Enthalpy: January 2010

By Tom Prime

Tom is a wandering minstrel, an existentialist, a madman whose salvation is in poetry and writing. This wild poem-epic is impossible to read but contains hints of brilliance if you can ignore the tom toms that beat in your head. I thouught it worth putting up if anyone wants to venture in.

dedicated to my mind

(written at different times in about two and a half weeks)

Part 1: nubm
Part 2: nuclear hearts
Part 3: Igloo

Finished on January 6th, 2010 (despite minor editing)

Part 1: nubm

Directions:

· read poem from beginning through to the bracketed excerpt as though it were not bracketed
· after finishing reading the poem up to the end of the bracketed excerpt return to the line connected but not bracketed
· read the poem now ignoring that bracketed excerpt and continue doing so even for the smallest bracketed excerpt(ie. the bracketed (h) and (whispers)) like this:

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die(Thus I took my first seroquel. The vhs player seemed to be distorted, it was faster then I thought. I feel nubm in the 23rd century. The stress channel is fading away, static exhibits itself like a thousand ritalyn voices. The neutral zone. I feel nothing, no emotion at all. My brain is a security camera. Damage report. I am dead or missing in action. How we deal with death. I feel like a tomb or a simulation of one. It is contrived to be dead, it is obtuse. Love is insane I cannot pay attention to anything. It’s not my birthday, it is my momentary funeral. I am growing into my womb. I am not yet conceived. I have a brain, it is transmuting into nothing. I do not care if anyone Love’s me because I am dead.)

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die

like grey pebbles cannot
feel each other, I cannot

even while touching emotion
feel. Observing emotion like

a computer is hopeless.

nubm: Tom Prime

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die(Thus I took my first seroquel. The vhs player seemed to be distorted, it was faster then I thought. I feel nubm in the 23rd century. The stress channel is fading away, static exhibits itself like a thousand ritalyn voices. The neutral zone. I feel nothing, no emotion at all. My brain is a security camera. Damage report. I am dead or missing in action. How we deal with death. I feel like a tomb or a simulation of one. It is contrived to be dead, it is obtuse. Love is insane I cannot pay attention to anything. It’s not my birthday, it is my momentary funeral. I am growing into my womb. I am not yet conceived. I have a brain, it is transmuting into nothing. I do not care if anyone Love’s me because I am dead.)

like grey pebbles cannot
feel each other, I cannot

even while touching emotion
feel. Observing emotion like

a computer is hopeless. I

am like nothing, like
the space between I and

am. I am free as I am trapped (Is there meaning to a lie? Or is a lie just the same but opposite as the truth? Is reality anti- gravity is gravity an apple? Two leeches in a flesh cup a black space. Filthy dirt. The hate is dirt it is ugly it is a worm in a scar a bleeding eyeball of orb. The black orb with a white eye, it is hate. The pupil is red and ether is shifting a mercurial evil, a hazy nothingness of skin cells and brain tissue.)I am dead as I am alive. My heart is a window:

pharmaceutical storm
is flushing red like My
humiliation. I mean nothing.

I am nothing, yet I think.
I am overturning the infinite glow

huddled together in clown-skin.
I whimper pathetically like a dog
chewing on it’s masters shoes,

hopeless as anti-septic. My Love (whis-
pers)is like Me. I am hidden inner bleeding.
A slippery vasectomy implodes hopefulight

as rain. I want to feel Love. I don’t feel Love, I don’t feel hate.

I am crying, My left eye is dry y
I am quietly displayed as a seroquel doll
in tin gun hospital officer talk.

I mean only the ink on chicken paper
tastes like garlic fear. I am nonsense,

if I am only a divorcee
then I am dead, normal
as a dishwasher with food
smudges like birthmarks.

(2)

People appear like fog (fingernail flower
psychiatric doctor
discouraging moth
eats fingernail flower

Mortuary mortar a
tactless continuum
eggy mental illness
menstruates zebra there is ing or
errors in everyth…). I can remember their faces fade
like sunlight blotches the eyes.

(3)

“What happened to my mind?”,
the trees seem to as(h)k.
I am white/black lifeless

red leather and diamond eyes Open

- This poem is dedicated to the East Indian psychiatrist in the hospital, who was kind to me. As I was writing this poem…

Part 2: nuclear hearts

no directions necessary

Chapter 1:

Well I should begin writing my new book now. Yes so today I got up and I walked with the valium prescription slip and smelled like old people. That musty unclean clothing smell lingers around me at this very moment. I realized that the back of my pants had been torn out, clearly revealing my upper buttox. I am thus brought to this blood smell or irony at least and writing in the library with spaghetti smelling body odor. I am a strange mix of smells at the moment. They wouldn’t give me the valium because of her weird prescription slip and the fact that the office prescribing it to me was closed. I thus just waited in the pharmacy looking at the various different medications. Benylin, and Sucrets, Ny Quil all those I’d used to get high with years ago. I, rather disgusted in myself about this matter arose from my seat with its foamy cushion and walked out the door being rejected once more for the valium I’d desired to attain. Last night I did one of those pre-emptive fake suicide attempt things but didn’t go through with it. The idea of spending two weeks in a mental hospital with my entire family breathing down my neck in worry like blurry moons in a drug induced state seemed just about as awful as any actual physical pain. You see I really didn’t want to die, I just wanted to pump myself full of valium wind up in a hospital get a bunch of flowers, some loving letters of concern a couple extra bucks and egotistical fulfillment. That may sound cold but that’s really why a lot of people try to fake suicide it. It’s almost impossible for me, a 24 year old male to die on 20 valiums and a bunch of Tylenol, but by me making that claim taking it into action and doing so it would warrant quite the understandable concern from my family members. Really I’m just a lonely loser trying to grasp at thin air for something more than thin air and thus I thought quite deeply, dramatically and angstily though that isn’t a word. I continued on walking around the asphalt while people watched me standing and then staring at the bank machine thinking of stealing from my own account fraudulently, of course that wouldn’t be morally clean so I contacted my mother and told her my necessity for these medications. She thus agreed on giving me the needed amount. I then went to the late night pharmacy and was rejected as I was this morning for the purchase of the valium. I sat around sort of bored, I guess I didn’t really want to try to kill myself anymore, and besides the whole drama of it was wasted when the pharmacy nurse was being all annoying and snarky about everything. So I changed my mind, instead I decided to buy one of those frizzy Italian sodas and some life brand headache relief pills, same ingredients as Tylenol just 2.99$ instead of 5.99$. It all seemed so absolutely uninteresting by the end of the night. How annoying it would be to have to deal with all of those people crying and gathering together for support groups about how much they cared about me (I just couldn’t see it because I was so closed off and all that). Then after a couple months returning from the mental hospital mind with a full diagnosis and a big package of soaps and shampoos with some pharmaceuticals from my mom. O what an invigorating feeling. You see even this cry out for help seems annoying; it just seems lame, like picking on the down-syndrome kid in high school. You know just kind of pathetic, like shooting fish in a barrel. Besides all that attention would probably be just as annoying as just walking around talking to myself out loud and then seeing people looking at me and silencing myself for their own sake or is it for the sake of my sense of integrity? I find life annoying enough alone let alone with half the world caring about me under false pretences for my own implicit desire for attention. It might be nice though, the drama unfolding you know…

Standing their in the grey 2 in the morning broken streetlight but that’s just a bunch of crap and I should probably stop imagining about it because it’s fake and a lie and really of no interest. It’s funny I stopped myself there from going on like one of those teenagers with long scraggly hair who smoke a lot of pot and pretend to know the way to inner happiness. All of those hippies each one are a self- help book, they know the answer they know what to do, where to go, how to change your life, one joint at a time. Right, and the miracle of acid healing, we all get together and hold hands, and cry, o boo hoo, look at the world what a sad place. Then another hit of acid and it’s crazy time o boy wow were so original, artists that’s what we are, artists on acid, blah blah blah. O John write another song about walruses or strawberries it’s so deep and moving it makes me think about life. Just like a bed of flowers or a strange flower or let’s just take some more acid they’d say. They’ve got it all figured out because they’re artists and they’ve done acid and they’ve hugged a tree before. Well let’s take advice from them then, certainly we should know that they’ve been enlightened just like the Dalai Lama. With his big fake smile ruling the world like intellectual light, calling all the moths of intellectualism. And then the kids who go to the rainbow gatherings running around naked on the beach with me at one time with the Dalai Lama, a walrus, a strawberry, a strange flower, some acid, and each one with a type writer writing out their self help book, after a couple of joints. Wow, it changed the world, everything changes the world because the world is a self- help book written by a self- help book and everyone knows what they are because they are all intellectually superior, only to those around them, not to the Dalai Lama. Because the Dalai Lama wrote the book entitled “how to become enlightened”, seriously you can buy it in chapters right beside the Hare Krishna 43 tongued elephant that speaks in 22 different languages and pukes out rambling nonsense page after page after page just like me, naked running down on the beach with a ring of plastic flowers upon my head so enlightened. I was just a big fake self- help book, ran away did some coke stuck my heart into her television shut down, now I’m here. You see because it’s time to do the fire dance where Shivah swings his hips around a million times and then the big elephant with 43 tongues speaking in 22 different languages becomes Michael Chrichton and then the whole thing ends. The world explodes into a cirque de soliel type carnival event and then everyone’s on acid eating organic eggs and butter and talking about the organic market on 4th street while they smoke yet another doobie and talk about alien reptiles that secretly rule the world. Dalai Lama is actually an alien reptile who transmuted himself into the form of Michael Chrichton and wrote that book the Andromeda Strain, many others too like Jurassic Park. It’s to bad aliens couldn’t have bred themselves with dinosaurs and created a super race of dinosaur aliens that write self- help books on the beach with me running around naked pretending to know everything. And that guy standing there so stoned on acid; flies landing all over him in the sweltering smoke not aware of anything but his own image, ego conscious. Everyone looks at him but continues on doing what they were before; cooking rice in a big pot, smoking bowls, and talking about world peace because John Lennon knew how to make it happen. We all just had to do coke with him to figure it out. Thus we gather about and started singing very over sincerely imagine all the people living life in peace while 600 acrobats dance around and people do their freakish looking acid dance, trying their hardest to look weird at the Grateful Dead concert where Jerry Garcia is stranded alone on some island with Elvis, Shivah, and Kurt Cobain. Of course Kurt Cobain was far to cool for this sort of thing he had his heroin, his cool sun glasses his thrift store t- shirts, and his “depressing flowers”. He had the right idea some people say. Yeah it’s his own self- help book he just wouldn’t hang out naked on the beach with whoever went to the rainbow gathering in 93. But he knew what he was doing because he was cool. It was hard for him because the business, it was his art that killed him, right. The kids at the rainbow gathering with their anarchy symbols and the dreadlocks and me running around naked just about to ditch everyone, head for the hills, do some coke, talk about Chad Croeger because it’s funny to make fun of him but really I think he’s the least pretentious out of all the people I’ve talked about so far, “they say a hero can save us” hahahahha. Anyways so it goes I know everything about everything as it seems, or am I just being facetious. I always hated that word, it reminds me of that guys voice with the stubbly face talking about how his songs were the pearl in the clam shell of the world. I hate the word facetious I said that before in another book but I still do. Some things remain the same and I do hate the word facetious to the extent that I’ve talked about how much I hated it for this amount of time. Even this is boring me now, my own writing is boring me, my own art. Maybe I should take a cue from the writer in the rampike magazine who talked about a ruler as a metaphor for his life for quite an elongated grouping of paragraphs. I imagine I’m supposed to think of him as being just another writer who is published unlike me. Well I liked his writing somewhat so I don’t feel like tearing him apart. His writing though hmm… it was hard to pin down you almost want to call him a hippie but still its very Henry Miller. I am starting to blather on like this. I think I should continue because I have nothing better to do for the winter but to write this blathering garbage about nothing but I do like criticizing myself at the Rainbow Gathering that is pretty funny. Oh, it was so peaceful and they all held hands and stood in front of the police officers who’d come to end their peace loving drugged out charade of creepy sex and sexually transmitted disease. We all got together and did a bunch of drugs and then listened to electronica while some girl almost got raped in the forest. Nice peace loving for sure. But we were so high we changed the vibrations of the world around us man, I felt like for like 5 minutes everything was good again like it was Christmas when I was 5 years old and instead of getting that electric guitar I actually got the space monorail. All the while they’re talking about this with that pretentious whine a girl is being chased after by some spun out meth addled high on e beast of a man looking for a good forced time. A couple screams, a couple of tears, everyone’s happy. He gets away free while the druggies change the vibration of the world, making it better each acid hit at a time. They’re to busy going to heaven to care about the girl getting raped a hundred feet from their little dance off. It’s the way the world works, though an illusion and then its enlightenment or maybe that’s what they assume to be the same thing. As each one of them fade away into their idiotic old age brains sketched forever on acid, you find the junkies laying around with to much make up on, at least there genitals don’t work. It is the case here, you can either wear black sunglasses and talk in disgusting obscenity or write a self- help book and pretend to be perfect, either way you’re gonna blow up when Michael Chrichton turns into an “holy” cow and eclipses the sun like pink floyd man, and then Shivah swings his hips around and imitates belly dancing which I will note is apparently gaining quite a lot of popularity in western culture now that everyone’s enlightened and the president is black.

