textfiles/magazines/POUPEY/poupey22.txt

 ----                  ==========================                    ----
                   Stephen Thomas Schweizer, AKA Nybar
               a POU-CREW PRODUCTIONS Affiliate presents:
		--	ANOTHER EPISODE OF POUPEY     --
		.. 	   (yo, what the fuck?)	   ..
	        -- LIVE N DIRECT--POUPEY #22 IS LARGE --
                ===============(in stereo)==============

	Remember when POUPEY hit your block?
	Jamesy was the guy that we did mock
	Murmur was told to suck a cock
	THOSE WERE THE DAYS

	Jubzie was still known as j0ltcola
	the big disease was still e-bola
	and the dance of choice was the polka
	THOSE WERE THE DAYS

	Jamesy hasn't really emotionally progressed
	Nybar is still crazy it must be professed
	he writes POUPEY as if possessed...
	THESE ARE THE DAYYYSSSSSSSSS.

---why test me, if you're woody allen or fellini, my freestylin' will
never allow you to see me, like sitting in a shaded-window lambourgini,
bangin' wit sweenie--erect, not re-enacting pulp fiction with
jarett--kobek, cause when i freak my flows, they are fairly neato, i take
my beano so i don't eructate after a bean burrito...--

esp. to the thump and the throb and the bass and the needle...put another
needle on, let another tune play...

SCRUMPYSCRUMPYSCRUMPYSCRUMPYSCRUMPYSCRUMPYSCRUMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYyyyyyyyyyy...

