textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0901.txt

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 $$$             (* HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #901 -- 11/29/99 *)          .,$$$
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	Guzam guzm glug lug gollum, and kaia slept with a cat last night.
 When you woke up in your world was it a Copernicean one? Or were you
 still living like Ptolemic orbits? Would it mean anything to you if you
 lived in one or the other? When Copernicus published his infamous work,
 did the world change or was it the same as it always was? Does the
 knowing of unknown knowledge make things different? Such an egotistical
 idea... Hard to tell.
	COME DOWN FROM YOUR CLOUD I AM LIVING HERE IN THE VALLEY OF
 SADNESS. 
	I remember when you were my dog. Woof woof. We are the sensation
 seeks of the lost generation of the post modern post erotic epic that has
 yet to be written. But I have read it, because I have the key to the
 library of Alexandria, but not the old library, nay, the new one, I took
 my planetary voyage there. Don't know what I mean? Perhaps you should
 consult the works of AUGUST DERLETH. While working in the guise of
 "fiction" he was actually documenting the genuine reality of our life,
 the dark seeming chaos underbelly of reality. You can NEVER KNOW. never
 never never. 
	No long will you be a slave, SPartacus. You'll be elevated from
 slavery by your own madness, your insane craving for power. You can bring
 an empire to its knees, but what good is supplicating an empire which
 spends most of its time sucking off young boys, anyway? I don't know I
 don't know, I'm hidden in the masterpiece unpainted. 
	All of my children are here... Today the women in Paris are
 stained with blood it was and I would prefer not to remember it was
 during beauty's decline 

			A CATALOG OF DAUGHTERS OF THE HEART: 

				#1. SHEA'LA FINCH
				#2. ABBEY KERRINS
				#3. OLIVIA 
				#4. KRISTINA J. WILSON
				#5. DANIELLE ROUSEAU 
				#6. PAULE THEVENIN


	All of my children all my daughters... I drew Paule's lips but
 then I erased them into a smudge... My children I have created you but
 your orgasms murder me, each orgasm brings about a further disintegration
 of my being and this shit sucking god which you worship does not help me.
 ITSO ITSO He pants in my ear, but you still worship him, regardless of
 consequence for me. Whores all of you. All of you. Yet you still live.
	 All the minority children come to me, they want me be their
 father, but I can not, my racism will not let me. They offer me coins and
 stolen cameras, but I throw them stuffed camel toys and they leave me.
 Their tooth-less mouths perfect for prostitution but I can not be their
 pimp. It is as implausible as if I were their father. 
	Is my catalog like Homer's? 
	A million Japanese women vomiting on each other in their Roman
 baths... Their ONSEN violent geshia... Hot springs... Noise rock... Glenn
 Danzig is there and he asks me if I want to slurp his cum from his palm,
 I decline, thinking of my friend Jenny who sucked face with him
 backstage... "Black hair, red lips, white skin, I like..."
	Fucking beatniks all of you with your pop music no hope kyra elite
 coming down like rain on my head, golden rain disguised as Zeus... One of
 the lesser daughters of the heart, one not worth cataloging, she looked
 like a flesh reproduction of Klimt's DANAE, and for that I could have
 loved her, if she hadn't been a completely repugnant piece of shit. Ah,
 such is life. SUCH IS LIFE BOYS. 
	Down on the farm we didn't know about things like lesbianism or
 crack smoking. I'm never known to smoke crack, but I'm the crack master.
 ASS CRACK. I seen the JIGGA the NIGGA can't you FIGGA? LOOKING DOWN THE
 BARREL OF A GUN SON OF A GUN SON OF A BITCH GETTING PAID GETTING RICH 
	ULTRA-VIOLENCE BE RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD 
		oh oh oh yeah I'm gonna show the magic of 
			yesterday 
	Where was I then? Perhaps it was Hampton Beach, one our of summer
 vacations, on our of yearly RETURNS to that old shack. I had always meant
 to go back in later years with her, but things never worked out, so what
 can you do? Sometimes relationships get ill 
		HOME BOY YOU'RE IN THE TOWER 
		YOUR GIRL GOT DICKED BY RIDER STRONG


