others, & back again, each waits for that other to move… suspense grows, surmounts this nearly intolerable surge… finally, Anorexia stands up, jolts forth, walks over to Pope Peter, screams into his face, looks, scoffs at Moon, fucks unaffected, ‘O.K., this time I will open that green door, but only this time… when was it that you ever did anything for me?’ With this agate assertion, she saunters away, Pope Peter murmurs violently under breath, ‘Lousy, ungrateful, putrid bitch, I fucked you last night…’ He spits at her, but surely misses.

Anorexia shoots around a weird wistful glance, ‘Yah right, brother – you call that a fuck?!!’ An uncanny apparition rises & shocks these walls back & forth, sways, breathes flux, in & out, this wallpaper bleeds purple urine. She is dressed beautifully for her part, in lynx skins folded over & over from waist to knee, the upper part of her body covered by strings of teeth & fangs, beads, skeins of gaily colored yarn, strips of snake’s skin, & fringes of Angora goat fleece. This, as a decoration, is both graceful & effective; it is worn round her body & above each elbow, falls in soft white flakes among this brilliant coloring & against her dusky skin. Lynx tails descend like lappets on each side of her face, overshadowed & almost hidden, a profusion of ostrich feathers.

Among slides all this thick, floating plumage intersperses small bladders & skewers, pins wrought of tusks & sacred toad hair & crystal reefer.

Anorexia traverses curtly across this fluffy pink shag carpet over to that green door, roars decisively, ‘Alright, alright, already, hold your fuckin’ goddamned horses, I’m commin… (under her breath, laughin) ‘NOT!,’ she turns this knob, opens this green door, makes these stars quiver, this blanket of sublime night. She remembers the time when sorry someone scratched over her picture, ‘White Slut!’ She never understood this remark as she is green, all except her tie-dyed hair & her gentle, tasty flower, a seething, blood red rose. She drips a green, purple drip drop, a third hand growin’ from her back. No one in her family or circle of friends is quite sure if she will grow an entirely new arm, or, with all of their fingers crossed, an entirely new self, a body… god bless… Mickey Mouse & Goofy!

All at once in her face stands an ugly, coarse, pregnant whore out from that sullen murk, this ominous night, Pathetica points to two men, these stand at that end of this hallway, ‘Do you have any rooms? We have come a long way, we are tired and hungry,’ she, with difficulty, constrains this mule, John Paul II, gestures to herself, in her condition, gives Anorexia this knowing glance, one which only another woman would understand. Her fierce face spots with gouts of red paint on cheek & brow, partly overshadowed by a helmet-like plume of tall feathers of this brie bird of sakabula, that one which makes all the noise in the mornin’.

In her right hand she carries a light sheaf of august assegais, lances, & on her left arm is slung a small & purty pretty shield of dappled ox-hide. Her petticoat, made of a couple of large gay handkerchiefs, is worn kilt-wise. But if there were little decoration in her skirts, this absense is more than compensated by the bravery of the bearded bead necklaces, the goat’s-hair fringes, & the scarlet tassels cover her from coat to waist. Her breasts sag, rise & fall beneath this baldric of leopard skin, fastened across with huge brazen knobs, down her back hangs a beor beautiful dried & flattened skin of an enormous boa-constrictor. It writhes writhingly amidst subtle gaps of void.

Anorexia sighs in utter disgust, is distracted – ‘No, no, no Doggie – Richie come here… She turns to the smelly intruder, ‘What does this look like, I mean, for sure, dude, like tha’ holiday inn,’ she points to this entire corral of sprawled slackers, her own family setting about here, there, ‘I really don’t think that you have come to the right place, try that-that shelter-thing, it’s down there, down that road, not in our neighborhood, yet, always close enough!’ points down, directs toward that muddy, squalor pathway.

The dirty slut asks instead, points to her companions, ‘Those vagrants over there need some cigarettes.’ Anorexia twists her pupils amidst her brain, this bloated chick barks, ‘One of them tried to rape me, can we have some cigarettes?…’

Immediately, Anorexia, in order to rid herself of this vile, pathos excretes, dramatic interrupt, hands her two fags. Yet, scum chick from hell quips, ‘What about me?’ Anorexia hands her another, ‘You know – you, um shouldn’t smoke if you’re pregnant,’ she dreams she slams this door with gratitude toward their departure.

She gazes unfocus, yelps, ‘This custom is loathsome to my eye, hateful to my nose, harmful to my brain, dangerous to my lungs, black stinking, horrible Stygian vapors, bottomless pit…’

Anorexia laughs to herself, wishes to shut this door, return to her previous activity. Each & every night she sits, smokes cigars, stares amidst, throughout this lava lamp, it disseminates subtle nuances, vibrates across her fingers through her left hand, no knots can hold them, these mysterious hands play tricks while tied, frozen, messages only for these initiates as far as this earth extends, heaven spreads, this sun shines, fire glows, water flows, this wind blows. Pathetica, in her Amazing Grace, retreats, evokes under her breath, ‘Why don’t you just mind your own fucking goddamned business,’ this ambiguous harlot is displaced via hideous apparition, jolts into Anorexia’s gaunt, sunken, green face.

A dirty smelly piece of rancid shit man, everybody calls him Godot, shoves his body, substitutes for this ridiculous whore, sticks his bacteria infested, alcohol shocks, protrudes, mouth, breathes bad into this unique, special face of Anorexia. Burps out what seems like words to that effect of exchange, an incipient market effect: pot for beers… those intense men at that IMF prick up their ears… Reeks feces blurts, glares psychotic at her perky, emaciate tits, this waif, ‘Hey babe I’l give you some pot for beers, you smoke pot, eh??? Like I will give you a couple of joints for some beers…’ Anorexia wishes to get back to her singular quest, retorts abruptly, ‘Well, are you carryin’?’ Rancid feces man shakes his head, belches, ‘Roll a joint for beers?’

Anorexia stands arms cross, cynicly, ‘I–well ‘we’ don’t have any beers left, only a half bottle of wine, but I can give you some change for a joint.’ He gestures dislike, indifference for wine, blurts, ‘How much you give me for a joint?’ Anorexia thinks for a moment, recollects this in her mind, these, her, monetary assets, ‘I don’t have any money really, but I can give you about three bucks in quarters, dimes, and nickles.’ Shit brain asshole assents, ‘Alright I’ll be back, let me go roll the joint, but I don’t want any change… How about a nice long, hard blow job… you suck my cock deeply for a joint?’ Anorexia pauses, negotiates amidst utter indecision, this silent soliloquy … this herself… he whispers incentives into her ear, ‘I won’t come in your mouth… just all over your face & hair!’ … She impatiently, immediately agrees, for she has to if she wishes to receive any allowance… family value… a vers’un ov’da lab’r th’ree ov valu’, yet, depicts more a pre-industrial cottage contour… Anorexia agrees, this verbal contract is negotiated amidst this small scale, homely, barter economy. He walks away down this hall, away across spiral staircase, she shuts this door & returns quickly to her incessant visions, this lava lamp & pictures of those who crossed over.

Julian, this black cat, peers out around through eyes upon this scene of Pope Peter & Moon, this frenzy, lisp hawthorn buds, jubilant abandon, rubs his face against, neck across this handle, that stained coffee pot. He must assemble, fabricate this for himself, he sucks prong part time, this, in the Name of that Lord, that old time religion, for, after all, art is very necessary lest I perish of My truth… Julian immerses himself in dream, playful delusions, this ugly onslaught forces his repose, seeks to begin this all, each once again. He offers rosewater to his ghosts at meal time, fragrants these heads of female hair. Adolf, this plump pregnant pet ewe sheep wants that honey, she wants it yesterday, but cannot find it in her quiet pasture under a blood red sun.

Lou Salome brings a single violet into this house, sits down, breathes sulfuric eruptions, inhales their essence, this aroma pleases her nostrils, she contemplates these bowels deep within this orb. This silly snake, coils upon this navel of this earth, breathes amidst her flesh these noxious fumes of charred corpse… Lou Salome turns her head beyond this glass slides door towards that this rages fire outside, her husband’s voice beckons from his repose upon this funeral pyre… she ponders, ‘Was he dead, or was he just asleep?’ She catches herself intwixt this double bind, shrugs her shoulders, returns to gaze upon events to come.

I should know, but when I do know this ridiculous truth, the ugly, comedic banality, I perish amidst pitiless laughter… succombing I do not die, but return like mold.

Anorexia hears these words of these ones that she has sent away in her heart. She also hears her neighbor Jesus after he has had one too many. His voice screams, this detection, an entirety of situation, ‘Get the hell out of this building, you goddamned bitch… Don’t you ever knock on my door again, you whore… get it into your head — you’re a nuisance — go, get the fuck out, or I will wring your neck…’ Silence erupts stillness, these retreat to their own proper domains, he back to his, her to return to this murky trail with her two male companions… she first, these two following, til her straining sense glimpsed the bright burden of the heavenly cars through a round hole… by this they climbed, & thence came forth, to look once more upon the stars & into the face which shines joy.

Bill Hicks smacks Jimmy Swaggert real hard across his face with a thirty four inch hand he summons up from these depths. He feels the seductive dissemination of this master deconstructionist, yet, feels himself that he is a bit lazy, unimaginative, and, after all, he is just a rancid asshole parasite piece of shit. Jimmy Swaggert humbly retreats away into that soiled corner, sucks his red left hand thumb, holdin’ his cock with his golden right hand, cries hideous chistles, ‘ah.ahh-ha-ahh -I- ahh-ha iah-i-IIIIIIIIIII havvvvvvvvvvvve sssssssssiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnD!!!’ He cries & cries, bends over, removes this baldeagle leg from his asshole, quietly gnaws this succulent morsel, wipes his nose with his left index finger. Jimmy Swaggert coiled himself up into a fluffy ball.

Every soul felt this most deep, true, good, pretty compassion for this most honorable young gentleman, this blues band plays his own music, accompanies this five note procession, three natural, two sharp, this four beat rhythm, mixes in some rock & roll progressions, tops off a rendition of ‘Sex Machine’ via this Soul Master himself… C’n we hi t’t an’ qu’t!!! It was such a disarming musical tribute to this most benign, sensitive soul, this one with this singular courage to admit his guilt. By this act alone is he saved, but this act alone… Hu-huh, huh, huh…

So long as I descended, thou wast there… but when I turned, then was the point passed by toward which all weight bears down from everywhere… I fell out of lust, desire & boredom… idleness without surveillance.. creatio

Anorexia sits with her foot under her ass, she casts off this earthly garment, she throws across that physical body, erupts her etheric body, this duplicate amidst that other sphere. She glistens upon this bed, her personality & character have not changed, yet she no longer eats, sleeps or works. She merely breathes in these vapors of rosy rose water, with this perfume from this glowerts bell, she feeds her ambrosial dream, her life. She is solid, moves in this same way, in similar surrounds. She finds herself, dresses in these most appropriate clothes betwixt these recognizable operations, happenings, but she finds that a strong creative mental effort is needed to construct further. It is only practice, yet, it is, will persist as helpful.

Julian leans back to smell his, churns genitalia, a plug, mucus shoots out across, mixes many colors, he lies upon his back, stretches out his body, its full extent, sudden stand, admires this innocent dance… He adorns himself in seventeen perfumes amidst this single day, while Moon secretes tiny phials of scent amidst these braides of her hair.. Floral wreaths smooth, sweet unguents dance upon her skin, honey, wine, bitumen, at death these paint, perfume this festival… Gay Speaker, the etheric newt, passes him this pipe, he grabs inhales decisively, sucks etc….etc… Pope Peter hops up strews this bedchamber with sweet fragrances, these fragile flowers, a white lilac, a lily, a white hawthorn he cut down with his brand new chainsaw. He hopes to conjure up some good luck… health, happiness…. joy… insurrection of body…

Anorexia sits, transfixes to these subtle fire laden transmutations of dancing lava, it performs for her stark voracious gaze in all of its modest vanity. She snorts absinthe extract, upon this surface of glass, invokes her past loves, these faces, haunt sad visions, she remembers each of these coffins, her untimely departed sweethearts, lovers, she decks each with a sprig of rosemary for her perpetual memory. Brunhilde rubs herself with ash from the hearth. Grandma sits, stares at that wall, it stands erect against her gaze, she breathes deep into her abdomen. Simon Peter dazes in & out between this dimension & that of those tiny pink fuzzy bunnies. Pope Peter fucks Moon, paroxysm ascends aura sparks fly out across amidst shocks. Anorexia professes her words amidst this trance of black intoxicating fumes, this amidst her silence, this snake coils, sets still upon this navel. Suddenly this lava lampesque transfigures, etherizes, disintegrates, disappears Anorexia asports across this room, streams web, aura lands, all similar to before, the Same.

Julian looks upon this panorama, carnality, spies these uneaten remains, this feast, becomes fixed, entrances this, hypnotizes, enchants, these sparkles glimmer, sparks, rays, light, reflects this shaft, brilliant candles, this juice of Moon engulfs this statue, this Assumed… Suddenly, this statue comes to life via cosmic animation, shakes itself off, thrusts forth, this silly message, ‘First I was raped by Wild John, and, then, by my very own son, when will this torture ever end? When will i be allowed to be on a current affair, I could get the rights to a mini-series…’ From thence onward, in her resistance, she was called the Lady of Sodom. Suddenly, she becomes fixed as a statue once more. There must not be any more words spoken of this. Although, a lot were written, bestows this image… but I, this author, refrain…

Jimmy Swaggert stands up whirls around in a great whorl pretends to be an airline pilot, lips vibrate buzz, shakes his semen drips cock, makes abstract, pointillist, dot-like impressions upon this myriad black chaotic surface seething scent. These, his parents were hairy nuns, this love child, faithheals, foothills, hemroids, hurricanes, hepatitis harangue, he sins but is sorry for it… yet, amidst his legos, he can not erupt as joy… never this!!! Julian muses indeed that this goddess religion has certainly been reborn, a novel transmigration, here with this display, now, casts into relief this ironic, frisky fate of presence and/or absence.

Yet, this contemplation jolts, Jimmy Swaggert trips over that three foot dildo, crashes his head resolutely onto that toaster, displaces this coffee pot, Julian hops atop this open refrigerator. All eyes turn towards this event of commotion, then, just as quick, they return to these, each, an activity of contentment, they sit, waiting for Godot to return with that joint. Anorexia lightly begins to rub her crystal lamp, her eyes amaze amidst this lovely dance, fluid matter, disguises surface dance….

Julian wishes to get into this act, mesmerizes, to be one of those amongst this, a witness, participant, bestows this kismet event. He purrs wild, deep shriek howls, haunts strange human clatter, grips this soul, penetrates this net, web, epithet. He rolls, this wind never remembers, over onto his back across this off-white, foamie formica kitchen counter, wiggles his fluffy furry behind, he pets his face, licks his arms, sporadic in, out, his red licky libidinous turnstyle darts out loud. His cock cries mary with this blood dawn breeze… Moon whispers lightly to Pope Peter as she puts on her dicyanin goggles, anticipates their joy.

Moon gently summons Julian to come amidst, join this festive gathering, ‘Come face me, my familiar, friend to friend, shine upon me this charm of your eyes.’ She fluxes her drool glistenin’ hands through this ambient air, smiles beam precious joy, this special opens, this eery ecstatic figurine. That pregnant ewe sheep, adolf, dwells upon this threshold, guards this door with vigilance, this ear of Dionysius, keeps out those earthbound spirits who lust for revenge against these who dance upon this earth plane, hop, fly throughout this fragrant air.

As all is calm, safe, she sets down to perform a concert of perfumes for this lovely, most appreciative audience. She begins her rant, it emanates: sandalwood, patchouli, vanilla, frangipane, clove bark, vanilla, knob, benzoin, clove, storax, benzoin, patchouli, clove, vanilla, frangipane… clove bark, vanilla, benzoin, frangipane, clove, sandalwood, patchouli… (Piesse scale of seven primary odors)… Now, let’s have everyone join in!!!

I, that lofty one from this monster, the old man of the mountain, long to come down from heaven, fling off my purple cloak… race, dance, laugh, buzz amidst this silent, silly circle… to survey these my children… I do prevail over these champions whom I meet in this land of battle… I will surely prevail… I blow, I fell, I love, I am kindly… I tire of being merely a voyeur, just sittin’ up here watching my creation, here in front of this light shockbox, sound & image, you guys havin’ all this fun, leavin’ me up here alone to jack off, never ever even able to touch you, you, this work of my own hands, always beyond my reach. I long to come down amidst you, into this space, to get into this act, jump into a body, any body, that can fuck, suck, lick, eat, rub, glide, gnaw, taste, mount, swallow, & perhaps, love…

Julian repents, quivers, purrrrrrrs, hops one counter to this next, table, furrrrrrrs bush brush across this right cheek of Moon. She pushes herself over turns onto her back, Pope Peter fucks her, without breaks, this indigenous rhythm, naive Mary dives via Pope Peter’s single arm.