	"This new enemy is even more bothersome." said Mr. Fantastic
	"How could that be, Mistah F?" said the bizzare amalgam-universe
Johnny Blaze/Human Torch/The Fonz
	"Well...he's a complete nut-job! He calls himself...Pyotor, and
demands to speak with Fyodor, his father! His master!"
	"That's..."--Ben Grimm was cut off.
	There was a ripple in space, and then the photons concerned
themselves with the new presence in the room: The Invisible Woman,
luminescent in a suit made of glass. She was not always the Invisible
Woman, you know. She was once the Invisible Girl. This was before the
controversial appearance in Playboy; the one which catapulted her to the
fore of the first feminist movement, where she established an all-girl
strike force to destroy entrenched patriarchal stereotypes. It was there
that she met her (doomed) lover and soulmate, Spider Woman ..this was
before Ultimus sliced her lover's neck with his crimson sword, before
committing hari kiri himself. It was there that she first cast off her old
girlish demeanor, there that she stopped pretending...but -here- she
stood, before Mr. Fantastic himself, in the flesh; hirsute after his
forays into the third dimension, but ultimately the same man as she'd
known for years. The man who always stood besides her always. It was hard
to lose one as flexible as he, anyways. A thought; a memory drifted inside
her head...a grain of sand, lost amidst the stream of her thoughts...
	"So what have you boys been up to?" said Sue with a cheeky smile
as she snuggled up to Mr. Fantastic.
	"Well, there are two new supervillains that threaten New York, out
of order, they are Pyotor, an oddball monkish character with undefinable
powers..."
	"Undefibable, Reed?" asked Johnny
	"Well, every time he strikes, his powers seem to change, and
they're always on a different side of the classical Friedman's graph,
which leads me to posit..."
	"REED!...oh, dear, what is the other villain's name?" Sue inquired
with saccharine sweetness
	"Oh. Scrumpy. His powers involve apples. I don't think he should
be very worrisome."
	Scrumpy, Sue thought. Scrumpy. She wasn't a deist...but that rung
a bell somewhere in the works. She looked at Ben Grimm, saw his sweat, his
brown hair, his finely muscled male form. She imagined his Skrull lover;
how ugly, how intemperate, quite unlike the soft, pink flesh Sue
possessed. Oh, the pink, soft flesh. She imagined him thrusting into her,
thrust and hammer, like a piston, and she imagined his cock turning to
stone inside of her buttery, receptive love-tunnel, and she imagined a
squirt of blood. She imagined a section of cunt the size of a cat flying
into the air as he became truly hard; equivalent to pharaonic
circumcision.
	Then, she switched her sights to boyish Johnny...she remembered
him as the torch. Just The Torch. She imagined all the chippys he had
ruthlessly fucked; plucked like ripe fruit...she imagined his care, his
smile, his embrace, as he came inside of her, and then super-nova'd... but
she would survive, for she had force-fields. She was a woman. Once again,
only her hole would be affected. It should cauterize the earlier wound.
And then, she would asphixiate the asshole, she thought with pyrrhic
triumph. She turned to Mr. Fantastic, and smiled uneasily.
	"I think we should hop into the four-seated fantasticar, and drive
off into the sky. In search of them. Just like we always do...did... just
like old times, damnit!" her lips screamed pain at her, but her smile
persisted.
	Then there was running to the roof, and racing to the moon. They
were soaring, in search of evil. Meanwhile, in his apartment, Peter
Parker, AKA The Spectacular Spider Man, sat alone, and felt sad. He spun a
web just for himself, and cast it upon his wall. It sat, and stared at
him. He watched it dessicate. Eventually, it dripped onto the floor,
nothing but goo to be mopped up. And the dishes sat, undone, in the sink.
He put on his black Spider Man costume, and jumped out of his little
window; disappeared into the night. Without a thought of a note for MJ.
For she has been dead since the 70s.
	Then there was a rush of wind and dates and haircuts...forgotten
engagements and holidays which marched by, omnipresent and noticed by
none. This was the Beazortic Zone, composed of bad sociology theories and
sentimental old movies. The facedown, bitter in reality, was remembered
joyously as the way we never were. Scrumpy died, Scrumpy rose again,
Scrumpy married Johnny Storm (AKA the Human Torch), they had an illicit
Skrull-Human child, who proceeded to go back in time and learn all about
the advanced technology there, and then kill his own dad. This was
thwarted by luck: the kindness of a 50-year old militant asshole who none
cared about. None bothered to finish their paragraphs. Friends let friends
drive: I was there. None cared. The sun went out; nones' lives were
brightened. In general, the state of mind was Euophoria. It was the time
striations of a juggling infostructure. Then, the landing. Spiderman with
them, drinking hot chocolate with Reed Richards. The planet was a normal
dimension.
	Spider-Man: "So, what do you guys--and gal [he said, looking to
Sue Richards]--go through this dimension travelling rigamarole time after
time? It seems like it's, no offense to Hawkeye or Henri Mattise, strictly
for the birds.
	"Well, it really gets better each time you try it" Sue Richards
intoned, orgiastically "why don't you try it more often?"
	"You know, my wife, Mary Jane, is dead. And her baby is dead too."
he replied.
	At this, Sue frowned. She reasoned that if Mary Jane and her baby
both were dead...but it didn't matter. In the modern world? Absolutely
not. Sue had known a few dead babies as well, and continued 'travelling'
none the less. She performed one of her patented moves upon the
recalcitrant arachnid hero: she put his dick in a perfectly placed
force-field, which controlled the oxygen around the proportionately
spider-sized phallus perfectly to make it priapically erect. In a jiffy,
then, she was invinsible, and Spider-Man felt the sudden strong urge to
leave the room.
	"Oh, uh, please excuse me while I make a trip to the little
spiders' room." he addressed Reed awkwardly. The Thing and The Human Torch
looked on, incredulously, as Reed grunted indifferently. Spider Man walked
off stiffly as Frankenstein. Sue stuck behind him like she was a rather
insistent shadow...or a tail. In the bedroom, Spider Man's pants flew
right off. In the bedroom, Pyotor, the protean super-villian, was there.
He's different every time...he severed Sue's neck as she was sucking
Spider Man off. Spider Man, who was thinking of dead Mary Jane at that
time had his penis amputated by her collapsing jaw. He lay on the floor
bleeding. His fate would be sealed soon enough. A fool.
	Finding them, Reed instantly killed Pyotor. The cat, killing the
mouse, was proved the greater of the two evils. He once again had tea with
Galactus, and pondered the factors which had contributed to his living.
Even after he crashed the ship, with The Thing and The Human Torch still
on it. He accepted his actions. Given the option, he always performed the
exact same action, and mildly regretted not regretting it afterwards. So,
the five bodies were incincerated, with not one person to really care
about them. And Reed remains immortal.
	
