Monday, August 17, 2015
Seedy Locals................a brand new poem
Seedy Locals
oh twang
the money maker
had this hair coiff with lewd tawny flip a full eleven inches up front and backwards with palm-like waves
this was fresh with the discovery of hair mousse
people cut their alliances with past pictures of persons
the width of lapels took minds like thorazine
there had been numinous bow ties worn
stars and supine printed flora
the boy knew how to plant orchids on his haberdashery!
this swine and his brother had the underground business franchise
the one wrapped in burger bags
with their contraband unguents
dispensed in cubicles
where creeps work
News Update On The Not-Too-Social Hour
Look at all that shit on the official Not-Too-Social Hour marquee! Some of it actually exists right now, Captain Fire-groin is in production, and I will be adding new characters to the show. The Singing Diddlies are fiction at this point, but could be filled in, like a cherry pie, with guests who are able to play the musical instruments graciously provided by the Music Laboratory. Buttwhack Morgan exists as a comic series that I did on paper a long time ago, but now he will re-appear as recurring feature, using a plastic action figure to play Buttwhack Buttwhack Morgan is modeled after a person I used to drink with. A jerk with both a serious drinking problem, and he had a nauseating sexual obsession that he talked about, too much, too loud. I was obliged to dissassociate with the person upon whom Buttwhack is modelled. Vince Victim will be a very easy comedy skit to put into operation. Guests will be encouraged to hate and victimize Vince Victim, accusing him of anything fun to hear about, and the guest will then crush Vince Victim, on a thick wooden block, using a bright red ball pene hammer.
The Not-Too-Social Hour is sponsored, in small part, by the Alice and Steve Fire-groin family, also by Annette and Zachary Fire-groin, all dear close relatives of our own, Captain Fire-groin. Some of Zack's dysfuntional kids will be working here as key grips, whatever a 'key grip is.' Doesn't matter. It's family
.
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Thursday, August 13, 2015
The Squatras
I discovered the Squatras while performing a mirror ritual in the vacant lot behind the house. A mirror is the shiny back entrance to nasty yet gratifying realizations. The cast of puppets and dolls used in the ritual were positioned around the broken mirror frame, and I had ignited the sacrificial white male action doll, after dousing it with a measured half ounce of high test, poured from the holy gasoline container, made of safe, reliable neoprene, into a dropper bottle I think of as 'the grail.' I use a very special funnel to pour the gas. No fuck ups.
A 'squatra' is a spiritual plexus that opens up, like a zit, pouring forth groove juice, when you are squatting. I was squatted down near my outdoor shrine when a few of my inner squatras opened. Damn, it was profound. Felt great. Like twelve tabs of X, all cutting loose at once. It was a reminder that spirituality is sensuality, and things like the condition of your squatras may be imperative to it. You'll get off better once you grasp your squatras.
A 'squatra' is a spiritual plexus that opens up, like a zit, pouring forth groove juice, when you are squatting. I was squatted down near my outdoor shrine when a few of my inner squatras opened. Damn, it was profound. Felt great. Like twelve tabs of X, all cutting loose at once. It was a reminder that spirituality is sensuality, and things like the condition of your squatras may be imperative to it. You'll get off better once you grasp your squatras.
Further Notes On Music Creep (this is semi-fictinal,based as close as shaving with a Norelco, to some creep I once had dealings with)
There's been the same cultural carnage back near New Hope, Pa., as there has been most places, with houses rotting to the ground, arson waves, and Levitt Town construction projects. There was the exodus of attractive, talented people, and the inflo of half way facilities, for people playing with half the preferred card count. You can measure time in clever bistros that opened in closed inside of a blinking city block of similarly transient store fronts. The morphology on the artificial finger nail salons, alone, explain a thousands times more of ethnic drift than you could stuff your mind with at an Ivy League school. Small restaurants are the mayflies urban renewal.
All places become an attractive nuisance sooner or later. People move in and become a pain in the ass. They colonize, with the benefit of professional help, like medically altered ants. More assholes move in. You get urban unpleasantness. This tends to erupt from the surface, like an insect bite, on the the surface of a gentrification initiative, in all cases initiated by a sector of the middle class that is best able get public money for it all. These creeps always profit, because the money comes from the taxpayers. There is no such thing as being culpable.
I met this scum bag guitarist in the aforementioned town, and this prick helped to distinguish the place from all the other locations that went down over the embittered past thirty two years. When I moved into the rooming house I was calling home for about a year, The music assole was living in the room directly across the hall. At first it seemed almost normal that he was overly friendly, always knocking on my door to ask a small favor, or express fraternal interest, which is one of a jillion deviant social skills free for the picking, in the garden of earthly creeps and perverts. I was much younger than, and rather oblivious to the whole business of stalkers.
In the day, Mr. Scuzzbuckets was a featured regular attraction at what was then The Cable Car Theater. It was a fuzzily venerated small theater, formerly all stage productions, currently a movie theater with featured side shows like Mr. Scuzz. He would do several short sets a night, before, at intermission, and at closing of the arthouse films the joint specialized in. Here again, sic transit gloria bullshit, the sector of the middle class that had enabled this type of venue fizzled away before the dot com economy shitstormed in to preplace the old middle class establishment with the New World Order, in oblong cans containing a hard drive and screen, like canned fish, only sorely more influential. To shorten history, the old hippies who still had jobs in the early 80s are mostly dead. And the guitar wizard is still alive. So I've decided to share his memory, or my memories of him, with the dysfunctional family form, in series form. If want more of this prick, it's coming up here.