Moon’s supple elbow gently rests, bathes, decays, this tray hangs, this splendid feast, fetid baldeagle.

Julian paces freneticly, waits for this special clue, this welcome, this operant semiotic-reward. B.F. Skinner, this wretched cop on the beat, part of this new initiative of communal polity, i.e., militarization, discipline, & last but always overlooked, surveillance, peers in through this fractal window, scribbles incessantly, witnesses these splinter terrains erupt, mutters something about movin’ beyon’ fred’m an’ dign’ty. Bill Hicks, this visiting perverted poet goat sings a song, suddenly, he self-immolates amid his excrement, his dispersion… daughter smiles…

Pope Peter wipes his, sweat drenches, his brillo browl, he shits resolutely, teeth clench, drool enhances onto that space behind him, his excrement drops onto this sample tray, these pellets of dung there for all to enjoy, a gift for all those who wish nothing better than to constantly receive, assume this style of hunger to be beautiful, good, true, etc… etc… He grabs Apollo, ties a string to its hind legs, crams him up his ass, Pope Peter screams out, hideously, ‘I put the light under the bushel of my ass!’ He pulls his throbbin’ red, white, & blue cock out of Moon’s pussy, jacks off hard, jolts, fast, comes all over, across, splashes, seminal splats thrown, whirls, streams… not, of course, breakin’ this sodomous rhythm, this lowly woman, this only Immaculate…

Anorexia fucks her gaping cunt with that lava lamp, she moans amidst this searing heat of fire. Opaque white solid balls, light shoots out from her mouth, asshole, & from her pores innumerable rays reach out, bathes this cold dark room. Jimmy Swaggert rapidly races over to watch, jerks off, his limp dick shoots out soft soap, cascades, slowly forms lipid pools. Anorexia smacks, whips herself decisive, her ass with this power chord, cries, ‘I love you Marilyn, I love only you!,’ she gasps with each lash. Simon Peter, smokin’ his heroin, proudly smiles, Grandma, Lou Salome, drinks her beer, winces, turns away, whispers, ‘These birds beckon me to play their favorite song.’ She kicks adolf off of the organ & plays a single sulfuric hymn. All at once, the front window shatters into myriad speckles of dust.

With this clue, this beckoning call, Moon prepares, enacts her rite, she grabs this bottle of tuna juice & a goldfish named Leto. Moon removes these giblets from this juice, which showers, flows over upon across her seething, grissly, maggot-infested snatch. Leto wiggles in utter terror, immanent despair, struggles to untie this gag that drapes, her gasps, she suffocates, her only breath. Moon dances to insert Leto amidst her fine festive flower, yet, this cat crazy, goldfish suppository hops up into this air through this ceiling to that floor above, comes back down through this ceiling, Moon catches her, graciously bestows compassion amidst her, hers, this final time, precious rhythm sends, graces reprieve, showers mercy upon Leto, this one who requests this singular, sacred right, to a last, this only word, this mirror held in front of her singular face, exposes her innermost lyric core, her ownmost vision of eternity… evokes in measured shrieks:

How do they try to end this beauty?

she beckons, scolds… eruptions of this tonal flux…

why do you seek those stars, you have this earth here… i love her so much, we play amidst joy, there, somehow this shatters, cast apart, each longs, this recurs, not quick enough, never… coxswain, boat swain pounds gavel, disciplines beat… i miss her so much.


This pot plant, Nietzsche, has had enough for now… yet, Leto requests her space for this continuance of her speech…

I am so glad that i have that… this which is here… there is a reason via i did not suckle Apollo, this narcissistic rodent… there is a reason for which he is fed ambrosia, that he against his father dresses up as a woman in order to learn this art of prophesy, how he comes to be this Sphinx, Apollo in Drag, this god of light, a transvestite… throws his voice through silent, undetected shocks, kills up close via disguised strangulation, this entire religion, George Washington: you must remember at least this much amidst your decaying, scum rotten brains… please recollect… We live not on a barren rock, some of us are clever animals. We seek for that good, yet, this surge longs, erupts this evil, our wild dogs bark in these cellars…. It is not necessary for one to seek to escape this orb for it is alive & thus has soul… is immortal… No knowledge of astronomy or physics is necessary, we need only aesthetics, geography… The Sun, a small blue orb, casts orange red golden fire, that diameter this breadth, a man’s foot, it ascends in this east, goes under in that west, traverses subterranean seas upon this golden bowl…. This sun revolves around earth, moon, moon guides, beckons this to follow her lead beyond that horizon… earth revolves moon one day, each day travels, differ perspective this cycle repeats ten lunar decans… sun revolves earth, moon, one day, it bestows ten solar months… moon revolves sun, this earth, sun around moon, earth… earth revolves around sun & moon, our sun around moon, this earth, moon around earth, sun… Each turns around each, this these other, each turns, all turns, this One, this All. No stable position except that of position itself, this mere display, scintillates turn. With no permanent ratio, frame, fixed stars to maintain order for this kith of endurance, there will be a collision, this gathers itself, these orbs disintegrate, with or without this event, collision… if this world be eternal, there must be an immortal soul, it must not be capable of degeneration, accident, or death… yet, if this truly be a world without life or soul, then it will surely end in horrific disaster…

Moon, her stress grows, she agitates, tires of all of Leto’s non-sensical jabber, whispers, ‘Enough of your jibberish my sweet maternal child, it is time for you to be tucked into bed for the night,’ with this, her patience shattered, she inserts Leto in, across, each, this petal, her labias, majora & minora, Leto enters this silence deep amidst her pussy, Moon gives her cunt another generous baste of tuna juice (No Dolphins).

By this time, Julian works up into a chaotic nervous frenzy, bats seizure, shakes shiver, bellows out horrendous oooooh-aaaaaaah eee! oooooh-aaaaaaah eee!, screeches erupt these utter depths of hell. Where did you, ewe, expect,,, Kansas…?… ,,, Lou Salome walks over to that reekin’ refrigerator grabs a jar of Gingrich brand pickled newt eyes & a urine warm six pack she had hid underneath those rotten vegetables inside the forever open fridge door… she walks past her wild children, shakes her head, retreats through a sliding glass door out into that quiet garden, bathed by the most serene of stars, swathes amidst light, heat traverses fluid ether, this pyre casts her dear husband away.

Pope Peter continues to fuck Moon’s holy ass, & with her signal, he whispers, ‘Here, Kittie, Kittie,’ Julian, as if they had done this a hundred times before– Pope Peter looks toward this sky at Me, shakes his etheric fist, belts out madness, ‘Hey, dude, TTTTRRRRYYYYY like two-hundred times,’ proudly he gestures his apely, macho power through his bodily semiotic, these ones only I truly fathom, this space, he does not apprehend this, my presence here, he looks only to these stars, towards this vain wind…

He saunters over coyly, as he always likes to do… he is shy… ya’ kno’… Pope Peter grabs Julian, gives him a nice lube job, inserts his cock up, into, Pope Peter fucks Julian, via his asshole. A roar exudes from this cat, like no roar before, Pope Peter gnashes his teeth, shouts, wild eyes, ‘You make fine tombs for these prophets — this very prophet, your ancestors murder,’ Moon sprays out hot talk, ‘i love you but i cannot love you, i am not there to be love here, it would be so nice if this were oz, but it certainly is not here there…’ Pope Peter sports his brand new appendage moves into position between Moon’s spread legs, in front, this, her gnarly, blisters, filch beaver. He screams so elegantly, ‘Heaven & earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away!’ It is quiet, serene amid this sacred grove of concealed night.

Anorexia shouts crescendo, orgasm!, she casually licks her lips, rubs her blood stained ass, raises this supple fluid to her lips drinks it down, closes her eyes with a sublime smile. Richard Nixon, the mad family dog, saunters over cautiously & surveys this stench strings bag face, Jimmy Swaggert yanks off hard, ties this power chord around his neck, strangles himself, nears asphyxiate, cock bulges purple plumes plum, chokes, face blooms red, sweat lines drain down, teeth clench. Baudelaire bocks as a chicken will, ‘It is all filth!’ Richard Nixon approaches Anorexia silently sets still pants oblivion, licks her bloody feast, runs down, dries across her pale, supple ass. Bill Hicks joins this festive quivering rush, gnaws on these gangrene hemorrhoids hangin’ delicately down across Anorexia’s fair, pure, green-as-leaves skin.

Before Pope Peter ties Moon’s ankles to these kitchen table legs, he looks away out to that window… what it shows him, slowly comes into focus, these pale green anemic, tilt toward panel panes, straggle potted passive pepper plants, withers hope near this murky windowsill. He sees this lack, sunshine comes remote to these poor dancers, life forms, yet, Pope Peter sees nothing is to be done, light withdraws via these awnings. He wonders if this is perhaps an omen, beckons his leave, depart amidst this infertile place. He asks himself silently, ‘Are these plants not merely my own face shining through these bizarre, byzantine photosynthetic mirrors, a surrealist face, perhaps, haunts, horrify? Have I become a decadent?’… He shrugs his holy shoulders, reassured by the gentle spirit of his home, once again he focusses his gaze upon these – this one he loves.

These birds come close, hover there, set on swaying branches, cock their heads listen, winsomely discern, rapid response, sing along with this Requiem…. Pope Peter with his still voice, asks his heart, ‘If a black cat draws close but does not cross my path, if I pass & it just looks at me then bends, stretches its neck — then, is this not a visa through towards this spirit world… amidst free friendly gateways?…’ Jimi, this Nightingale, loves this eruption of his voodoo chile in Spring…

This black trance, night flows into each, their eyes. All these maidens, girls, voices like honey, prepare themselves, sing through this night outside their green door, to sing his love, Pope Peter, for his blessed child Moon, her kirtle, violet maiden songs, seduce, these always do, these sing in chorus ‘Like the mountains hyacinth, feet of shepherds trample, leave this ground in bloom with blood, purple.’ Their naked young bodies shine as tiny suns dance welcome caresses from this enchants smoke drench cast wind. Before Pope Peter unties these honed claws of Julian, he swathes Moon in this softest cambric veil, seizes this golden cup with its twisted node, drops in a few fetus ice cubes, drinks greedily, gulps down hard. He surveils this sample tray near this altar of gestic incense onto which he sets this cup, it overflows. There sets this mixin’ bowl, burnt offerin’s mingle with ambrosia, Pope Peter takes this ladle to pour some potion for Moon. She takes hold of this goblet, receives this libation, Moon wishes Julian opaque luck, this, his destiny allots. For just a moment Pope Peter & Moon grasp together each, hands, hold this clasp under dim, red, putrefying light, smile this knowing smile.

Through this Night Air, I hear these faint trickles of wood nymphs… those invisible springs, these sounds, phial things, purrs this cherubim. Pope Peter, this storm god stands upon this ragin’ bull, approaches this gentle flower seethes, this royal chapel, dynastic temple of Moon. He quickly binds her ankles to these table legs with this golden cord, suddenly releases these paws of Julian, quiver, flex out front legs, graspin’ batter.

Julian scatters claws, thrusts out, upon, locks onto these supple inner thighs of Moon. He lurches his head forward, cutely confident in this victory of good over evil, savors, gushes, licks, wet spirals caress, these swollen rose petals. He thrashes drub whips, his sandpaper tongue chaoticly streams across this sweet lovely pussy, Moon swells moans quake, shivers, shake, tears gently build, bulge, blood trickles quietly down her flush, beam cheeks. She gasps, chokes breath, ‘May my pussy be widened! May this mighty mountain redeem me from suffering!’ Pope Peter grasps Julian around his waist, pushes him forward deeper with his joltin’ pelvis, his stiff, rock hard cock anchors this cat asshole, all this time he fucks her excrement cavern, pumps Our Lady of Sodom, no beat is missed, this forges a durable rhythm.

Moon digs her long red painted fingernails into her mayhemic psychedelial erect nipples, she tears away skin, scarlet lymph lava flows streaks across, swing beauteous breasts sway. Jimmy Swaggert runs over quickly hoists off his lubricated cups hand streams this blur his eyes fix upon this cluster fuck frenzy. Brunhilde shakes her head in disgust, turns away, scratches her wet slimy asshole, digs out dingleberries, cling, places these, just a pinch between her cheek and gums. She lays her hands upon tiny Jimmy Swaggert, clenches his shoulders, throws amidst across this plane of flame & iron rings, forces him to approach each of these seven mansions to ask each for a cup of strange music from nowhere. He embarks upon this quest, Brunhilde casts seed across this rocky family room pathway.

Moon evokes inhuman shrieks, moans & howls, these morning stars rejoice together amidst their dream slides sleep, each shouts with joy. Meteors fly hylozoic, thrust contingency, break from expected, prophesied paths crash down upon this expanse, land, this backyard, explodes tauty thunder shocks, bi-sexual angels fly merrily from house to house fuck each, every woman, man, sheep.

Baudelaire flies down to this pile of seed, he divides forty-nine yarrow stalks into two random heaps, counts them by threes & fives, he throws three coins six times, each line, these hexagrams display those values of heads or tails. Each, these sixty-four mutations correspond to each one of his psychic, silly situations. Quickly, he consumes this meal, spins around upon his pivotal heal, flies quietly back to his perch – as a chicken will.

Julian plunges his face into Moon’s holy of holies, Pope Peter thrusts forth leverage, Moon slides her hands, fingers down between her tender thighs over labial slopes pulls back open, gapes this doorway to the beyond. She grabs Julian’s head, clenches her hands clasp about his neck, she pushes his head, slips it in, engulfs this crusty annihilating vortex. Pope Peter fucks Julian into her enigmatic, Moon screams shrill, disintegrates amidst this massive conflagration. Tiny heads materialize, this dirge drinking glass fills with blood, Elvis the snake fights off this glowing white orb, but falls, vomitin’ & such things.

These fatal lights shine across this joyous terrain of boundless frenzy. Clothed in flesh, a spirit, an odor of iniquity animates this symphony of impious bodies, animals, humans & non-humans alike, this state of being, co(s)mic identity. Suddenly, a pen stands up scribbles across this notepad, writes treatises, yet, Job, that drifter, sleeps, dreams of his former life, before he lost his entire family to a serial killer conspiracy. This pen writes under this influence of remote suggestion from another.

Moon seizes Julian, spiritual son of Nero, this secular fireman, she pierces each, his front paws with interlock rings, matter runs through matter. She places a sterilized mask over his mouth, filters this atmosphere before Julian breathes, lest tiny microscopic life be destroyed. She administers laughing gas so he can evoke her most sublime destiny. These rain clouds hover dark overhead, suffocate each singular being amidst their greed for this light. A bird with Julian’s face lands upon that damp windowsill. Suddenly some one turns on the light, bruise’s weal hairy hemorrhages break out all over Moon’s body. ‘Turn that god shittin, fuckin’, earthdamned light off!’ she screams, the shock becomes absent, the moon blankets rays illuminating this limbo of fools & sinners.

Julian’s aura begins to shrivel, slowly, he is naked, a dim light shines upon him against this black backcloth. Moon pours oil upon him, anoints this sacrificial beast before burning him upon the pyre amidst this living room. She feeds him a lotus flower, Julian chews it, swallows immediately. His luminous body dulls intensity, shadow casts across send, phosphorus gas burns eyes, eats this oxygen. Lycan, this lizard crawls across this surface gazes upon him, ‘Become as I am, you ones who approach this end, come here be as I am, be with me in love.’ Terrestrial magnetism pulls away this silk thread each seeks to touch.

With a sudden jolt amidst this impasse, an insight came to Moon, via this sword she cuts Julian up, with this sieve she winnows him, in this fire she burns him, in that mill she grinds him up, in this field she sows him in order that these birds might eat their portion, that they might destroy his seed. She urinates & vomits into this stream as she drinks, engulfs her mouth over, around this water spout. She treads upon across this sea, quickly runs over this source, these two deep, depths, smashes down, displaces, drowns that one who merely walks, banishes him away amidst this cosmic gathering.

Pope Peter gazes across this room at this, his family, his clan, these who gawk at his frolicking joy with faces which do not comprehend. These come & go like ghosts, he wishes to break up this family, separate himself from not only his father, but also his brother & sister. He really remembers those brutal beatings from Simon Peter, brutal lashes across his tender young hide, each time Pope Peter would call this prophetic patriarch a no good asshole bastard. He recalls these cigar burns to his chest, neck, thighs — and to this head, his cock, he still exhibits scars — these punishments for childish trespasses into this, his neighbors house, when he would fuck his neighbor’s wife on that couch during those afternoon soap operas & talk shows. Or when he refused a loan of irrigated rose water for just one day, or when he refused to loan a water jar, when Pope Peter would dam up his neighbor’s irrigation ditch. Kid’s stuff! Pope Peter whispers, ‘Wait til you realize that you have already died, you just realize that no one dies, it is just ritual…’ Stares silently caresses streaming rain…

Pope Peter shakes at these thoughts, pain wells up within his soul, he swears by that God with unwashed hands, ‘Oh ominous shepherd, who rejoices on this horizon of dire domain, this light of this sun… You say that I am a manic medicine man… I was born, came into this world for this one purpose, to speak about carrot testicles… Whoever belongs to these listens to me!…’ This incantation, quite apropos in that his father had always denied even knowing his nextdoor neighbor, especially as time recedes, shadows heighten this awareness of color, contour. He mimpathizes for just an instant with this sputtering moth, himself sputtering…. Yet, this flying insect becomes a plastic substance, vibrates extreme rapidity, permeates ether, rides a pony & picks floss via zircon encrusted tweezers, waxes it in this monition of light caverns.

