854 lines
48 KiB
Plaintext
854 lines
48 KiB
Plaintext
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% the Undiscovered Country %
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% issue 3 %
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#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#
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#/# editors: #/#
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the insane season #/# cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu #/#
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end of the seaside #/# rm09216@swt.edu #/#
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autumn sunlight #/# #/#
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leaves like my palm #/# 05FEB93 #/#
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veins in my eyes #/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#
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reflected against the sun
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debacle
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this morning's debacle entranced
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in the rainfall the faces speak
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silent mouths and wordburnt eyes
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and people lashed beyond the pale
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and nothing here and nothing then.
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lightly grass like spiders
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bends beneath the rain
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arches dropping dewfall
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a world I must regain...
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enthralled
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to the potency &
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virulent nature of life.
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-- srp
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EXTENSIVE PRETENTIOUS INTERLUDE: tsunami I
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this is the heart of the wasteland, i think. i am surrounded by wreckage --
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three empty cases of beer, a large steel cannister of sapporo, newspaper, food
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bits, notebooks, clothing, some full beers, and my spiff boots with the condom
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pockets empty beer bottles populate every open surface. out the window i can
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see that the side of the dorm facing me knows no sunlight, but i cannot yet see
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rain. wreckage is the maxim for the season, as i see people come and go and
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merge and flow -- leaving behind wreckage. in the halls, empty boxes from a
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student suspended for grades, and boxes left by a parent who labored for days
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in his daughter's room (she wasn't around most of the time), who, if he labors
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like mine, do it out of some twisted guilt. wreckage in the fifteen bottlecaps
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i bounced off of the bathroom door. wreckage in a bloody punched-out
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windowpane, the result of too much explosive anger lubricated with too much
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milwaukee's beast. more than that, we are the detritus...we are those
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unwanting to come back but not wanting to be "home" and hating the indecision.
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outside rain washes the desert walls...
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memories from the austere curtain
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she murmurs, chanting restless waves
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silk whispers in display windows,
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windy parks long forgotten.
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children clatter in selfwrapped play,
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accost myself behind a thought,
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seeing these days echoed before,
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when pleasure strangled all but future.
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her throat opens like dawn
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calling from the darkened halls
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a high school wrecked, a cemetary
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flight in haste i've left it cold
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echo victorious, empty fields
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of eternity and other coughs
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as i watch my window smear
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these places by,
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drowned in sympathetic rain.
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the ed meese show presents:
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pornography
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masquerading as
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literature:
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Ascending the porch steps, they stopped at the front door, Gurn,
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waiting for Tess to unlock it, she standing motionless before it.
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Gurn's eyes never left her on the way back to the cabin, as he
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stood studying her now, he knew something was wrong. She just stood
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looking at the door, as if not knowing what to do. Concerned that
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the blow to her head had harmed her more than she realized, but not
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wanting to upset her further by mentioning it, he gently covered
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her hand with his, taking the keys from her and unlocked the door.
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Tess smiled up at him, as though nothing was out of the ordinary,
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entered the cabin, peering at the contents of the room. Gurn
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stepped close behind her, placing his strong hands on her smooth
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shoulders, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Maybe you
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should rest for a while. Come, I'll put you to bed". Gurn guided
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Tess to the bedroom. She was hesitant, looking around the rooms
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they passed through. If he didn't know better, he would swear she
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didn't know where she was. His fears for her increased, but he
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controlled his features, not allowing his concern to show. Reaching
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the bed, he turned her to face him, slowly easing her down onto the
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bed. A seductive smile came to her full lips, as he reached to
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remove her sweater. Her eyes shining brightly with a playfulness,
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and something else, something he couldn't read. As he started
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removing her jeans, she sat up quickly, her arms going around his back, her
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nails digging into his flesh, scratching him from his spine to his
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ribs, as her mouth went to his neck, biting him. Her head fell back
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to the pillow, her grin almost wicked in her intent. Gurn stared
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hard into her laughing eyes, as her hands splayed across his
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muscular chest, squeezing and pinching as they roamed, reaching his
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nipples, pulling at them until they stood erect from her
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manipulations. "Teach me lust", her voice raspy in her request.
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Gurn was stunned; he knew Tess to be passionate, but she was
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showing an aggressive side he had never experienced before. His
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hands rested on the tops of her jeans, now half way down her
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slender thighs, her body writhing in anticipation of his touch. She
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sat up again, her beautiful face just inches from his, her hands
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moving to his powerful arms, stroking and squeezing the muscles,
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her nails digging and tearing his flesh. The laughter he read in
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her eyes only moments before, was replace by a look of extreme
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hunger. Her tongue flicked out, running over her soft lips, she
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looked to Gurn as if she could eat him alive. A low growl sounded
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in her throat, her face tilted to his in expectation. His body
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responded immediately, heating his blood, swelling him in his need to give
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her what she demanded. His lips joined to hers in a kiss that was
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soft, gentle, but she would have none of that. She roughly pushed him away
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from her, that wicked smile returning to her lips, as she lay back
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on the bed, stretching like a cat. Gurn watched her, his appetites
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increasing, his blood pulsing through his veins. 'So she really
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wanted to play', he thought to himself, an amused smile on his
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lips, as he jerked her jeans the rest of the way off her body. He
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covered her instantly, his mouth brutally coming down on hers,
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bruising her tender lips, their teeth scraping, his tongue pushing
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into her, forcfully exploring her warmth. An electric charge shot
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through him as he flet her respond. She met his fierce attack in
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turn, his roughness stirring her into action. She wriggled beneath
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him, her hands once again digging into the taunt muscles of his
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powerful back. Her head came up off the bed, pressing her face
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closer to his, their tongues engaged in battle. Tess wrapped her
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legs high around his back, squeezing his hips between her thighs.