		======================================================
    ----===I want breasts. I don't care if they lumpy tasha breasts,
       or some illicit asian breasts...I WANNA SEE SOME BREASTSSS...---===
		======================================================
			
	i seem to have cracked my head upon a lump of lard (nybar)

                   -----------------------------------------------------------

	banjo dean looked at his paw, he looked at the matches, he looked
at what he had done, he tried to cry a cat tear. but the tear eluded him.
he tried to cry out, but the meowing just wasn't the same. he looked down,
he looked up, he looked at his penis. his penis, his penis, the red sheath
of his powerful sabre. he climbed atop the rubble of the building, burnt
as toast in the firey pits of Nifelhelm, and he peed on the remains of
Nybarius. the cat god was dead. the cat revolution was over. all that was
left was a pete rock song, and memories. dean meowed and mewled until his
larynx was inflamed, but his ears did not hear the loquatious feline
moans.
	they were heard only by automatic stanley, the hobo chief of
police. he stretched out his arm to pet the still-massive cat, but dean
fell into unconsciousness, consciousness burned out like a roman candle,
dead in a reminisce...

	====****====*****=====******=======*******=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

slow it up SPEED IT UP slow it up SPEED IT UP slow it up SPEED it up GRIM
REAPER EAT IT UP...

        ====---======------------=================----------======-=
	it had began in the negresco, le Chantecler. Nybarius was decked
out in robes of purple, and a tie. his hand was that of a saint. the
severed, decayed head of one Isadora Duncan rested on his phallus. he ate
a ham hock sandwitch, and talked and talked. no one much seemed to enjoy
his talking, but this was all a game. outside stood the cat armies. the
azure coast would soon run red with blood...
	but all of that came later. for now, Nybarius and his companions
enjoyed themselves, feasting on the most fattening and therefore best the
world had to offer in what was possibly the mosttotally excellent hotel in
the whole god damned universe. on the merry-go-round, baby mogels
piroutted and prattered, and in their immune systems, AIDS did battle with
the T-Cells. The only absentees in the great meeting were tasha and
caitlin, who, of course, shall never escape from their ancestral homeland
of michigan so long as they live in a state of undeath, swallowing the
lazarian seed of dan bern in order to live out their most wretched
existence.
	hangmen also die. this is true. but nybar never seemed to notice
that. he received a call on a pearl-handled telephone which was brought
out to him on a silver platter. it was the father of the bride he was
chasing after. he spoke with calm assurance, and identified his current
base of operations as definitely residing in the sahara desert...somehow.
nybar didn't hesitate. he searched the nigganet, and found out that there
was a satellite hovering directly over a certain point in the sahara.
	scandalous, scandalous. the prop plane was small, but more than
sufficient. nybar easily drank up all of the red and white wine on board,
and just as he was harrassing the rather effete male stewardess, the plane
landed and it was time to shuffle out, into the cold desert. the desert
looked rather odd, as there were a bunch of eskimos lounging in it. they
wore sunglasses and watched the azure coast. nybar got out of the plane,
fed-exed his carry-on luggage to his hotel, and it was on.
	"say, sir, i'd very much like to marry your daughter." implored
nybar.
	"well, that's quite alright, young man" Lloyd Sherman intoned,
meaninglessly. "do you have any other requests?"
	"no, not really. I'd be perfectly happy if I could just fuck your
daughter, and all."
	"I don't think you quite comprehended my meaning in asking for
your requests. I was asking if you'd like to request pistols, or sabres."
	"Oh." said nybar, who then proceeded to fall silent for a long
time. This silence was abruptly dispelled when Nybar snapped-to and said:
	"you know, quarterstaves would really be good, I guess."
	"you are a fool if you request that. i warn you. i'm one of the
strongest quarterstaff gladiators in this land."
	"we shall see."

			ACT TWO: THE DUEL...