As Moon, this bride laughing in the sun warmed rain, exudes the bouquet of her menstrual flower, bubbly bloody pockets, brown coagulants, stream, effervesce out, drool shoots down across, all around.,,.. the aroma traverses the air dancing, tempting many a nose. With exploding force, her pussy & asshole simultaneously burp, she politely covers her oriphices, whispers, ‘Excuse me,’ Moon vents pungent invisible air pumps inside her via her hands, this cat head, that chick Mary, Moon sends gruel across everywhere, stench penetrates, mixes, transfigures, this furtively fragrant aroma. Musical instruments with a bright center, dim edges play via invisible hands. Moon fizzes via negative hey-Lucy-nation, clumps shatter, ectoplasm raps elastic, spastic, scarlet letter, market fetter, westrin’ culture, festrin’ vulture, hyenas laughin’, magicians graphin’… No one can count these cups she quaffs.

Oh yes, it is all quite plain to me, as I roam around like an etheric roaring lion, look for someone to devour. Yet, I am only continuously squeezed out by the ghouls, these creatures of head & alimentary canals, prowling nightly in search of their gruesome orgies, smacking at their terrible blood-shot ogre eyes.

Pope Peter does not seem to notice any of these sensory onslaughts, he continues, chaoticly fucks her ass with this statue, this alleged Mother of Our Lord. He gazes off with his larkspur’s stuns clarity, conjures twenty-five minutes of sheer hell, soular screetchin’ terror. As his symbolic recollections surge upwards to his heart, he lights a lamp, covers it with a bowl. He rubs Moon with oil upon which she loses her reason, flees into the woods.

Haunts this massive black, big dog, this hell hound, one which comes from several hundred yards away over across that field, a large black dog, begins its ferocious pursuit, these eyes, in a flash, meet & meld, erupts this singular vision. It runs fast towards Pope Peter, he freezes still, stiff for just this instant. He leans slightly towards that castle of his grandfather. He is off, runs feverish, this vicious dog ever narrows that distance between these two, hence, this, their respective relative distances vis-a-vis either safety or conquest. Pope Peter makes it to his homely backyard, this giant dog quickly gains, hears this surge, salivates breath, this predator. His goal: run into the garage, enter this house of his grandfather through that green door where there is no oriphice left…

He runs around this corner tries to sharpen his turn comes around into this garage. The hellhound right there, Pope Peter slips on gravel falls down, skins up these heels, his holy hands, elbows, face, knees. That huge dog leaps, plunges at him, but with an incredible, magical burst, ***energy***, Pope Peter thrusts his body forward off this barren rock, lunges for this emerald door, turns this knob, these massive dog’s clawy paws grasp his right shoulder. The door begins to open, but this devilish canine bites his lobe off his left ear.

Pope Peter nearly jumps through this door into this house, this opening, but his hairy, smelly, one toothed, ape tit Grandma, slams that door closes on his face, yells, ‘Keep this that mother fuckin’ door closed god dammit, who in the hell do you think pays for that fuckin’ goddamned air conditioner anyway, you bunch of sorry assholes.’ She waves her hands towards this chamber.

As she continues to ramble on, on, on, Lou Salome denounces Simon Peter, ‘And you no good piece of shit, you worthless, lazy piece of goddamned yuppie,’ these vicious sounds, smacks slap flesh reverberate through door, ‘you no good dirty, (vibrates off grind clenches teeth saliva mist froths at mouth) dirty, mucky son of a fuckin’ bitch, a real goddamned hound hellfire, you sickening fat lazy scrounging’ bum. You’re nothing but a goddamned sludgy feces parasite,’ more smacks, ‘And your ugly quayle faced wife, she’s nuthin’ but a lousy, god damned, stinkin’ whore — Broom Handle, what kind of a fuckin’ goddamned name is that anyway?!!!.’

Lou Salome dances, nyctalopes out from behind this oily olive door, ‘You call these demon rats children, that little girl — Anorexia — twelve years old, already has had seven goddamned abortions, you can smell that cunt of her’s from the fuckin’ other side of this here room, (under her breath) that goddamned cocksuckin’ slut, some granddaughter (voice sudden erupts) — ‘and the boy, well that little braindead faggot sittin’ there all day long in that fuckin’ corner suckin’ on his thumb, huggin’ that weird ass doll that he made,’ Lou Salome pauses, ‘where in the hell is that sniffling fairy twat anyway?’ She walks back & forth, twirling her arms.

Lou Salome continues her vomitus rant, ‘ — This wretched shit is truly beyond me, I should just wash my hands of all you sick, worthless bastards, yah right, don’t let me forget it, blood is thicker than fuckin’ water…,’ meanwhile, back at wayne, I mean, Disney manor, Pope Peter is savagely mawled, via that gargantuan black dog…. He lost an eye, & from thence onward, he was known as ‘that little one-eyed boy.’ Many see him on that windin’ road.

The songster Snake, Elvis, intervenes, ‘I thought that little one-eyed boy w’s dead…’ ‘No, no,’ replies adolph, ‘He only lost three fingers on his left hand, lost his right arm, part of his left foot, & most tragic… painful of all, Pope Peter lost his balls, which were, to his boundless horror, wolfed-down, consumed by that voracious beast, right there in front of his eyes.’

People, for years, would stand & stare at Pope Peter, faces emanate nebulous perplexity. They would stand there starin’ at him for a couple of minutes with odic force, always with that sure same dumbstruck, inquisitive gaze, as that little one-eyed boy whistles to himself, this same song all day long, ‘Doucheland, Doucheland, uber alles.’ Then, with that utmost predictability, each would shake his or her head, sighing, ‘That big black dog really fucked up that little one-eyed boy, real bad… reaaalll-real bad.’ This side of the world from out high Heaven he fell… the land fled back dismayed, pulls the sea upon her, a veil…

For weeks, local members of this Coo Clucks Clan, utterly, typicle pigeons predict, beyond this bizarre looish length, impish, perverse pimply boredom, respectful of this sexy sixteen year old tatooed virgin, Anorexia (she was only twelve), sucks all of their cocks, they having misread, misunderstood this headline from that local newspaper, ‘Immense Black Dog Harasses White Boy,’ beckon via their unspoken network of glances, this world of oral orthos, whisper behind closed doors, ‘Did you see the paper?’ No one had, but all nod each their heads so as not to be left out from this vicious sniff fest, mind fucked herd, ostracized from this sorted seething belonging, ‘It said right there before your eyes, ‘Large Black Man attacks White Boy,’ … so, Brothers, what in the hell are we going to do about this transgression of our pigeondome!!!’ He grabs this small wooden board with his pointer, rests it upon this smooth polished surface. This single word appears.

That brood of pig vermin begins to chant, ‘Lynch, Lynch, Lynch, … Kill him!, Kill him!, Kill him… We want Barrabas!,’ whirl in a delirium of pure white noise, discordance proliferates their diabolical hate. In order to witness to this event, and to do their fair share in moving their country in a new direction, they religiously hold a candlelight vigil under Pope Peter’s window, these good neighbors gently sing that old traditional hymn, ‘I’d lynch a color’d for your love,’ or, if their emotions prodded them, ‘Beatin’ Up Blacks,’ tears flow from their sad, sensitive eyes, they greet one another with heart felt hugs, these conservatives of the heart, their utter rapt emotion.

Increasingly, after several months or so, Pope Peter becomes annoyed by this singing, its constant monotony of drones, & drones, he decides enough is enough. In an effort to squelch these singers & get their asses out of his neighborhood with those silly damn dresses they wear, [their shoes don’t match their dresses] …

Most importantly, Pope Peter knew it was after Labor Day, and it is just too tacky to wear white, it’s just not done… Thus, he ascends from his stool in the corner, sets down his dolly onto this excrement tray, walks towards that budgy balcony through these kert kelly stained glass doors. Pope Peter stands upon his leggy legs, he overlooks, gathers barbheads below amidst his gratuitous grandfather’s cactus garden, from which his father grew.

As they see this object of their melancholic passion, there, stands erect, integrates, above, this man’s man castin’ his vile vigilant eye, glances down upon that mire of many, this resolute ressentiment infested coterie, they erupt explode into song, along that melodyline of this here United States (certainly not of these United States of Love).. National Anthem: ‘Oh, Lead–er, for you, we will gladly gas every spic, nigger, & jew.’

Pope Peter exasperates vis-a-vis this totalitarian matrix of aesthetic depiction, raises his arms high above his head, beckons for silence, stillness. All at once, that swarm of penguin bellies become very quiet, freeze stiff in their adoring gaze towards this One, like those little cogs of obedient, clueless boys & girls (back home, barefoot & pregnant, of course getting the hot cocoa together for the men’s return) that they are… irretrievably drenches this wallowing excrement of brainwashed recycled. pre-fab. @dogdick personalities, puts everything into its proper place, give me a label, hide me away in a tiny little box in that corner, suck my thumb, fuck my luscious little dolly.

Pope Peter shouts to stunted, but hungry eyes, ‘I am so perfectly fine, just as long as I get to pet my purty dolly’s petite pusse’. My dolly is pretty, do you want to see her, my dolly? Do you want to touch her? Kiss her? Well, … No, oi! sireee… You Can’t! Only I can touch her, only me… Only I can lick my dolly’s bum, I won’t let you see her, she doesn’t like you anyway, she thinks that yo’r stupid, she said this to me the other day, she thinks you’r weird, & that–that… You are so ugly, she hates you, &… &–wishes you were dead!’ Pope Peter retreats to the shadows where he embraces his purty, pretty little dolly.

Suddenly, still with vertigo Baudelaire disseminates this allusive drug, alters each these minds of millions & millions of bodies… This fatal precondition is set, forget these sorrows… for a great dawn comes forth immanent via day… this jubilant eruption of a new god, metempsychosizes for all to bear witness… this newest, that oldest, thas, thit, Same… And in a borrowed frame & falsely false disguise went in to him to do a deed of shame, Pope Peter cried, ‘There doth the ancient spirit rove of criminal Myrrha, who cast amorous eyes on her own father with unlawful love…’ So when that rabid pair, upon whom I keep my gaze fixed, had passed, I tersely turned about to view other spirits born for ill…

Pope Peter holds his dolly up to this herd of zombie clones, shrieks out, ‘Do you see my dolly, isn’t she beautiful? Do you want to know what her name is, my very little itsy bitsy pretty prickly baby? No–, I won’t tell you, if you know what her name is, you may call this gatekey, out, into these winds, beckon her removal, herself, away from me, she might bestow herself to you… no, no, no, I can’t let that, this happen, I can’t let you do this to me, I won’t let you steal my pretty purty lil dolly, she won’t go, she likes me better, she doesn’t even know that you exist, you better just stay away from her, here, buddy… why won’t you just leave me alone, let me, us, be, get your own dolly, this one is mine, I love her, I play purty pretty purty pussy pushin’ panties pats pinkies plunge pluggin’ tight …’ Pope Peter dances chanting to himself. In a sudden burst of joy, shatters frenzy, that ridiculous goatherd, these mediocre terrorist scum, this grand dragon, Pat Buchanan freneticly dances around as their crosses burn, arms lock with arms with arm, skip playful around this supple shrine, bells on their heels, tipshit lampshades on their heads, bracelets on their ankles, sing bold bellows chorus, ‘Oh, play purty pretty purty pussy pushing panties pats pinkies plunge pluggin’ tight, I’m sure as hell glad God made me white’ (Once again to the sadistic melodyline, of this Star Spangled Banner). They danced & sang with intensity, there seeming no more happy occasion for a festival amidst this orgy of serotonin deficiency…

Obviously this strategy did not work, Pope Peter heard these birds before this dawn, he could plainly see, by that dawn’s early light, via this rockets’ red glare, that these words, these twoish tone amulets, these images, styles, only intensify enthusia, give primal impetus & valid validation, bewitch amidst this vast open expanse, terra bodies, this horizonless mass, wretches cast defilement… slobber their automaton worship of Pope Peter.

Therefore, he devises a new strategy, hears amidst this wind what others did not eavesdrop, an ingenious concoction: boiling oil. By this time these typical, epiderm cocksucker {in nominae patris et filii sancti} ,,,… hiney heads had shown up to pay their respects to ‘that dude who was mutilated by a witch raven.’ Each raises his fist, shout, chant in unison, erupt pseudo-ecstasy, they witness their boy, a hero, leader aloft sores out amidst coy clouds on top, this tower above, down upon this regimented mass. Pope Peter sets ablaze these arid branches cluster beneath a blackiron cauldren. His sacrifice augers well, smoke ruthlessly rises lightly from his altar, ascending straight to the clouds. He throws in a few jasmine & poppy seeds upon these burning coals, he breathes in this smoke, witnesses this primal event of these devils of the cauldren. He throws this stone into the abyss at the top of this peak, it descends amidst this gulf, resounds as a smart copper vessel struck via a huge hammer. These manly men below cheer this spectacle, recalling, of course, the fires of Odin. As that oil slowly heats under this steady whirlin’ fire, Pope Peter, surrounds his head with this celestial light, a lightening bolt shines from the west to the east, looks out into immediate darkness throughout across filters wibble wobble, fiery air, gazes from this simple actuality, down upon his idle retainer of worshippers, all of this, these, this event witnesses, chronicles these friendly spirits dwell amidst, wave from these twinklin’ stars.

Pope Peter gazes at this star, hours of Saturn, Mars & Venus, evokes these souls of Hell, his buddies slain in battle, communes with the spirits of his dead loves. He grabs an tiny aspergillum composed of mint, majoram & rosemary contained in a pot of glazed earth. He takes a fuming dish filled with freshly kindled coal & perfumed with aloe-wood, mace, benzoin & storax. Pope Peter raises his sublime arms, shouts to this eternity of opening, ‘Tarry to my children, in this tree, Till such time as full ye be.’

He knew he had come a long way since those days when he was sodomized by Jesus, his next door neighbor. Jesus would always say to him, yo’ Christ, his nickname down at that house of his father’s slaughter with all those breast shredders & burnin’ stakes, goodly gracious goddamit, we’s goinna burn yous reaaal good, inserts his throbbing-red, erect wily-slick willy dingdong into, inside & up Pope Peter’s asshole, ‘You must learn to love your neighbor as you love yourself,’ & ‘If you do not love me with your whole heart & soul, you will never enter that house of my furry father…,’ & ‘In those days after this time of trouble, that sun will grow dark and this moon will no longer shine.

These threats were hard medicine for this wafflin’, meek boy, this one-eyed sensitive soul. Pope Peter would always whisper under his breath, ‘What if I hate myself? Your shit molestation of me is enough to bring on these feelings… so what if these stars fall from this sky, or if petty powers in space are driven from their courses? I should sue you & your father – your entire vile cult for mental cruelty & malicious brainwashing!’

To be perfectly honest, Pope Peter didn’t like to go there to the house of his father anyway. There was nothing ever to do in that musty-aired, antiseptic tank, just a boring old bogus corpse-festerin’ tomb (certainly no place to sing these praises of this Muse), with a whole bunch of annoyin’ assholes just kneelin’ all around, gawkin,’ spit, pretendin’ to be pious, holy, fuckin’ won’t mind their own stagnant goddamned business, it is simply Hell there… as if this time presents this category, label, entrepreneur, those most banal express, this, that last luxury, this rugged rug, jades individual… all burn amidst this vortex of playful sacrifice… maya dissolve, gift, truth, open@

Pope Peter would come home from a visit, would think a bit, then look joyfully towards this radiant, gentle vision of his beloved, beautiful mother, Brunhilde, he would say, ‘Golly, Mommie, I mean Jeepers, what the heck, darn, there’s nothing ever fun to do over there in that crummy old, god’mn house… &, gosh, for heaven’s sake Mother, he, I mean JEE-Jesus, just will not give me a moment’s peace, always so touchy, feely-feely, won’t keep his hands off me for a mini- minnie minute…’ He scratches his short cropped hair, his father’s own special bowl hair cut, gits once a week.