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It was as if she meant to devour him. Grabbing her hands, he
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brought them up over her head, securing them in one of his. He
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locked his other hand in her golden tresses, taking a handful at
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the nape, he pulled her head back, exposing her lovely neck. His
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hot mouth moved over it, sucking and biting at the sensitive flesh
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below her ear. He heard her moan low in her throat, he could feel
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her pulse racing. Releasing her head, he cupped her breast,
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bringing his mouth down on it, sucking and biting her, then drawing
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as much of her into his greedy mouth as possible. Her body jerked
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beneath him, she cried out, her voice sounding low, different to
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Gurn. As he continued to feast at her breast, he moved his hand
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down to the apex between her thighs, his fingers seperating the
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tiny blonde curls, locating the cleft of her pleasure, stroking and
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teasing it, before plunging his finger deeply inside her.
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Her body spasmed, her feminine flesh contracting around his finger.
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She screamed as the pulsations shot through her, her pelvis arching
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up to meet his hand, then dropping back to the bed as pleasure
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washed over her. She broke his grip, freeing her hands, locking
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them in his hair, and pulled him from her breast. Gurn grabbed her
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hands, forcing them to the bed, as he moved his body between her
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thighs. Releasing her hands, he quickly grabbed her slender legs,
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placing one over each shoulder, pressing them back to her chest
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with his body. Positioning himself he thrust deeply into her, her
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head arching, her hands clawing his arms, at the feel of him
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entering her. He grasped her hands again, locking them over her
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head in his, as he drove his hard shaft violently into her soft
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flesh. Her head moved from side to side, her hands pushing into his
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with a strength he would not have believed she possessed. She cried
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out, as he quickened his pace, moving in her with short, rapid
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strokes. His mouth came down to claim hers once more. She bit him,
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drawing blood from his lower lip. Low gutteral moans escaped her,
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sounds that were foreign to Gurn, but passion was driving him too
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strongly for him to hear them. He was consumed by the force of Tess'
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desire, her legs quivered around his strong neck, and he could
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tell she was near exploding in her pleasure.
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-- tess trueheart & gurn blanston
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paranoid
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we were marching ashore through the brilliantly despondent clearblue eyes water
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spreading around the island like bastard menstrual flow and we came upon the
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grenadiers who were short men pitching large grenades into the splashing
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electrically pissing water around us while we screamed and pitched down our
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large new boots from two days before into the muddy frustration while around us
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plays the ambient terror of seven men grinding seven minds and seven-string
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guitars distorted to the howl of satan's fiery orgasm into the anus of the
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fallen angel beelzebub who smoked more stem of the flagrant ecalyptus than any
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mortal and spat back fire and retorts at the gods waxing idiotic above him in
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the sunset like blood on a dashboard or perhaps rising to the skin after
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thousands of lacerations are made as sacrifice to the great junkie god icon ego
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of happiness leaving the will resplendetly ignored refulgent in the back
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dumpster igniting the trash to inhale the fumes and feel the endlessly darkened
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voice rising in his throat until the agony starts like the power chords sluttly
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sliding downward and all that can be heard over the mewling howl of the flames
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is fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck over the frustrated range of the reigning
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bowelsplat like children sundered in grass under the roaring nazi planes coming
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to teach us sense & take our souls and all that is left is fucking ...
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virulent music, inc.
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nocturno culto & s.r.p.
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UNLEASHED "Shadows In The Deep" (Century Media). Unleashed
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came to the forefront in the winter of 1990 when they toured through
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Europe on an Earache package featuring Bolt Thrower and Nocturnus.
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Even then, they caught the attention of critics with their
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unpretentious and definite brand of sound. This latest work does
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little to dispute initial enthusiasm for this band, whereby their
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style, too, has come a long way in the last couple of years. In
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particular, the two tracks "The Immortals" and "Shadows In The
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Deep" indicate that a progression in traditional death metal is
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taking place, which relies less on the music relying only on speed than
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drawing on the energy slower tracks can produce; in any sense of the
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term, these are two outstanding pieces of music. Traditionally
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fast tracks are also featured, such as "Never Ending Hate" and
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"Land Of Ice"; at times, however, this album comes disconcertingly close
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to joining the abundance of bands specialising in banal lyrics, which
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it doesn't deserve ("Bloodbath"). Despite this and Johnny Hedlund's John
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Tardy-esque growling that is too monotonal for comfort at times, this album
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lives off the actual music and a particularly good arrangement that
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leaves no loose ends. Scandanavian death metal has always set
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standards and Unleashed's clever reliance on shrewd breaks and tempo
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changes on this album has certainly contributed to this trend. -- nc
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THERION "Of Darkness..." (Grindcore). Socially-conscious Swedish death
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metal with a touch of the cerebral, Therion provides a topical and
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musical alternative to standard death metal. They are not as
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outright heavy as many bands of the Swedish genre but provide much
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more musical variation and complexity than many examples commonly
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seen, plus a good bit more of the speed metal presence in some of
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the virulent riffs on this album. Lead guitar is more competent
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that the usual, with much more variation, especially in the
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interplay between the lead and rhythm guitars for the rhythm of the
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music. Lyrics focus on nonstandard topics such as the destruction
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of the world's rainforests, human rights, pollution and the terror
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of being human in various circumstances. The language of Therion
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is erudite English, with some fairly complicated expressions and
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words, and fits snugly into this well-structured and potent music.
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This is the first death metal band I've heard where a discernable
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Metallica influence can be sensed. Overall, very good, and many
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hopes for the future of this act. -- srp
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KREATOR "Renewal" (Noise). Mille and the guys behind Kreator have
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certainly come a long way since their vocation of professing
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"Endless Pain", "Pleasure to Kill" and raising the "Flag of Hate".