I can’t help myself, I hate the world it bores me.

Thus the Nazis stomped about, black boots and all, just like Tom Robbins minus the skinny legs. You can hear them chanting, “If it’s not of the fascist regime, than it’s no good to read”. Reminds me of a dying elephant rolling around with the bones of its forefathers just like

my ego:

Am I half mad? Or is listening too cold of a silence to reach for?
As I am, I am a lonely man, extinct like the Dilophosaurus for a
few days until I appear again like anyone else by the window in
the soft shade strange purple sky fading into the static bloom like:

I’m on a tulip, insane,
sighing while dew is
blown in the early acid trips made all the greed seem so beautiful-

I took my glutton sulphur smelling air of a drug stained morning

and returned it with empty hands to the mirror. I had nothing…

Chapter 2:

So this is me sitting here
introducing myself to whom?
The ideas of dreams o an old piano teacher talking to me

college blasé blather in the hipster Allen Ginsburg swingin’ sixties. His eyes

red blood shot like goopy red icing cake dye Brian Dickinson in blue jeans, old

and stoned. I guess you could say I never knew them. All of them with their

smart intellectual theoretical knowledge, quick to fulfill the duties of error bell ringing

the whole thing a charade of useless
rambling, no- one could teach me. I
couldn’t teach me, I was too stoned. I lived in residence

or rez as they called it, trying
I surmise to make it seem cool or
at least socially acceptable. The whole disgusting mess, losing my virginity

after speaking briefly(20 minutes) to an East Indian Girl knocking on

mr. I’ve got the condoms “residence counsellors” door. Oh it was really

quite awful. The Keith Jarrett cheese
melting like Kraft slices to the pathetic
drunken misled minds of college. She

assumed of course that I’d done it (implied)
before, but no that was the first time. 18 years old awkward as a fat man in spandex jogging through winners without a shirt on. I of course knew no- one aside from a few friends, made more, quite the socialite really.

Now I can honestly say I was a farce
a meticulously inspired creation of
many hip cultural references from the 60’s to late 90’s with

the wild aspirations of becoming somehow fashioned as a
rock-star that played piano. Famous but reclusive, all the dreams
of a fool lay like ash in the waste of too many years hangin’ out with

fools chained and chasing after broken rainbows. I hate that era of my Life…

I feel sick like my stomach is dying. It’s turning into a worn out rhinoceros with flabby elastic grey skin. I must have something or am coming down with something. It seems like I am perpetually overcoming one thing, to be confronted directly afterwards with another. I was reading T.S. Elliot and as far as I could tell I didn’t like anything he wrote but The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I don’t really understand what all the fuss is about really. I recall smoking pot in college with this girl whom I unwillingly as I was an atheist converted to Christianity, this led to a long journey to Alberta apparently she went to some Presbyterian or Baptist retreat thing with the Jesus chanting business and everyone or maybe Pentecostal with the eyeball rolling and tears and millions of pubescent awkward teenagers who use axe deodorant, and excessive amounts of hair jell to give them that Archie look. They all go home to their little suburban homes with parents cooking pork roasts, carrots, beans, even some pumpkin pie for desert. Watch movies vaguely based on biblical content and secretly watch porn when their parents aren’t awake. Thus the world of religion collected itself together into one massive orgy at some retreat in Alberta, and there is where the girl I unintentionally converted to Christianity wound up. I then spoke to her on msn about her life at the time, it seemed she’d driven down by the water and I guess in the ice there was something reminiscent to the word God or was it a question mark. Either way it all seemed too surreal. I thought maybe she’d smoked one too many at that point, but I was certainly not one to talk, after all I thought I was an angel and had been prone to believing while on acid of course that aliens were posing themselves in the bodies of humans to interact with me and take information from me. I lived under a bridge by then, it was an empty place, we used to empty ourselves from various different orifices, either very close to where we slept or further down the oily polluted little creek or crik as the farmers call it. I remember running down by the crik with my Dutch friend who always said crik, and had white hair seemingly his whole life. We would walk down by the crik together with the rats inertly hanging on to the shadows of the straw. I was a young boy than but when I lived under the bridge I was a far stupider more drugged out boy a bit older and there were definitely rats. The rat of ours would often sleep on alexs head. I guess alex didn’t mind, he was a very filthy filthy man as my mom called him. I recall stuck in scottys sleeping bag was that same rat happy and relaxed until the wild sprawling insanity of movement lifted the poor thing from it’s slumber and much commotion as Scotty told me later occurred, as he explained as to why he’d thrown my sleeping bag down the hill, about where I used to pee. So I was still on acid had the benny hinn complex and accepted everything like I was in fact somehow a tutor for the aliens to understand basic civilization. The aliens I thought were hanging in the sky threatening to abduct me as I talked into my tape player about this or that and sounded like a lunatic alone while the trees stuck their branches out like severed limbs and I placated myself with the perpetual mantra of ego pumping comfort words. Wow, it was a bad time. Way to much acid. Scotty was annoying let me tell you, the worst friend I ever had. I guess we’d hang out constantly but the guy was torment, a total nut bag, even more annoying then me, all I had to do to shut up was get really drunk and then I’d sit there swaying back and forth while alex tried to make sense of my meaningless grumbling. I was nothing there and have been that way since then but try my best to avoid it. The whole thing was a poisonous trip through hell, existing for a few moments of illusory bliss. I was like a deluded old man, gone a bit senile, thought the masons were in it with the aliens that they were comin’ out of a scientoligists ear, well maybe not to that extreme. Hugged every tree on the street, thought I had to, it was part of life I thought every tree had to be hugged because it would give me the energy I needed to become free or something like that. Really though a tree is just a tree, just like a person is just a person. People can talk, trees can’t, why would anyone hug a tree? Because it was the earth mother spirit with the wiccan aftershave all of them getting together at the hippie festivals dancing around a fire, half nude, molesting each other. Wow what enlightenment. They all seemed to like beating each other but explained it to be a loving beating. The bruises were a sign of caring. Beating each other while canoeing. Beating each other while making the pork roast. Beating each other while watching a nice scenic waterfall. Beating each other around the Christmas trees, the kids get the first hit. Beating each other on cruise ships, in parked cars, while watching movies, while fine dining, while applying for jobs. Beating themselves together in Love. The Sado-Masocistic Pentecostal family beat themselves while at church with those big leathery whips, they explain, it is a modern form of love. It shows the care they have for one another to beat each other. After all of the church services and the pork roasts, the movies, the canoeing, the Christmas celebrations, fine dining, etc. their bodies were getting pretty sore like a bruised apple being beaten so much, so they all decided to do some coke and practise voodoo. Thus we have modernized religion, friends. The way of the future is when beating each other can become the path to enlightenment with the Dalai Lama handbook to guide us of course. Wow that’s enlightenment when you see another person in pain and you enjoy it. I really did see that, the half- nude wiccan cult-like fire dance thing, with everyone molesting each other weirdly. It was disgusting, I watched a girl who under pressure around the fire, who obviously did not want to be disrobed, was, by a disgusting brute of a man, but she carried on pretending so everyone at the enlightenment land could grin sickly like hideous gremlins as She forced a smile. I hate that crap, all the push over druggies gathering together to beat, molest, and “Love” each other. But maybe I just don’t understand. I guess I just don’t get it, with the Goddess’s and people dancing around the fire naked, and the grinding of the teeth together, the lisping, saliva drenched e heads with their dead enlightenment smiling because their skin is pulled tense back against their faces like their own skin is saran wrap coated in sweat, singing about “Love” as if it meant anything more then the chemical they’d just ingested. Delusions control the world, it makes them all as bland and hopeless as the next, it keeps them busy.

Chapter 3:

I will now write the third chapter. Last night I took two valium still not able to sleep I took a Tylenol. I wrote some beautiful music, well really one song of any interest very ethereal sounding of course then in the morning after my stoned out but slightly sober anxiety free trip, I heard the people speaking about what they’d heard with the high pitched condescending sound resounding through my door commenting on my over zealous music playing late into the night. I realize now that I should be a little more respectful of these people, they are after all quite respectful of me. I find it sad that I have affected someone else’s sleeping patterns, and it does bother me, but I really am happy with my musical expressions last night. I filmed it all too with a little poem part and self portrait. I hope to put it together into a movie for Katie. Of course there are some rambling parts in between songs but they add a certain texture. Anyways this is all very interesting to read I am sure. I imagine whoever is reading this, too be sitting in their chair reading the blah blahs going through their minds, drinking tea bored to tears by the writing but if they were on valium or some sort of relaxant they might find it to be a way to apathetically pass the time. I of course am writing this book in my attempts to pass the time, in lethargy (it is relaxing to write a book). It helps me focus on life, existence so on so forth. I wrote this pretty poem for Katie too (It is finally completed after many years):

melting eye magnets:

I am me: dark and worn
yet lit by sunlight dreams.

I have Love for you as I Love you like

strawberries flowing from the lungs of the earth,

a dream capital of melting eye magnets, Soulmates.

-To Katie
that shook the universe like an apple from a tree it fell and hit me on the back of the teeth where the summers of childhood grunting in the hormones of the stoned bliss cure all that you call disease. IN the tongue that blistered with herpes you spoke through me to the man by the window as lonely as me. The words you told me as I was your delusion or am I my delusion? I invented the entire thing no-one but me speaks through me, so the previous rambled confusion should be ignored it comes from the Olanzapine staunch faced haughty rambles that coerce themselves like a strong force through the door of my finger tapping and I can’t seem to slam it dramatically enough because she was the worst fear I ever heard and the ugly yellow toothed woman wore green river tongue long through her voice was the glass slipper that slit the burnt burger bog through the elastic flavoured kitchenette accessories, you’re waiting in the loveless lie through the undulating poison tormenting her reason or without logic controls her in the yellow blue green fat toothed orb emanating a large static sound it distances sighing gone before white age coined her name and clustered up her tired white bones in the sinking cold that sat like a toad in her throat. The rain drops were just listlessly jelly falling goopy all across the miasma center that transmutes into the momentary funeral where the fat headed core of the black hole between the omniverse and the collapsible doughnut universe coincide. It is not worth writing about.

Black Apple: I just knew you would choose me to write about, there is where the Love iambic pentameter incorrigible as the apple core continues to transvestite through the ham sliced pineapple kitchenette accessories floating on the reputable corridor between now and infinite which is impossible and just a deluded creation of my mind I use the words like putty to mould together some unrecognizable blurry form like a tree without a branch just standing with it’s roots for brainy nerve endings that entrance through the hallucinatory mystery of the cloudless night there we stood awaiting the final matrimony or requiem whichever is necessary. I convolute like to much water in a keg beer and taste gross scummy dross you must despise the perpetual lifting up of these weightlifters that sit in the corner of the distant mile long aquarium by the shoppers drug mart where I stood reading spin in the omniverse.