			MAKE ME A REAL MAN, DADDY 
					and ain't I a woman? AIN'T I
 PLOWED THESE FIELDS WITH MY ARMSMMSMSMMSMS??? AIN'T I A WOMAN? 

			make me a tomorrow out of today, slut 
				

	"But sir," says the corporal from Rhode Island, a tumescent blob
 known as teletype, "I CAN'T DO THAT! You can't construct physical
 actualities of theoritecal time structures!" I court marshall his
 Doctor Who acting ass and send him to the brig where he fucks Meenk
 again, this time her ass can't take the strain, and he pulls out her
 entails, still clasped around his dick in a lustful embrace like a vice,
 He runs in horror but they stay attached and he pulls them far far far
 and wide, soon the whole room is covered in her innards... I wrap them
 around my stomach and use them as a life preserver, I abandon ship... 
	Go down go down, lay down lay down, sleep now Moses, sleep in your
 own basket, so I do so I do... I float away from it all from this 
 horrible modern world which you have entrapped me in... I float towards
 something better, and I learn that hope is useless, but there's always
 forbearance... Yes, I am Kenzaburo "Kyra" Oe I am I am coming forth to
 carry me home Way down Harriet Tubman narrowly avoided the same fate as
 John Brown (b.1800-d.1859) but I made love to Nat Turner before, I felt
 his ass gyrate under mine slave rebellion was rebelling against the
 ultimate social vice: heterosexuality 
	I couldn't see how you could know me but you said you knew me and
 I believed you did. There's pussy to be fucking there's pussy to be
 fucking you don't know you can't understand but there's pussy to be
 fucking up down left right put your legs on my shoulders all night pussy
 to be fucking pussy to be fucking pussy to be fucking I wrote a HOE I
 wrote a HOE but it weren't for DTO I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no
 more. "Ah, mister Kobek," he, so-called fat boy said," can you please
 tell me the difference between the nature of the character of Stephan
 Dedalus in the first three chapters of ULYSSES, A Portrait of The Artist
 as Young Man, and that first draft called STEPHEN HERO?" 
	"No, I can't," I said. "I don't think there is a difference. I
 think that was the true brilliance of Joyce in writing that character.
 There is nothing inherently contradictory in any of the texts. They are
 the same character. Joyce managed to retain a purity of vision regarding
 this thinly veiled vision of his own self through 20 years of writing. I
 can't even retain my bowels for ten minutes. I am nothing in his shadow."
	Tell me a tale of shaun or shem 

	     She was fast asleep.

     	     Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments
 unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her
 deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had
 died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he,
 her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept as
 though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious
 eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of
 what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a
 strange friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say
 even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful but he knew that it
 was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

             Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to
 the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat
 string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper 
 fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot
 of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his
 aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing,
 the merry-making when saying good- night in the hall, the pleasure of the
 walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon
 be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught 
 that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing
 Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same
 drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds
 would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and
 blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about
 in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only
 lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.

             The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched
 himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife.
 One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into
 that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither
 dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in
 her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had
 told her that he did not wish to live.

             Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like
 that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be
 love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial
 darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a
 dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region
 where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could
 not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity
 was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which
 these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.

             A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window.
 It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and
 dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him
 to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow
 was general all over Ireland. it was falling on every part of the dark
 central plain, on the treeless  hills, falling softly upon the Bog of
 Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous
 Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely
 churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly
 drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the
 little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard
 the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like
 the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

	Sickness is a multi-hued splendor. Am I exicted or am I paranoid?
 The fat that congeals to the sides of your player piano is the same that
 torments my cat, Dean, who visits me in dream land; perhaps my brain has
 maladroitly assimilated all those Sandman graphic novels from back in
 the day? Back in the day when I owned a horse who ate only hay. 
	
	IT IS I, JARETT, WHOM THOU PERSECUTEST. IT /IS/ HARD FOR THEE TO
 KICK AGAINST THE PRICKS. 