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Their latest album (recorded at Morrisound in Tampa curiously enough)
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may, however, be their most discussed output to date. The obvious
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progression in the sound begins with a completely different voice and
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initially promises to end with the "industrialesque" sound that
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accompanies tracks like "Karmic Wheel" and "Realitaetskontrolle".
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However, even the guitar riffs and arrangement of some of the tracks
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leave an impression that they are too thought through, and some of
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the spontaneity that is associated with earlier Kreator work seems to
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be lost. When interviewed recently on German radio, Mille Petrozza
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said that the band wanted to try and sound "brutal" in
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a different way on this album, which is, by all accounts, not always
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apparent. Nonetheless, leaving any allusion to previous work behind,
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tracks like the opener "Winter Martyrium", "Renewal" and "Depression
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Unrest" are pieces that certainly remind us of the thrash sound
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Kreator initially could have trademarked. In a nutshell, this is a
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very concise album that will require people that are familiar with
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their previous albums to re-assess their committment to the band or
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listen to it ten times intensely to come to the conclusion that the
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intentions are good and that we are dealing with a natural progression
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here. This album takes getting used to, but objectively speaking, loses
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and lacks nothing that would qualify it as "neat and tidy." -- nc
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IMMOLATION "Dawn of Possession" (R/C). This album provides a good
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example of how to create solid death metal musically and lyrically.
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This New York outfit takes the best musical aspects of fire & fury
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death metal with multiple riffs, exciting tempo changes and some
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actual effort thrown into solos. The standard chord stream main
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riffs alternates with bridges and interludes expressing the most of
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brutality as can be hoped for in music. Some rather innovative
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techniques populate this album, including some quirky tempo
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fluctuations and descriptive use of feedback. Complemented with
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competent and powerful lyrics involving an epic vision of good &
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evil wrangling for domination of the universe, "Dawn Of Possession"
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surfaces as one of the better examples of this genre -- the classic
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pro-Satan, pro-Speed, pro-aggro-emotion death metal album. -- srp
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INCANTATION "Onward to Golgotha" (RoadRacer). Heavy, fast, low and
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rumbling, this music tears across the airwaves like a buffalo stampede
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out of hell. It varies enough musically to be somewhat intriguing, but
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the aim of this work appears to be total and demorphing heaviness;
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it succeeds almost completely, being one of the heavier bands
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without detouring into complete pound, smash, and thrash noisecore.
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Vocals are exceptionally low and probably carcinogenic. The energy
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level remains high throughout this album, something exhibited also
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in the venomous lyrics, which destroy conventional Christian
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paradigms with an acrid offhand manner. There are no real
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surprises on this album, but none are needed, either. -- srp
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AGTHOCLES "Theatric Symoblisation of Life" (Cyber). Make Minor Threat
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less predictable and cross them with a Carcass that pulls even more
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punches, and you have Agthocles. This Belgian (slight accents)
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quartet hammer through some songs, and grind through others, and
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deliver others with a style completely unique to this band. It
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originates in the brutal-disgusting extreme end of grindcore, but
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as the band state explicitly, they are into individualism, and to
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that end it varies musically quite often. Lyrically, this album is
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one of the most unique I've ever seen; philosophical, poetic,
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personal, social -- there is a tremendous variety that cannot even
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be covered in a paragraph or two. This album contains about eighty
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minutes of music, from early demos to more recent creations, and
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should delight any grindcore fan with a zen for zeal and energetic
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aggro-intellectualism. -- srp
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REPULSION "Horrified" (Relapse). Sparsely come the bands that become a
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definitive subset to a genre, much as the Misfits did to punk or Venom did to
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metal; however, Repulsion come close as one of the most energetic and focused
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extreme grindcore bands I've heard. Lyrics are not as good as Brutal Truth,
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but nestle nicely between the pure gore of Carcass and the outright outraged
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politicism of Napalm Death. The sound takes the shuddering massive-impact feel
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of grindcore and adds to it the fluid and expressive muscled riffs of a good
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death metal band; bass work gets an extra mention here, for in a genre that
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generally doesn't do much with bass, Repulsion takes it beyond the immediate
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stage. Vocals demonstrate exceptional clarity, possibly because they derive as
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much from the original thrash vocals as the more modern sandblasted voice of
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music's most extreme. Although some may be frightened by the radical sound (or
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the fact that one band member strikingly resembles a tattooed Hitler) there is
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in fact vital element to this music that raises it beyond the "let's make a
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point" destructive noise of some grindcore. -- srp
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Deicide "Amon: Feasting the Beast" (R/C). This "new release" is demo tapes
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from the now-(in)famous death metal act Deicide, back from their days as
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starving death metal hopefuls called Amon. Supposedly re-released because of
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better, heavier production, this album provides the raw versions of early songs
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and one early intro (the inclusion of which is stupid, because the intro is
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amateurism redefined). Serious fans will like this because in many ways the
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production is better -- it doesn't have the artificial raspiness to the voice
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as the first album did, and it doesn't have the same anemic guitar sound,
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something rectified in the second release -- but selling it as a full album is
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a dubious move. -- srp
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a sniper's poem
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judex
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Hail Eris, Full of Grace.
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Won't you sit upon my face.
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(...)
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the world spins like a phonograph
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from here the center despondent
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or maybe grooved in the outer ridge
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my needle finds its placement
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spinning, turning, memories fade
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housing collapsing like sunburnt bones
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heartcage of those who die deserted
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falling like piano keys through hazy smoke
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in the tepid afternoon midnight of a blues bar
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abandoned buicks in saddened rows
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for harvesters that never arrive
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rising like rushes into the noon wind
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in the six o'clock shadow of a surging storm
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spinning sepulchres on thick walls of glass
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music surmounting sweat energy subsided
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rhythm like breathing that stewards our lives
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pervading the essence with echoing resonance
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this is the season of anything goes,
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the music of life around our eyes flows.