Ground Lamb Man: It was clearly an understated idealism, that the words sword like from the tongue of roasted junk infested death lips sung in those days I was a disease a swamp of druggie application techniques. I wanted to be everyone. I rolled up my sleeves in the form of the corn fields that I’d run through with my boy hood friend into the moat of the mating swarm of grasshoppers like one mad octopus squirming through the underbelly of the black earth thrust their wings up as we ran dug into my mouth I knew then that the poison of rape had infected me. But you win, nothing ever bad ever happened to me, I just made it all up, everything good happened to me, I was raised perfectly and never once did anyone hurt me, nor was I even hit or sworn at, my entire life. That of course is the lie the world denies wants me to hide I will not describe through the blasphemous tongue the whispers of disgust that through my very skin tingled like tetnas and touched at the soul like the tip of a blade through the womb of my heart where my new born babe was alive but gone before it had it’s chance that was like me the innocence aborted raped right out of me. He turned his head around into the milky mink skinned sahara and desperately…
Mr. Nalt: Whatcho’ be talking bout homeslice? He was abnormal this Ground Lamb Man, you couldn’t trust him, anyone who feels that much pain must be a liar, so they called him a liar and left him standing there and then one day the liar turned into a gigantic rose and all the universe combined in that one moment and froze so cold and he walked around flicking each one over replacing each of their tea cups with other cups and talking to himself about the winter Olympics and disappeared completely and then everything froze forever and that was the end of time no-one moved and we all stopped not dead but just absolutely in perpetual infinite stasis and the mirror continued in it’s same place while the white eyed glaucoma woman sank her teeth into the apple without logic and thus began a new disappointing era of insane discourse that amounted to nothing and conformed only to the shape the wind moulded the leaf to the sky as it lifted it above into the night. The yellow toothed ugly woman sneered she was laughing at them in their misery she enjoyed the purchase of souls bought and sold even split the atom to destroy those in Hiroshima with Reba. No it will not yearn for the gurney again where he wished he were alive but was dead inside the murder of the psychiatric mind took it’s place on the bed and the emotional train wreck reaped it’s harvest on Love thrusting it’s disgusting tooth through the meat of emotional attachment. I will choose no longer to discuss these things they are becoming to emotionally estranged from reality you become white with the chord like wisdom that falters like a dead car without energy in your face is the death of the entire human race the dead world you wear like a mask over your mind in the façade of fear the easy way out the tingling throat that holds whispers of hate the screaming anger and then the dark emotional numb I am left with standing out without sun in the sky thinking how God could if he wanted to lift me up into the sky on top of a building and give me the strength of a thousand men but why would he?

Mr. Nalt: It is true you do have a rather concise albeit minute point that adheres to the current non-secular arrangement imposed about the munich braised eyes of the pig faced dogs the glazed over look like when one is very high on some amphetamine sort of stupid fish like easy prey, it was dark in the dank callous hole of it’s beast like heart that roamed throughout chomping like a razor blade cutting through the winding tracks spilling across the black eyes where the winter snow was afraid of itself. I am no longer afraid of death, that is a beautiful disturbance from what should be, but I see it now comforting me into it’s forgotten sands where the musty rambling garbage is washed away and in the strange landscape of this word I am passing away into this time now where I sit as usual with my mind softly astray a beautiful way to lose the memory banks empty behind the straw bail it’s disgusting the way everyone is ashamed of filthy lies that the triple leech sky with the horizontal duplication of the carcinogenic waste of the numeric circumstance raced and erased gutting the ephemeral anxiety with a stark hunger that waddles on and on in the back alleys digging about like a mouse for some left over cold French fries someone threw aside in their rushing away…

Fudgy: It was well to think of them all the group of them agreeing with one another but the viscous sounds of the vivacious under current of corruption lay waste any true love they shared in the rust of the familial delusion, not a family of five could hold onto me nor could it hold true love without lying in this essence I exist just barely invincible at the moment and then as it goes the age wrinkles the skin and the senile drooling lips and useless I become stuttering over my own words losing the love from my heart and then nothing the tomb the dirt. That would be me in a the time it takes to breathe however many days this lifetime will lead. I do not care for any such desires of love in this deluded state. But I am not me, and besides it is not healthy to carry on with this lying eyed delusion where I fight alone with the words and confide secretly my own complete reprieve. I plan the plans that fall away when the tap door of her mind escapes through the telephone line. If I had not spoken to her, I would not be writing about her, it is a wonder I even talk of her so long in this state. I think of all the words I could write but they become like me whatever that means:

The grey moon and its friend the night watchmen
with his corn cob usurped throat that spoke like one
wrote in the books callous in the detraction

and the despots of glory lay hidden in dusk light.

Mr. Nalt: We all lurked in that copious display of long bodied fear wordiness we all no that you have put your heart in the cloud that cannot feel again and then the dust will rise as you awake tomorrow and the placating substance will drown the anxiety and the run down notions of self-importance will be beaten down once more. Then you will once more spell out the words written in this form before you know they’ve been written they leave like one leaves the door slightly ajar as if in some impossible hope something good would arrive but no-one comes still alone and the day passes faster now and the clouds race past in the sky like crabs scuttling across the grey pebble cave by the beach where my old body lay on the gurney the zombie jerking motions as my face snapped into jaw lock and it discharged its hate in the black numb words that spilt like flames from my emotionless eyes the heart that cried and wrench like twisted tighter the doubt screws into hate. Pure rotting hatred that tormented you, and thus you believed what you believed and it was gone into the air at risk of fear the farthest from your care in the hospital bed where I witnessed myself die without anyone and this is the torch that lit my way home 2 and a half hours that languid reptile wandered in the cold blooded night with my ugly wool toque I found in the grass by the McDonalds where I thought a cigarette might last linger then it took to orgasm and then I denied opportunities as I left myself shamed in the cold November skin nothing reminded me until the ego set in like Love.

Fudgy: My you are getting quite poetic dear friend, and it startled him to seize up his thoughts in the backward filled hair chopped off drain where his mind it had rusted outwards like poison from a pill throughout the blood into the veins up in the spinal chord the soft numbing thud of the beating drum that heart that hated its own beating in silence running the blood like a green river through my eyes I burnt myself twice on the thorny heat of the inner side of the oven light that shook me as you can see I do not hate me.

Mr. Nalt: Yes it is to out there to be forgotten in the wordless circumstance that was hidden in a shroud where the pain burst up like a violent cry from a baby that did not live in my womb. I am pregnant with child, I am pregnant with child, a new born is alive, it is growing deep inside , it is all the new life that I hide, I am a sheep in wolf clothing for the rot to slander me with lies and you play along in your deluded submission barren and empty without a word spoken. I drift hatefully now passed the feeling orb of loneliness centered there is the picture of you and me you just cannot erase from memory, and I still keep that writing you wrote on the top of my cd player and it sits there and waits desperately for some truth to heal the ugly wounds so scarred deep in my mind now that the only way through is by giving it back to you, or Loving you, this is the hardest road to take, the longest road filled with bitterness and I must wander in the background of the photograph now invaded upon with these faces filmed in darkness and disease black like ships at sea in the night without a lighthouse trying like snakes to chew through the rubber dingy that holds the soul afloat threatening me and it continues you allow it too because you are disappearing into no-one. I was like that then, and still am now, but I cannot seem to let go of you. I ran like a limping prize fighter to your door far to many times to make that mistake again besides my Love is fading away slowly and I don’t care as much when I am so medicated. It is to the way that we walk that we will meet in Love.

Fudgy: You run into that scar like it was a field of daisies, but it is nothing but a gaseous haze seeping through your blood into mine on the telephone line. I writhe in the peaceful dream like lack of ecstasy where the dreams pass me by like a life that lasted to long. I rushed into it too soon, and the pause between it was to release me for awhile until the time was write when the words could convalesce what was necessary to heal and I contentiously barked like some brutal old drunk about the anger in my heart to no-one in silence because I did not want to make a scene, but the burst of air from lungs like gunpowder to bullet slit through my soul and I released in silence a scream that no-one could hear…

Mr. Nalt: O well it was all fine to be sure, but the skilfully composed self denial could not adhere to the breathtaking veneer of his ugly headed hate that teary eyed awoke like I was a victim to psychiatry the very socially acceptable emotional murder of my soul and it rained great comets with long blue orb like tails that thawed the ice attached nearing the curled lip atmosphere that widened out into a strange warped demure looking face wobbling in disbelief as the whole universe collapsed in on itself and alone she stood recognizing that she’d lost all the good things she was and would once more regain Me.

Fudgy: Once she regained me, things would become different then before but the same to some extent that is where the yellow eyed woman taunts us in her torment her torturous diamond glint that is red like embers eating vile green river toxin tongue licking her lips waiting to devour the once beautiful joy that green like the earth grew into a flower that shimmered in the dew, that she stomped on putting suicide like a knife that was dull but pervasive enough to create a form of seclusion that toppled the derision and adhered like horse foot glue to the falsified illusion that either of us were violent or crude. Into that hate she lifted her arched back that bent like charcoal bends wood into black carving her nails entrenched into sin the fear red with milky miasma raped us in ego and devoured each hope with the lingering gruel that sopped up all the life in waters of everlasting air but…

She lost though because she was ugly no-one cared for her ants ate her face till she dissipated it was her lie that could not defeat the True Love strongly alive as Life is.

The green river began to choke, it could not hold the lobotomy pose

it stung it’s glass slipper with hair pins from the hooks in the nose

it pulled them along green river and all through the lonely orb zone

where the kiss of the apple mouthed pig faced dog was drenched with

hideous black, the lips fell away like leeches in salt

the skin pulled itself back and death awaited for the ugly yellow toothed woman of hate

the words were absorbed an octagon exurbanite hide

awaited the valley of the glass slipper through

the rose dove feathered building with twisted walls in two

why he blanked out in the snow

his body was cold

and the fear of the young one carrying the torn paper with the blood stained phone numb

as the blood of the bleach eyed bright carrying the

green river coffin through the silent escalators bright

the elevator light with it’s blurred out red shame faced tears raced into

the rain as the pink quill led cannibal loaded his sidewalk airplane suicide note with

a gun that read slowly with bifocals and alcoholic tendencies

wpilling the pineapple trees naked like me raped and bred

to be filled with their animalistic disease. The

dark never asking or even retracing the

cue ball egg cup of his heart to me.

It was easy to use me for bait.
Mr. Nalt: Well you sure figured out the strange places you’ve been nothing else I suppose to say then? It was well then if it conducted the light electric shape of fatherless clouds fired by the thunder of a dark ill begotten suicide this is what madness is made of. It actually occurred to him then, that the poor boy might actually need some help so he gathered up his thethered bag of old ham chunks and lentils and took him down to the fish mark where the meat lasagne king fired his desolate house maid in the black dwarf upside down boredom of insane gelatine lukewarm biased critical analysis kitchen skins made to cork the clam shell crew rhinoceros ride thing good eye tomorrow into the plasticized liaison neither of the until the wait to jelly flavoured after shave green river puke stain envelops peel slowly the picture of the garbage man and in it the words featureless no words green river hate hurt me but it burns sequined like gold tassels to the flourish of fire beaded pomegranate faces beaded together on a triangle prism rectangle light jet black hernia passive aggressing wait…

Black Apple: O you know me, I guess so he said wanting to cheer himself up a bit the whole escapade seemed a bit well done if you ask me I’m writing a book. I was saying that to myself and then it became quite obvious that I should write it down, it is a beautiful thing to watch myself fade away into the background disappearing completely finally from everyone into the silent tomb of ascetic relief and then finally death. I suppose that is mildly emotionally angsty but in some ways it just reflects me and my own sadness quite clearly. You all can forget me, I am nothing now, and I will remain nothing for you if you desire. I am but a waking dream and I do not look for hostility but hide here in the land of forgotten and I ask you all to please forget about me and who I am meaningless and a waste filled with doubt and selfless hate that has pulled me all the way down into an abyss of draconic rule where I conquer my own empires each one burning like words inflames. The eastern gaze pondered over it’s disappearance for a moment and then became nobody, like me and the tulips all wrapped in a round shrink wrap plastic indecisive and insidious laying in front of me at the footstool by the tear store that held the ugly yellow toothed woman inside eating at her flesh like a red apple cannibal in it’s desirous form I am mustering up the last of my dieing hope and trying to hold on to Love.

