January Poem

Smoking through my broken face,
Left side feels like the inside feels,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.

Stuck inside a splintered skull,
Stuck inside a churning brain,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.

Wish the skin would peel away,
Leave the flesh to get its due,
Got no eyes to see you now,
Can't hear you now,
You're not here now.

A vulgar story, big and clever.

Jesus was sitting on a small lump of cheese rind, occasionally wiping his hands on it. He was a big shiny bastard of a cockroach.
They eye blinked behind him and looked suggestive.
Jesus glared at it. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re looking at you big retinated anus?”
The eye continued to cry and was nailed to the wall.
Its mouth ripped open under its iris and it began to reply “Well I must say...”, it vomited up some glutinous wallpaper-paste like paste, then continued, “you are an extremely rude young man.”
Jesus jumped off his cheese and ran at the eye and slashed at it with his mandibles.
“I’ll fucking show you, you cocky little shit-cake!”
He dropped his wing cases to reveal a comparatively large organ of some sort, which pulsed and vibrated all along its length.
“Have at ya! HAGH! HAGH!”
Jesus ejaculated his invertebrate seed all over the eye, and then licked it as it dripped off. The eye blinked to clear its lens of the sticky concoction, then slowly retreated into a dark tunnel it used as means of passage.
“Good fucking riddance” Jesus screamed after it.
Jesus crept back onto his cheese with his back to the eye’s tunnel.
After about five minutes he glanced over his shoulder to see whether the eye was there; but it wasn't.
“Shit.”

Mama Sita

In the same vein as my previous post, this one nonetheless has a distinguishing feature; I remember a little about its genesis. I asked Issa in the summer of 2002 for a name to give to a grand matriarch. It couldn't have been more succinct than Mama Sita. It's certainly a regret of mine that the following is the only occurence to date of that grand old lady:

Mama Sita was a remarkable lady. She was in the Triangle that day I went with Dr Rudolph, a Wednesday, and was looking to get away from him. My time spent under the grip of his hospitality was very useful, I mean, I’d met all sorts of people and made a fair bit of money, but I was feeling restless. One major reason, perhaps a paranoid one looking at it now, was that he seemed fairly frequently to be examining my eye-sockets. Of course he has rarely operated on males, nor has he tended to repeat his procedures on other patients. Nevertheless, I didn’t trust him; it’s quite conceivable that he gave me room and board, like he said, for intelligent conversation, that when talking to me he didn’t have to worry about shocking me – it’s quite true, I was never once shocked by a thing he said. I found him, in spite of his twisted operations, to be very easy to talk with. Of course, I had no doubt that he was a dangerous individual. Whatever, I had to get away from the bastard; I wasn’t shocked, no, but I’ll say I was getting increasingly disgusted cohabiting with some of his creations. The conditions that they had to live in, the cages, the lax approach to basic cleaning and maintenance. It just got to be too much, and then there was that nagging ethical outrage; I decided one day that I would liberate them, but I haven’t as yet acted on that urge.

Hapless Girth and His Pilchard Mane

Pour it yourself, Tonsils. That’s a potato in his hand. Take this as fair warning. Beyond that, take it as far as you can. But remember what was said about Book Sound:

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound,' he said, grazing an eye.

Took him by surprise. You shouldn’t shoot up without me. He didn’t say that. Later the poor boy came by without the change, but it was arranged he’d pay back something but unkind.

‘Say a little anthem for me, I’ll slit your belly. Twist your neck, poor boy, and I can of beans you grotty urchin. Where’s the change?’

‘No change, master.’

It was wordless what he did with needle and thread. The poor boy never drank Tokay like it through the straw in his little throat. Twine and wood glue through his lips, sewed up nice and bloody red. No better than a pickpocket.

‘No change? Scream if you want to.’

The poor boy cried a bit.

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound before,’ he said, grazing an eye, ‘Now piss off.'

But the poor boy wasn’t a book.

Take him anyway you like, back front front back, and leave a little something with the registrar.

Hapless Girth, you fickle fool, settle on a buzz cut fish gut; without pilchard mane you’ll mind far less and won’t keep spinning.