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-- srp
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christmas
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& in the golden wilderness of winter at sunset i crouched on the porch with my
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armor in drink and staggered against the cold without moving a flinch or
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diverting my gaze from the great unbeknown & realized again that my favorite
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friend comes only to maim when there's dormantlike pain (...) "don't hold me
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back/ this is my own hell" proclaims the voice from the voxbox with an echoed
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rash tearing of vocal chords & i am alone even though far inside there are
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people good people all chanting out lies and around this great tree they
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surrender their lives with these clues and desires and fabricant lies. do you
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understand? it was the day, then, the end of the day and there i was bourbon
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grasping my hand like a firm highat handshake squirming below i found myself &
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then turning at a female hand to back into the warmth & the room all aglow.
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children slid like worms over tearing crystalline wrapping paper & strings of
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lights hung like dead men from the room's sharp corners & i sat there and mused
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as if i had anythoughts worth keeping from the noisy air. they handed me a box
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i smiled and said okay and ripping paper slowly trembling hands i tore into the
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package and unleashed the gift which was nestled in paper through which i must
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sift again like the memories of some dying mind and there in the womb-box i
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knew i would find a gift that gives sparsely, a bottle standing soldierlike
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proud against the comfortable, safe packing paper. absolut, my champion, i
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roared with delight & spoke pleasant murmurs and put aside papers and ribbons i
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strew. some eyes in darkness visited, withdrew.
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christmas is the holiday without a reason for me & for most everyone else,
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which complaining about is stupid because it was never designed as a religious
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holiday, but as a celebration. more of life than an actual god, although the
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god-icon factors predominantly. i gave a lecture to this effect once but noone
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believed.
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the first day falls like a dying eagle, coming up in the morning like a
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malignant sun over my shaking hands. hands shake, people shake, vision shakes,
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and everything sensitized much like the area of impact under the eye of a
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nurse with needle. sweat inundates my hands, my brow, and under my eyes. my
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throat is swollen, my voice deep, shaking out of the gloom of my face
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like the rant of a dying king. the outside is so incredibly bright, so alive,
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and yet so resoundlingly, despondently dead. my corpse wiggles and stutters
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and slips through cracks in crowds and buildings and trees, unable to really
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keep a straight line. concentration isn't; i can't hold a conversation,
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and if i do, the context is"i want a beer, nay, i think i need
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one." i can't write -- the series of serpents that shake from my quivering
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pen are nothing like the characters i want to form. the words that
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sluggishly roll out of my mouth like dying silkworms resemble negatively what I
|
|
wish to say. my nerves are charged rods of crystal, ready to
|
|
shatter but vibrating with the most imminent news of my life, the most exciting
|
|
yet mundane details, sped up, slowed down, alive and then dead. my mind aches
|
|
above sad warriors my eyes, surrounded by sickness and fixed like the dead.
|
|
the dominant emotion can only be fear.
|
|
|
|
it's a countdown, the fundamental need of the human spirit to unleash itself.
|
|
it is the "i need a vacation" mantra of the amerikan worker converted to the
|
|
extreme, the basic need of humanity to have outlets at times. think about the
|
|
holiday: we persist in the ludicrous supposition of santa claus for our
|
|
children and make him an icon, plaster him everywhere. we put up trees and
|
|
spend inordinate amounts of money decorating and venerating our idols for a
|
|
supposedly idol-free religion. we use it as the icon of good cheer, of the
|
|
good time, of giving and freedom yet we are so easily manipulated into giving
|
|
up our hard-earned money for frivolous trinkets of the holiday. what's the
|
|
point, here?
|
|
|
|
the second day arrives like an indecisive storm to a valley. the physical
|
|
symptoms mostly abate, except for paranoia and extremely brittle nerves, which
|
|
make me feel like a glass snake, ready to shatter at any minute and spring into
|
|
thousands of disparate, desperate individuals. i still can't say
|
|
anything valuable, and disappoint friends that i now can talk to with my
|
|
boring clutterspeech. emotions are today's crisis. moodiness inflected
|
|
with stimulus ravages my mind & sends me into asocial binges or intense
|
|
desires for human contact. i talk, i become afraid, i leave.
|
|
incredible restlessness, driving me to each end of the campus, to each darkened
|
|
door or open room, and then to just walk, feeling the good bite of my boots
|
|
into the damp ground and feeling the crowded emotions of memories and intruding
|
|
people lapse from my mind. some physical pain on occasion, and many hours of
|
|
weary eyes. there is no consistent emotion, there is no consensus, no
|
|
decision.
|
|
|
|
there is a fundamental sense of alienation endemic to humans in the twentieth
|
|
century. they live their days as functionaries, not feeling even very
|
|
functional as their jobs either underutilize them or treat them like machines,
|
|
and then attempt to fill the remaining time with something fulfilling, only to
|
|
find that much of whatever "meaning" they could sense died with notions
|
|
outdated by technology. these people voyage onward in confusion and often
|
|
stumble over their own efforts, appearing foolish while in fact being
|
|
self-destructive, as in the void of alienation there is no reason to continue,
|
|
but no acceptance of this in the over personality, preferentially relegating it
|
|
to the subconscious where it can act without causing recognition. some turn to
|
|
drug abuse.
|
|
|
|
the third day is dawning around me, or at least it is rising, and i can feel
|
|
only an immense tiredness. it is not physical. it is the tired of the mind,
|
|
the fatigue of too much life not unlike what happens after a life-value crisis.
|
|
the onset of this was shortly after the break of scientific day when my eyes
|
|
rolled into my head and my limbs collapsed, tense but tired, wired and shaky.
|
|
i slept then, and slept for many hours, but still could not shed the profound
|
|
sense of fatigue. my heavy head slags and falls routinely, and my strength is
|
|
that of a child. maybe i am a child, only having childish thoughts. here
|
|
there is no color, only ache and tired. it must be hypothermia.