	HIP HOP is like my bitch. And when the bitch fucks another nigga,
 I want to kill the bitch, and I want to kill the nigga. Hip HOP true HIP
 HOP represent Trinidad Island REPRESENT tumescent tomorrow REPRESENT
 Warwick REPRESENT Union Square REPRESENT East 12th Street REPRESENT
 Galway REPRESENT East 7th Street REPRESENT Thompson Street REPRESENT
 Thinbark REPRESENT 
	
	Can we sing you a song? A song to make you warm? SOooooweeeeeee
 I'm calling the pigs out they killed my brother they killed my mother
 they killed my sister they killed my father,, I'm calling the PIGS OUT
 I'm going out for a little drive, it could be the last time you'll see me
 alive... Hidden in the eye of the beholder (I,II,III) there is beauty but
 you'll not find it without the key of sadness is this show live is this
 show live or is this a 4-track demo? Drunken as hell on life itself we
 didn't need any alcohol to make us regret what we had already done before
 you were born, but you keep acting like it was all done to hurt you. How
 could we hurt you before you were born? And beisedes, did we really do
 anything so wrong? Did we, really? 
 
	No, probably not, at least not in this INCARNATIOn, but in the
 past, oh my god, it wasn't just a betrayal of the flesh but a betrayal of
 a sense of ethics that you STILL can't jettison, you sorry motherfuckers,
 but the very person who taught you your ethics couldn't live up to
 them. IS the lesson equal to the teacher?  

	And after all the ruckus is done, we both know the real truth,
 which isn't an ethical one, or even a jealous one, but really just a
 gigantic fear of getting hurt again, like you were that day, like you
 were for all those months, so much you had to flee to the borderlands of
 civilization, can't you follow the road map of my thought? The fluctuating
 you isn't even my own, of course not, you stole it from Guilliame,
 Guilliame, they chanted his name they day he died, but they chanted not
 for him, but for Wilhem, daz KAISER, but allow Guilliame his moments of
 egotism, we all should be so lucky... 

	I WISH IWWISH I WISH THAT SOMETHING WOULD HAPPEN not just this
 suckadickalickalog bullshit modern world life that I'm trapped in, your
 telephone poles are like erect fishing rods of misery piercing my flesh,
 injecting me with subcutaneous fat I'm caught I'm Caught I'm caught I'm
 missing from the world you have slayed me you have made me. 

	BY NOW YOU SHOULD HAVE REALIZED WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO DO 
	I DON"T BELIEVE THAT ANYBODY FEELS THE WAY I DO ABOUT YOU NOW
	SAIIIIIIID MAYBE 
	YOU"RE GONNA BE THE ONE THAT SAVES ME 
	YOU'RE MY WONDERWALL 
	
	HOE #1000 represent HOE #1000 represent gonna come down on all
 y'all text file writing motherfuckers like a ton of bricks, you think
 you're T-FILE ELITE, but you aren't. here's why: I like when girls stop
 by for the summer. Abercrombie and Fitch, she said, but I misheard her, I
 thought she was talking about smoking some crack cocaine and PCP angel
 dust magic 
	Square soft hadn't yet released Final Fantasy 41: The Venegence of
 Kobek upon all the living all the dead, but we all knew it was coming
 abdy that time there would be a million different pixellated doctors
 moaning as I shattered your proletariat brains with fancies of forever
 and sweet little waltz's as if my named HAD BEEN Elliott Smith but it
 never could be and never was that and here's some more fun: 
 
 (The couples fall aside. Stephen whirls giddily. Room whirls back. Eyes
 closed, he totters. Red rails fly spacewards. Stars all around suns turn
 roundabout. Bright midges dance on wall. He stops dead.)

 STEPHEN Ho! 

 (Stephen's mother, emaciated, rises stark through the floor in leper grey
 with a wreath of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil, her face
 worn and noseless, green with grave mould. Her hair is scant and lank.
 She fixes her bluecircled hollow eye sockets on Stephen and opens her
 tooth-less mouth uttering a silent word. A choir of virgins and
 confessors sing voicelessly.) 

 THE CHOIR 

     Liliata rutilantium te confessorum... 
     Iubilantium te virginum... 

 (From the top of a tower Buck Mulligan, in particoloured jester's dress
 of puce and yellow and clown's cap with curling bell, stands gaping at
 her, a smoking buttered split scone in his hand.)

 BUCK MULLIGAN She's beastly dead. The pity of it! Mulligan meets the
 afflicted mother. (He upturns his eyes.) Mercurial Malachi.

 THE MOTHER (With the subtle smile of death's madness.) I was once the
 beautiful May Goulding. I am dead.