	Nybar, like one of those ubiquitous construction bees on gumbie,
attempted to construct a net of blows around his opponent. they were all
parried perfectly, some with attempts at reciprocation, which were
invariably deftly sidestepped or jumped over, just in the nick of time.  
nybar was eventually struck by one of the ripostes, in his chest, and it
was counted as a point for the lover man, lazarus; la belle dame's father.
	in the second round, nybar was all up to some profile and front.
he simply stood in his b-boy stance, quarterstaff loaded with potential
energy. like a mock-up of a character in a kurosawa movie, he was. nybar
gained two points like this, reacting instantly when he was struck at. on
the next, and deciding, round, he knew this was not going to be enough.
so, he used the grasshopper technique Mr. Miyagi had taught him.
undefeatable, his enemy's head was knocked off.
	in a bad 80s film ending, he jumped on the hands of the mob who
had come to pay their respects to the wu-tang clan, and was carried off
into the sunrise.

			         THE END

----=-----=------=----------------=----------------------------=----=-=-=-=---
aiyo, if trilobyte wan' find some nigga, he gon' search on da nigga-net
-=-=--=-----====-=-=------=-=-=---------==-----=---=-=--=--------=-=----=-=-=--

expatriot
-- trilobyte

it seemed to be a beautiful day on the shore.

i threw crackers onto the water, trying to form as close to a straight
line as possible, what with the lack of aerodynamics present in your
average saltine.  a solitary duck swimming nearby started eating them from
the center of the line, alternating going upwards on the line and
downwards.  the duck looked like a very confused pacman.

assuming the water was a digital landscape of networked molecules of
water, i waded into it fully clothed, and discovered that i was becoming
wetter than i had been.  the further i walked into the lake, the more
submerged i seemed to be getting.  it became hard to hastily walk as the
water surface approached my hip.  soon i noticed the duck was near my
head.

"QUACK", i honked.  some water in front of me shook in despair as the duck
flew away.

lonely, i began to head more into the center of the lake, and the water
went over my head.  it was painful to open my eyes so i kept them closed.  
i also really couldn't breathe.

i turned around and went back to the beach and sat down.  my clothes and
body were very wet.

an untied shoelace blew by on the sand and waved in my direction.  i waved
back.

i waited a few hours for something to happen and nothing really did, so i
complained to the management about a lack of event on the beach.  the most
fun i had was pulling the seaweed out of my hair.

soon management's reply landed in the sand next to me, enveloped by a
small parachuted air mail parcel.  i picked it up, opened it, and this is
what the note inside said:

"morey,

        we regret to inform you that this beach scene has been outmoded by
other, more modern relaxing atmospheres.  we suggest that you try an
asian-accented massage parlor, a room equipped with a high-fidelity home
theatre system, a craft-matic adjustable bed, or an artistic coffee shop.

                good day,
                the management
                c/o the boss"

i dropped the note back on the beach and stood up.  looking around, it
seemed that no one was nearby.  there were no beer bottles on the beach.  
no towels.  no crabs.

i walked out into the ocean and didn't come back.

	     ====------=====---------=======-----======------
  hah! KaiA will sever that thought completely (YOU ARE NOW GETTING SLEEPY
	     ---===---==-=-=-----===----=====--===------=====

	(THE ILLICIT LANGUAGE CORPUS), by Kaia, student of Linguistics at
the University of Delaware (AKA a Square from Delaware): Marcy Jones was a
minister's daughter.  Her family was middle-class and generally well
educated; Mr. and Mrs. Jones had a picture of the last temptation of
Christ over their hardwood bedframe.  Though Marcy was black, she was not
a speaker of American Black English, but of Standard American.  Marcy was
a linguistically precocious and generally bright child.  There are 66
files in the Marcy corpus and her age ranges from 2 years 3 months to 4
years 10 months.  Also included in the corpus is a file called
"00lexicon.cdc" which contains some nonstandard lexical items that were
used or invented by Marcy.