|
|
|
|
the christmas tree fell, somewhere in a blur. children crying, there is broken
|
|
glass on my hand & there is blood on the tablecloth. and amy, who before we
|
|
married was the beautiful woman leaning on my arm and holding me and making the
|
|
air so light and springish and renewed, the woman i met and explored and fell
|
|
in love with and kept up with, is crying and asking what she has done and the
|
|
children are crying the sighing death song and the candles are burning bright
|
|
with the pain there is blood everywhere i have done it again and so i turn in
|
|
sorrow despair and the buzz and the bottle unbroken hits floor with a thud and
|
|
through all our crying my arms circle her hands meeting in blood union and my
|
|
lips speaking the tears that are scouring my cheeks with hope love and fears
|
|
and saying i'll try it i'll try to be straight and amy is crying as children
|
|
are ushered from the sarcophagus room by uncles & mothers and there in
|
|
desolation i know she has gone and i stare at the fire waiting for morning
|
|
to come
|
|
|
|
life desecration
|
|
|
|
true evil is in the nature of pus.
|
|
|
|
purulent, yellow, green, orange, beige, puce, or brownish-jerkoff yellow,
|
|
running from the degraded eyes of a minister with six catholic boys impaled on
|
|
his skinny penis. behind him the mother mary bleeds from an exposed breast
|
|
encircled in thorns. two steps behind that the altar collapses, and a seething
|
|
fart blasts the twain stone halves through stained glass windows, the broken
|
|
glass descending like four thousand bloodvials cast at the sun.
|
|
|
|
pus, slitting silently from the slit of a slut, slopping slovelnly onto her
|
|
thighs as she laughs at a dinner party, hors d'ouvre perched on on leg, tossing
|
|
her spitty tongue from one man to the next, trying her thighs on for the size
|
|
of the universe, oozing pus as she picks checkbooks and drifts like the corpse
|
|
of a fish on waves through the assaults on truth she concocts to fabricate her
|
|
life.
|
|
|
|
sloshes softly against the shore, oozing from the porelike mouth of the death
|
|
accountant with the speaking problem that brought four x four columbians and
|
|
their shiny clickclack shoes to slice him, splice him, slash him and slam him
|
|
into the trunk of the car, now sunken beneath pus-covered pus-desecrated
|
|
seaweeds, above the body of his family who happened to be with him at the time.
|
|
|
|
pus in a dying kiss from an 80-yr-old cancer patient festering in her hollow
|
|
ward from mustard gas & methadone & mercury that floated like invisible pus
|
|
from the water supply...
|
|
|
|
nothing new under the sun but above the sky sings its undone and mankind
|
|
troubles in the fields to kiss and tell to tell and feel and there is nothing
|
|
left at home but confrontation, the great unknown; i found her on a sunday blue
|
|
and now she calls to say it's gone and there is nothing left for fun and there
|
|
is nothing for the sun...never leaving my last house, never moving onward out
|
|
never kissing more dead ground never finding the last word never writing
|
|
slavery never slaving writer's pain, and never, ever, never poeticizing in
|
|
plain blood and bodies made of ice we wander through these appliance days and
|
|
find our controls by our corpses made to last a thousand years...the circle
|
|
eyes and shuddering the earth it heaves and breathes and sighs and i can't see
|
|
beyond this day because out there is where danger lies and people coughing,
|
|
running, singing playing with the chanting priest; above it all there is no
|
|
lying, only prediction, predilection and defeat...
|
|
|
|
. . . ..
|
|
like, the plains of
|
|
elysius? . . .
|
|
merry merry marry
|
|
marrow, sparrow, scared
|
|
. . . .. . .
|
|
newyrseve wasunsoberly uneventful
|
|
shitty useless holiday
|
|
forty lawyers spittin' shirts starched
|
|
stuffed into a wetbar drano room
|
|
kissing sheets & french art
|
|
to christmas and mozart on the piano
|
|
. . . drew
|
|
& I & friends talking, drinking
|
|
finest 8.99 champagne from barbiedoll twopart glasses
|
|
watching high school children age,
|
|
sort of, stuffer, nonsense
|
|
. . . . . . .
|
|
sort of an island-outrage modern thing.
|
|
|
|
recollections
|
|
|
|
Strange hopes amd omcodental acheivements
|
|
confusion at lost chances layers of illusion
|
|
blanketing the sky in a muddy brown which
|
|
is a color not unlike confusion itself.
|
|
|
|
Hopelessly hopeful wandering amongst skulls
|
|
and daffodils cruching both thoughtlessly
|
|
wreaking violence and wrecking beauty in
|
|
an unbidden flash for silence and open ears.
|
|
|
|
Some small moment of blue would be a blessing
|
|
for that is a clean color free of silt and
|
|
dead things blue sky blue thoughts all
|
|
honest at least while the world is brown.
|
|
|
|
Gray now no black no blue and white all
|
|
in shadows of color shadows of meaning
|
|
shades of truth and ghosts of yesterday
|
|
found now hidden under wounds not left to heal.
|
|
|
|
And that is green fresh and young living
|
|
only for the life no inner motive or
|
|
buried secrets silent hatred and unheard
|
|
longings.
|
|
|
|
Give me a rainbow in the soul and free me
|
|
of the shadows at my door and shades of
|
|
who or what I never was but once could
|
|
have been clear and sweet silence of
|
|
understanding.
|
|
-- fern
|
|
|
|
PM Housewife
|
|
|
|
The post-modern housewife
|
|
she carries a gun
|
|
she searches the streets for sustanace
|
|
throws crap from the streets to open beaks
|
|
she dreams...
|
|
of smashing the butt of gun into the face
|
|
of a male...