His mother, of course, being this snobby, negligent bitch that she is, tells him bluntly, ‘Do you really think that I give two rats’ asses about your insignificant, measely, worm problems?!!! I have enough problems of my own. I am at least lucky now & then for this chance to rid myself of you for awhile. Don’t you know what a pain in the ass you are, always were?!!!. I wish you were never even born. You were a mistake anyway, a bad, … very bad

If I knew then what I know now, I would have even gone to a back-alley abortionist, who does not restrict on any condition, this part-time, earns a little extra, in addition to this revenue of its crack distributorship, straight from the CIA (& other private subsidiaries). And even if we had wanted a child, you certainly would not have been our first choice… far from it… Never! Same for your whore shatters slut sister! Now you just, go, get the hell out of here, snap! snap! out of my sight, out of my mind, you imp, leave me to my peace, go off to your corner, play with your dolly or something. You know Mommie loves you… now go away! You sissy freak!’ She cuts his face with her bic… & then smiles…

Pope Peter tips over this cauldren, releases that boiling oil, it s u s p e n d s for what seems an eternity, but suddenly smacks, falls upon, showers sear white sheets, bald heads, net of razors, infiltrate storms, inundates shock sears slash, scalpel sharp heat burns bubbles blisters bulge skin melts off bodies fall faces glue glues glued together… eradicates this only cancer… Pope Peter looks down, surveys this laughable spectacle, joyous scene, image, penetrates from out amidst this bellows chaos of smoke, steam, fog, fire, torches witness under his savor caresses Moon. He has killed many, but not all, especially this one who flies over head descends from that cloud upon this shining, prozacesque & cleanly city.

Some lay helpless, dying on this psychotic field of dreams. These rest scatter into this forest with their wounds, regroup, tend these bleed, sting, surge sores, assess these losses, amass. They would be back. For some reason, they always erupt from time to time, these pestilent locusts… Were I but still so active that I could drag myself only an inch in a hundred years, I’d be on the rugged road by now, be sure I would, to seek out from all these sufferers disfigured & maimed, though it’s half a mile across & eleven miles round at least, from all one hears…

There would never be satisfaction in this agonistic regime of open warfare, torment via neighborhood children, all of his meager efforts, his fortresses, vanquish in this strife of night, shatter ruins, each daybreak. And, each day Pope Peter once again begins to build, finishes with the evening. And once again they come, as Pope Peter convinces that little girl with her tiny toy plastic rake to pull down her underwear so he can get a good look at her snatch, this space, here, where no follicles intertwine. His only recourse is total annihilation, these, not by his hand, but by their own… He stands, holds the rake of virtue.

Pope Peter breaks from his trance, glances over at that screen, erupts from the small black & white telescreen. A mule, Balaam, son of Beor, is lowered by a crain onto that spreads eagle awaits cunt of an older skinny skin saggin’ woman with blood red hair. The mule is brought into position by two male, leather clad, chained assistants, barkin’ Ron & mafia Frank. That cock of this mule stands erect via vaseline massages by serious, frenticly, smiling, men. This mule speaks a human voice, ‘A dog goes back to what it has vomited, a pig washed goes back to roll in that mud.’ Balaam’s cock is inserted into Nancy Reagan’s sandpaper vagina, she shines in glee, releases a dark, deep, demonic roar. With this primal pulpy scream, begins Comrade Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’ this, that fuckin’ going on & on, over & over, tight shots, far shots, rhythmic rolly-polly contrivance, this beatific beastial festival, transgression dances within that discipline of this score…

Suddenly, this rope breaks, this mule falls onto Nancy Reagan delivers to her this full presence of its wrathful sword, splits her into two, blood shoots out of her mouth (it was obviously a stuffed-mule that snuffed her). The words ‘the end’ come on the screen, with a list of credits, a voice over begins ‘this has been a production of Friends of Nancy Reagan, remember to sleep good tonight, so you can work well tomorrow.’ A subliminal portraiture of Henry Ford & Mickey Mouse invisibly beams out, superimposes this phosphorescent electron festival.

Pope Peter slowly ceases fucking Moon’s ass with this Mother Immaculate, lets it slide out, releases it, lethargic from his hand, Mary rolls over the carcass of roast baldeagle, which decays upon that table besides them, this magical emanation disperses in recurrence. Mary calls out for Wild John, her true spouse. Moon scans this room, heavy objects move at her glance & gesture, float in this air in accord with her wishes. Her face appears as clay, her body levitates, hovers over this table, keeps herself from flyin’ away by extra hands which extrude from her rib cage. Two maggots, with hope, someday maybe even flies, Jim & Tammy, fall from Moon’s snatch, she hovers, taking one last smell of this wriggly wiggles evangelical event.

Moon collapses onto this table beside Ave Maria, her left hand comes to rest in a clump of mashed white potato(e) on a plate, her pinky places perfect push proud priestess pussy purrs… Go! grow faintly light-headed, they drop back their wig-wings, their hearts chill. The cricket from under his wings strikes forth his rapier-sweet songs, that god of this sun pours down upon this earth his streams of flame. These sounds of this wind rattle that decrepit aluminum siding. She picks up this receiver, casts voyance over that militarist inspired interactive nexus, net to net to net. She throws this pink soft voice handle down, it scatters, comes to rest under that planchette. Jimmy Jim Swaggert lunges suddenly forward, makes noises, throws objects about, starts fires, breaks domestic crockery. He spontaneously throws small hot stones set amidst his immediate proximity. He shits a shroud of turin onto da floor.

Pope Peter walks over, staggers, sweats, seemingly transfixes this force, surges through, this, his body, rapidly blinks his one eye, holds closed tight, opsis window, compels him to look out of this window, look out into that, engulfs darkness, gaze, fathom this wood, It stands out there, beyond, calls out, bestows invite, to come, abide, beckons amidst its dwelling, his shelter. A spirit world calls him to come join this scintil forest dance. An etheric pseudopod reaches towards him, smacks him across his face. This shock opens this dance of a thousand lights sparkle, swirl before his eyes, sounds & touches, carry this wind via these rods. This pendulum swings to & fro, this earth quakes howls of suffering, bubbles up from through these cracks in this soil. He regurgitates that flimsy material which he had swallowed only just before.

An intense shiver waxes his wild animal body shakes, quivers, jolt hips sideways. He clutches his shoulders, sweats profusely, guides his body through these corridors, obscure hallway, knees buckle underneath, comes to rest gently, silently beckons words as he pulls Apollo out of his ass with this string, crusty, it falls in a clump onto this floor, shakes itself off, runs away under that flowery couch. Pope Peter sits stares at Anorexia get her ass fucked by Simon Peter, but returns to this nowhere to contemplate this event of his immanent demise. Brunhilde walks in triangles. Jimmy Swaggert scrapes up blood & shit from this kitchen floor, rubs it onto, his still erect, wily slick Einsteinian, surging member, bent space, tickler…

In an involuntary, yet quick act, Pope Peter flicks a bee, Helen Keller, her sterile worker body, through, this other side of this screen web door. It wrestles itself in seeming agony but eventually begins to shake itself off; yet it is still very disoriented walks around & around in a circle; but now it seems that it has released its stinger which begins to collect, drags cigarette ashes in its glue, tumbles around over down in its final dance of death. It casts off this stinger along with its viscera walks amidst light, seeks a place for herself to die.

Moon lays her grungesque face down onto this kitchen table, blood & excrement drip-drop, sputters from her openings onto this floor, into Jimmy Swaggert’s bucket, mixes, baldeagle, raspberry sauce shines in this blessed light of overflowing candles, this obvious innocence… This statue of that conjectured virgin sets still, breathless, a slimy film of excrement & blood coalesces amidst retreating moisture, an egg shell keeps her eternally safe. It is a quarter phase of this moon, square aspect to its full position, eight bright stars guide her along upon this, her only journey. Moon falls into a deep trance of higher contemplation, temporarily renounces this earth life & her body’s needs. She lifts her hand from these mashed potato(e)s gazes at this imprint which remains, wonders about herself……. & about her family…

Pope Peter falls hard into amidst that nook & corner near that doorway, impales ribs, this broom handle jets, falls over, a broom stick snaps, rolls over onto back broken stick stuck into his chest of ribs. He tears this thicket spear out, quickly pulls, snoggedy dog snags this cloth diaper from his piper pants, plugs up this hole, his chest, increases pressure, pushes cloth inwards. His arms fall back, his sporadic incessant breath becomes calm, a small stream of saliva leaks down onto his neck. Simon Peter fucks Anorexia hard, he slaps her face with Baudelaire, Bill Hicks & Richard Nixon scatter in sheer terror amidst these ominous sounds, actions… adolf stands stares at these rovin’ clouds, paints bad art… This room is no larger than necessary, devoid of soft furnishings & draperies as far as possible, with plain wooden chairs & floor, facilities for soft red lighting, window shutters that breathe this dust.

I sing sorrow dry long stagger path way breath smoke trails down around across still quivers embers, witness sisbrethren dance, kneads tender resilient surfaces path, sweet silent nectar sways amid sickness this, there here, restless scratch repose wallow.

Brunhilde dances, her arms wave throughout this room, skips past her sleeping adoptive daughter & her estranged, crippled, wheel chair bound husband, her crispy turbulent thrusts of limb & body, she streams across this room bewitching all amidst her must ridden necromantic banter. She exacted her silly charms via nails, animals, toads & waxen figures in order to bring about suffering & death. But she cannot escape the faces in the dew which shine with their cries out toward her, embrace, clutch her, dragging her down into soap products & a Lady Macbeth complex.

Moon begins to move, attempts to wiggle her way off this table. She manages to slide her self off, comes to rest on this floor, her shit, blood stained legs, face, hands, arms, breasts, abdomen, feet, cakes dry, peels, serpent scales fall off like an early morning snowfall, out over sun caressed meadows, tickles via friendly kisses, whisper breezes. She grapples a large hunk of festering baked baldeagle, grease already cordially congeals this, gelatinous feast, shovin’ it, this entire chunk into her mouth, chomps down hard, slow at first, but with a steady, yet, non-uniform, almost chaotic, intensification of acceleration, chomp, chomp, chompchomp, chomp…chomp, chompchompchomp, etc. This stick of butter begins to fly, causes, subtly, indirectly, tiny transfers across this stillness of three interactive non-linear differential equations… she chew & chews, whisks her head to & fro…

Brunhilde consecrates these nails to the evil one via spells & invocations, then nails crosswise above imprints of feet of one who is destined for torment. She next selects a praying mantis, Allen Ginsberg, resembling this intended victim, attaching to it its hair & sweat-drenched garment of this targeted one. She gives it this name & proceeds to torture it, in whole & in part according to an end desired, by driving nails, red-hot pins & thorns into this body to that rhythm of muttered maledictions. Brunhilde selects a fat toad, Rush Limbo, she baptizes It & forces it to swallow a host, both consecrated & execrated, tied with hairs of this victim upon which she previously spits, shoves a Florida orange up its tight asshole & finally buries Rush Limbo under this bewitched one’s bed, whence it erupts as nightmare & vampire for destinal undoing.

Deleuze, that pet bat dangling from the cobweb traverse shroud chandelier, grows rashly impatient, he cannot stand it anymore, he has vertigo, he looks away abruptly, he shouts, ‘For God’s sake! Which one? Which one are you talking about, for the love of Jesus, Please answer my only plea!’ Jimmy Swaggert quickly descends, grabs Deleuze, shoves him up his ass, he runs away, hides behind the loveseat, upon which sits lavishly his sixteen year old sister, Anorexia, (N.B. Of course, this is a fantasy of Mr. Swaggarts & does not necessary have any relation to the prevailing rape of Anorexia’s mouth via Simon Peter’s cock) who just happened to be raising those dead via evocations & sacrilegious rites, legal & sacred, for her customary purposes of evil.

Anorexia’s scene of operation are there betwixt pits filling with blood, resembles that bath of Minnie, amidst a darkened & suffocating room, in a churchyard & beneath swinging gibbets, this legion of ghosts so summoned & galvanized into life. Anorexia trips those who bring up an offering, this rite of sacrifice for this dead god, she grabs this chalice & fucks herself with it cold, gasping, grapples for materia amid ethereal orgasmic explosion.

She orchestrates diabolical masses & these polluted sacraments to animals & reptiles. She makes bloody sacrifices of genericly packaged animals & children, bleeds orgiastic dances, generally of circular formation, this Witches’ Sabbath, this opening of undreamed-of evil & abominations, all distortions & monstrosities of reality & imagination took part, to end in a nightmare of obscene utter madness.

Brunhilde scoffs at these absurd meanderings for she swells amidst this ethereal cascade of visceral vibrations, she in the shape of a butterfly, flies around those who are celebrating this mass, & who ate of this black host, which they were obliged to chew before swallowing.

Brunhilde grasps towards a waxen image of Billy Graham, not a telegram, that she meticulously sculpts with her own three hands. Into this wax she mixes baptismal oil & a rue ash of consecrated hosts, & out of this is fashioned a figure resembling that one to be bewitched. Brunhilde began singing that song, her favorite, realizing in full awareness that even that quirky second husband is dead, her lovable Samantha, a daytime witch, stands solid, just as she always has been, eternally young & beautiful, yet now, she buries her second husband, while in her own milieu, she becomes an ameri-trash girl, whispers back & forth betwixt these winds.

Brunhilde wiggles her neck a little & baptizes Billy Graham, it receives its name, these Sacraments in toto, the little dog which has not moved since that vicious tornado, & as was the way of coming to be & passing away, Billy Graham is spewn with culcisemen curses, torture via knives & fire, & then, & finally, she stabs him to his heart, good shot due to its minuscule eerie expanse.

Parentheticly, yet, not really, no one at the office knew anything about Brunhilde really, certainly not any of this. She confided in them, yet, about things which were more devastating in appearance then in this actual opening thrust. She surely never sacrifices her goal, no matter what lycanthropic form she may take, & you better not forget that! You must surely shod show ultimate, purty, pretty, pristine respect for this gentle Lady! For, no one dies really, & you might just as well be a maggot someday in my red garbage can upon which I douse gasoline for no other reason then that you stink! Brunhilde walks gently up to Anorexia, a weird, perverse smile beaming, bewitches her via Navaho insufflation, she barely breathes upon her, but so incites this heaviness of her wily will & correspondingly, conjures compliance to her own surge. She did always like her girls young & thin in body, small in soul.

Shocks shake, Moon displays apocalyptical trauma, she chokes, her eyes tear, her face turns red, white & blue, bends over, puts bloody extrusions, places shitty wet hands into her mouth, tries to cough, to vomit, to puke, to purge this herself of this naughty nutritional uncleanness, pushes in her stomach, wields over, straddles back of rat hair chair, pushin’, pushes, push psuh spuch pussshhhh o-la-sky harder & harder… Suddenly this perception transfigures… that artifice platform occupies a chair, a medium & a speaker… of this Truth.. cough, cough, sputters, ‘regime’..

It opens with a simple spontaneous incantation. Hymns are sung, a reading from this inspired work is given, & a short address by this speaker follows. Franki zappa, a speck of cereal in Moon’s snatch, bestows a vision of return, there is a closing hymn, words. Each & everyone sublimates sexual energy into ecstatic states, semi-trances erupt a dark churn depth. Golden light shines from each body, this opens, beautiful, though vulgar, ridiculous…

Out at once suddenly a lump jumps, shoots, flies, scatters across air, brown, red mercury mass, descends, driven, hits tile kitchen floor, rings this dull thud. She stands bent over rubs her chest & abdomen, catches her breath. Simon Peter moans as he comes surges semen all over Anorexia’s back, grabs her hair forces her to suck his virus puss drips streams cock, shoves it in deep, she chokes, gasp, vomits out, he plumes to pump, pum pumpidy, pumpum, pumpumpumppp… screams, ‘I think it is only right for me to stir up your memory of these matters as long as I am still alive.’ Jimmy Swaggert runs over quickly jerks off fast in frenzy, grabs Apollo, shoves him up his asshole, wiggles with this strange tasty tickle clawin’, scratches.

Brunhilde walks over to this refrigerator, grabs a can of pickled testicles, opens this lid, downs this entire container in one gulp, pours this juice over across her tits, deeply massages her saggin’ grapes, her eyes flutter to this back of her head. Adolf miscarries onto this kitchen floor, a shitty david duke, returns to this sofa as this talk show host, Sally Pauly Parasite, introduces these grandfather’s who have married (via a notary public) their unborn grandsons.

Moon stands suddenly, scans this table, lunges towards this half empty bottle of wine. She grasps it tightly in her clenched white-knuckle hands, rushes it to her lips, greets her with a kiss of sloven love, chugs this contained Dionysiac liquid, her cheeks movin’ in & out, provide that suction power, forces rush fluid down her throat opens through extensions of tendons, utter relaxation of muscles. She swallows this entirety, moves that bottle away from her fine furry lips, smashes it against this wall, rubs her mouth with her shit blood caked arm, her eyes gleam, she stares happily off into this landscape of childhood memory.