@Begin
@Coding:        CHAT 01-OCT-1987
@Participants:  MCY Marcy Target_Child, FTR Father, NYB Nybar
Investigator, JUB Chris Investigator
@Sex of MCY:    Female
@Birth of SAR:  23-JUL-1961
@Age of SAR:    2;3.5
@Date:  28-OCT-1963
@Time Duration: 15:25-15:55

*JUB:   now # the next thing # if you can just ask # a play a game
        with a Sarah # now # ask her parts of the body or what's this.
*JUB:   <don't> [/] don't use the words yourself # just ask her.
*FAT:   c(o)me (h)ere.
*MCY:   xx.
*JUB:   alright.
*MCY:   xx.
*FAT:   yeah.
*NYB:   what's this?
%exp:   nose
*MCY:   a nose.
*JUB:   your nose.
*NYB:   an(d) what's that?
%exp:   eye
*MCY:   a eye.  eye love jez
*FAT:   0.
%gpx:   points to hair
*MCY:   hair.
*FAT:   hair.
*FAT:   where's your teeth?
%gpx:   points to teeth
*FAT:   oh # what's this?
*MCY:   O.# poopy
*FAT:   what's that?
*NYB:   i think she's # trying to say something, jubjub.
*FAT:   what's this, Marcy?
*FAT:   what's that?
*MCY:   a yy.
%pho:   ah
*FAT:   what is it?
*FAT:   what's this?
%exp:   hand
*MCY:   yy yy.
%com:   plane overhead
%gpx:   points to computer screen
*MCY:   poopy
*FAT:   poo..pee?
*NYB:   that's poupey to you.
*JUB:   !!!
%gpx    exchange of knowing look
.........	

	"hey, mogel, it's really hard to be me. i swear." said nybar.
	"i don't believe you," retorted mogel "i think you're a
full-of-shit whiteboy with a perfect life."
	"you don't understand, mogel." insisted nybar. "tasha has been
stalking me. she's clearly insane. also, i was forced to break the heart
of iggy pop's nazi girlfriend. she was a sweet girl. besides this, i'm not
exactly mr. popularity. as a matter of fact, everyone clearly hates me.
'everyone' being a general intentionally unclarified statement."
	"i think you just need to get laid, nybar." pronounced mogel,
witheringly.

..........