|
|
|
|
-- j.a. clement
|
|
|
|
Dancing on moonlight,
|
|
sunbeams wil the truth
|
|
silvery cobwebs hide the honesty in a smile,
|
|
beauty forming an evil facade.
|
|
Only a simple smile...
|
|
asking not for gold,
|
|
for spider-spun metals or jewels
|
|
of moon and sun.
|
|
The turn of his head,
|
|
twinkle in his eyes,
|
|
the need for simple things
|
|
overwhelms.
|
|
Only in this,
|
|
our simple world.
|
|
-- fern
|
|
|
|
i take no side but my own,
|
|
i am Nemesis, i hold forth alone
|
|
coming from darkness to it i must fall
|
|
here in the center it supplies all
|
|
emotions & fears & wandering angels
|
|
ageless & aging & tainted and painful
|
|
procession unswerving wearing the sidewalk
|
|
daylight scattering with the dead day
|
|
midnight glows in the dawning of morn
|
|
encornered, surrounded, i await it alone.
|
|
|
|
-- nemesis
|
|
|
|
APPROACHING THE DORMANT STATE ...
|
|
|
|
A kaleidoscope of death covers the mountain side.
|
|
A vibrant show of strength as all life is sucked within.
|
|
The last hurrah, before the wind pulls the vibrant shroud away.
|
|
Exposing a multitude of mighty torsos.
|
|
>From death comes life...
|
|
|
|
-- j.a. clement
|
|
|
|
They fight on and on,
|
|
words flashing like laser,
|
|
cutting like knives,
|
|
snipping scissors through
|
|
the fabric of my life.
|
|
Weaving in and out of time,
|
|
I'm sure these words
|
|
have all been said before,
|
|
yet they slice and old scars
|
|
bleed again as new.
|
|
|
|
-- fern
|
|
|
|
stoner adventures V
|
|
|
|
As usual an auburn day in spring when Spike and I (Burr, that is,
|
|
stoner by example) went to the carnival after smoking some of that wonderfully
|
|
exciteful insightful Kawaiian green bud, the kind that virtually pops out of
|
|
the bag it is so big and fruitful and beautiful and fragrant, like mint just
|
|
like the scent of mint on my mother coming in from the garden, standing in the
|
|
kitchen doorway to let the sun out of her eyes so she could see her home as
|
|
anything but a cave. She's dead now, but her mintiness lives on in these
|
|
abundant plant parts that Spike and I grappled for with sweatrembling fingers
|
|
in our greedy lust for dope.
|
|
"Where is the instrument of destruction?" I queried Spike, and he who
|
|
must have taken so many bong hits from his sad soft slitted eyes led me into
|
|
the bathroom which was fitting for his rathole apartment building, an aging
|
|
creaking wonder with urine for tiles and faded yellow lather for walls. All I
|
|
saw was a cracked-up titanic bathtub and a toilet, with the ripped and sagging
|
|
shower curtain like the dress of a crucified woman between them. "Where?" I
|
|
said again, lifting up a tube of toothpaste in case it was the instrument in
|
|
question. "Look," said Spike gleefully.
|
|
It was an older toilet with a high tank and a low lever. I stared at
|
|
it for some time but couldn't figure it and then realized there was a spare
|
|
hose leading off of the back of the tank. I when I looked at the lever to
|
|
flush the thing I saw it was a real bowl, a thick wide one, on the end of a
|
|
tubular lever device. "Dude, that's gross! I'm not smoking out of a toilet!"
|
|
"Relax. Do you know how these things work? Ignorance kills you again;
|
|
this water is harmless, it's the clean water. It runs into the bottom bowl (so
|
|
to speak) and flushes out the unclean. You are in no danger. Trust me, as I
|
|
am your friend" (all of this was true, and still is, because Spike despite his
|
|
faults is a caring person and a good friend).
|
|
"Okay, fuck it, load the bowl!" (gleeful greedful & Spike complies,
|
|
stuffing in fat sweet greenness with hope in his eyes). I picked up the hose
|
|
to look and then gave it to him but he pushed away my hands with the light
|
|
touch of a fresh spring frond on a palm tree and said you try i've been baking
|
|
all day long and so I did and took a huge, sweet, powerful bonghit and realized
|
|
the beauty of this thing, that noone would ever suspect it and there would
|
|
never be any evidence as bongwater could be flushed in two flushes and my how
|
|
easy and bow wow boy was I stoned. "My god, that's gargantuan bud," I
|
|
stammered, letting my lungs relax and flex and twitch.
|
|
"Yeah," said Spike. "I lied: I only took one hit today, and it wasn't
|
|
big. Nothing near that size." I would have replied to this except that for
|
|
that moment speech seemed highly unlikely, so I played with the gossamer
|
|
playland of the mind that was the shower curtain, and Spike took another hit (I
|
|
might add that the position for these hits was incredibly ludicrous; one sat
|
|
backwards on the closed toilet and grabbed the bit of hose and inhaled while
|
|
lighting a lever-bowl nearly at one's crotch level) this time a biggie and I
|
|
saw his eyes roll. We both took two more, and the world around us was lit up i
|
|
mean lit up like winter sun blazing from my eyes & then we headed into the
|
|
swirling dry winds of autumnal spring.
|
|
Everywhere around us people clustered like leaves and swirled into the
|
|
parks and parkways of our city, talking and gesturing like excited birds
|
|
heading south in the cold but indecisively skittering through the clearing
|
|
skies. Spike and I entered a cold doorway and stood in the warmth, dripping
|
|
and figuring what we could see in the obscurity. The starchy white ceilings
|
|
hung above us and the dark wood floor resounded to our eyes & ears as we
|
|
climbed, thumpsliding our way up two flights of stairs. Spike knocked on a
|
|
door jeweled with brass and the numbers were fluid, moving along the frame, and
|
|
a face appeared where the door fell out, and we went in. This was Neb's hole,
|
|
a collection of mattresses connected by strewn clothes and ripped paper and
|
|
beer bottles and even the body of a man, beer spilling from his mouth like
|
|
blood, with a lighter in one hand and a beer in the other. Beer was
|
|
everywhere. "We were just having a small very small drinking session," said
|
|
Neb, casually slurring the finally sounds into obscurity, "when you stopped by.