Moon sets playing with this dollhouse that her late, scorned grandfather, Walt Disney, had made for her. She dresses for this wondrous event, Mickey Mouse goes down on her with her panties at her ankles. She bleeds, big ears laps it all up. Moon decorates her body with electric furs, panther, lynx & cat, these vestments flowing for this ceremony, this, her robe, that hue of leaping flame, rust & blood, belt & bracelets of steel, crown of rue & wormwood. Blue, green & rose, these colors of utter amorous amish incantations, encompasses death amidst utter black, a belt of lead & wreath of cypress, amid this loathsome incense of sulphur & assafoetida. Moon donned precious stones, metals, geometrical figures, stars, pentagrams, columns, triangles, bodies, herbs, belladonna & henbane, flowers, honeysuckle, this ladder, arum, William Burroughs black, red poppies, squeeze to get da juice.

She sets this dollhouse, her Lady’s house into order, as a Mistress of this sublime house must always have her way. Each room is appropriately decorated to exude from the viscous visitor, coax, conjure a particular mood or emotion. These smells are calculated to coalesce with music & images, a self-sustaining stream of flags wells across this space engulfs, opening this dimension of times. She walks Barbie across, throughout this maze of rooms to inspect this work of her servants. Routinely, Barbie begins to scream, smacks these humble heads, servant’s faces who stand next to her, she leaves each room in a decided huff….

Barbie finally comes to this bed room, where Ken lies upon that waterbed, only apparently asleep. Barbie pulls out a long, thick, steel tipped, razor edged, circus whip, & begins to thrash this pitiful, horrified, shriekin’ Ken. In her own voice, Moon makes Barbie shout at Ken as she intensifies her livid lacerative onslaught ‘No wonder my life is the way it is, because of you, if you were a real man, one with a cock, one who could fuck my pussy hard, I wouldn’t have to go elsewhere, but, yet, in despair, never to find anyone with a cock, not even Big Jake has one. None of these plastic freaks do, yet, each gaze at my sheathless, hairless pubescent diatribe, nippleless breasts, my shitless asshole…

It is only then when desperation sets in, I, Barbie, am forced to concoct a plan to attain vicarious sexual satisfaction from children & young women. I have been forced to become a sorceress, to bewitch, via this plastic bodily amulet, with this statue, hungrily seduce all girls everywhere to become, to emulate myself, & with this magical embodiment, seek out, seduce men who will desire me, fuck me to my satisfaction, quench this burning lust which explodes fire! It is all your fault Adam, I mean Ken, you imp, place me in this perverse position to sit, cannot even bend my knees or spread my legs, masterbaiting, penetrate me myself with a seductive slithering statue (sss) of myself, while I watch a little girl who looks like me get fucked by her born-again Christian Uncle Bill.’ Well, I never…

Breaks from her trance, Moon throws this eel out that narrow door, stands still, silent, turns away. Pope Peter pushes (ppp) his way up, uses, deploys this wall with his back, harnesses leverage. He grasps his ribs on his left side pushes this cloth deep into that, his wound, grimaces face lights up with a jolt, explodes pain. He stumbles, falls backward, maintains tenuous stand, waves traverse unseen apparition, flips back onto this bedpost twirls, whirls, rolls over, lands face down across this exposed sheet. Bewilderment, his face hollows, this ceaseless, meaningless suffering, sends him beyond, this vision of his childhood, this happy, bright world of tranquility, innocence.

A small boy, Pope Peter, stands, curiosity abounds, watches his mother giving head to his paralyzed, bedridden father. From his eyes, this perspective moves closer to that, this event takes place, beholden here now to him – sight, sound, smell, shivers, lost, swosh, sloshing sound — relentless, gyrates a sucking action from his mother, a nice apple pie sets on that night table, & you know pops, he loves his hot dogs, he’s so cute when he sits in his wheelchair with a baseball bat in his red right hand, & let’s not forget his mitt, that old lefty, he wears the cap of his favorite team, the Brooklyn Dodgers, not that new team over there, west coast, riot infested, uninhabit, fault-line hell-hole, his father comes, semen streams, mixes saliva out of Pope Peter’s mommie’s mouth, drains onto his father’s dandruff caked, crab infested scrotum — rank fetorpenetrates blisters, bleeds nostrils. A large red & black butterfly lands on a lilac.

Pope Peter squirms gestures to leave, yet remains, at once horrified, awestruck, excruciates ecstatic joy, windows open perception, festival of transgression… chance, circumstance. He is suddenly entrapped, detects that lifeless gaze of his mother, rests her sweat drenches head on his father’s abdomen in fatigue, whispers to him, ‘go, …,’ frustrates, ‘go, run along, snap! snap! … get!’ Pope Peter paralyzed, her stare coldly imprisons, he shakes, shatters implosion, falls, smacks his head stark, stagger, night. He awakens, his mother approaches, he peers out that window beside this broken lamp shade. This bulby bulb here emanates sheer space, withholds darkness across disarray. Breath amidst adjacent spheres streams across tickles, coalesce kindred thoughts….

Gutteral echo chokes emanate from this cold, tomb-like bathroom. Moon cradles this vomit blood excrement splashed toilet into her arms resting her cheek upon cool emanations, porcelain rim. Darkness falls upon this little one as she slips off into slumber, beckons arrival this, her new day. She drifts off away, dances, falls swirls about supple fluid vortex, contours, casts glance, mixture dances, compels, implodes, erases, traces, remains, pulsates, explodes, displace, marks spontaneously appear all over her body bleed blood, pulsates red flows, severe shocks amidst uproarious delirium. It is always the same at the end…

Darkness haunts this night as those holes, surging light, blaze, on that other side, fire engulfs opening, faces run away, conceal themselves, flee this hungry gaze, hide beyond mist of rain, traverses silken veils, cover flesh. Icicles, rainbow drools, suspend gravity from her petite, lovely, kissetive mouth. She dreams of the gift of the Word, this gentle whisper caress from a cup that over floweth (Bill Hicks, the family goat boy purrs in the corn with his lovely hallucinating angels….) For My Most Sensuous Love, delicious, delirious, delightful, destruction devastation disintegrates dutiful despondent duplicity… Is there a joyous world beckoning? Or are there just streams? She hangs, thinly contemplates these, My words distant so beyond away from this now…

She reads her soul writes upon itself, this fan buzzes, pulsates, I gently touch your silken ankle lightly, My lips, I quiver – this instant – immediacy, transgresses, a light tickly collision betwixt sweating excess epidermal contours, wet caress softly, this magic flesac… My fingers traverse your legs, roam this symbol, label path, semiot infinity, hopping, dancing fingers, my hands grasp your left thigh, I lick spirals across your supple calves, ticklin’ behind your knees, up across your fine, luscious bum, frenetic salivates onto over across your supple back, saliva coalesces, a small pool – Do Ti Do Di Di Rae Me Fa So La Ti Do

A running stream, a lake, or thick forest, each holds its horde of malevolent spirits lying wait for the lonely wayfarer, while the churchyard close to the house of his grandfather, the place of where gallows sway from this habitation of man, a dark pestilential marsh, wilderness & mysterious cavern, barren slopes & summits of mountains, these dread meeting places of Pope Peter & his myrmidons, the scenes of their infamous orgies, the temples of their blasphemous rites & cultural engineering via contagions.

And a shadow face male face congratulates her lady with concerns of immanence, this decision exacts, triumphal assertion, causes to happen, yet, she withdraws her lot, seeks once again to ride these dawning tides of fortune. She wishes to see these other possibilities, at least those which were not displayed from a to l. There is always, at least, that alterity betwixt m + z… She wishes to see what is behind curtain #2…

The night was troubled by evil & ominous winds blowing from that Netherworld, heavy with this beating of these innumerable wings of these birds of ill-omen presaging woe; the darkness was faintly lit by the flitting phosphorescent forms of sepulchral larvae, waiting to batten on these souls & bodies of man; of stryges infesting these tombs & desecrating the dead; of incubi & succubi surrounding these homes of the living to bring dishonor & madness to sleeping man & woman & beget monstrous & myriad life; of ravenous vampires in search of victims for a feast of blood.

Moon & stars might illuminate this darkness, but in their beams were spells & enchantments, in their rising & waning waxness these inexorable workings of Fate, the female hamster, this estranged wife of Apollo, suing him for huge damages & divorce in the amount of 1 Billion dollars… mostly for his adultery & his open status as a transvestite, she is jealous, he has a better bum… while against their light could be seen the dishevelled or naked forms of burned witches, male & female, passing overheads to rapturous joy, this ecstasy, this chance… beckons… Come!

This male voice says to her, ‘I possess my own heart, with regard to this chance, your inscriptions may purtily participate in that falsity, may be mere, banal lies, but, as this wind begins to kick up these curtains, there carries amidst this no concern, these cast to this vain caress, winds cut across deep scratch marks, lacerate skin, these inexorable surges, joy waves, raves in perverse, gentle laughter…’ The male voice begins to hum chaos droning proliferation of vowels eeeooooaaaaaeeeuuueeooo – .

Yet, she dissents from his noise, ‘These familiar happenings & actions of life might be nothing but the machinations of sorcery– to eat & drink might be to swallow evil; to look upon beauty in any form, to worship, purchase & consume this malign influence; not to laugh, but to echo infernal mockery & mirth.’ She stands up, gazes up the little things illuminates shadowy light, touches each.

Suddenly, a shocking jolt hits adolf, she must have swallowed a piece of hair – It vomits hideous lumpy gravy, drools all over her head, neck, her back, her legs, excesses everywhere… wretches for what seemslike hours, Moon waits, listens amidst interminable wrenching chunks plop fizz into this old bucket, that one her old granddaddy used to massage that big bull’s penis in, goddamit, … it is sure a small world… yeeeee-haaaah… god damn… i’m ‘merican..damm’t

Suddenly, god is dead gradually, increments, all at once, never, the world becomes to the mind & imagination a place of dread. At sunset, at midnight, in twilight of dawn & eve, these legions of evil, these dread heads, worshipping Jerry the tree, cast abroad on their missions of terror.

Job, the boarder, the drifter, one of a hard, long life, begins to masturbate wildly, he screams out, franticly shouts, ‘This night is nearly over, day is almost here… Come over here, Jimmy Swaggert, Anorexia, my children, come over to me right now!!!’ Jimmy Swaggert runs over, jacks off hard & fast in front of Job, yet, Anorexia turns purple as Simon Peter fucks her face harder & harder, his wheel chair gently lies on its side at rest, his paralysis exposed as simply betrayal. ‘For do you not know the secret of this life?,’ Simon Peter belches out as he slices Anorexia’s tits with his old handy razor blade, ‘Who’s my little girl?’ he whispers to his lovely, quiet, innocent daughter.

a commercial

the scene… a man covering his body with a bear rug crawling naked upon a wooden floor… ducks walking about pecking… a fire rages in the granite emporium… a naked woman lies on an altar, this, & a horse, counting backwards from infinity… snakes slither, frogs churp, toads just hang out… A blond hair barbie woman of the utmost of contemporary aesthetics, this disciplinary distortion of a body, whell, the short of it is that she walked up with milk shooting from her immense boobs, she bellows, ‘Motherhood is my only thought all day long, just that, breeding & orchestration, yet, sometimes my life, I mean, sometimes it all just feels so empty!… several scenes are shown to display her frustration & emptiness… Girl, what you need is to read the Koran & that Bible simultaneously, then you will apprehend your plight!.. learn this truth about that alleged god… man-iac-the-ism… for your only yesterday, tomorrow – Louie da Lounge Lizard removes his specs

Brunhilde growls impatient, smacks Simon Peter across his face with Baudelaire, she abruptly departs into the kitchen, she hides behind the refrigerator door. Simon Peter lays comatose once again, Baudelaire flaps back to its foreboding, squalid perch. It bocks wiltin’ flowers in an ecstatic rapture of evil sentiment. Those four nameless ones who repose in the corner, place their fingertips on this table-top, lightly touch the friend sittin’ adjacent, light retreats, the table rocks slightly, spells out this message, ‘Tellurian dances thrive amidst wind.’ These lights remain dim, this mask is built out of this regurgitation, it molds across these features.

My tongue, its tip, begins aggressive, charts this bouquet, this temple, softly kissing, licking, dancing adores amidst your inner thighs, careens across over these drippy lovely labial slopes crevices licking sucks tugs voracious caresses explode these fluids splash against my face, this ecstatic mouth swallows, this surges rush bursts out over across from you, this facawatzi frenzied fur festival feasting feverishly five feathers float flowers…

Brunhilde blasts farts on her return to the living room, every second or so, she falls down, scatters in her shit sick drunken haze, smacks her head sharply across the mantlepiece, knocks over blazon white candles, displaces this precious holy arrangement he had made with his own two hands. She wobbles around in her sunken daze, shouts, ‘Do you still have red hair, gray eyes, a robbe-grillet body? Are you still as lovely as that first time when I laid my eyes upon you, you glance upon this floor, walk direct into my space, pass my presence, breezes whip over across through my hair, sit down gentle acceptance, my wretchedness, ask if you would drink my gruel, that i could get rid of it… you whisper sublime, ‘i know this longing.’ She walks right through the wall.

Pope Peter lays back in his bed fucks a rotten banana skin. He imagines that familiar face of a female voyeur, croutches behind these bushes, comes near, approach, generous squats, sits down on his head, her furry pussy bestows amidst his face, invisible gnomes watch him in his shame fuck this yellow, leprous, makeshift vagina. He crams the handle of an old wooden tennis racket up his tricky lubricated ass, imagines this intensifies excitement, this female voyeur in such a scenario, as a handsome new wave singer, Ollie North, fucks him up his bum, sings, ‘Ask me, ask me, ask me!!!.’ Those four nameless ones place their fingers lightly upon this upended tumbler with a circle of letters, these letters touch by this sways glass spell out those sinister, foreboding words, a formula for this most black of the blackest magic:

Raven tinsel, Toad Chalice, Goat Eggs…

Yet, this phantasm becomes all too unpleasing for Pope Peter, contrives monotony, sickens him as this scene quells his erotic impetus, seeks instead, imagistic channels in other domains. Wanders images exceed through this stream, an infinity of faces, bodies, scenarios in an instant, vision erupts, he is at the beach, swarms of people, closes in on certain movements, mother & son pushin’ father across this sand, his terminal wheelchair jostles with great difficulty, Pope Peter reinforces that expenditure of his mother – Brunhilde exasperates in frustration. The rented wheelchair obstructs her field of movement, that of a woman in a white dress, walking backwards, diagonally into that path of this turnseat. She grasps her white, wide-rimmed, straw, human skin-lined hat (patent pending) with jetting hands amidst wind, turning with a cautious, startled smile — follows, discerns apparition, recognition. Brunhilde gazes into nothingness, She merely impedes, breaks the momentum of her burden, this greatest weight…

Queen Elizabeth evokes empathy clutching out her hands, arms in embrace, ‘Cousin how ever are you,’ leaning with pity to the father, ‘And, how is this poor soul,’ glances over nervously at the son, this young man with his fuzzy wuzzy wuz a bear goat hair. She slyly gestures to her companions, her manson family, to come over to meet their relatives, speakin’ briefly to these alone, speakin’ of utterly secret things, kissin’ & lickin’ securite’ idols. Her, one of several daughters, Hillary, curiously spies Pope Peter, she, her luminescence breaks free from this sure surveilling grasp of Queen Elizabeth. Pope Peter looks at her longingly, Hillary acknowledges this with a smile & a wink. She approaches Pope Peter, he looks shamefully, cowardly at this myriad of sand, blushes in a surge of disintegrated frenzy. Hillary stands in front of Pope Peter, evokes sternly, ‘Look at me, look at your cousin.’ He slowly, shyly, raises his head, lets his eyes pierce hers. She smiles, moves close, gently kisses his lips, quietly caresses his tongue with hers, grabs his balless cock. Hillary retreats towards her Mother, who says her farewells to a traumaesque Brunhilde.

Hillary gives one last parting glance to Pope Peter, winks, grabs her crotch, then coolly saunters away, fobbs him off. Queen Elizabeth holds her white hat, calls out, ‘Let us go dear girls, our carols are over for day is near. Don’t poke around pebbles, for god’s sake.’ She grasps her electric torture wand closely, pretendin’ she’s the PM…

Sweat, jerks, moans wildly, off, Pope Peter shatters, explodes semen into screamin’ self-inflicted orgasm. Pearl glisten streams run slowly across his hand seek repose amidst this center of this cosmos, this one which is everywhere. He lays still, pants relief, his vision slowly fades away, replaces this stillness of dreary space, painted shadows quiver, smears across absence, race stream stillness headlights, this pulsating hum of that blue traffic light. This rapidity, shine vibrates, turns all into plastic.

