Saturday, April 7, 2012

Note to Shane;

Two old Brujos walk through a wall.
One turns to the other and says, "Walking with the Spirits, anything is possible."
The other old Brujo replies, "I hope you've brought the Spirits, because you forgot the fucking beer."

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Graduation; more crap from Lord David

They sat on the
living room floor
and opened up wide
their toy box heads.
Sharing secrets
and puzzles and games,
and toys of endless
charm and wonder,
whispering and shouting,
talking and laughing,
until their cheeks
were wet with tears,
faces aching from smiles.
They danced and sang until,
as children often do,
they wandered off
in search of more adventure.
After a while,
they came to a place
where most everything
was Real Business
and Taken Very Seriously.
Realizing they did not
know the way back,
they clung together
for a time.
After a while in this place,
they learned it’s ways,
as children often do.
Being embaressed
by the way they had acted
in the before time,
they could not
look each other
in the eye
ever again.

Personal Invitation

    An unmarked hearse will pick you up at exactly 8:17pm. After being blindfolded, the driver, who speaks only Yiddish pig-Latin, will deliver you to a secret roof-top cabaret featuring all nude midget wrestling in jam made from sour grapes. Dinner will begin with aborigine blow fish fruit cocktails, ever so delicately decorated with tiny umbrellas made from tanned stretched squid skins, and continue with a flaming entree’ of 100 year dried egg yolks, powdered with belladonna root, served on platters made with the anti-burn panels from the first Russian space shuttle. The flames are put out as the dried root and egg mixture is snorted through bamboo shoots, formerly used as torture batons in the Golan Heights.
  Immediately after dinner, as the blow fish toxins are mixing with the belladonna in our blood streams, we’ll take the hearse back to my place at precisely 127.63 miles per hour, stimulating the sciatic nerve and pituitary gland. This will put us in that perfect state of complete blind arousal. Assuming you can perform the one-handed Malaysian handstand, while masturbating with an ivory Tibetan prayer phallus, I will inflate the angioplastic balloon in my penis with pure helium. By attaching the high B-flat wire from a Selzmer piano to one end of the prayer phallus and the other to my hands and feet, tied behind me like a calf in a prison rodeo, we should reach simultaneous orgasm as my cock bounces off the ceiling. It would, of course, be absolutely vital that you hold your body in a perfect Y formation during thrusting, so that as I come on the 12th century Italian ceiling tiles, deflating my helium device, you can catch me with your feet, and twirl me into a conveniently placed tank of strawberry flavored placentic jelly with electrostatic sensitive hook-ups. This will transmit a digital recording of our sex act, world wide via internet, as a secret group of militant Buddhist venture capitalists, dressed as identical clowns, simultaneously transmits subliminal messages of farm husbandry throughout indo-china. This will cause the farmers of earth to glut the rice market, driving the price of my secret corn stockpiles through the roof. I’d guess we’ll net 20 million by next Tuesday.

Or maybe we could just go for beers and a movie or something...

The Thing Of It; more verse from Lord David

The thing of it is
that we live in a world
beyond The World,
where esthetic & dreams call
our slow voluptuous dance.
Until some shining isle
of golden sun & velvet night
of azure & deep pearly green
steals us away like gypsies do
to learn the games & wonders
of it’s secret carnivals,
we must sneak down from
our impossible tower keep
to grind the lower machines
amongst plug-in characters,
dispensed with at birth
by the sum of future possessions,
hungry with the need of sensation,
like empty liquor bottles
tossed down by the gods
in some cruel drunken joke.
Here we are grotesquely
lapped & bitten & kissed
as if to numb the past & future.
Hold Beauty’s head high
& walk bold, my young love.
Swing it high by the hair,
fresh & bloody & spattering
the ground where you shall walk.
Blind the eyes of deceitful
merchants of the soul
with the delicious swing
of your fine hips,
a Warriors Blade hidden
behind your back,
in your left hand only
so that it will be close
& fast to jump & dance
to the flaming of your heart.
Like the Hashisheen, are we,
who wander down from Paradise
to briefly do your bidding in The World,
and return to our secret places.
We will always find our way back
to our slow voluptuous dance,
to esthetic & dreams,
& take no quarter
on the way.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Seed; verse from Lord David

A space broke in the clouds
looking down from
my dank & rusty keep
to show shimmering lawns,
cherished moments,
soft bells & colored lights
of a celebration or perhaps
a festival of sorts...
I found my way down
to roll the dice at
the crossroads of Truth & Greed,
meeting strangers who knew me
(or so they said).
Wandering from broken promises
to each dark empty glass,
I learned the biology of death,
where love has but one ventrical,
always certain, pumping outwards,
living on whispers & dreams.
Robbed blind of senses,
gang raped by department
store window manekens,
cocaine habit harlequins,
glittered up for the feast
of all they can steal that will
be stolen back from the beaten
at a meaningless game,
I crawled back to these
hallowed halls above the clouds
& dreams & selfish wishes,
to purge myself of their toxic sweet venom,
candy cane logic, self preservation,
snakes in the larder & fashion
of the instant variety show.
Now the walls run with blood
that tastes like sweet bourbon,
like a new resurrection,
like pumping ink semen,
in fountain pen erection,
to leave a curious mark
& kill sweet vanity on paper,
to write again these silent words
that fall like cannon fire on my ears,
to let eternity rush through this
narrow fleeting flesh time,
to say nothing more than beware;
for I have left my seed among you.