|
|
What's happening in your reality?" Spike held up the bag, with the big,
|
|
succulent, enticing buds hanging like demonic phalli in the light.
|
|
"A lot, I see," Neb let the words slip like smoke from the corner of
|
|
his mouth, where a cigarette sounded its claim to his face, the territory of
|
|
which was darkened with dirt and days without sleep. Somewhat tall, with dark
|
|
hair in half-dreadlocks and dark eyes held in thrall by his days of his beers
|
|
and cigarettes, Neb was a friend from some days past when we had consumed an
|
|
entire bag of imported bud from Iceland, which we figured would suck because
|
|
... hey, Iceland, no sun, right? but apparently someone up there converted and
|
|
old fish-gutting plant into the world's greatest hydroponic growing factory,
|
|
using the natural elements and vitality in the viscera and excrement of the
|
|
local fish to produce this wonderful bud of a thick greenish-pink color. It
|
|
reeked of fish, and we had figured then that it doubly sucked, so we decided to
|
|
smoke the whole bag, but it actually turned out to be potent with the added
|
|
side effect of not kicking in until twenty minutes after consumption, which
|
|
caused us to be very stoned very suddenly, which was a complete legacy when
|
|
Neb's mother (he was living at home at the time) threw a TupperWare party and
|
|
we came in and bought all kinds of tupperware, and then went upstairs and made
|
|
a really nice bong out of a TupperWare juicer. It was an electric bong, and
|
|
delivered a really nice hit, but his mother eventually discovered it and tried
|
|
to make virgin pina coladas in it, which resulted in sticky white fluid being
|
|
squirted across the room with arterial timing just as her husband came home,
|
|
causing him to stop drop his briefcase and shout "I'm in the valley of
|
|
heartbreak & fear" and go flying out to his genericman car and drive for days
|
|
in the suburban desert until they found him holed up in a 7-11 reading jackmags
|
|
and stimulating himself with a gluestick, at which point they hauled him to an
|
|
insane asylum to join his wife (& from where there they later deposed
|
|
themselves to aid a well-known millionaire run for office) and then Neb left
|
|
home and has been a fellow wastoid ever since.
|
|
Neb's companion had had too much beer (if that's possible I suppose)
|
|
and was looking at the wall with the fixed stare of the really passed out which
|
|
means I guess that he was indeed passed out and not looking at the wall but
|
|
rather the wall was in front of his eyes. Neb said, "Let's smoke."
|
|
The new bong which Neb had been telling Spike about while I had been
|
|
staring at the passed out man (whose name was Gordon Bleu) came out and
|
|
appeared to be made from the most tarnished dusty & battered tenor saxophone
|
|
that I have ever seen. Any one of the holes used to make notes would work as a
|
|
shotgun, but Neb showed us some chords that delivered bongs hits like I have
|
|
never experienced since. It was a masterpiece. "Dad and I made it," Neb
|
|
explained, alluding to his grandfather who had fought in WWII and gone a little
|
|
nuts and charged off to Vietnam but was arrested because he was fighting
|
|
without being in an army. The 175th Motorized Rifle Brigade was grateful for
|
|
his presence, however, and repeatedly said things about a certain ambush that
|
|
he resurrected from failure & slaughter. Dad had a whole crowd of shop tools
|
|
that we borrowed one day without him knowing to make a bong out of a motorcycle
|
|
gas tank, but Dad caught us and appeared mad but then laughed and showed us how
|
|
to put the drill bit in and we made a helluva bong and offered him a hit but he
|
|
said no he had to make some plastique that afternoon for the Libertarian rally
|
|
& wanted to be clearheaded (and so we smoked his share but loved him with our
|
|
foggy hearts). We each took hits, pausing every now and then to stuff more of
|
|
that juicy sensuously amazing almost sexual bud that sprung back up to full
|
|
form after we crammed it until until we had to thrust with our fingers until it
|
|
hurt and then it stayed in, in, in and burned brightly and scented the entire
|
|
room with its brilliant smoke and orange warmth & light. On the side of the
|
|
bong was written in grey marker the words "Inhale" and "Saviour." There was a
|
|
large dent in the curvature at the bottom.
|
|
Neb was staring out the window with the impassiveness of someone who
|
|
figures that everything is illogical and figures he has no involvement and
|
|
therefore he should simply accept it and watch it and hopefully someday
|
|
remember it and see it again. Spike was sort of leaning against the wall,
|
|
smoking the cigarette with the smoke creasing the edge of his mouth like the
|
|
blood of a dead man after a vicious gunshot staggers him backward into another
|
|
realm of agony and the crushing collapse of his chest and life into the painful
|
|
unknown. "What goes," murmured Spike, less asking than talking. Neb stared.