All places become an attractive nuisance sooner or later. People move in and become a pain in the ass. They colonize, with the benefit of professional help, like medically altered ants. More assholes move in. You get urban unpleasantness. This tends to erupt from the surface, like an insect bite, on the the surface of a gentrification initiative, in all cases initiated by a sector of the middle class that is best able get public money for it all. These creeps always profit, because the money comes from the taxpayers. There is no such thing as being culpable.
I met this scum bag guitarist in the aforementioned town, and this prick helped to distinguish the place from all the other locations that went down over the embittered past thirty two years. When I moved into the rooming house I was calling home for about a year, The music assole was living in the room directly across the hall. At first it seemed almost normal that he was overly friendly, always knocking on my door to ask a small favor, or express fraternal interest, which is one of a jillion deviant social skills free for the picking, in the garden of earthly creeps and perverts. I was much younger than, and rather oblivious to the whole business of stalkers.
In the day, Mr. Scuzzbuckets was a featured regular attraction at what was then The Cable Car Theater. It was a fuzzily venerated small theater, formerly all stage productions, currently a movie theater with featured side shows like Mr. Scuzz. He would do several short sets a night, before, at intermission, and at closing of the arthouse films the joint specialized in. Here again, sic transit gloria bullshit, the sector of the middle class that had enabled this type of venue fizzled away before the dot com economy shitstormed in to preplace the old middle class establishment with the New World Order, in oblong cans containing a hard drive and screen, like canned fish, only sorely more influential. To shorten history, the old hippies who still had jobs in the early 80s are mostly dead. And the guitar wizard is still alive. So I've decided to share his memory, or my memories of him, with the dysfunctional family form, in series form. If want more of this prick, it's coming up here.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Scuzz Googling
I'm not out to hurt the poor asshole. I met the bossa nova scumbag in a New England capital city, in a rooming house. He was a food thief, eventually caught raiding the communal kitchen. He was also a young pervert, at the time, and I have a feeling he still is, after thirty two years.
The stretch in the twilight zone was during the first half of the 1980s. The attempt on my part to assimilate a new culture had its moments and pretty much failed, considering I went back to the jerkwater town I came from, mentally worse for wear. Recalling a disturbing twelve months as a neighbor of the musical scum, a google search finds W.B. alive, possibly in good health, possibly well regarded by a few people on the fringe of society, unless the exceptionally tall, gangly freak changed to a huge degree for the better, which I doubt.
His picture show him aged, arguably distinguished looking, and he had capitalized on a long, drawn oily face as twenty-nine year old wonder boy.. Scumbags are usually true to their scam, so he must still be a gnarled, pock marked guitar genius, a permanent babe in the woods, always looking for a victim. He liked to play sick head games against his victims, standing outside their doors, as he would do mine, eaves dropping. His room was right across the front hall in a huge Victorian mansion that had been cut down to a jillion single rooms. It was diverse and charmingly monastic, the jazz creep being one of a few notorious criminals that lived their.
I learned from his 'Linded In' page, and this is public, so I wasn't intruding, or at least not wrongfully, that he is trying to form a bossa nova band, hoping like Helen Keller's speech instructor meet up with professional musicians, like the ones Antonio Carlos Jobim tripped the lights with. He was a total parasite, when I know him, always seeking out people he can borrow from, or take sexual advantage of, or who he could perpetrate sick pranks against. He told once, with avuncular frankness, that he was a voyeur, liked to window peek, and to spy on people by any means possible.
Anyway, great to see he's still going.
The stretch in the twilight zone was during the first half of the 1980s. The attempt on my part to assimilate a new culture had its moments and pretty much failed, considering I went back to the jerkwater town I came from, mentally worse for wear. Recalling a disturbing twelve months as a neighbor of the musical scum, a google search finds W.B. alive, possibly in good health, possibly well regarded by a few people on the fringe of society, unless the exceptionally tall, gangly freak changed to a huge degree for the better, which I doubt.
His picture show him aged, arguably distinguished looking, and he had capitalized on a long, drawn oily face as twenty-nine year old wonder boy.. Scumbags are usually true to their scam, so he must still be a gnarled, pock marked guitar genius, a permanent babe in the woods, always looking for a victim. He liked to play sick head games against his victims, standing outside their doors, as he would do mine, eaves dropping. His room was right across the front hall in a huge Victorian mansion that had been cut down to a jillion single rooms. It was diverse and charmingly monastic, the jazz creep being one of a few notorious criminals that lived their.
I learned from his 'Linded In' page, and this is public, so I wasn't intruding, or at least not wrongfully, that he is trying to form a bossa nova band, hoping like Helen Keller's speech instructor meet up with professional musicians, like the ones Antonio Carlos Jobim tripped the lights with. He was a total parasite, when I know him, always seeking out people he can borrow from, or take sexual advantage of, or who he could perpetrate sick pranks against. He told once, with avuncular frankness, that he was a voyeur, liked to window peek, and to spy on people by any means possible.
Anyway, great to see he's still going.
Friday, August 7, 2015
New Character
Haven't invented anyone new lately, and then there is newness. Something came to mind, and it's a person. A fella'. His name is Captain Fire-Groin. He micturates gasoline, and is able to ignite it, using a spark wheel well placed near his glass dick. There is a rubber squeeze bulb hidden behind his ass. It's a crude gag, but it's always fun to start a small fire someplace sweet.
Captain Fire-Groin will turn up in my serial micro fiction sagas. There is one, in progress, about two men who live in an old conversion van, living on Little Debbie Nutty Bars and generic fruit soda. Other characters include Buttwhack Morgan, an S and M maven, and the Von Findrich sisters, three Romanian triplets, formerly a trapeeze act, currently disabled from three cases of identical bursitis.
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