Fudgy: You expel your madness like one puts himself on trial and delivers himself up as a sacrifice but not quite as noble, you are just a beggar with thieving eyes collapsing into something quite new morally clean but still contemptible the way it was in the past took a thousand illnesses to heal and the cure was a lie that bandaged up its rubber chicken leg with a poultice though the leg was not affected and I limped like a heavily burdened ox up a hill to the top with all the luggage and burdens of the past heavy laying me low and you there with you’re picked away scab and you’re fingernail flower tipping me over with a flick of the snot on the tip of your finger overloading my burden and sending me wildly insanely and devastatingly rays of gloom and dark ubiquitous shadow into the coated bastion where I feel alone down into the dust of selfless hate. There I lay, and then with a tear fallen you came running with your glass slipper in place and saved me from utter waste but when things got too much it was the same over and over again…

Mr. Nalt: It sounds to me like quite the adventure, he said in that loosely connected vowel sounds that clicked and clacked through the diadem eyelids that held 14 crowns wreathed with snake eyes cold blooded inner injection where the reptile lie burnt his shadowy wisdom by the picnic bench where they sat stark naked in the midnight sky by the green river with no food in sight but the dietary supplement shakes that convalesced the selfish longing and the fake Love that bought tights, and knives, and lipstick sets with the kitchenette accessories, traded it all for a couple of big macs. Love was traded in then I realized that was impossible the oxygen holes into the impossible brain and then I realized that was impossible by passing the rich melodies of the sewer stench of the ugly yellow toothed woman’s green river breath he laughed and gave up on trying anymore, he allowed them to have her because she had pushed him past the tightrope wire into the air where the skin underneath of the morbidly obese half man half cow waited with it’s belly filled with furnaces burning and leaving ashes requiem of me the suicide not that hung by the neck in the Christmas tree was a lie because all it was, was a grocery list of the things I’d bought turkey, and lemon meringue pie, and really I didn’t want to die at all. It just sounded nice to play through that unwholesome scheme of things but really it was wrong to have those thoughts he thought while thinking about why he didn’t want to die he slipped off the massive ice ridden submarine and crashed two thousand feet titanic like beneath the great blue whale selling typhoon action chords with armadillo cans and jeeps.

Ground Lamb Man: I see Issac Asimov has made a disappearing act out of the anti- gravity apple situation, and I understand that he must be open enough to allow the neutral zone to guide him back to the canker laden mildew fields asininely bindead to the infallible corduroy intravenous encephalic contusion fists filled with paper dust the ash of what could have been is gone in the empty teeth of that ugly yellow toothed woman with the grit of the crushed bones she’d chewed down into bits regurgitated to the morbidly obese half man half cow with fiery furnaces the requiem of me tree that was devoured by his fire and it emptied into nothing and thus I became much like they desired. I became nothing, and I ask now, please forget about me. Just forget me, because I am like a porcelain doll there is many out there go buy another one. It costs no more to find another one you can forget about because I am just not current and up to date as the other dolls now with their electric eel eyes that whisper the lies devoured by nuclear hearts in the paradigm shifting by the physical borders dematerialized insufficient and even annoying beyond compare. It reeked in there, the whole place reminded him of hunger.

Fudgy: Ahh yes the lonely place called hunger, you have been there before. That is where the skin of the lion is crushed into pathetic unleavened bread cooked by the heart shaped fire of Love. This is where the loneliness orb takes one if they pass through into the other side they will find the skin of the lion is crushed into pathetic unleavened bread cooked by the heart shaped fire of Love and Love is the place where hunger calls to be satisfied it goes beyond loneliness it is a cold place that is hiding in the shed skin dust particles of the musty un breathable air that pervades far beyond the physical understanding into the sharp two edged sword of loneliness passed the violent fear into the hunger the true desire for the healing of Love that hides like a monster under the bed waiting to pull me under and torment me until I scream in agony because I am so horribly alone and lost and in need of someone that actually cares about me and does not just disregard me as being useless until the time to be disposed of is over and the hunger it eats like a wolf through my heart and I am starving for Love like a dog without a leg limping through the rain soaked street I am starving for Love and I want you to Love me, and I need to see that you care about me, and I hate this garbage that you did this to me, and I am hungry so desperately starving in this land of famine and I need you more then you could ever possibly know and it’s pathetic and it’s sad and it’s horrible but I am lost and I Love you.
It’s pathetic and I am crummy and useless and I Love you and I care about you and I want you to be close to me and I am so alone and it tortures me violates me eats me away like famine and I am starving for you and I am nobody now just disgusting useless and pointless but I Love you forever and ever and it destroys me to see you treat me like this. It makes me cold inside when you talk to me like a burdensome disposable object and it makes me cry because I am a big useless baby with tears that barely allow themselves existence and I want to hold you close to me all night long and dream beside you and have you kiss me between the center of my back and hold my hands when I dream with your eyes shining bright I want to be by your side always because I Love you.

And I miss you more then the brain in my eyes more then the all of the friends of my Life

And I Love you more then the tears in my face that stutter uncontrollably

like windshield wipers my clipped fingernails pull them good bye

and the hope in my heart turns to ash as I wait and become

desolate in my doubt and waste and the Love I exchange for lies that drift me

further from me through the green river and before that eco systems of pain

where the green emerald forest bent into one mirror and my sadness

betrayed me once again and I miss you like the poor widow misses his Father

where the man with the womb attached gave birth to the fear within me

and I am alone more alone then the landscape of the barren ice landscape of the moon.

Mr. Nalt: Well Fudgy came through with another good one I see, and he began more respectfully checking the ticker tape parade timer on his side eyed arm watch that thinks forest like in the tree building that grew from the non- existent earth dirt home filled with
Sunflowers and a lie that continued to pretend that it was telling the truth and that lie was in the shape of the ugly yellow toothed woman who coerced entire fields of buffalo to extinction and ate lizards and burnt the last Dodo in a botched extinction festival. It was strange from the perspective of any sane reader to continue on reading but here it was the words on the page, adding up to basically whatever a word happens to be, but they brought me to tears a minute ago, but back to pseudo easily acceptable drugged out unemotional reality that carries me past the loneliness orb that I usually ignore except for that one time of course. I wonder if there is any select section that relates to another is this crazy ramble of a shape that is within the green landscape. It means only the words on the page, they pacify me until I lay to rest for the night and then a new day, with it’s new tortures arouses the misery within me, and I begin again, to speak in the various forms that I had in the previous poems and works, and I finally grasp my feeling and let it take me, and then let it go back to it’s hiding place. I release it for a moment within the controlled environment of my room in the blur of the blue tv screen and over medication.

Issac Asimov: I have returned from a long nap finally, and if this book has been thrown against the wall and thus completely out of whack then where I was before will be nearly un discernable from the perspective of any sand shaped donkey squid shaped liquid animal lustre gourde with 14 Hittite china guns by the banks of flash pump half way houses secreting glue like fat fluids from the strange out of tune pump organ that deluded that anti-migratory birds in the south pacific with one foul swoop. It was strange to know so much about nothing, but he reminded himself as he stared blankly into the screen that She still Loves me and some part of her wants to work this out with Me. That held me together in my sadness, it would be so hard to just cut her out completely and really awful. O I would never want to see things get that bad, but now here they are quite bad, things have become like a stale fruit cake that makes one feel hung over in the morning if they eat just one morsel. Soon though I have prayed, things will work out, soon the Love we share will be healing itself once more, that is if we can get through this horrid wretch of a winter, and the annoying persuasions of the ugly yellow toothed woman but if so things could manifest to be quite miraculous and in some beautiful way our Love will by some fluke find away to heal. O I am getting that emotional tinge again, even on all these drugs I still cried, what’s up with me today? I didn’t think it was possible to feel anything on such a large dose of medication, I imagine feeling how I really feel unadulterated by medication would be horrifically depressing so I am glad for the pills even if they are a necessary but temporary illusion. The pills seem to pull me through each day, and I have through the inspiration dwelling within my mind under the influence of these pills composed some strange freakish landscape of words that collide together in a nearly nonsensical manner. It is quite interesting to write, I wonder what it will be like to read, I think it might be interesting, but I am pretty sure the connective tissue of the writing is based throughout to the extent that it wouldn’t matter if I threw it at a wall or not, it still would make no sense, well at least no more sense then can be made of it because definitely there are some key points throughout that are very understandable. I do want to reread it before I decide on what I would like to do for the book, but really it’s so disjointed I think the throwing of it at a wall would add a certain form to the book if anything, it’s really that strange. O well I am now speaking very personally of the process that I desire to write my book, so this must be strange or boring to read, either way it must be mundane. I really find using words like they are sounds increases the value of them, and thus by removing all meaning of the particular words, the sounds create an interesting mesh, that form an ideal shape or sound image in the mind that call out some strange feeling or emotion. It is not meant to be understood, it is only meant to exist, like me on this medication. So by reading this book you are reading who I am in word form on this medication if you can believe that or not is up to you. But the expressions of my mind are not necessarily meaningful to me or to anyone, they are only the expressions of me, thus you are reading the word form of me, and who I am is not these words but only when I am writing the words am I who the words are. Thus you get a brief glimpse of how my mind is working at a moment but no longer then that moment. You are only able to see me as I walk through the present and the wake of what follows behind is no longer me but the past. Thus everything that you will have read thus far is the past except for the t in the and then the h and then the e when I write the. These are all just me for that time.
If I am lying or distorting who I am or who I want to be then the words become the distortion or lie of me, still an expression of me, but not actually who I really am. In any case my writing is not simply for the purpose of being published or being read or even being written, it is only for the purpose that I am considering it to be something of purpose to me. Because I consider my writing to be of purpose to me it is expressed, there is no other reason for my expressions then for this reason. I believe that there is some hidden purpose to my expressions and often times I call that therapy. That is a fitting word for my expressions but does not define my purpose for expressing them.

Mr. Nalt: Right, okay you rambling old lunatic, what are you talking about? It sounds like you want to understand something about yourself but you can’t admit that you don’t understand that particular something about yourself and that being why you are writing all of this. It is strange, and the question boggles the mind really, but I do think I understand partially what you are saying. You seem to be saying that you believe it’s good for you to write this book for some reason that you aren’t quite sure of because you know that it probably will never be published and that the references to Jehovah and The Jehovah’s Witness’s will push away all of the intellectual publishers most completely.

Fudgy: But yet you write this book knowing full well how unpopular the Jehovah’s Witness’s are and continue on expressing whatever you please but yet at the same time refusing to compromise your beliefs for the momentary benefits of publication. I think I know what you’re doing, you’re writing because you Love writing, and the medication makes it easier, and you’re having fun, so why conform and compromise when really you’re writing just for fun, and for therapeutic gain. It is not just for fun though because you are confronting some major issues in your life, but it is also healing. I imagine though writing all the stuff about word shapes must have been fun because that’s just silly and crazy looking, but in between that you are reflecting on some necessary trauma.

Black Apple: You write because you feel like writing, not because you expect writing will bring you anything more then what you’ve written, thus you write because it is a natural part of you, and thus you can truly be entitled an artist, as both a writer and a musician. You are an artist and your main profession is writing, though you will not compromise your art for anyone. Your art is a part of you for the moment that it is expressed and thus to compromise your art for any immediate gain would ultimately corrupt you and become severely detrimental in the future to your own sense of self.

Issac Asimov: You are a true artist Tom but that doesn’t make you any better then anyone else, it just makes you an artist, unconcerned with success, and the wealth that comes with it. You are obviously not as crazy as you would like to think you are, but you are slowly beginning to break down the walls of pretension and ego that often stop a sincere hearted artist from really releasing the necessary expression to become a true artist. You have become a true artist for this time now, but where that will lead you in the future is unknown, and probably really doesn’t matter much…

No it doesn’t matter, they said all of their voices rotting singularly into hallucinatory stupidity it became so intolerable that he felt like smashing his head against the glass window in the cold blue of the winter that shrugged off its blood head soaking through hair and left me dazed but not completely drained. O no I’m sure you don’t care, I wasted my time on living in this sad sap of a life filled with crap and it dies everyday a little while longer and I will become

like a cubicle where the doors are closing green river slit trees where the veins explode

down the river he went puking alone in the disaster of hate looking glum old chap

it is the disease that you seek in the vein pill drug blood that sops lies like gravy

bread chatter talk the shy sincere groaning of my cheese teeth the wasted time

there you go you won you showed me that you can’t Love anyone. I give up

on tomorrow and prescribe my fate to the administrators of chemical nothingness

where the rubber chicken cackles distinctly aware never able to reach her through

the calling tongue of the telephone I will not call anyone until the final words

which close the poem in heavy moping and blister the herpes till they peel away

in the cold sore blood infected by the cigarette butts I retrieved like a dog eats excretion.

