Oh, how I have corrupted this! I stripped from their trembling bones the supple, joining flesh - flesh of goodness and healing. I am perdition, flowing river-like into the gaping mouths, suffocating, choking them in their sleep, as the vile liquid is busy with their innards. How unlike the sun you are, you who bask in shadow and swallow darkness like ether. I would have you spew your toxins into the eager bellies of the slain infants. But I am afraid!. See them, so innocent, suckling beside the bladder of the sow's paunch. We, who are not yet proven worthy to receive these precious gifts, must stand aside and watch as Pan, the usurper himself, comes to join the waiting virgins. How willing the unacquainted flesh! How ready to receive the slaving serpent's service of adoration. In dreams we belie the nocturnal truths that lie beneath the mists of day. We, who are not yet ready to indicate where the beast has sought his pleasures, must now relinquish to his will all that remains of our volition. While there is time still, let us drink. Before the denaturing dawn, let us tip back our glasses and peer at the disturbed grimaces of strangers through their bottoms. Bottle-bottom view, dark and blood-red. I see you there, standing beneath the Fern-fronds. You cannot hide! You are exposed!. Come forward and receive your prize, the Sultanate of Piss. I am no longer your subject, no more a slave to the rhythm of your arterial pulse. When the children we have birthed unto this land appear as freaks, all is lost. There is no time to waste. The fur is appearing on their shoulders and haunches. We must slay them in their tiny beds. They are no longer our children. See how they are driven by alien desires! The little bodies writhe and twist. See the little faces contort with pleasure, as the unseen hand of Pan fondles them. We must burn the churches and the piles of horse manure. In the plaza, there is only death, and her mistress -- lassitude. Rid us, oh loyal, usurping Pan, of this foetid plague! Come bear witness. Furrow your knowing brow beneath the rim of your winged helmet. We beseech into action the oral action-takers. Let them descend unto the upturned flutes, and coax from them the viscous, healing music of Edom. In the bazaar, the insane women are gathered to be sold. The traders swing their robes in colorful pinwheels of fabric, exposing burnished thighs and dark triangles of secret sins. The tents billow with the Scirocco wind, as the sand begins to layer grit over the camels' retinas. I lick the candle wax; it is warm like flesh. The molten people run into the cauldron of my throat. They re-form and twist inside me. Fists and feet stretch the fabric of my stomach. I nibble tenderly the small canine delicacies arrayed so colorfully on bone trays before us. We are kings! And tonight there will be record inseminations. Tomorrow the land receives its newest heirs. We spill our seed joyously upon the cactus nettles. Erda opens her mouth to accept the sacred beverage that we have warmed beneath our robes. The dancing negro is three meters tall! His body is glistening. The flames reflect menace from his unfathomable skin. He pounds his feet and purses his lips. The music is a body stretched across the grave in which we sit. Celebrant and chattel sway into the vaporous night of the veldt.

July, 1999

Little footsteps, light upon the "tres cher" Persian rug. Little bodies fluidly form and are dispersed from the womb into the void. "Hello", said I, at the first arrival. "Adieu", said I, as each in turn took the energy of the wind into its sails, ("How pretty!") and was gone.

October, 2000

Shit! I want to sit in smoky cafes with you. I want to inhale you as some languid, death-warmed-over heroin addict cunt drips her nocturnal venom into the microphone. The crowd takes up her arterial pulse, as she sways forth and back. Her hips are made of hot plasma. Her shoulders are encased in ice. We rise because we know the moment is ours. So we fucking take it! We take that motherfucking moment. So we rise like spirits lifting from the corpses of fallen soldiers on the battlefield. We engage; arms and bayonets enlace. We fuck to death, then march skyward to the open earthen graves which the saints have already prepared.

08 October, 2000

Screw the determinists! Happening along and all that sorta shit. Well, let's just say I was walking along and that here beginneth our story. Okay, Magic Rita was there like she always was. Arnold the Fat Frog from Magenta's studio, he was also there, with his fat frog's ass draped all over the bar stool like somebody's melted shamrock circle. The larder was full, I soon discovered; the matriarch and the one customer who would still bed-down with her were present too. Well, they just got POed in a hurry. And who could blame them, for it was anybody's game that night. So, that was when the Fat Frog decided that the music, the alcohol and a certain critical number of "gash sightings" had brought him to the momentous moment of needing to dance. Who were we to stop him? I mean, he could actually be the one holding the best cards. There was nothing in any of the faces present to suggest that anyone felt especially confident about his/her situation.

October, 2000