He gives a flower to this spider but it remains locked away, setting, perching in its wood laden crack, hole, there. It seems only to enact its thrust with moving targets, flies around Lady Nona, she tires, her eyes burn with resin… she is beautiful in its subtler… who after all seeks this vortex of recurrent hype… These have abated, disappeared, via profusion of ingested smoke, blown out, around, down, over, across there, attempts to dislodge this spider. It must be asleep, thus he will join her. Pope Peter’s eyes close, he falls silently away.

The face of Moon slips off this rim of that bowl, her head falls within, submerges splash crisp cold urine blood shit sweat semen potion. Wretches out hideous scowl, she jolts her head back shakes to & fro, hair whips back out, away from her face. Water drops drip down channels away, leave glimmers, crooked streaks across her skin. These damp creeks cut marks, paths, through encrusted blood & egg-rich excrement, mixed, partly colored. Lady Nona still has not taken this gift, this bouquet, placed there, right here, an offering of delicate esteem.

Moon lingers last, retreats from this blotched surreal light oppresses, surveils this morning luminary lifts slumber from those eyes of her neighbors. Hardly has this god of dawn in tiny golden slippers touched her, she stands up drapes her painted body with a Kieferesque shit spangled saffron gown of American design, quite beautiful, reaches down to her toes. It lies next to that toilet, balled, smears scatter, cast relief, gather fragments disperse, pundits-up in all of yesterday’s excrement.

Pieces of dried shit break off, fall, scatter, Moon drags along her memories to another room, the bedroom, towards this bed on which Pope Peter sleeps, a fetal position. She stands gazes upon this figure conceals, cast into relief, dimension, opens perspective via shadows. Love, a sudden breeze, tumbles on these oak tree leaves, abandons her heart trembles. She smiles remembers days of old, those carefree days of health, this opening of utter limitless possibility. Gazes out beyond a purple horizon.

Once she lives a very gentle life of carefree ecstatic loveliness, this very little girl, Moon picks flowers in this courtyard. Minuscule daisies grow amidst ubiquitous tombstones. She remembers this sudden touch, texture, those gestures, that voice, his cologne, this face of that man, the Priest, that one who gave weekly sermons from his perch, in front, besides that altar, under that terrifying spectre of that crucified, this mutilated corpse of his god. The priest-belch monotonous drones on & on in sheer irrelevance, she sends out like a moon at sunset rises dewy fingers among these stars, sheds her light on this salty sea.

The priest-vulture looks at her, he looks right through her, cocks his head, sticks out his drool coated tongue. Dander from fallen hair penetrates into this sensitive opening, irritation swells accompanies its presence among, within, placing chemicals into his body to counteract symptoms within inside itching swelling burns… ‘It must be thoroughly pressed out or it will continue to emit smoke,’ this priest, George Washington, whispers to himself, gently smothers this fire. Then from his throne, he points to the little girl, roars, ‘Is there any man anywhere you love more than me? I offer you this rich burnt fat of a white goat, yes I shall leave it behind for you. I shall set you to rest on the softest of cushions: yes, you shall lie on fresh new fluffy pillows!’

George Washington stands up suddenly, walks brisquely, brusquely into a center of that room, holds up his arms to these assembled masses. Each immediately falls silent, awaits, beckons his fine words. He faces this brown door next to the sample tray, wiggles his left knee swirls it around, this opens & closes, his left eye to that beat of water falls from over-saturated cloud forms… he begins, ‘I do not aspire with my two arms to touch the sky. It’s too high. I will not lie! I do not know what to do, my mind’s in two!!!’ He laughs as children laugh & clucks his tongue, ‘But, yet, my Blessed Ones, I do not think that I shall spurn this truth of what you’ve shown. I shall by no means not grasp that thing for which I groan. When I was a child, I never was so imbecile as turn my back upon a milk shooting tit my loving mother held towards me. So I pray to you, please presently provide me with this chance of what I crave. And you shall make me famous by this gift of your own work!’ He clacks his wooden teeth…

He takes down his pants exposes a large throbbin’ fully erect penis, the crowd applauds graciously at such a fine organ as that, accompanying such a brilliant, lovely man. He removes a small vile of glycerol from his pants pocket, drains it into a water stained beaker, takes out two small viles from his breast pocket, George Washington quickly removes these wooden corks. He adds two acids, nitric & sulfuric, to this beaker, vigorous bubbles, smoke, fizzing whirlwind swirls turn swirls around & around.

The swindled swarm gasps in terror, he swirls & swirls & swirls, around & around this mixture goes. He approaches those in front with his alchemy. These many draw back away from his banal assertion of presence, his encroachment. His substantial portion palpitates, his erect penis swings back & forth, he walks, bounces back & forth against, off, between his thighs, inner thighs, back & forth, back & forth George Washington’s axe swings, grinds. His testicles bounce up & down, to & fro, he encircles that horizon of this mass to show them his creation. Confusion descends over into across within among these many, these stand transfix, watch this man, their father, this one who had founded their subjection.

George Washington approaches Moon, grabs her delicate frame, grasps, clenches this soft, red hair on the back of her neck, shocks her head with his right hand, seizes her little head first, pushes her small mouth, her little mouth, around, gropes, engulfs his vast pitch penis, pushes her little head back & forth over across in & out in & out, fucks her mouth, this little girl, in & out harder & harder, keeps that horrified herd back, at beigh, distracts these with meaningless, self-destructive conflict, his smoke bubbles, harder deeper faster, in & out, quakes back track sideways, explodes semen into her little mouth, splits tender lips pushes forces down her throat, pulls back, out, away with his mixture. He lowers his shoulder to the floor, bows elegantly to his children, a despondent, wishwashed pack of zombie clones.

The escapist, silly, guilt-ridden horde applauds graciously at such an exemplary performance, at such a noble deed, that such a Man as this, a man of god, no less, would have anything to do with such a lowly girl. He stands, calls out to them all, ‘You have seen my works, my creations, you have heard my words, but these do not matter, except that these are True, you must live by obedience alone, you must believe in me, you must trust me, you must pledge allegiance to my Flag, for, if you refuse, I will cast down my mixture onto you, this potion will end each of your isolated pathetic lives, this life, your mindless servitude.’

Moon is broken from her trance by rustling papers scattering across the room. She listens to his shallow breath, these groans of Pope Peter’s pain. She dances with light feet, hops, skips, she surveys this floor, her hands in her pants pockets. She waits for him, gives him his space, this sweat bleeds from his upper lip, a blood gushes from the slash in his left side, Moon prances amidst tiny unfinished squares, this wood nymph along chaotic pathways, strangely attract amidst this one who suffers. She stands cold face miserable as her passion seethes with her immanent withdrawal away. He lies upon this black earth, nears this, begins his toils. Pope Peter whispers to Moon, chokes, ‘I’d rather be passé…’

His shadow sits as this door opens, Moon walks out & in, out & in, walks by this body, walks past, disruptive, throws off shadow casts against leaves race across. The etheric cat, Julian wanders, a blur stone phantom, eyes those mice which poke their heads out to survey this territory, set, crawl along these inscriptions, flowery curtains quiver shake this moon, that wind flows beneath these tiny stars shine down upon Moon, she rolls around joyfully naked in that tall silky caresses grass. This doorway leads no-where at all, it is not a door way at all. This shadow glides past that small chair settin’ by that railway car inmid this field where this little rabbit eats clover, these birds sing, that creek flows gently by those frogs which hop into crystal pink water.

This shadow strolls past a tiny little seed in that drawer next to this being, a cabinet where this honey is kept over in that closet & also in this subway station, this cup of water bathes in condensation but that ashtray is full, Pope Peter cries loudly, wimpers out slobbery words, ‘This little itsy bitsy spider drown in that water, never came back up that water spout, it died man, don’t you hear what i am trying to tell you, you never fathom anything, do you? can’t you not just stay with me for just one second, you just do not get it man, it dies, it didn’t climb up, back up that water spout, no way, the sun never came, dried away all this rain, Lady Nona, that little itsy bitsy spider never climbed back up this water spout, man, no way, no sir, she never ascends… so she died man, can you dig that, isn’t that just the fuckin’ limit— Lady Nona died… what the fuck do you know man? Are you even listening? What are we supposed to do now, you know what, now, that our little itsy bitsy spider is dead, drowned, its lying there in that morgue bloated with water, if you grab her arm, hunks of flesh will come right off into your hand, can you dig that man, she’s just lying there dead, she’s fuckin’ god-damned dead.’

With a great many tears, Moon approaches him saying, ‘What a terrible blow — what sadness! I swear I leave you & your madness absolutely against my will.’ He coughs, murmurs his reply longs, words reach out to her heart, ‘My tongue breaks up, a delicate fire runs through my flesh. I do not see a thing with my eyes, all I hear in my ears is a hum. Sweat runs down, a sure shudder takes me in every part, I am pale, these dry grasses… then, I think, I am near my moment of dying. Go, be happy, good-bye. Moon holds back her tears, whispers to Pope Peter, ‘Remember me — for you know how I love you. Or if you do not I’ll tell you so many things you forget, these that made our life together such a joy. All these chaplets of sweet violets, rosebuds braided, placed by you on your hair at my side. All these garlands woven around your delicate neck, fashioned from a hundred flowers. All this fragrance of myrrh fit for a queen, rare, worn on your fresh young skin beside me, on these softest of beds from these quiet hands of maids. There was not a single hill from which we kept ourselves asunder, never a wood in spring fretted with that crowded song of nightingales, where you & i did not wander.’

She stood shaking above witnessing his silent demise. Horror tears her heart as she moves off into that corner sliding gently down onto this floor, her face droops into her cupped hands, tears flow amidst wimpers. She suddenly grasps hold of her senses, realizes that she must protect the rest of her family from this spreading plague. Moon deploys lavender & eucalyptus, myrrh & frankinscence, to fumigate this room, she closes this chimney gate, burns flowers & juniper upon this grate. She haunts out these demons, these pestilent airs, sprinkles perfumed water, places vinegar soaked sponges around Pope Peter’s shrouded figure. Her face is masked, a huge snout filled with sweet-smelling herbs, she ties a cassolette at this end of her walking stick. She sprinkles Pope Peter with water, brings unto him a censer & a torch that the plague demon resteth his body, like water may trickle away.

Moon makes a talisman of the demon, places it in the fire, she mutilates it, so that this attacker may suffer & take leave. Moon releases a raven at his bedside so that it will conjure the demon of fever to take flight likewise. She walks to the altar in the corner of the bedroom, grabs a gerbil named Pat Robertson from the nightstand, slays it, shrieks, ‘The gerbil stands here for Pope Peter, My Love! Give the flesh of it for his flesh, the blood of it for his blood.’ She sprinkles black water upon him & burns toad lips. In this insanitary cell she retains hope that the wretched, foul prisoner would emerge for mundane judgment, his path strewn with nosegays of wild flowers, with this offering she departs.

Pope Peter quakes, trembles, horizontal on the bed, horror engulfs his eyes, images chaotically race through his head. His body distorts obscene gestures under the pressure of raging blood. He clutches his face, head, crushes eyes with heals of hands. He tears at sweat-drench hair, grinds his teeth, small streams of saliva leak, run down his unshaven chin, down over his neck, chest. The saliva burns his skin, forms a small pool on his sternum. He digs his fingernails into skin, attempts to quench teasing pain. He screams, slivers tear away, beads of blood become streams. He jumps up out of his bed, wears dirty ripped boxer shorts, spins wide-eyes glare into darkness. ‘Leave me alone,’ his mouth gasps, ‘what do you want from me?’ Pope Peter sees dark deeds of sex & blood, descends, this vortex of cruelty, suffering & death.

He jumps up suddenly, all at once, runs over to that window, pushes his face against this cold pane of glass, cries as a cat, his face, hands, loosen, slip, down, across green glass. His knees buckle underneath, roll, gulps onto side, cups hands over his face, mutters, ‘what do you want, why will you not just leave me alone?’ Pope Peter rests his head down onto the cold wooden floor, becomes quiet, still. Eyes seal, cement, evaporates tears, nose runs with mucus, intermittent wipes, his index finger. Whimpers, he clasps his knees to his chest, lightly rubs this hair, back of his legs. He falls lightly into sleep, breath shallow, mouth cracks open slightly, his tongue protrudes between lips.

Ashtrays full of cigarette butts scatter haphazardly, one spills into the rusty sink affixes to wall. It fills, consumes soiled dishes, branch spores of mold, emanate horrible stench, rotting tissue. Roaches edge out from their shelter with this savors calm, survey this decomposes reality. Rats & mice roam small cabinet adjacent to sink, echo screeches of scratches, gnawing. The water faucet monotonously drips, stands water. Breezes whistle through cracked window, push curtains aside, kick old newspapers over across floor wedge against a lamp post.

Headlights flash across room illuminate quixotic disarray. Refrigerator stands unplugged, powerless, door wedged open by chair, rotten food decays on shelves. Milk curdles, sour stale permeates room. Maggots slither through piles of garbage clump near door. A roach moves from sink to garbage.

Pope Peter springs to his feet, ‘Stop,’ screams, ‘I beg you, go away!’ He throws books across the room, crash into walls. Scurries toward sink, throws dishes, roaches run for cover. The putrid mass in the sink clings to his hands, hesitates, his head shutters, eyes freeze, hands choke, ‘No you cannot do it my-my skin, I cannot decay now, no, not yet!’ Runs toward closet door, he trips over a small stool, crashes face down, cuts his arms, forehead in slivers of shatters dishes. He clenches back tears, pain grips his face. Lines of blood cut paths into his neck.

Slowly back onto his, Pope Peter’s, feet, his hands pull jagged pieces of glass from his skin, blood falls to the floor, approaches closet door, he turns knob slowly, hears clicking sound. He tugs desperate, searches for the light switch, turning on, bright glare strikes his eyes, his mouth spouts, ‘No!!!’ Deep bloody claw marks cut into wooden floor, his brain remembers. Smears blood leads to these depths this closet, a fury mass lies in the back, appears to exist in motion. He pushes aside clothes on hangers, obscure pink vision. On this floor lay Richard Nixon, all half-eaten by rats, displays one bloody paw. Hysterical punchez, swings, Pope Peter encircles this room, falls over this lamp set on that television, crashes down, explodes on impact. He runs toward that kitchen, slips on garbage, smashes his head on edge of sink, breaks off wall, sucks to floor.

He lies unconscious, nearby, a rat perches, licks up fresh blood. Another eyes, this body pants. Moon stands, the door opens slowly the room dark shivers breezes direct curtains, newspapers. Little water drops drip down onto figure, body, form, shrouds torn blanket. This naked body, dirty body, sickly body coughs, chokes irrepressible explosions shake twists shape, moans restless moves, pipes knock in these walls. Visions coalesce, dreams, images serially articulate, shoot out, scatter across dark space, shot inside, frenzy waves, shatter, displace into clouds, static waves, distort, quiver waves, displace…

Shaken, out the green door slams, Moon bolts out, down this staircase, down & around guided by that pull. Torrents rush past caressin’ her, she mechanically descends the staircase around & around & down, scratches fluid surfaces with her heels break, twist, falls, collides, smashes lash stillness. Long red hair, she, supple, smooth, soft, succulent, taste, she lay panting succumbs to this pull of gravity, sweat mixes with blood, squirts out over her thighs. The sun bakes her writhing cluster shape.

With this sudden realization, bites pain, Pope Peter lunges to his feet, grabs his head between his hands, throws this rat against the wall, pushes his hands together in order to crush his brain. His face is red, sweat clings to his hair, forehead, large veins bulge from his neck, streams of spit run from his mouth, gasps breathless guttural sounds, squeal groans, spits out into air. Fucked female flies lay eggs into this open flesh of Richard Nixon. Pope Peter rocks to maintain balance, water gushes from this broken pipe jets from that wall. His hands fumble a stained cup, fill with brown water, raises cup to lips, his mouth sucks in, swallows, cup slips, scatters to floor, echoes crisp ring.

Loudly roaring above, gibbering below demons of disease, this bitter venom of the divine, knowing no care, they grind the land like corn, knowing no mercy, they rage against this house of Pope Peter, they spill his blood like rain, devour his flesh & suckle his veins. This itty bitty worm of death, Jesse Helms, pretentiously, rudely, steps forward, proclaims, ‘What will you give me to eat? What are dry bones to me? Set me upon the gums that I may drink the blood of the teeth & take away the strength of thy voice! Were I to inform thee the law of the underworld which I have experienced, Thous wouldest sit down & shed tears all day long.’ Then wavered its wand again, & suddenly there was such a smell, as if all the raw human sewage of the world had been set out most tastefully & proud.

Pope Peter lets down a mirror, suspends via this thread, ’til it gently caresses the skin of this water contained within this birdbath, having first prayed to the goddess & offered incense. Then looking in the mirror, he sees the presage of death, his face shocks, this ghastly horror. He screams in his terror, beckons Bill Hicks to come for a second opinion. He trots into this room, covers his nose with his hoof to ward off this death defying do be do be do incense offering. He grasps this mirror, places it behind Pope Peter’s head, whose mad eyes have been bandaged by the elves. The response to this superlative incitation appears in characters of blood on the face of the moon, shines forth in the mirror. The image is obscure for a time, but before it could clear, elfin cats, this wild breed, large as dogs, black with a white spot on the breast, arched backs, prickly & poisonous bristles, bolt from underneath this bed knocking over this mirror, shatters into thousands of unique pieces.