Issac Asimov: Aren’t you in a glorious mood, sounds like you’ve been through the worst of it by now. I talked about the past today to my friend Larry as he drove, and the daily hell I lingered in through the homeless streets of New York City where the alcoholic soul lay waste like a bastard child starves in emotional paradise. He is free of the pain, and I wasted away in the past memory where I stood up their like a statuette model of what a hippy is supposed to see through the stoned false enlightenment with the stupid acid heads rusting whore like in the bent mirror of the distorted mind insane that the whole thing was a farce makes it less difficult to forget but still I stood there bashing the hell chord in acid daze admitting to everyone my insanity but they remained like animals with antidotes that lasted merely hours and drifted me apart from my soul. I thought I wouldn’t write tonight but the drugs affect me sorely, so it becomes necessary…

Black Apple: It was blathering in the past but there you were laying on the bathroom floor just trying to sleep a wink after almost being raped by a fat naked man lured me back to transport truck got me high and pretended like I was a whore for his sake I guess they all play with fire but the burning requiem came through the cigarette dust of the lungs that spat out the phlegm of burnt paper and chemical oblivion nose was a fire hose of evil languid tendrils of dripping snot thistle like pain gristle shaped like melted fat fell from my nose. So kids, that’s why I say don’t smoke, cuz that’s what happens when you quit. They all laughed and idled in thought for awhile…

Fuddgy: You asked me where my story was going well we’re all floating down the green river and we are inside the anti- gravity apple that floats without logic in the gravity of the earth around and inside the apple we float down past the green emerald forest and the Thalidomide baby city into the cyanide seeds where the core of the apple is diseased and that brings me right about up to here where I am me, explaining me in the delusion of character fused with reality o it’s the conflux of the clustered eggs bursting in the ovum of condors that the grated cheese hand had been burnt up pretty bad because he was a witness, I saw it standing their the skin burnt to a crisp tortured in mexico because he wouldn’t deny God. It all makes sense from the standpoint of some nut-bag greedy pig faced dog running gruel like through the heavy bowel of some morbidly obese monster of government in mexico in Russia in everywhere the hungry ugly yellow toothed woman waits a harlot on the assuaging bath of the nuclear hearts running steadily blocked arteries through the green river that bleeds shifting mercurial evil. I hate the place that they left with the handle bar moustached man who ranted on and on in depressing agony about everything, how everyone had left him, and I am glad I left him, and I am glad I left everyone because I am nobody, yeah forget me, do it, that’s what would be easiest then someone could plot my assassination to make my death easier just kill me off please I don’t want to be alive in this misery anymore, but I’ll find away to work things out, and I know I will get back to who I really am beyond this nowhere where am I who am I nonsense it leads me back to her and I can’t escape my Love but I can run away and that’s what I’m good at so bye bye for now without a tear in my eye the whole thing an egotistical justification a cover up of sorts of my true inner self that is sensitive and really needs Love…

Fudgy: That’s nice old jib why you be talking yourself down like that, ain’t there more to go? I said I don’t know you ugly man, I’m not ugly. I thought I was ugly but I am beautiful as a poorly played piano made mistake that sounds right but ultimately is just not fitting to the set piece being played o well ain’t it clean of me to recognize that I am a freak mistake that sounds right but is actually not in any way part of the melody composed, it just kinda sits their strange and dissonant but beautiful that is where I remain and I edit each thought away as it goes, to become something more grammatically correct for the ugly yellow toothed woman to criticize and to hand press her own clothes standing by a steam roller in a concentration camp counting the jews as they go by burning with the witness’s and then they’re all gone yah the Catholics won…

Incandescent light bulb and cracked pine floor
dusty rum and ginger beer dried stick to the skin
no-one left but me in my self-important ramble
nowhere else for me but the words and solitude

the grey charcoal eye molests me in the hate light.

Issac Asimov: The ugly yellow toothed woman is fat with the corpses of holy ones that she ate, that desire of shame eats away at her as she waits for more meat the bodies pile up high in unmarked graves they won for now it is nice to wonder why there the instant relief of the numb song gagging itself on itself again, it brings me back here read revelations if you want to know what goes down but you probably won’t understand it.

Fudgy: Yeah so it goes through the molten cloud of fake dust light oscillating like a cheap electric fan through her inner fear orb like a second skin that hangs baggy over her eyes through her nuclear heart is the green river that flows within the anti- gravity apple that flows without logic of bliss it is such a wonderful feeling not to feel anything but this sound and the words the right tongues hand arm sheet of paper split tongues like silver skinned humpback whales beneath the worm belly eyelid fellow I don’t care…

Everything is starting to end with three period marks because I can’t seem to find the peace to be comfortable with an end at each expression. I really am understanding nothing I write but I am a miserable man or is the other way around apartheid and exodus.

We wither like genius after a long enough time into somnolence wearing it’s black cubicle eyeglasses that scratch the dentist core of futility o it started again nothing but that throughout the illness weathered with the naval officer in the forgettable anti- gravity suit floating to the moon like an otter without padded feet through the fur skin after pork jew orange the flesh has withered like ego is genius the word surreal is gluing its tentacles to thimble lined asterisks wincing eyes blinking glares of icicle tear downy innocence thin gladiolas sway like wispy ego is equal to the word genius because genius is a lie defining us to be anymore then anyone else genius is ego each concept is the same there is no difference. It’s either good art or its bad, the suggestion of anything beyond that is a lie. The gelatine eyeball is pierced with ox nostril and it is brotherly in exchange.

green river is not the whimper that pathetic
the usual predictable cry and the strange sigh
a man with his ocean coaxed out of the clammy skinned hotel

where the rubber bunny is chicken flexed in the nostril libido
where the anterior tibealis stretched in lifeless agony as he died that man you told me:

o you said

and it disgraced you

you became what the sky could green with acid lies

Issac Asimov: And it goes like this as he cut the tops of his wrists with his father’s razor and placed them back carefully in there usual place so the words could bleed through into his neck too, it’s so weird but it’s true. I wanted all the pain to be because of him, but my father was just like anyone who lived in life the way one would if they weren’t raped. Despite all the madness, he was in the end, through the divorce, finally quite a companionable man, and I do very much Love him for his care…

Fudgy: You were right about the justice that tripped the stumbling block before and it was a quintessential part of American history, pre war days when the ravaged country lit its candle bombs splaying the glazed doughnut fish eyes of the wine drenched midnight.

O I guess screeching to a halt the static television eye remained interchangeable I could observe the many hidden patterns no-one else could see because I invented them but at the same time truly believed them as when I looked upon the ruddy psychiatric hospital floor bathroom forming from the black and blotch tile Love shaped in heart the miserable black and white psychiatric hospital was the same in essence but I had changed only slightly, and the faded out disease pumped me full of Olanzapine now I’m stoned and writing in strange decadence in socially acceptable reality because it was prescribed to me, but I will say it helps by the next day a bit, but I really think I just want to get back to the clean path sober and free of hallucination the visionary madness diseased eyes go ahead leave me divorce me cheat on me I am nobody now I am nothing to anyone. I do not need anyone because I am like nowhere if it were physically represented in the form of flesh and blood and spirit. This is why you are allowed now to leave me completely you are free to go…

Fudgy: It
S alright man nobodies home in your head anyway you could drown me now in the black star that raped me and left me out in the grass with my anus bleeding, I’m sure you win now. Congratulations I will award you with my freedom, I set you free, you no longer need to Love me, nor do you need to care about me, nor do you need to believe that I exist because I have gone past the brink of reality and reached the bland stasis of obsolescence where I fade now forgotten by my own mind in the red eye blood dripping with fear…

You win now it’s you who can do what you want because I have become nothing to Me.

Goodbye then I’m a disappointing shade of distasteful grey one best left pushed far away.

You should take my advice and do what you can to remove me like lice from your mind.

I am not trying to be overly sincere, I am just saying what seems to be me, breathing and I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
O I guess I was all alone, no-one green musty smell like blood iron in the foot of a carp.

Issac Asimov: And suddenly I died, and it was like exploding but then I became nothing, truly nothing, and I lay on the gurney, and they lifted me up into the space that grey uncomfortable chord of inner humiliation silver fish rand thoroughly through this song…

I am disposable.

I’ve had enough writing about nothing now, it closes the door behind me but my foot bounces it back open and then I know I can’t hold onto nothing no body warming me tonight. I can’t exactly distinguish the fire extinguisher red and yellow blue kite that itself is enveloped in the mirror sky eye wearing pearl jade eyeball earrings through the east Indian hunger father reality hits like disease slowly vents through exhaust like in a garage door closed with window open and engine on long and soft the ether like death that fades away completely and then is gone. I don’t see beyond each of my words anymore they are dancing together like two bears rumbling throughout, ecstatic as aurora borealis.

It will not die,

it will in time find away beyond all doubt thanks to My God Jehovah. I Love her…

Fudgy: Yeah man the whole thing seems hip to be on a five footed bicycle hand tractor with ornamental pigeon feathers extraordinary antler and moose bear teeth laughing…w

Fudgy: Yeah man thanks, I’m glad you dig what’s Ize be writin now. I gotta go though.

The anger will go away soon, and then I won’t feel anything, and the poisonous gas that seeps through will die in the lonely circles I walk by night. It was a blue gleaning night that shone in the moniverous teeth of the square box of blue light thudding patiently at my hair that is uncombed but the scared out of mind talk wastes me away it controls the center core of my heart and deceit ensures corruption I guess the mirror bends my face into your heart that thigh of yours touching my back and then the sound it erased me like graphite from a piece of left-tenant thick leather bound disarray where the many soldiers bled gory snow red it ran thick with the atomic tears lastly you left me in the fingernail licked away from the flower of the garden of holocaust. In thin air skies poured onion rings pig skin limpid nodes felt the pain of your hate hate that’s what you believe you don’t believe in anyone but that’s why you have nothing that’s why you are no-one that’s why you disgust yourself in the ashen smear of tear faded skin rose red the last wisps of factory smog like excretion hung upside down in the eternal murder of fear that locks up cages where pig faced dogs walk in the fire red hellish blur that thinly melts describes murder of crows suicidal nose with launch of white lines blow coke the leftish hand dragged across grey brittle asphalt as they pulled him from the car to the hospital. The hate woman wept…

Fudgy: You spill the gasoline on your open heart surgery and spontaneously combust. I’m running out of love, I’m running out of care, the dust is looking quite beautiful in the blur of the winter that spilt ashes lonely through no-one who cares but the Love it dies slowly fades like an molten flower into the mush of rot and dies like when an old cow walks too far and suddenly his heart explodes through his chest the way the wolves with sheep skin talk to you in their comforting remnant of lie that you define deluded to yourself as concern but no-one knows you because I am nobody now. Whatever, Tom.

Mr. Nalt: The synapses of slugs on razor brain snails waver the risks and admit one to self defeat the crushed egg head once spoke so free but now is her mushy nothingness. I wasn’t hinting at anyone burn me at the basement through a hearth chest let my heart be like a spore that infects the world and unties it’s longing in noose like torment the clamped down brain structure pried together with hammers plastic melted over her eyes and then nothing left behind the fake googly eyes she talks a nonsense and the weird impetuous flow withers like the last of a dead snakeskin on the side of the road where the cold highway is pulling the sand from his ocean salt thimble tips and it was nowhere that he stood in the whining face of black fires misery in the shadow place lingering through a blue cloud of holograph in his mirror eyes the incandescent turnstile pills of fearless hate thinned the rest of the martyr shame blood that wiped away the distress of the badly tanned skin from the yellow toothed ugly woman and the burning book murmur of the palpitating swerving nightshade that thinks tomorrow everlasting will save the misery of the poison of the gaseous leak of your supposed Christmas day. You ran in your eyes to lie.
Fudgy: I did no sort of thing buster but the twitching epileptic man servant thrusting his rubber arm towards the yellow toothed ugly woman spoke in a gravity like loud voice.
A fatherless boy found out alone poor as pity in the streets that could deprive the young lad of a meal but a tap on the shoulder, the old man gave him a bag of lentils a bowl of soup and a couple nights in an inn for the hope that somehow the young chap might find a way back out of his confused madness. You got to help the young ones out now and again ya know. He walked with a limp the young boy guess his Irish father drank too much hit him in the corner of the elbow threw him across the room where the peeled orange nose of the pit bull growled and moaned hungry as a hog waiting for the morning feed. It all riled out of him and the pig faced slob drooling out the puke in the morning noticed his son was gone, so he gathered up his hobo suit spattered his face with some charcoal paste to look more pitiable and ran like one runs the marathon race, slowly but perpetually, a strange sight to see, an old drunk running at 6 in the morning still half limeyed from the booze hounding, he’d been anguished with, in the hang over conformity. There he chased along down them train tracks where’d the young punk go this time he got his old belt and beaten eyes leering around lookin’ like a predator stalks its prey, but he was gone, and gone for good the boy never came back after that brutal beatin’. But the old man saw him there in the distant city he’d hopped a train to ride through the dirt worm farmers fields where barley and corn grew and the hops factory passed pumpin’ out steam and fog from the mire of the working class haze that shivered like a tobacco lung chortled and spat and coughed out the pghlem and carried on shaking up the wet paint cans till the rain fell and the sky turned red from october’s dead leaves. The boy standin’ there always searchin’ for work with his torn hat, a mouse eaten through, stood like a dejected peg legged sailor with nothing left but the one bottle of rum and a cheap pack a smokes, ya know. The old man saw the young fella lookin quite down on his ways all bent through and through quite pathetically and he offered to put him up for a few nights at the local hotel. The boy accepted with a glint of real true sincere joy in his eyes and they both went then and had a warm bowl of lamb stew at the house of the bartenders before the couple nights in the inn. Really the old man just wanted to see if the boy was really good hearted enough to work up the steam to be a mail delivery runner, with a heavy bag it could be hard work and if the boy was liable to betray some real kind hearted folk then they’d better off be searching for someone else, but no the boy remained quite considerate, even offering to clean the dishes after the humble meal. So he tested him out, observed him as though he were just gonna help him out this once, but what he saw softened his heart, the boy upon finding the old mans wallet on the ground handed it back to him, with the sincerity and true concern one rarely finds in an individual. That astounded the old man, so he told the boy to sit up with him and old grand mama, as he called the bartender woman, and told him that he’s long ago been a father of five young uns not unlike the little boy himself, and he handed him a grey mail bag and told him with a proud look as though he were his father himself that he’d like the young chap to stay on and live with full room and board, as well as an allowance if he did some daily mail deliveries and picked up the milk for old grand mama, the bartender. The entire scene seemed so beautiful to the young chap that the boy excitedly leapt to his feet and made for the stairs preparing his new home. What a relief after that miserable hell of a life with his brutal alkey of a father who was still back there, rolling around in his own puke, spending his own father’s inheritance on prostitutes. The young chap was free of the diseased alkey of a man, and now had a new chance.
personality completely and begin really living the way God intended all of us to live but for now here I am stuck in my imperfect form writing away in that same whole hearted way I am trippin out really the whole green universe is colliding in the omniscient sway of the eggy eyes in the newborn life I believe in that will be born from my flesh into the new world and all life will come together as one peaceful hope in the reverential worship and I will thus be free then to expand outwards into infinite far beyond the deluded lies of these pages that ramble and mix reality with delusion and hardly represent the reality of me the true self.