|
|
Outside there was a crowd, rushing at each other and tearing. They
|
|
were protesting the arrival of the Bohicans, a race of people with large
|
|
soft hands and big orange eyes, like the eye of a glowing bowl of dope. They
|
|
were not stupid, but they were excessively quiet, and into that quiet like the
|
|
drumbeat at a Melvins concert you could hear the fear sweat and ooze and sizzle
|
|
like spit on a hot grill, and the people out there were swarming around some
|
|
Bohicans, the people from the dark & warm land up to the north. Spike and I
|
|
had once smoked out with Bohican Mike, a longhaired Bohican who loved the music
|
|
of Venom, so we got really stoned and sang sweet Satan songs in slow time until
|
|
we all passed out. We had liked Bohican Mike, but he had moved to find a job
|
|
in the other valley over, over this crest of buildings apartments and jails and
|
|
we had never seen him again. Two Bohicans held soft butterfly-fan hands in
|
|
front of querulous faces, and as Spike and I stood smoking the sax we thought
|
|
we felt the gentle hands of Bohican Mike stroking our spines near the base of
|
|
the skull. Fear came from the sweat of the crowd, and it was joined by the
|
|
sweat of the Bohicans like the smoke from a flame fresh pure and stingingly
|
|
painful, making the eyes twitch closed and the waters aflow. Fear brought the
|
|
sacrifice.
|
|
Bohican Mike had his ways, but my ways Spike's ways Mike's way all were
|
|
our ways when we smoked together. We also hung together sometimes, but because
|
|
we are stoners and can only speak think dream of drugs and are always smoking
|
|
we always ended up smoking out. Some stoners dick you in the dirt, smoke your
|
|
shit and leave, but noone there was like that, and for the year we lived in the
|
|
flatroof cheap plastic apartment nightmare above the canna plants we lived well
|
|
and found ourselves okay. Bohican Mike had his culture -- apparently in Bohica
|
|
they worship someone like Satan and listen to loud amplified music, so he was
|
|
perfectly at home with songs like "Women, Leather and Hell" and didn't mind the
|
|
louder newer metal music coming out of the LA basin from people so mad they
|
|
would tear the flesh from your eyes except they never seemed to want to do that
|
|
only to be mad and sad and energetically gleeful at the same time much like
|
|
Bohican Mike, although I don't know how he is now because living in the dark
|
|
tunnels of the cities (like the dark tunnels of chords) changes someone and
|
|
dulls their eyes and makes them smoky and slow and bitter and crass. We all
|
|
went one time to the police station to meet a cop who we knew was you know wink
|
|
nudge pay and bought from him a bag of what turned out to be very good dope and
|
|
we liked him because he sold it to us cheap and would really help but two years
|
|
later he got sick somehow and he died and his family buried him in a cheap plot
|
|
and when we went to go burn with him yes even after death we couldn't find it
|
|
and noone knew him, just like noone knows the living dead flesh of a junkie or
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alcoholic deep in the skids but this cop was a good cop one of the few if not
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the one, and now he is a mailbox somewhere collecting bills chain letters and
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fliers for hair repair. We missed Bohican Mike, just like we missed many
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others, but stoners drift through life accepting and enduring not trying to do
|
|
anything really because we tried it once honest and some quit and some came
|
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back but in the end we're all here trying to stay patient and load the bowl and
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|
not look at the faces reflected in the mirrors or the tattoos on the hands of
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|
the children in the pictures on the news because we know that that is the world
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outside the warmth of our circle and alone we can't touch it because it is cold
|
|
and dense and wet.
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|
We saw the blood beneath the feet of the crowd before anything else, a
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|
seepage like slow tears from under closed eyelids gritted against the pain of
|
|
the loss of a lover or friend or maybe even a life entirely yes no gone and
|
|
dead and there in the grave the smoke doesn't permeate because these are the
|
|
corpse alive, and they can't even flail like children wrapped so tightly they
|
|
cannot breathe. They were moving squirming like one, like a giant sea creature
|
|
crushing and churning and fighting like the storm with the storm, and under
|
|
their shoes their bargainbrand fake leather flat shoes dollhouse dimensions
|
|
from the second floor window there was the hot red steaming lava of the pain
|
|
& rage & fear of generations descanted and naked in backlash whiplash ecstasy
|
|
of the tasty riot. Ned stared and I stared and Spike left the room and we saw
|
|
him walk forward but someone brushed him he fell down and Ned and I were going
|
|
to help him but we met him coming back in and he was shaking his head nothing
|
|
was wrong no nothing could be done and then we bolted the door against the
|
|
pounding and the screaming.
|
|
The sacrifice was over, but in the back of my mind I could see. And
|
|
they were out there the two of them meeting at the main place wearing the
|
|
costume of their ancient home and all of its absurdities the maroon leather and
|
|
soft floppy caps the goofiness like the ears of some aged elephant and smoking
|
|
something probably not dope but probably harmless in any case when some came up
|
|
and asked them for help and they tried to help him but spoke not the language
|
|
and did what was taught them from birth until death which was carry the
|
|
helpneedful to someone who knew and there was a cop down the street they had
|
|
seen so they picked up the child where he had fallen and carried him down the
|
|
street previously unseen but the masses unleashed themselves called out a war
|
|
and went on the charge and damaged the two, and there they were outside staring
|
|
around speaking no language utt'ring no sound and then they were fallen the ire
|
|
so rising like flames from a fire tearing through the ceiling. Spike and I
|
|
joined with the coroner's crew, still staring at bodies and collecting clues.
|
|
Noone was mentioned and noone was blamed, but in the bronzed snow there was no
|
|
need for names.
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|
In Ned's apartment we heard the child falling, the knee skinned and all
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of us sat for a second and remembered the joy of a family when parents could
|
|
hold on to limbs and make the pain heal for the majority of times. Spike
|
|
banged the bong against the table. "It's dust," he said.
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closing quotes
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"Thanks for reading this issue of the Undiscovered Country. If you
|
|
didn't think it was _all_ outright shit, please forward copies to friends or
|
|
print it out and tape it to your least used extremity. We take submissions at
|
|
cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu, and would love to hear feedback as well. Thank
|
|
you again and join us in our fight against rational thought & the dominant
|
|
paradigm."
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s.r. prozak
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l.b. noire
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ps - if you're in the los(t) angeles area, check out metal radio on fridays
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from 6-9 pm on KSPC 88.7 FM.
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[EOF]
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