The fish, Kurt Cobain, seems to float upon this water, seems to set, glides easily, seems to maintain a stationary position. Yet, It is all this time fighting gravity, or, … maybe…– perhaps, he is just dead… Lou Salome returns from this garden, finished her six pack, Walt Disney is all but cast to this wind, this fire departs, this pleasant omen presages as he has burned, she counsels, ‘Give it up for God’s Sake, it hasn’t moved in three years. It has mildew growing on it, for fuckin’ christ’s sake, it is decaying goddamit, this fuckin’ rancid smell permeates, I think I’m going to throw upppgrhwretch wretch…’ She sits down gazing at nothing.

Anorexia slowly stands up, leaves her father sleepin’ on this pink shag carpet, she struts over across to this secret place beyond these nameless visitors. She burns alum, sulphur, lilac, coriander, hemlock, fennel & henbane upon a small marble altar. She incites these flames, this smoke permeates this house, seeps into this bedroom of Pope Peter. She laughs hideously in her onslaught of dire revenge. She ignites these herbs of torment, black, white hellebore, dried powdered rue, & this resin of dragon’s blood. She places wormwood in a cone of black paper, lights this ablaze, monotonously repeats this name of her departed Love, ‘Kojak, Kojak, Kojak… Oh, My Lovely Skinhead Cop!’ Suddenly, Kojak materializes envelopes a cloud of incense smoke. His head is that of a serpent from his nostrils mucus trickles. His mouth is beslavered with water, his ears are those of a basilisk, his horns are twisted into three curls. He wears a veil in his head-band, his body is a sun-fish full of stars, the base of his feet are claws, the sole of his foot has no heel. Anorexia asks him one solemn question, ‘Why the lollipops, is that an oral fixation?’ The chicken, Baudelaire in an instant, becomes his medium, a channel for Kojak’s reply, ‘No, Babee, it just to say I’m a sucka’ for your love… Who loves ya’ babee…’ With this communique, he disperses back amidst that etheric realm. Anorexia ponders deeply his subtle words.

Moon’s body slams into this exit door, it crashes open, she lunges outward into penetrating sunlight, attacks envelop her body, heats her up, she falls, chokes in this land of two-dimensions. Nauseous, worn, exhausted, arid dirt clings to her skin, scratch into her burning, infecting wound, shatters body, poison stings inexorably endured, felt. She senses this presence of a familiar caress, gentle stroke, clutches growing tighter & tighter around her neck, suffocation, breathlessness, panic urge to open up, to breathe, fear, horror, quiet breath pants.

Saliva builds flows into puddle small pool, sets self-contained on surface of cracked earth, quickly imbibed. Dead bodies, corpses, infectious masses of rotting, decaying flesh, raw stench, meat swarms virulent sickness attacks weakness, pathetic vulnerability. Death, stale coagulated brown blood cries of dark suffering, brutal neglect, horror rips slashes, deep groans, gnaw, bites, tax dollar torture. She is indifferent to this shock, this nothing that is endured, insatiable terror, these, her scars.

Pope Peter wakes slowly squirms in this bed beneath a shredded woolen blanket. Opens his eyes, room pulsates into focus, ceiling glares at his body with cracks, water stains, cob webs span corners of this room. Lady Nona lies in wait for her victim, comes, trips unexpectantly. Rolls over to his side, he clasps the base of his neck. Blankets withdrawn, exposes pale thin yellow, blue, & green body. Stillness infects monotonous breath drones throughout room, he falls asleep, lost in shrouded visions. Rays of sun peak via crusted panes gently caress room, blur colours blanket floor.

Outside world moves in seeming misdirection. A small dog loiters near a sewer. An old blind man hobbles toward that fish market, fish sold whole or as filets, caught on harbor front by thousands of nihilistic slaves. Leaves dance along sidewalk, brushes against parked cars, covers films of tarnished ice.

Moon’s tongue becomes leather, heat steals water from her body, loses her moisture, drinks her fingernails scratches dry smooth surface, sweat dances, scatters, absorbs. Her head shakes, swings, bats seizure, white, blue, red, yellow, black mixes flow becomes, breaks away into chaotic snarls. Rays of this sun sear, burn skin, blisters rise, face swells, bowels release into panties, smears, cling grabs, searing irritated sizzling rash-burned skin. Flies begin to come, several come, at once, fizz close to wounds, streams excrement, yesterday’s blood, poisonous decay. They come to rest suck vile juices into procurement tubes, little, projectile analyzers, gulp in nourishment. Many come, her wound is no longer red, but it, she shrouded green, blue, black, a fractured blanket swarms over her, libate, stinging flies, feed, eat, breed egg-laying flies. They dig into the gushy mesentery, fatty deposits, blood vessels, into the several concealed organs.

Pope Peter slowly maneuvers into a sittin’ position, takes a long deep breath, exhales with a slight sneer. He stands up, steps on a piece of glass, hops around on one foot, he gropes anxiously at a lamp post. He clutches his foot, surveys the damage. It is a small cut but would nevertheless become infected. He walks over to the toilet directly across from the kitchen. Urinates with his left hand on his hip, he leans his head back, takes a long deep breath. He holds it in for the duration of excretion. Pulls up his boxer shorts, he side-steps to the tooth-paste splattered mirror. His brain does not recognize this face, eyes hollow darkness, shadows paleness of facade. He walks over to the sink, splashes his face with milky water, dries with a wad of clothing & sheets lying near toilet. He turns, surveys room. He has no grasp of any events, of situations, of this amber red night.

Pictures, images, flash emerge with no coherent memory, walking across room to the door, he dodges broken glass and scattered garbage. His family sleeps here & there, that sheep adolf lies dead with a spit shoved up its ass & out its mouth. Pope Peter opens the door, peeks his head out into the hallway. A small boy pretends to be a major league pitcher, tosses a rubber ball against a mattress at the end of the corridor. His body walks across toward the stairwell, he turns the knob & opens the door. Pope Peter feels possessed by eyes, turning he witnesses the little boy staring at him inquisitively, then focuses down on the ball which has rolled near to his feet. The small boy looks up into his eyes asking, ‘hey mister, little help?’ He continues to stare at the small boy as in a trance.

The small boy once again asks, but again with no response, he runs toward the ball, snags it, and returns to his previous position, whispering, ‘hey mister, what’s wrong with you? His eyes stare confusedly, ‘Why you just wearin’ underwear, you crazy or something?’ The mother runs from her cubicle, grabbing, scolds the boy. She glares, ‘Come inside here right now! You do not want to talk to him!’ She lightly spanks the small boy, he rubs his eyes, cries away into the flat. The mother sneers at the man, ‘Why don’t you just do something? You’re nothin’ but scum.’ In his trance, Pope Peter focusses down toward this carpet. ‘Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya’! I said look at me!’ the mother screams, attacks, lashes out painful blows. He continues to stare, his mind far away, two leaves race to the ground, knocks off the old tree, a frantic squirrel. The mother pushes him slaps his face, runs in, closes this green door. He stands silent, alone, a frenetic shadow of nothing.

Moon tremors as bloody vomit shoots out, rapidly absorbed by that thirsty sand. A sickening, stalkin’, snarlin’ beast, Jerry Falwell approaches her, wants her, possesses her with its eyes, signals her with body gestures & noises, grunts, clears its throat, makes ready. Its eyes grasp hold of her visceral primordial wound, displaces these flies, sticks its claw into it. The beast touches her inside, engulfs her within itself, devours her excrement, punishing, beating, whipping, hitting, cleaning her with its tongue, constraining the arms, breaking the legs, tearing off muscle from tendon and bone, membranes hang dangle drip, pink drops to the ground. The barren disintegrates, this smothering dirt, crevices inscriptions scrapes flow red.

Pope Peter stands still, silent, gazes out into obscure visions, sleeps, a dream, waking, walks, streams immerse, he remembers the joyful intensity of his boyhood. The door slowly creeks open allows him, a little boy to enter the room. In the absence of barrier, constraint, breezes suck across, mixing internal atmosphere, slid across through out, intersperses durable structures. His head is cocked sideways, a pearly white viscous fluid drips from his left ear. Pope Peter tries to scoop it out with his finger but only pushes it deeper into the canal.

Gives up endeavor, Pope Peter walks slowly toward closet door exhibits pronounced limp, grimaces of pain project out from his face. He squeezes the doorknob tightly with his right hand, slowly turns, pulls open the door. He falls to his knees screams, cries, gasps uncontrolled, gently strokes her hair, his dead sister, Moon. There are bleeding wounds from her chest, her, her genitalia, her neck is broken, her little head chaotically wobbles to & fro…

Pope Peter lifts his sister into a firm, loving embrace, he chokes on mucus, blood falls onto his cheek, hands, hair. He slowly rocks, clutches her lifeless corpse, his little sister, he shrouds her on this floor. A steady predict click of the pendulum echoes from that dusty grandfather clock. All else remains quiet, dark silence, conditioned only by an unsteady breathing of the little boy.

Pope Peter awakes sudden pain shoots back body, terrorifies eyes glare at figure, body, male, father stands over, frowning contorted, wild eyes, ‘Why are you touching her, set her down,’ Simon Peter says, as he proceeds to back hand this little boy on the side of his head. ‘You will not touch her or look at her and you will speak of this to no one or the same treatment will be dealt to you. Do you understand me?’ The little boy silently cries, whimper, suppresses pain. ‘I said, “do you understand me?” you heard me, did you not, did you not, did you not, you snotty shit faced brat,’ kicking the little boy in the abdomen, screech, gasp, grinding teeth, misty breath.

Pope Peter vomits blood, his wind knocked out, he lay breathless, chokes, ‘Did you hear me? Answer me, you no good scrawny piece of shit!’ The father grabs the little boy by his hair catapults him face first into this wall, shatter sounds neck breaks, crack, reverberates between walls. Pope Peter lay still on this floor tangled, distorted. The father drags these bodies of his children to the front door of his brand new condominium, a birthday present from his wife, Brunhilde. Simon Peter recklessly scrambles plastic green glad garbage bags into masks, disguising the little bodies, each placed in a separate family-hefty – sized bag, each bag tied, tossed on top of that haunting Sisyphysian pile, blocks out this sun.

Simon Peter returns to his room, reaches for a bucket of hot soapy water, cleanses this floor of physical evidence of previous actions. Diligent, straight-faced, methodically he drags this mop back & forth back & forth, across this wooden floor, pays homage to Lady Macbeth. Wipes his perspiration misted brow, he walks into the kitchen, pours himself a nice, hot cup of coffee, black, one sugar, Simon Peter sits down and reads that lovely marketplace section of The Journal, smokes a cigarette, eats a French pastry shell, lightly covered with a Burse Blanc scallop sauce, specialty of his chef, Marco Polo, doing all those waitresses in his back office, always makin’ more gourmet sauce.

Brunhilde returns from her garden work, exclaims, ‘I feel so much pleasure in smelling a flower that it appears to me that I am committing a sin.’ These child spirits, this brother & sister, climb back out of this dumpster to begin their haunting sojourn across this earth.

Jerry Falwell begins to feed upon Moon’s tangled scattered flesh chewing it, swallows her piece by piece, each morsel, delicately it licks clean before consumption. The bloated disgusting body, sags, perverse twist eyes, bulges, slouch, pompous, pretentious, manipulative bastard pukes out idyllic rhetoric from that place beyond hell. Monotony ensnares her brain, flesh, lulls her to sleep, monotonous flows stream out of its mouth, Jerry Falwell’s throat saturates, exterminates her ear, vomitus tunnel trip babble extends terrain via exaggerate shocks to this lacerated skull, beckons these juices to emerge red, white, blue, silk out away onto over all over everywhere.

Dreams guide her withdrawal, she sets, sees herself, this beautiful woman with long red hair strips off her threads, heaves her thighs, arches her back, caresses, grasps across supple tender moistness, flexin’ her back, mixes blood with mortar, claws into this smooth cold marble on the altar, knocks over the cup, the chalice, spills this blood, shouts, moans, sucks dripping blood. Joyous fear grips her delirious quakin’ shape, dances in this darkness, breathes still air, fucks these fingers of this virgin, statue of the mother, rubs her sheath over these lips of madonna, streams flow down cool cheeks, over floss hair of this blessed child, shatters, moans, screams echo amidst this muffled drum, this lifeless, useless structure, this odor of sanctity, this place, site, sucks this cock of his crucified through his soiled garment, her soft smooth supple breasts sway, she rubs her labia, her clitoris over his nail pierced foot, his anointed self, her beloved Hermes, her next door neighbor. It has her name on it, inscribed, cut into his back, this fire captivates that pile of dried spent lumber, seeks to make amends to make things still, calm, bring these things back into order, things into their proper places.

As this moon rises clear & full, these honey-voiced girls gather around this altar. Their gentle feet dance in tune round this intimate shrine, tread that smooth soft bloom of this lawn. Moon rises & speaks to these fair girlies, her body as limp as a wet, worn out discloth. Bent double, with a creeping, cat-like gait, she seeks a trail, steps out of this swirling darkness of belladonna smoke. Every movement of her undulating body keeps time with the beat of the girls’ hands & their low crooning chant. She pretends to find this thing which she seeks, & with a series of wild pirouettes, leaps into the air, shakes her spears & brandishes her little shield, she springs into dance to the quake of louder grunts & harder hand-claps. These girls join in & hunt out the diabolical enemy, & exalt her discovery, this long concealed prize, these soon become breathless & spent, glad when their attendants lead them near this altar to be anointed & to drink blood.

Sublime Moon, having evaded this cowardly plot of overt torture & assassination, begins this carnival of secret initiation to this sublime sisterhood, amidst these depths of forest at this hour of midnight. Each of these young girls procures this nest of a termite, & grabs a black cock which has laid an egg, rubs it generously with olive oil, & places around its neck a collar of vine branches. Each sacrifices thereon this cock, cutting it in two from the head to the tail, dancing naked in front of the cock, until via force of incantations, Moon dances & sings that song, these two halves of this spurned cock approach one another, becomes once more alive, giving vent to a crow. Each of these girls alters her hue, shining out swollen & bloodshot eyes. It is now finished, this deed is, there is no turning from this holy war.

Moon stands triumphant over these piercing eyes, she bellows amidst this community of sensation, ‘You have come Sweet women, place a torch near my heart, a flare of love, O bless you, bless you, bless you, we did part, you are back. You each will remember always till you are old these things we do together here in shining youth! For these things we do are innocent, beautiful, this night of ours… O, I can tell you, I beg it could be doubled… passion, yes, utterly I beg, shall be to me a face shining back at my own beautiful, indelible self. O Sweet Flowers,’ she exhorts, points to this sample tray, ‘Batter your breasts, my sweet ones & tear your wonderbras off into tatters!!! Towards you pretty ones this mind of mine can, will never change… so long as you wish it. Be festive, riot your Joy, sounds of mourning do not suit a house which serves the muse, they are not wanted here.’ She leap from the altar to touch her flock, each one upon her ruby fruit clitoris.

Pope Peter rolls around on the floor, plummets interspersed objects, he leaps about & tosses his arms, knocks his cloven foot into that excrement tray scattering these offerings across this floor. The elves descend greedily. This discordant song pulsates, throbs groan, grips him, wakes these, his senses, he sucks in that cigarette tastes like gasoline, car exhaust. Everything is alive, nothing escapes his gaze, soft images taunt, breath filters between teeth into constricted lungs. Smoke streams creep reflect bands of light, amorphous particulates mixing, dispersing. The face of Lou Salome looks plastic, her voice hollow, eyelids slowly open & close in harmony with this nexus of events. She has two pupils in her left eye & this picture of a horse in her right eye. He rubs sweat spattered face over & over & over & over, fingers pull hair, curl bangs twisting, knot, shivers breath, grinds teeth, Pope Peter is tempted by thirst. He sways his head toward this table, a beer can slowly comes into focus. Reaches for it, it moves, grabs at it, is empty, crushes it, he rises to find another.

Room smears across his eyes, looks at walls, lines on furry paneling, mixing color emanates glares red bulb, he screams, ‘O, reed hut, hear, O wall understand!’ Music throbs on & on, he is oblivious to that entangling body, words, echoes, fleeting unreal. Moves toward this doorway of the kitchen, he lunges for this dark refrigerator, the metal handle feels hot, acidic. He pushes back the door, light burns his eyes, turns head away, rubs his eyes, this reaches a phantom beer. Pope Peter squeezes this beer can in order to release his innermost tension, grips harder & harder until pain, wetness, slivers, tear his hand. Streams of seething red, living streams of blood, he stands, mesmerizes, watch rosey hops gush from his hand. He hears screams, feels, grips distraction of another, Anorexia covers his hand, white breathing scarf, tighter & tighter, flow continues, arm raised into air, blood rushes toward shoulder. Delirious, paranoid faces scream, distort, rush about & out, interconnect activity, this community of sensation.