Black Apple: The Universe in its wire connected madness is not collapsible. It is formed piece by piece perfectly stranded together by the Love of God. I Love Jehovah and I write for healing purposes or whatever happens to pour out of me in the disconnected order-less shapes of the Olanzapine creations. It is like being free to write these words because I do not have to breathe thought into them, they just appear and disappear all making some subtle inflections and delusional disconnections for whatever reason and then gone again in the perpetual madness of it all it cannot be corrupted by the insincerity of worldly desire because my words are not defined by the set category of the intellectual with it’s godless viewpoint, nor are they defined by the worldly viewpoint with its succession of judgements on my particular belief system this being the Jehovah’s Witness organization. It is of no interest to anyone then but to me to write these words and they become like a startling awakening of my mind that thrive in the wild meanderings of my soul that I sift through the darkness and the light filled corridors and I stumble backwards through the hidden hallways and the kidnapped trunks of my secret self that slinks throughout the words in the hidden shapes all colliding like colour if it were definable by mathematics in the numeric syllable the brain synapses equations confuse and distort my own sense and then clarify and revert back to the original form but it is not to any particular personal gain as my wording is to obscure for one to connect into any sort of real understanding. I could not even understand my own writing, it is not meant to be understood, it is just meant to be existent and through its existence it is meant to be discovered as though it were:

A fatherless boy found out alone poor as pity in the streets that could deprive the young lad of a meal but a tap on the shoulder, the old man gave him a bag of lentils a bowl of soup and a couple nights in an inn for the hope that somehow the young chap might find a way back out of his confused madness. You got to help the young ones out now and again ya know. He walked with a limp the young boy guess his Irish father drank too much hit him in the corner of the elbow threw him across the room where the peeled orange nose of the pit bull growled and moaned hungry as a hog waiting for the morning feed. It all riled out of him and the pig faced slob drooling out the puke in the morning noticed his son was gone, so he gathered up his hobo suit spattered his face with some charcoal paste to look more pitiable and ran like one runs the marathon race, slowly but perpetually, a strange sight to see, an old drunk running at 6 in the morning still half limeyed from the booze hounding, he’d been anguished with, in the hang over conformity. There he chased along down them train tracks where’d the young punk go this time he got his old belt and beaten eyes leering around lookin’ like a predator stalks its prey, but he was gone, and gone for good the boy never came back after that brutal beatin’. But the old man saw him there in the distant city he’d hopped a train to ride through the dirt worm farmers fields where barley and corn grew and the hops factory passed pumpin’ out steam and fog from the mire of the working class haze that shivered like a tobacco lung chortled and spat and coughed out the pghlem and carried on shaking up the wet paint cans till the rain fell and the sky turned red from october’s dead leaves. The boy standin’ there always searchin’ for work with his torn hat, a mouse eaten through, stood like a dejected peg legged sailor with nothing left but the one bottle of rum and a cheap pack a smokes, ya know. The old man saw the young fella lookin quite down on his ways all bent through and through quite pathetically and he offered to put him up for a few nights at the local hotel. The boy accepted with a glint of real true sincere joy in his eyes and they both went then and had a warm bowl of lamb stew at the house of the bartenders before the couple nights in the inn. Really the old man just wanted to see if the boy was really good hearted enough to work up the steam to be a mail delivery runner, with a heavy bag it could be hard work and if the boy was liable to betray some real kind hearted folk then they’d better off be searching for someone else, but no the boy remained quite considerate, even offering to clean the dishes after the humble meal. So he tested him out, observed him as though he were just gonna help him out this once, but what he saw softened his heart, the boy upon finding the old mans wallet on the ground handed it back to him, with the sincerity and true concern one rarely finds in an individual. That astounded the old man, so he told the boy to sit up with him and old grand mama, as he called the bartender woman, and told him that he’s long ago been a father of five young uns not unlike the little boy himself, and he handed him a grey mail bag and told him with a proud look as though he were his father himself that he’d like the young chap to stay on and live with full room and board, as well as an allowance if he did some daily mail deliveries and picked up the milk for old grand mama, the bartender. The entire scene seemed so beautiful to the young chap that the boy excitedly leapt to his feet and made for the stairs preparing his new home. What a relief after that miserable hell of a life with his brutal alkey of a father who was still back there, rolling around in his own puke, spending his own father’s inheritance on prostitutes. The young chap was free of the diseased alkey of a man, and now had a new chance.

The way my words write are much like some sort of predictable story of redemption, but there ain’t nothing wrong with that is there?

Mr. Nalt: No, I don’t think there is Black Apple. That’s a good story, I wonder if anyone’ll ever read it then? As well, if they don’t then it don’t mean much to me, and probably less to you. Anyways I much enjoyed the good story, it seemed real hearty like, like you could relate to the little boy all out there on his own with no-one, everyone having left him, and then with the blessing of that old man, what a lovely story, it just warms the cockles of the heart don’t it. I just felt like the Irish accent was obligatory.

Fudgy: Yeah man, that was pretty sweet of the old man to act so kindly to the young chap, I think anyone with half a heart could relate to such a story. It is very predictable though, but that is to be expected considering the subject matter. I thought it was kind of funny that you stated that the grand mamma was the bartender but maybe it was due to poetic licence I don’t know. Anyways aside from your repeating that grand mamma was a bartender I really liked the story. Isn’t there something you could do about that?

Black Apple: Well I thought about it, but really I am quite happy the way it looks, you know with the shape of the whole story, the way it fits the page, so I think I will leave it in, because it seems to be a major part of the flow of the story. I wonder if anyone will read it. I suppose it would require them to get past the part that almost everyone in the world would want to skip, that being the part about Jehovah, but if they were able to get past that they’d find a Lovely little gem of a story, that stands out sweet and refreshing in such a strange drugged out trip of a book of near nonsense. One thing I should remember is that if I do in the end decided to throw this entire book and all it’s pages across the ground scattering them and then rearranging them as they fall I should make a point of keeping this one part together, because it is quite consistent in that sense.

Ground Lamb Man: Well thankyou Black Apple for such a nice little story, it was very much enjoyed. I hope you have a nice evening and a good rest. Thanks!!!

Fudgy: I awoke clasping in the arm chair eyesight the dead cat lay in his late well endowed grave. He was a good cat, a good boy, the skies were busy degrading the forest filled with grieving I can’t starkly waste this Life any loathsome moment ever more changing. Good bye, he turned in insidious fear the lamb roast shearing through the bicuspid voices ritalyn in origin. The mercury moon of sour milk coerced the darkness like moths to the 20 watt that hung some five feet above with the beaded pull chord that shut me off. In the crust of the earth I fried the bread basket hypothermic blue in the kidney spoon spilling the beans altering the transgressors monotony with humbling wooden fingers tapping rashly in the attic at the roof of our wire ears the long salvia current led chord like through the omniverse that emitted neon laser beams through his heart. The clouds filled with thawing earth crumbled like dried fruitcake from the face of a large stubbly schizophrenics face. That the universe had begun only for him, seemed a strange answer to the deplorable dilemma un-answerable in his mild opinion. Strawberry.

The old man was 300 light years from manitoulin island
where the green river bent itself through a black fire wisp
It lined itself in the curtains of shapes illusively lurking
in the waxing and the waning of the implicit thimble that
split the curvature of the earth and hurtled through asteroids

by the window in the candle lit the fireplace show
where the silhouette hung upside narrow wicked in the cinders

by the snow was the questioning air of the post-mans glare.

The cars awoke from the sleepless dreams and drifted into space

the highways elongated wandered in the weight of the blue mirror that hides
the suggestive enduring green river through the moustache lung that acquiesced

through the swerve groove flow between the light and the cold a snakeskin turkey
from Chernobyl. It wasn’t long before then, that the clouded out eyes seeped in poultry

cried by chopped onions through the affirmations before long lasting contours
that shaped the way for longing in the desert of red light ambulance trees

the darkness that shone umbilical chord miracle song was lifted in

white empty cloud mercury ash a glass with milk mixed with

words that shuttled throughout like worms chewing glass to the potash
here they burst like grey pink colours lazing in the French waves of undulating Lover.

If any more was wrote it startled to take the elbow was worn in the burnt out red eye

that scarred with life loss defeated and devoured the last tulip standing in gardenias river

where the glass slipper it shook off feet fell into a window murky like the tips of water hearts:

the nine times out of urn were the grass bear chewed on horse that teethed out it’s
final requiem heart beat by beat the neon iguana blue bloodied skin pump attached

like the talons of an fastidious eagle that lithe in his stride conquered as he dived
reckless like a drunk with gas poured onto his thumb from the pump a lighter

fluid bump and the whole dump effaced into oblivion like the whales that swam

after me down that green river where I refused to breathe…
and I burnt the skin singed it thin red line green yellow scab stuck out the nucleus of

one new born eye has begun the process beyond without logic to threaten extinction.

The aquarium taste was ocean green brine that listlessly dripped into umbrella shaped

raped rain drops that fell tinkling across sketchy albatross wings that the green river

whistled through the glass slipper that fell spinning away counter-clockwise suddenly reversing transmuting it’s rays:

Through the blue green shade of the ectoplasm shade lay like miasma faced apes
with a thud
it crushed the darkness shapes entirely

and it convoluted carried the kitchenette accessories through the tip of the

water hearts france made wide open through red incandescent light bulbs

where nothing but pains through the green river window pane could malt them feathers
in silent axioms which I do no longer believe to be anything.

The meaningless fear trees built on pornography waving their nooses round about the

green river floating beside me. I do not turn into that throat cut show where the beggars
are rich, wealthy with their poison seed doubt disease. It turned open

that the wispy dust of the grey folded crown of the rubber chicken that hung in omniverse

light through the sky sobbing like raindrops making executions. Whatever, Tom.

Mr. Nalt: That was a bunch of pretentious smash buckling jazz bag gland grabbing garbage he sat in his upper therapeutic massage tree that smelt like old carpets musty from squat life where the cigarette always burnt in the porcelain shape of frail falsified innocence that remained lockjaw rabid as a wolf in caribous season rugby playing modulations of fat squeezed latex cubes. You don’t make much sense old home slice.