 STEPHEN (Horrorstruck.) Lemur, who are you? What bogey man's trick is
 this?

 BUCK MULLIGAN (Shakes his curling capbell.) The mockery of it! Kinch
 killed her dogsbody bitchbody. She kicked the bucket. (Tears of molten
 butter fall from his eyes into the scone.) Our great sweet mother! Epi
 oinopa ponton.

 THE MOTHER (Comes nearer, breathing upon him softly her breath of wetted
 ashes.) All must go through it, Stephen. More women than men in the
 world. You too. Time will come.

 STEPHEN (Choking with fright, remorse and horror.) They said I killed
 you, mother. He offended your memory. Cancer did it, not I. Destiny.

 THE MOTHER (A green rill of bile trickling from a side of her mouth.) You
 sang that song to me. Love's bitter mystery.

 STEPHEN (Eagerly.) Tell me the word, mother, if you know now. The word
 known to all men.

 THE MOTHER Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at Dalkey
 with Paddy Lee? Who had pity for you when you were sad among the
 strangers? Prayer is all powerful. Prayer for the suffering souls in the
 Ursuline manual, and forty days' indulgence. Repent, Stephen.

 STEPHEN The ghoul! Hyena!

 THE MOTHER I pray for you in my other world. Get Dilly to make you that
 boiled rice every night after your brain work. Years and years I loved
 you, O my son, my first born, when you lay in my womb.

 ZOE (Fanning herself with the grate fan.) I'm melting!

 FLORRY (Points to Stephen) Look! He's white.

 BLOOM (Goes to the window to open it more.) Giddy.

 THE MOTHER (With smouldering eyes.) Repent! O, the fire of hell!

 STEPHEN (Panting.) The corpsechewer! Raw head and bloody bones!

 THE MOTHER (Her face drawing near and nearer, sending out an ashen
 breath.) Beware! (She raises her blackened, withered right arm slowly
 towards Stephen's breast with outstretched fingers.) Beware! God's hand!
 (A green crab with malignant red eyes sticks deep its grinning claws in
 Stephen's heart.)

 STEPHEN (Strangled with rage.) Shite! (His features grow drawn and grey
 and old.)

 BLOOM (At the window.) What?

 STEPHEN Ah non, par exemple! The intellectual imagination! With me all
 or not at all. Non serviam!

 FLORRY Give him some cold water. Wait. (She rushes out.)

 THE MOTHER (Wrings her hands slowly, moaning desperately.) O Sacred Heart
 of Jesus, have mercy on him! Save him from hell, O divine Sacred Heart!

 STEPHEN No! No! No! Break my spirit all of you if you can! I'll bring
 you all to heel!

 THE MOTHER (In the agony of her deathrattle.) Have mercy on Stephen,
 Lord, for my sake! Inexpressible was my anguish when expiring with love,
 grief and agony on Mount Calvary.

 STEPHEN Nothung!

 (He hits his ashplant high with both hands and smashes the chandelier.
 Time's livid final flame leaps and, in the following darkness, ruin of
 all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.)

 THE GASJET Pwfungg! 

 BLOOM Stop!

 LYNCH (Rushes forward and seizes Stephen's hand.) Here! Hold on! Don't
 run amok!

 BELLA Police!

 (Stephen, abandoning his ashplant, his head and arms thrown back stark,
 beats the ground and flees from the room past the whores at the door.) 

	May Goulding, rise from your grave.  The earth is a sad and
 miserable place for one as beautiful as you, but now your beauty is
 scarred and tarnished. But those who loved you will still love you, won't
 they? Will I? When you are old and decrepit, will my vegetable love grow
 and grow? This syncretic effort that I call a life, does it have a place
 for the eldery in it? I can't say, how long can I go on? I liken it to
 driving on empty, but never noticing the lack of gas. Is it the
 knowledge that stalls the car or the reality of your gasless tank? I
 don't know, and I Can't say, truly. All I can do is drive an hope that my
 car doesn't stall. It's the same thing with life, really, the same thing
 as ever it was and ever it will be. You you you you are there and I am
 here but I wish you were here with me. In my arms, choking beneath my
 hands... 

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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!     HOE #901 - WRITTEN BY: AIDS - 11/29/99 ]