BITING SOME RHYMES

Breaking Fast Serial

“Was it just that, at 12:46pm, that early modern Europe was simply the most conducive state for producing, what I suppose I would call, monumental art?”

“Art as a monument… I don’t know.”

“I suppose that we’re creating a lot now, and I would probably argue that those cultural documents that are of a truly monumental nature will survive one hundred, two hundred, years into the future.”

“Talk about a culture shift… John Lennon would be 66 this year… Ringo Starr is. When my kids are 13, and therefore at the age I was when I discovered the Beatles, then Ringo will likely be in his eighties… when Tommy Lee is 80…” *shudder*

“Man, the world is so decadent now… and the west, shamless. How else can you describe reality TV?”

FOR NATASHA I WALKED ON TIP TOES

ACT ONE

“ahhh, ahhh, ahhh,” Tearing up my lips with bonghits, it’s like learning to drive all over again. This is the emmy award winning episode, this is the face that broke the heart. Holy shit, I think she’s drunk all over again, somewhere, like, not understanding violence and rage, wanton destructiveness; a Kaliningrad oblast/the fucked up hyperreality of our commercial world—what will future anthropology tell us/say about us? If the first necessary step is to locate the work in some community in some known historical time and space… my community, my peers? No, I’m like the fucking israelities, such a powerful and conscious rejection of the community that you are forced to address it on its own terms. Well, one can only hope.

Time for me, boyee. Time such down cow with a straw, suck cow down, trapped in hyperbole, surreal, meaningless vacuum.

Just fucking zoning.

A Novel Experience

Fade in on a nice pale royal blue eye, zoom out on our protagonist, relaxing on a red velvet chaise longue. Kinda frazzled, but not frizzy, brown hair. He sniffs a lot, because his worn out septum keeps giving him grief, he’s unwilling to just give up. Paying Stevie Nicks to blow coke up his ass… wouldn’t that be a sight for sore eyes? These letters are so big. He’s obviously talking to a psychiatrist…

“I think, at heart, I really do, that I’m just a teenage girl. I just want to be wanted, and I want to get teenaged boys off. I want to be the girl I never had in my life, y’know?”

Serialization

The following is a selection from the unpublished work, "The Hope Hammer (The Hammer of Hope" (n.b. if you want the footnotes, you'll have to buy the damn book) *** This is an aggressive neighbor bash, this is a knapsack full of hash, this is a fortune million dollar ring, this fortune will a million dollars bring, this subject will verb the object[1], and noun will adjective verb, all over my face, in the plainest English in the place. We are all just like new parishioners, will will we will pray for here, will will stay we will stay, for here. Humidity, glass, clear water, falling water, cross the moonlit sky, across the polish city guy, through the mud, and on the sidewalks, and all the time like the present, this is for all the birthdays I missed. This is for a year of lost pre-valentines. I was staring at the mailbox, sitting on the corner across the street. It’s the same colour as the newspaper stand, the mailbox, I often wondering what the future, if anyone has ever, or ever wanted to just “accidently” think the mailbox was a newspaper stand, and place their stories, and money, into the newspapers… no one will get your letter Fernando. I don’t mean to pick at or on or at him, but he is always there. Screeching out his name with this fingernails along a chalkboard, his future of stock-residing, will surely account to nothing to account with his food-service career. Where people come, and pay him to fuck like a banana would fuck, and come on him for pesos of oh precious pesos, pesos and iron. It’s all back to land again isn’t it Fernando? I know your plans you are watching this white-bred world, waiting for the debt to crush the society, for it’s back to break, and you will be the new nobility now, wont you? But the world isn’t ending Fernando, and you just bought the wrong paper. It’s an easy enough mistake to make, the illegal hashbarns across the streets, the brightly lit café, like of my dreams, is lost inside the street corner, where only my ears, and eyes, and my mailboxes and flies, can discern you, throughout the hubbub, through the cometwebs of feet, and crawling critters all up their legs, these feet, accorded so much space, but travelling so far. Making love with the dust, as it settles in their moisturized cracks in their feetsies, and treatsies, and to adorn this sweet tenor, this nectar is all that is awaiting for you, on this bloomy street corner, of my minds eye. I pray for quiet and solitude, and multi-generational somber dues. A trample wire, of legitimacy, a cracked corrupt and crazy walk in the part, this sparky little end of sin, this mushroom blood, this sonic, this bandaid, this true structured tomb, I guard you with my eyes, my ears, my mailbox and my tears (a newspaper stand—I named her tears, after my sister) a true zealot if ever there one was. So much for this crane bow of good insurance,[2] a liquid, liquay, liquay, liquaqa, period staple. A lost of pinfulal painful in my nevers nerves in my lefts, legs, Transistor failing, reception required. This is not a TV Scramble. Over and out.