Fudgy: Ya, you putrid trump card that sold for infinite cents squandered off at the local mausoleum for a few dollars cent of a quarter. The entire quince flavoured jam session was carp laden throughout the entire earthenware shaken but still remainin’ and he walked out there old grand mama, the bartender and handed out milk bags like dollar daze dime bags, in the caution yellow arrow dripping with poison you were well warned he said in a magnificent low buttressed with roast lamb belch. I concealed the churned butter agreement that whisked its half frozen yolks like dice on a roulette table through my hag heavy head that blistered incest the pain of the filth and the dirt. We are all just dirt.

Mr. Nalt: Get over yourself homeslice, the tree ain’t cut till it’s lopped off all its branch wings that slay unicyclists in the bi-polar transvestite bathroom club. It ran away…

Black Apple: What’s you be sayin’ I’se been down in the under garment areas of the felt path through the treacherous highway of the pulsating orb that through hopeless fear quietly closed it’s heart and closed it’s door forever, but that’s not true, they worked it out. You just wanted some poetic license to pollute the semiotic corpuscle of blood that arrived perennially at the brink of fazed out oblique glass blue and two mirrors split like razor light through the laser tongue talking green apple down sighing on the backwards tree with roots stuck up in the sky it’s nervy brain branches bending to the starlit orchid night that upon nuanced organic clutter began to burn cycle stress free cooking books floating now in the distance with all of the other Hitler book burnings and the backwards tree reached up into the Orion nebulae, to the black dwarf and dropped into the glass slipper a shoe that spilt blood as it toppled over nations.

Fudgy: It was all continuous they said but really it just appeared one day burning like a cigarette through the simple skin of the table made of crushed mugged noses I know it was cold out there but I don’t need to remember the false places the diseased faces their lies because I am one step farther ahead then they were one step behind me.

Mr. Nalt: It ain’t easy bei’n as dumb as you Fudgy, you can’t even write a decent story all your rambling adds up to nothing and means nothing more then empty headed reasoning’s raisin loaf and buttered toast with the cheese factory broiling right in front of the blood orange sparkling teeth that when excavated from the tomb of memory are decisively erased and replaced with hair pins so perfectly placed in their confusing mis- match disarray. My poor cat died today, but the medication takes all my feeling away.

Ground Lamb Man: I know by the principles I’ve learned in the bible that things will work out if I continue in the way it teaches me. So it goes I carry on like this through the word wisdom and understanding growing strong like a forest through the trees are all the encapsulated photographs of memory that torture me. All the evil that I’ve seen that still haunts me, remaining their like an execution in my heart. The murderous tinge to everything, even though now I am morally clean I cannot take back the disease of yesteryear. It is like a perpetual surrounding that comes evil in it’s sin and shamefully grins at me as I stumble through the open doors of life sinking my own battleship as I waste away these days in this laissez faire dreamy languishing turtle on a rock with teeth prepared for protection and thick green shell persuading the loneliest eye to leave me alone and I drift through the green river now like winter drifts through the seasonal shift of the paradigm benign defection. The mutiny already placing back hours even days by the time shift that split the two mirrors razor like through the non laser beam orb light that skewed each reflection and transferred the energy of each word in a backwards sort through the sense expressed by cognitive distortion that bled its words backwards through my heavy head that carries the words of these tiles that are so carefully aligned like stars in the sky against one another, side by side the shapes mixing and bending the grain of wheat is slipping through the sandy eye that levitates a dark wave that hallucinates the ethereal shifting air brain that dust opulent thorny bug biting like one eats the skin of dried lip as it falls away into the oblique dust matter soon to be replaced with the rehashed and the reiterated. I conform to this conflux of imagery in the head pain daze that thinks for me each word another valium maybe but the sky cannot iodize the blood berry tree hung from the flesh flower ham that has soured in the murky pale of her glaucoma eyeball, the merciless scythe of age after her tracking the pin shaped eye-sockets with one fear and we drift by the word death because it creates confusion even fear no-one left remaining in the hubris of the defeated. Words are barely anything.

This quieted the clam shell crew down and silenced their strange calls for help I nubile and alive threw away my old shape and discarded the face of disgusted self hate into disgrace where the darker particles massed as one and deceived the entire earth, the planet it runs wandering through this valley of grey pebbles I recognize that I am no more then a grey pebble I cannot feel, nor can I touch another soul in this place this strange landscape, the grey pebbles are like me, they are practically nothing they were born from mountains. They are practically nothing they will return to dust, just like me. I am an unremarkable shape like grey pebbles cannot feel each other I cannot even while breathing or farting, or sighing or crying be anything beyond what I am. I am much like these grey pebbles, these connect the dots bodies defused by millions of years of degradation eroding slowly from mountain to kickable sand, I am not dead like sand but I am not alive like the Mountains, I am fading once a mountain now a grey pebble without feeling with my existence barely connected to the loose strands of grey pebble string around me but we are all nothing rooted from a flaw in this way we have nothing but our own disappointment to answer to as the sirens call. It is not unlike being a hospital.

Mr. Nalt: That was fine, you just had to go on and on with your depressing gloop didn’t you, I can’t stand your garbagey writing style, you’re like a bad poet who just won’t stop after the third line of a haiku. You’re the worst writer I’ve ever read in my life Fudgy, why don’t you just quit, because it doesn’t matter about you or me, we are as you said just like grey pebbles, so get over it, you fool.

Fudgy: Yes, I suppose you are right about that Mr. Nalt, I have been very pretentious and not facetious enough I should write in a manner that is better and more pleasing to you. I continue on and I will stop talking the way you don’t want me to talk, and I will speak in a manner fitting to the way you desire me to speak. I will give up on my previous self, and give myself completely over to you. I will allow you to abuse me with your insults forever and ever, because I am just a pretentious old sod undeserving of anyone. Especially not someone so gracious and kind and honest as you Mr. Nalt.

Mr. Nalt: Well you’ll never become as good as me, at poetry. He laughed at me, at that point the universe collapsed once more in it’s all predictable doom and gloom sort of roll your eyes kinda way and then we began at the beginning again with the same poem that I wrote as first probably the last poem I wrote as second, it was strange to see the two of them bartering with each other’s egos about nothingness. It really added up to nothing.

The parka was Eskimo made but donated by the night sky is the clam shell crew wading

through the green river that was slow and obviously sick of the cool damp softness of Love that threatened it’s end so semi-permanently until the semi- permanent clown-skin wore off and fell haphazardly to the torn earth the ripped up sod where the animals had trod their miner coal teeth through. A definite escape from reality:

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die(Thus I took my first seroquel. The vhs player seemed to be distorted, it was faster then I thought. I feel nubm in the 23rd century. The stress channel is fading away, static exhibits itself like a thousand ritalyn voices. The neutral zone. I feel nothing, no emotion at all. My brain is a security camera. Damage report. I am dead or missing in action. How we deal with death. I feel like a tomb or a simulation of one. It is contrived to be dead, it is obtuse. Love is insane I cannot pay attention to anything. It’s not my birthday, it is my momentary funeral. I am growing into my womb. I am not yet conceived. I have a brain, it is transmuting into nothing. I do not care if anyone Love’s me because I am dead.)

like grey pebbles cannot
feel each other, I cannot

even while touching emotion
feel. Observing emotion like

a computer is hopeless. I

am like nothing, like
the space between I and

am. I am free as I am trapped (Is there meaning to a lie? Or is a lie just the same but opposite as the truth? Is reality anti- gravity is gravity an apple? Two leeches in a flesh cup a black space. Filthy dirt. The hate is dirt it is ugly it is a worm in a scar a bleeding eyeball of orb. The black orb with a white eye, it is hate. The pupil is red and ether is shifting a mercurial evil, a hazy nothingness of skin cells and brain tissue.)I am dead as I am alive. My heart is a window:

pharmaceutical storm
is flushing red like My
humiliation. I mean nothing.

I am nothing, yet I think.
I am overturning the infinite glow

huddled together in clown-skin.
I whimper pathetically like a dog
chewing on it’s masters shoes,

hopeless as anti-septic. My Love (whis-
pers)is like Me. I am hidden inner bleeding.
A slippery vasectomy implodes hopefulight

as rain. I want to feel Love. I don’t feel Love, I don’t feel hate.

I am crying, My left eye is dry y
I am quietly displayed as a seroquel doll
in tin gun hospital officer talk.

I mean only the ink on chicken paper
tastes like garlic fear. I am nonsense,

if I am only a divorcee
then I am dead, normal
as a dishwasher with food
smudges like birthmarks.

(2)

People appear like fog (fingernail flower
psychiatric doctor
discouraging moth
eats fingernail flower

Mortuary mortar a
tactless continuum
eggy mental illness
menstruates zebra there is ing or
errors in everyth…). I can remember their faces fade
like sunlight blotches the eyes.

(3)

“What happened to my mind?”,
the trees seem to as(h)k.
I am white/black lifeless

red leather and diamond eyes Open

to what? He had no idea, it didn’t matter anymore to him anyways so he continued carrying on the green river drowned out like a bad racist joke in the slur of drunken speech as the idiots sipped on their druggie teas and pretended to understand the universe with such great complexity. They explain before every racist joke, I don’t hate black people, I just hate everyone. They make their half-hearted shots at the aboriginals. O we were a disappointment they said and then it is gone like so many things are gone, after the time escapes them and latches on narrow minded urine stained ugly jean faced men with their tongues licking at the white icing sugar crack fix eyes that scantily clad sell themselves to any passer by. But money is no object for the poor and the prostitute, they wait there as the young boys father squanders the last of his inheritance on prostitutes and alcohol. It’s the middle of the night the young chap ain’t eaten in weeks it seems, all in his mind though and it stumbled back across the cold shifts of the green sky that waged war like some strange priest hood the deliverance brought the dead to fire they always cast the good in the flames, the good and the innocent to the dry skull place where the rest of the universe held fast in it’s collapsible waste. The plastic alarm case that rang and rang, waiting for the end of a distance like that of a fat elephant losing it’s calories by the hour in the dime store cloud floating by the giraffe smoked cigarettes for hours desperately finalizing her plans for escape as the chain bobbed back and forth in the distant thunder star raging against the glue like essence within the tarpaulin blue and ague teal ties that float down the river disappearing through the darkest carp in its belly held entire ancient civilizations skeletal structure was made of balsamic rice vinegar meal that was fed on occasion to fishless stomach cars that automated the electric exurbanite of octagon hide.

Mr. Nalt: Hey that’s where I originate!!! Fudgy you ain’t so bad today, I think you’re finally kinda bending my way to the sense stream that oxidized through the nostril claw.

Fudgy: Yeah man thanks, I’m glad you dig what’s Ize be writin now. I gotta go though.

The anger will go away soon, and then I won’t feel anything, and the poisonous gas that seeps through will die in the lonely circles I walk by night. It was a blue gleaning night that shone in the omnivorous teeth of the square box of blue light thudding patiently at my hair that is uncombed but the scared out of mind talk wastes me away it controls the center core of my heart and deceit ensures corruption I guess the mirror bends my face into your heart that thigh of yours touching my back and then the sound it erased me like graphite from a piece of left tenant thick leather bound disarray where the many soldiers bled gory snow red it ran thick with the atomic tears lastly you left me in the fingernail licked away from the flower of the garden of holocaust. In thin air skies poured onion rings pig skin limpid nodes felt the pain of your hate, hate that’s what you believe you don’t believe in anyone but that’s why you have nothing that’s why you are no-one that’s why you disgust yourself in the ashen smear of tear faded skin rose red the last wisps of factory smog like excretion hung upside down in the eternal murder of fear that locks up cages where pig faced dogs walk in the fire red hellish blur that thinly melts describes murder of crows suicidal nose with launch of white lines blow coke the leftish hand dragged across grey brittle asphalt as they pulled him from the car to the hospital. The hate woman wept…

Fudgy: You spill the gasoline on your open heart surgery and spontaneously combust. I’m running out of love, I’m running out of care, the dust is looking quite beautiful in the blur of the winter that spilt ashes lonely through no-one who cares but the Love it dies slowly fades like an molten flower into the mush of rot and dies like when an old cow walks to far and suddenly his heart explodes through his chest the way the wolves with sheep skin talk to you in their comforting remnant of lie that you define deluded to yourself as concern but no-one knows you because I am nobody now. Whatever, Tom.