He falls to this ground, his head smacks that floor. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, spurt tears eddy. Here where the waters trickle coolly through apple boughs, & this ground is shady, with roses, down from the leaves that shiver, sleep drops slowly. He talks in a dream to Moon, ‘Darling to hug you, to drink drops of your blood collected in this shell of an acorn…’ These winds were lovesick, from this barage barge barrage this bizarre perfume hits his sense upon this nearby wharf.

Slips off this world, a strange world, sense, seems somehow familiar, yet completely alien, this, textures, persons, this her face she sits with her legs spread on the foam rubber mat, paints a white sheet. He whispers to her softly, ‘Moon, My Lady, crowned in gold, please, may that piece of luck be mine.’ Violet decked, virtuous, honey sweet, she responds, ‘Fair is fair, young man, but this only meets your eye. God is fair as well, or will be by & by.’ With sudden power, blazes figure, Moon lunges, lerch lurch lashes plunge, bites tears claws swings pushes sharp glimmers steel, this knife, slashes Pope Peter, his single arm, across his face. He grabs her shoulders clutches her begins to wrestle her back & forth to & fro across this motley cow scatter carpet. Fierce struggles blister scrapes teeth punch swings, hands lacerate grasp knife seeks it to seize her vicious rages flares.

Tangle of their bodies rolls across discordant embrace conflict flares, Pope Peter wedges fingers slow pulls knife blade slices his fingers rips spear away cuts cords, places knife between two fingers on his left hand, & with his head, plunges this knife deep into her chest. She sets amidst stillness, her eyes blank stare shine no light, body limp… deafens absence… Pope Peter freezes stiff, flashes eternity, this, her quiet face sleeps, gazes into that void… he whimpers in shock, ‘Dead you lie there, woman, like a little, pretty perfect dolly. No one to recall you ever after this opening, you, feeble in the cellars of our Lord Death, obscure even there.’ He walks toward for pale shaped stones.

Horror, this wave of panic descends upon him, bursts forth from this gutteral interior, terror strikes, heart races frantic, … sorrowful, wretched moans bellow from his soul, tears shoot out, he cries inexpressibly, ‘Oh no, but I love you, I love you to these consummate depths of famine, I want to be with you only you, I need you to stay here with me…’ He screams howls, tears rapidly projects across her still skin, ‘But I love you!!!’ Suddenly, all is different, all changes, this blur retreats, she sits there in front of him, her gaze penetrates this floor. From a cold, dry monotonous voice sends out words fly to his ears, ‘I have always liked you too.’ It looks to the wall in utter disinterest, floating in her ethereal heroin bed bunny.

Amidst frustrated agitation of his seemingly exaggerated overture, he turns his head quickly back & forth, spies this streams vision. From that corner of his eye, he sees Moon grab that knife, conceals it on this other side of that bed, this shrine supported by forty pillars of variegated colors, an overhead dome exudes balmy spells, this breath of music, this exhilaration of electricity, this mattress stuffed with sweet new wheat, rose flowers, ipomea, lavender, oriental spices. Moon whispers to Pope Peter, ‘Come over here, sleep with me, I have perfumed my bed with aloes & cinnamon,’ he bolts across, seizes her clawed hands together between his chin & sternum, grasps hold of this knife, jumps up, hops away into this kitchen, puts this knife away in its ownmost proper place & position.

Anorexia lies naked on her backhand, stares at this light from this lava lamp cascade across this ceiling. Her eyes blink once every thirteen seconds, her tongue gently bathes her lips. Jimmy Swaggert sets Baudelaire down, slides him off his cock, it flies back to its ominous perch. He walks over to that toolbox, somberly removes four large nails & a sledgehammer. Cool breezes blow across stagnant air, dark clouds form over head, rumble with anger.

Jimmy Swaggert approaches Anorexia, stands over her. She whispers a whisper upon dead, deaf ears, ‘Please forgive him for he knows not what he does.’ Jimmy Swaggert kneels down upon her chest, rests his throbbin’ cock between her emaciated tits. He places her hands above her head, lies limp upon this pink fuzzy shag carpet, lifts his eyes to the god of the sky & howls, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ He proceeds to drive a nail through each of her wrists to this wooden floor below.

Anorexia gasps, clenches back tears well at these corners of her eyes, one solitary stream sends across down over her cheek. He turns, places his asshole in her face, she spies Apollo, nails each of her ankles to this floor. All at once, her expression changes, with her dying breath she curses her murderer, ‘I promise to haunt you & yours forever, I shall send for you the king of the famished grasshopper, who shall gnaw your flesh from here to all eternity.’ Quite stunned, taken aback, Jimmy Swaggert stands up, walks over to that blue toolbox, returns this hammer, walks out of this sliding green glass door out into this garden where he hides & waits – tugging his scrotum.

Moon returns home, approaches Pope Peter slowly, cautiously, gently grips his shoulder, whispers, ‘Pretty One, I am yours again, we were far too long apart.’ Peter sits & stares, listens to these discordant melodies of Tim-tim Learesquey, ergot pied piper, waves his magic wheat – Pope Peter begins to shake, sweat, pain drips, his mouth buzzes as his eyes turn inward, he jumps up onto the couch screams, spits, crazed, shouts diabolicly, ‘I’m getttting all hot juiced up over low intensity warfare, biological warfare, torture, utter capital penetration, efficiency, profit maximization, jack off on this financial page, tether my nuts with this yellow ribbon forever bind my cock, close it within, closing this book, wrap the WORD around my dick, fuck some life into it, wipe, soak up, squirt flows juices with that ole’ red white black & blue, beat my mother to death with a baseball bat, fuck her corpse, rub apple pie on her tits, cram a hot dog up my ass, wave a star spangled banner, belch patriotism at the top of my lungs, proud to be ‘merican god dammit, insert my nose into the Corporate asshole crack!’ He falls off the couch rolls onto floor caterwauls unhuman tearful sorrow.

Moon stands, frightened, still, silent. She sets down her flying horse, & walks over to him, soothing his closed eyes with her warm fingers. She chants to evoke this music from nowhere. She squats down beside him & gently caresses his naked shoulder. She looks upon him, loving concern, compassion. She whispers, ‘Let us stop doing these things that belong to the dark & take up weapons for fightin’ in the light. Let us not forsake our only chance – ‘ He cries incessantly, calms down with her touch. He looks toward her, cowardly, at first, shields his, avoids her eyes. He looks into her, quietly asks, ‘Why then do you dream?’

Moon stands up, walks over to that sliding glass door, lights a cigar, she turns, ‘It lets me shield, from my eyes, this abyss,’ she whispers, strolls out across the courtyard. She grips this statue setting before her, only to cry, it lays gently asleep. Away she brisquely retreats beyond, silence sets still amidst ashen shadows. Pope Peter stands up, staggers after his departed love, wallows in that merry myre, this maze, finally spies her setting alone upon this rock overlookin’ this ocean far below this cliff. Riotous waves crash up against the giant knife edged teeth guarding these tides. He approaches her, she sees his shadow, feels his breath, turns toward him with her overflowing cup.

The two approach one another, encircles each around this other, walk in a circle, face this other, sense presence of other, distance, encirclement, draw closer, stand nearer, approach, feel immediacy, nearness, listen, breath of the other, see eyes refract glimpses, images of self, gentle caress each cheek back of hand, turn hand slowly over touch, grasp neck, hand glides over shoulder, slides over, grasp other hand, join, stroke, neck, grasp hair, run hands through across trace contours of ear, finger, grasp hands, hold both hands below, slowly, gently ascend stretch upwards, bodies come to rest, touch each this other, faces stand close, see eyes arms, hands descend come to rest fondle each other, other’s waist, move cupped, clenched hands around back, press softly muscles, hands grope forward over sides under arms, tickle, stroke top of chest under neck, fingers encircle supple breasts, face descends, tongue saturates nipple, licks across, lips engulf gently sucks, bites, taste, glides hand over buttocks down around, slides tickle steamy moist hair, sucks nipple blankets, massage, other breast, fingers enter within into wetness, streams, breath startles, gasp moans, tongue descends over navel, kisses caress inner thighs, slowly encircles labia, sucks, licks across, drinks juices flow, joyful tongue dances over clitoris, labia, suck silky flesh flicker tongue, erect clitoris, chaotic nibbles, sucks, taste, brings clitoris within sucking, gasping, moaning screams echo fingers hands grasp neck pushes Pope Peter’s face in harder deeper, tender musty flows suck, drinks, quake screams, arch back, moans guttural, grasp breaths.

They collapse intertwine an undying embrace upon this rock. Breath is shallow, these two fine young bodies mingle with their urgent love. These sleep, this moon is chased by a black hidden sun, stars too twinkle hellos to tiny animals dancing in these trees. All at once, Jimmy Swaggert lunges out from his hiding place, runs towards this pretzel knot of flesh, leaps over Pope Peter & Moon, dives over this cliff, falls, he howls amidst inerasable suffering, ‘Jessica, why won’t you return my callllsss?’ His body explodes, shatters, smacks across granite teeth, he misses this bridge of souls, falls from this bridge of dread, his carcass plummets into raging water, fish retreat scatter from this vile stench.

Pope Peter & Moon awake gently with this blood pinkish sunrise, clasp each this other in benevolent arms. It was the holy day, & as was their custom, a virtual tradition, this solemn recurrence, they ascend to enact an eternal act without meaning, they each, together, bring the oxen to the waterin’ hole, & proceed to a new church, house, tomb, rot of somebodies’ father, voting booth, a new site of worship, one, of course, they have never been to before… Oh, this could not be done, this is that sacred rite, transgressed, obscene, intolerable.. this daylight… they stand, dress, monkey suits, blend in, assimilate, watch, witness this, happens, circumstance streams, hive, bees chant drone discipline… ship of fools… This week is ‘Our Lady of the Evening,’ a quaint little building with lots of ga-ga groovy stained glass, statues, candles & stuff…

This priest, Father Cotton Mather, is a very tall man, dressed in white, with a girdle of seared witch’s skin, from which hangs an iron bell, a sheep’s bell. He had two chalk marks over his eyes. Moon took a lil’ bit of her own hair, frizzled it with a burning glass, & gave it to Pope Peter. He popped it with alacrity into his little grass bag, for white hair is a fetish of the first order. Then she poured some raspberry vinegar into a chalice, drank a little of it first, country fashion, & offered it to him, telling him that it was blood from the brains of nihilists & anarchists. Upon this, he received it with great reverence, & dipping his fingers into it as if it was snap-dragon, sprinkled with it, his forehead, both feet between the two first cloves, & the ground behind his back. He then handed his glass to a disciple, who emptied it, smackin’ his lips afterward in a very secular manner. She then desired to see a little of his fetish. He drew on the ground with red chalk some sick scatoglyphics, she envisioned the circle, cross & crescent.

Pope Peter & Moon witness this most holy event. Father Cotton Mathers holds this wonder bread up above his head, he cracks it in half, removes a small bit at that edge, lightly drops this in this chalice of wine. ‘This is my body,’ he places this cracked bread into his mouth, glides his fingers across this golden plate to grasp each last incy wincy particle of this (con)transubstantiated body. He rubs his fingers together over this cup, ‘This is my blood,’ he raises this chalice, brings towards his lips… Before this priest has had time to swallow, Pope Peter & Moon point in unison to this priest, scream in chorus, ‘The Eucharist is Ritual Cannibalism!, they bellow out laughter, seven times seven, this priest chokes on his meal, spits it out over across through this air upon that trough & floor, splats these faces of brainwashed fools, each makes this sign of that cross, each as it sprinkles upon, intense hilarity, roar titter, totter, teeter, guffaw cackle convulses, each, his, holy, serious, adult, mature, wise etc. body wisdom spoken words….,.//, fatal lazy fear Father Cotton Mathers wallows in pre-destined, puerile humiliation as he has been exposed as a mere cannibal…

At his last moments, he confessed his limp league with the dire demon, his death attended with base thunder & tempest, with dragons flying in the electric air & vomiting flames, & such lightning & other prodigies that, for a second, these people in this pseudo-sacred dutiful department store believed that this whole muffled drum to be swallowed up in an abyss.

There was none of this however, except this lingering stench of his blood sacrifice at this one-rant, toadshit driveby, this window greets, let us pray, the lord be with you, this herd retorts, & also with you, let us spray, in nominae patris et filiie etc spiritu sancti… so be it, Lord have me on you, & so onto you, & also on you, have mercy, dances, this peace, that Lord be with you, sun seas, their minds wander, study this good Lord’s rules, first you’s gotta read’em, then you gotta heed’em, ya never know when you might needem’ … bless his holy name, this lord to me is Kind…. Would you like to try a Happy Meal or have some fries with that? a disney cup? Huh-huh, Huh, Huh…

Moon & Pope Peter laugh smiles their joy erupts, this special wisdom… A bald man, with a fuzzy head, he twirls, falls, midsa heat, surrounds holy peeeyeeewwww, falls down hard, every single face shouts his death… he is not dead, has only fallen in his breathless daze… He was forced to stand up so long in this ventilation proof tomb of mangled meaningless, terroristic hell that he fell down into his phlegmatic, drool drains his mouth.

Pope Peter interrupts, explodes, erupts absurd performs this orchestrate, shits upon their portable sample tray, dances around, frolics about this austere altar, sings as children sing, ‘GOD’s all mighty hand, all good godesque gifts overflow, splash from Heaven above, Think, tinkle, Thank this Lord… bright, be good, proud… my humble bim bumble embrace… howls roar, scowls communin’aryan begins these single breasts converge, suck, eat idol, holey host, waffers, spirit comforts, conforms herd access this sham shit shreds assholes belchfuck, all this there, these idiots call messiahs… at least I know that each is finite!’ These mutton heads fall about shriek in confusion terror, rush out rush into this processional isle…

Suddenly, amidst this thrash chaos of commotion, this strange music from nowhere intersperses juicy sensuous aroma, this entire congregation breaks out descends amidst this maelstrom, carnality, a lovely disjointed, innocent orgy erupts, our priest chews his own arm, he hops atop this altar, screams, ‘Dance, little children, dance, this is our only time, may this peace of love be with you,’ this frenzy orgiast throng gurgles out, back to him amidst this seething butterfly, ‘And also with you, too!’ Chomp hump lick suck The orgy scatters about in chaotic groovy movements, this event, smashing idols, knocking down flagstands, picking up dark momentum until even the organist began playing this music from nowhere. The orgiastic mass swirls becoming a tornado whipping off the top of the house of the evening lady, it spurs burning across the sky sweeping through neighborhoods & small towns – people knell down to worship this UFO as they see the flashing lights & thus now believe… they have built the kingdom, It will come…

The churning swarm of bodies ascends to the sky, cutely cascading all about, up & down, to & fro, ripping, bouncin’ apart banal, omfurcated disciplinary grids of architectural containment. The earth breathes a huge sigh of boer relief as tiny seeds entombed for so long begin to erupt into their beneficent chance, this event of inexorable destiny.

The tornado swirls & quakes destroying all in its path which was banal & offensive to sense & sensibility. All at once, as it was clear that there was nothing left of the old panoptic disciplinary regime, this cyclone suddenly orgasms, each threw off this passionate gift, exploding into infinite arrays of worlds & possibilities. Pope Peter & Moon found themselves deposited on top of a mountain from whence they could survey this outflashing of new blood upon blood. They embrace smiling, recognizing that the dawn had truly come.

It is this moment that Pope Peter & Moon begin to speak in unison, their coy, gentle worlds showering down, blanket this soothing space, ‘I have many things to tell you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of Truth comes, however, It will guide you into all truth; for It will not speak of Its own account but will say whatever It hears, & It will make known to you what is to take place. I have told you things in figures of speech; a time approaches when I shall no longer talk to you in figures of speech but shall plainly inform you of the Truth. The hour is coming & it has arrived when you will be scattered each to your place & you will leave me alone; but I am not alone, for you are with me always in remembrance.’

Each, we, together, traverse(s) myriad paths through this wood opens amidst clears meadow sets placeless center funeral pyre on which reposes this dead god, this benevolent sacrifice, cast torches, set up in flames, dance amidst this festive eruptive frenetic ecstasy of abandon…. a eulogy for the jealous moniotonous one, these plants have grown despite this scorched rocky path across which camels, lions & children tread…

& Pope Peter & the Moon Child lived joyously ever…


One response to “Pope Peter & the Moon Child

  1. Thanks for the auspicious writeup. It in fact was a enjoyment account it.

    Glance complex to more delivered agreeable from
    you! By the way, how could we keep up a correspondence?

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