dear anonymous girl,
        after days of flirting with my reflection, i've finally learned to
make your eyes.  it's a narcissistic delight i enjoy, scrutinizing the
constant look of quiet intensity and amused intelligence that i first saw
in you (but have been too shy to match).  between my words and emotions,
ideas and intents -- places i can't even see in the mirror -- i know
they're places you've seen.
        but who else?  filtered through countless homunculi, dirty Burger
King hands and Hindu prayers, the contents of my mind had nothing to hide.
and yet it kills.  i want to retract everything now:  the hindsight
comebacks, processed experiences, loves, losses, and newfound
autocensorship, but most of all, the tiny wire that my sensation-seeking
greed originally brought me to accept.  i want to rip that motherfucking
lifeline from my head, and close my eyes, forget that there's no releasing
the agreement i signed.  as other eyes witness these words i write and the
thoughts that produce them, i still can't stop the orgasmic pleasure from
crashing through my nervous system.  i never anticipated how tired i'd get
and how built i'd become, over seventeen years, throughout every muscle in
my body.  sixteen years ago i realized i'd reached the point when feeling
insanely good crossed over into feeling bad, and even as I communicate
with you, it continues...so i'll just sit quietly (as my larynx is
destroyed) and accept the experiment, and focus my energy on writing to
you.
        i miss you so.  i remember every single one of our interactions,
all individually significant.  someone once asked me what we talk about; i
couldn't give a good answer, as we don't really talk using _topics_ as
much as streams of consciousness - you have the advantage of supreme
articulation (not to mention the line from my head), while i have the
special sensitivity (as you call it) to our sort of shared
hyperconsciousness, with each context bending and mutating fluidly into
the next; the meaning of every word, sentence and interaction producing
delightfully ambiguous recursive states.  i always gain a lot from our
interactions and i think you must, too.
        at first i thought it was you and only you controlling the
conversations, but i now realize that we both contribute equally to the
bubbling cauldron; the mind meld of societal archetypes.  the dialect we
speak is like a ouiji board message guided by instincts lying beyond our
usual nurse-maid internal censors; our internal monologues, abstractified,
can percolate through all the archetypes, all the eidetic images, all the
culture processed through the bones of swine, emerging as our ocean of
metaphors, symbolism, with everything -- everything, sometimes the
phonemes themselves, the very syntactic atoms -- up for interpretation.
the escape our interactions entail, i hope, is indescribably delicious to
you as you face up to modern life, and the knowledge that a world is
reading this now.
        at one point in my life, with every moment flanked by a different
stimulation, an uncluttered mind came only with our conversations. satori,
lucidity, they happened only while talking to you and afterwards as i
reflected on our conversation.  but since we got together, the moments
have been growing longer each time we've spoken.  someday i wish to feel
solely that clarity - oh how wonderful it would be.  our dialectic (if you
can call it that) will always be a part of me, though, even if i remove
this line today and risk my brain-death tomorrow, as written.  as you are
gone, we will pull through as long as "we" remains important to us.
        ah, but how i ramble these days.  the very use of "us" in the way
i've been using it.. perhaps implies some sort of symbolic connection
which has been totally devised by me and my rambling mind, my rambling
mind...
        oh how much i dislike writing, expressing myself to a void of
infinite audience, much like speaking to a wall; a wall you don't care
about yet which has the capability to laugh at and reject you...not that
you would ever fall short of your incredible standard of understanding,
but self-doubt simply runs through my mind-state like a track star...or
perhaps the doubt i feel is proportional to how close i am to breaking
free of these chains.
        yet i remain aware that similar restraints bind every caste, from
office drone to prom-queen.  i once again allow the fear of the unknown to
hold me back.
        i'd just like to say that i learn things about myself from talking
to you, and i hope you can say the same.  i'm sure there are things that
you, you specifically, have contributed to me, the artifacts of which will
still remain thirty, forty, fifty years from now. i reflect that you've
given me something infinitely more valuable than specific ideas, though,
and that's a new way of looking at the world, new dreams to live and
possibilities of death... and for this i can never thank you enough.
          i now realize that no amount of practice in front of a mirror
could produce your look; it simply comes naturally to those at ease with
themselves and unburdened by the world. perhaps the next time you see me,
you'll notice that i've incorporated it into my facial lexicon. if not,
then know that the look is developing in the back of my brain--as if
through a second exuberant growth--and that someday, anyday, it will burst
to the surface, like an explosion of light perhaps someday, if we are
through, i'll talk to someone like you talked to me and eventually, s/he
will attain the look--and the outlook--as well, and perhaps then talk to
someone like i talked to him or her, and give that person my look...i hope
i don't sound too pretentious when i say that in this path lies redemption
for the modern world.  good-bye for now. --Love from The Illest, Sickest
Posse of Insane Writers Ever... (Kaiabarius, Kainar, Kaia and Nybar)

--------------- ================= ------------------ ====

	Dear readers, I would like to address you directly. I am Nybar,
one of the least powerful creatures in this realm. When I first found
myself enfolded by the warm blankets, my first instinct was to resist. It
was, I am convinced, a foolish one. This old world has been through many
millenniums before us humans decided to 'grace' it with our presence, and
it will go through many more after the last of our kind have wiped our
feet on its doormat on the way out. This is the way things are meant to
be. Why fight the future? Alternatively, why choose life? Recently, I have
been reading the book of Job. It is truly superior literature.

	I tend to dislike people with superiority complexes. This mainly
flows from my narcissism. Listen, dawg, it's been a long time since I
wrote this POUPEY shit. And that's important to me. The concept of POUPEY,
writing which will never be read, is still extremely intriguing to me. I'M
JUST A THORN WITHOUT THE ROSE. This POUPEY shit means a lot to me, dawgs,
and I'm uh end it like that. As I watch the sun go down on all these phony
franchises, I wouldn't choose to start a new chapter any other way...

		So that's another new POUPEY edition
		Hot off the presses of perdition
		Nybar will damage your titties if you give him permission...
		THOSE WERE THE DAYS.

		Getting our dicks sucked for LSD
		freeze ya till you're frozen like KGB
		hustling south of the border for the crew called POUPEY...
		THOSE WERE THE DAYS.

		and now this issue comes to a close
		the finest zine that's ever been composed
		"no one reads POUPEY, and it shows!"
		THOSE WERE THE DAYSSSSSSSSSS!!!