Mr. Nalt: The synapses of slugs on razor brain snails waver the risks and admit one to self defeat the crushed egg head once spoke so free but now is her mushy nothingness. I wasn’t hinting at anyone burn me at the basement through a hearth chest let my heart be like a spore that infects the world and unties it’s longing in noose like torment the clamped down brain structure pried together with hammers plastic melted over her eyes and then nothing left behind the fake googly eyes she talks a nonsense and the weird impetuous flow withers like the last of a dead snakeskin on the side of the road where the cold highway is pulling the sand from his ocean salt thimble tips and it was nowhere that
he stood in the whining face of black fires misery in the shadow place lingering through a blue cloud of holograph in his mirror eyes the incandescent turnstile pills of fearless hate thinned the rest of the martyr shame blood that wiped away the distress of the badly tanned skin from the yellow toothed ugly woman and the burning book murmur of the palpitating swerving nightshade that thinks tomorrow everlasting will save the misery of the poison of the gaseous leak of your supposed Christmas day. You ran in your eyes to lie.

the unduly presence of Mr. Nalt himself arriving late of
course he speaks, how’s the Olanzapine? I took
another Olanzapine. It seems to relax me, but still I’m trippin’

out an Orangeman arm length. We all, all all are allowed to
think, breathe speak, communicate verbally, but still I’m trippin’

like a worm slit open with all it’s innards in a Petri dish. I was an

odd child down the green river often. I feel numb all over like I sleep
a trillion sheep pigeons eating cranberry sauce with Chaucer and Yeats.

The words have been bled into meat. A predictable

kosher un-strangulated meat. The popular supermarket brand. It really sounds like the coke head singing Christmas songs on the radio is dead. Picking at the dry skin on my lip it is dead men ringing in my ears. That’s all I am Tom Prime.

A Dead llama lookin’ up at the hidden shroud of moon-figure longs for me but she hides her love in anger. Aww!!! I’m spaced out and I have to go pee…

Chapter 5:

With that the day extended itself so strange like a manta ray liquefied by neon starlight. The roof of my white room with green stripes is coated in green plastic acorns. I’m just going to ramble now about nothingness. Into the elsewhere as you scintillate in the after party for the moody blues it isn’t anyone not a kid it’s just locked indignant in the position of power intravenous beggars falling rain in the wheat loaves of saturated olives in an aloe coat kings of the ground accept defeat it always fails. This is stupid I want to write something that makes sense. It really doesn’t matter though, it’s not like I’ll ever get published or my work will ever succeed, it’s just not good enough. One has to talk about nipples and robots, about futuristic aliens, and werewolves. You have to be dumb like the world to get published by the world. I guess we could offer ourselves to the frilly lameness of modern poetry and it’s boo hoo pretentiousness making abstract allusions to Oedipus. I don’t understand it though, all of its grasps for fame and glory, fortune and glory as Indiana Jones says. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to want (being a writer),

we are human filled with regret but pretending to be above our own regret. We strive to be above what we cannot possibly comprehend. We are stumbling over our own desires in the face of our ego that speaks lies to define itself as being un-stumbled. We only have our distorted mirrors of thought that without guidance can justify anything at all. Life is not some modern proverb, it is not what we’re used to saying, it is not free of imperfection. We are human made of doubt and dust, breathing now, but until when? So they shut their books with the wisdom of fools and speak the quotations, compare and contrast, who is better then who, which one will be rich, which one will be poor, all of it is just chasing after wind. The wind wins. You may writhe like a worm in the filth of your wealth, or starve like a pigeon eating cigarette butts, bitter in the empty pockets, but you will never ever win chasing after the wind. Death is an enemy some befriend because they find it comforting, but only God can erase death. You can try to fill your pockets with gold, but dust is what death makes you. You can try to compare and contrast, who is better then who, but all of them like you are human. It is of no concern what the poor one does, or what the rich one does, if it is for the glorification of oneself. It is of no concern if the wealthiest man gave it all to one man of little means for the beautification of his soul. Wealth and poverty are the same thing in the sense that we are all bound to this flesh and its perpetual finality. Until god breaks that chain we are all of equal means. We have life and then we lose life. We are human, and then we are dead. Death is nothingness. We cannot comprehend death because we cannot comprehend life. We are too foolish to really understand anything but what is taught us. So the books I write, the songs I play, they all add up to nothing. What good does a song do when I’m dead. It might affect another but what greatest achievement would it ever bring, maybe a smile, a tear? Art is just an excuse to escape death. We all hope to be remembered as the artist type goes, Joyce Carol Oates said “Everything he writes is consigned to posterity.”. We write to be remembered, we write to be written about, we write because we cannot help it, we write because we do not want to be forgotten. We write because we want to understand, but what we understand is fleeting like chasing after the wind. It’s as though we grasp for the air and in our minds for a moment we have something but it is truly all in our minds. The words may be good, you could call them genius if you please, but genius is just another word for the ego to believe. What is the interest in all of this compare and contrast, this use of words to describe life, why do we not just turn into blue birds build a nest at some great height? I really don’t understand the human mind, but I do understand that I am very different then I used to be thanks to God. I continue on writing then. I continue on changing then, and this book will be written as I’m sure many more will be after this one, but I like you, like everyone am human. I will never be anything more then human. I must try not to be stumbled by the desires of man, with its self- worship, its famous art circles with the men smoking cigarettes, the women speaking of abstraction, and the post- modernist’s sneering in the corner. Mankind is like two men in a room, with a curtain blocking the other from seeing the other. They speak to each other, but they each have decided that each one is better then the other. So they spend their whole lives there speaking condescendingly to one another, rebuking, and reviling, arguing, and humiliating. Always struggling for superiority talking to one another without ever seeing one another, without ever knowing even themselves, only justifying themselves, puffing themselves up like penguins without a female mate to fight for. Alone and defeated but never admitting this, never showing weakness, continuing on
like this before, it took me awhile to change my words and to open my heart a bit more to escape the perpetual degradation of my Love for Katie by projecting my true feelings of anger and resentment towards others onto her. I am sure that I have feelings that are not perfectly Loving towards her as well that need to be dealt with but most definitely she is not deserving of a lot of the things I spoke of her but maybe it set me free in a way to really get to the core of my true feelings. I do believe that many of my expressions are reaching towards another to get a better understanding of myself. The main purpose of good writing I believe is to get to the true core of the self. If we continue glaring lustfully at the body then the writing continues to appear egotistically and with less the quality then before. I can’t stand this guy talking to himself perpetually it is so annoying and obnoxious. I just want to write in a place by myself in a room but I cannot afford a computer so I must continue writing my book in the welfare office, and then the other half in the library while I have to listen to the annoying rambling of this guy talking to himself as if anyone cares, maybe he actually thinks someone is listening. Maybe he is like me, and actually thinks that anyone will ever read this. Maybe I am like him with my self-important rambling on and on that will never be published and will probably never be read but why do I keep bringing this up if it doesn’t mean anything to me? So, obviously I am in denial and actually want to get published but am egotistically preparing myself for rejection because the tenderness of my heart is easily torn apart. My constant emphasis on the apparent “fact” that I don’t care if anyone reads this proves to me that I do care and that I do want to find some sort of artistic prominence so that I can live more comfortably. I also do believe that my art does matter to me in some way, in a fleeting way but in a way that I feel of some importance. I feel like I want this book to be published but that it probably won’t be published because of the nature of my belief system. It is the fact that I really do have faith in something not socially acceptable that pulls me away from the possibility of being published. So it is a fight for me, should I hide my true faith in pursuit of monetary publication, or should I just express my feelings entirely and allow my words to form whatever meaning that they do and if the world accepts it or not let it be what it is, Free. I have decided to allow my art to be as free as I am capable of letting it to be in my imperfect egotistical form, this means that I will, despite worldly pressure express my faith in Jehovah God, as well express my true feelings about personal matters with both my wife and my family and her family, as well express my true feelings about my own self that may in reality be egotistical but by expressing them I will allow myself to return once more to the core of myself. Finding the core of the self is the true pursuit of the artist. The core of the self is what is free. Thus there is a lot of beating around the bush so to speak when concerning the difference between egotism and the true self. It is the perpetual fight of the artist, the ego versus the true self. Often times the ego distracts one from the true self, but if truly honest one can break through that wall and overcome any doubt created by the ego and create quality art. The creation of quality art does not make a good person but it does come from a momentarily honest person. Bad art so often expressed comes from the ego and that floods the airwaves, pollutes the ink on the page, and is highly popular in this equally flawed and egotistical society. The man though carries on talking very loudly calling attention to himself with an authoritative tone tearing apart paper as if it makes sense and I’m sure it does but honestly why must he speak so over-blaringly loud. I have to listen to this man with his grating voice driving like nails through my mind as everyone dotes

cranberry cause but reads something else that I can not describe through the simple logical form of words. There is no pre destination, these words will be what they are based solely on what they appear to be, they come from the uncontrollable synapses of my brainwaves microwave into oblivion in the word ugly I do discover behind the lies a sense of security knowing each word is not any more then that which was and will always be just a word. It means nothing more then the whitest sky filled with purple neon orb ovulating in the zebra tongues rhinoceros.

Fudgy: I ain’t no fake I just resist the irate temptation of the blue nostrilled Ivy league bunch that after much occupation continue on in their ionized gratuitous anomaly.

Black Apple: We met out there in the waterless regions I recall and that is where we found the very core of red leather and diamond eyes open to nothing more then the desire to believe in something that was at that same moment being raped of all its beauty. I hated that I even bothered including the words of Love at the end of that poem meaning only that she had used me up as one uses an old cassette tape until it runs muted and rough crackly and then thrown away like the separation mistake of our bodies that thread together so perfectly in this beautiful synchronistic silence we remained as one person interconnected by the very structure of our shapes enflamed with passion the heart thudded and remained attached into one shape like the sky is attached to the earth in the same sense air is attached to our hearts.

Issac Asimov: Those were the days, the best of days, when we would walk with large white shingles down the electric eel eyed window shade beach of festering yellow excretion goo into the slippery vasectomy where all hope was cut off and the degraded soul left out there in the cold hopeless night walked home dried up of all inspiration by the mcdonalds confines the punishing glances of the waves of cigarette allure smoking like lust through the eyes of discontent. I was mad then and still am, of course to a lesser extent. I think at some point beyond the spasmodic expression of these few pages I will live in harmony with her once more, but until then I must skew my thoughts in this wide open eye of filtering thought patterns sub conscious realizations that once expressed fade dissipate I do not remember what they mean only that they have been and it carries quite well through the last words in the paragraphs.

Fudgy: The condescending old man standing with his finger in the electric outlet hair pressed to the sky like cumulus clouds in the night the way an airplane wings lights red and bright yellow fall all over the earth to the crying of the lost dog in the whimpering streets chewing on it’s masters shoes like you Ground Lamb Man. The way we found you out there forgetting the words you’d spoken speaking in silence the signs you spoke were empty and filled with disappointment the ring around the rosy eyed fear widened in the barn side door opened out to the black tar of the asphalt waste moonlit tire torn rubber eye that hung eclipsing moon and star, and night and day until you radiated the nuclear tears the rainy ugly pear shaped scar through the suicide blue lipped sky. It was November. The whole place was tired…

around him like chequered flags encouraging him with smiles and soft docile words but behind that is the annoyance driving like the dull thudding of a finger against ones forehead in elementary school where the others held one down. I heard about that once,
deluded insane, and lost thought to hurt me would somehow strengthen his sense of inner shame. But the spread out world with its perverse burden eats shallow water through the low sink of its own disgusting filth. Until the end of this system of things, this will only worsen with time so do not rely on the empty hearted reasoning’s of the world but rely on the good word of the bible and pray to Jehovah your God.

Fudgy: Wow man you really care about this guy don’t you, I think you represent the side of me that actually has a lot of hope for future things maybe someday I will shed the old personality completely and begin really living the way God intended all of us to live but for now here I am stuck in my imperfect form writing away in that same whole hearted way I am trippin out really the whole green universe is colliding in the omniscient sway of the eggy eyes in the newborn life I believe that will be born from my flesh into the new world and all life will come together as one peaceful hope in the reverential worship and I will thus be free then to expand outwards into infinite far beyond the deluded lies of these pages that ramble and mix reality with delusion and hardly represent the reality of me the true self.

that must have been awful, but I seem to have avoided much of that abuse of bullying by being particularly sneaky. It was actually really fun running around into backyards away from bullies threatening to beat me up. It was like Mission Impossible as I remember telling the next door neighbour about it. I had to escape through the backyards, in the alleyways far removed to get away from the hand of violence. I was a pretty skinny pathetic kind of kid but that’s what I did to get away with my nose running with my feet off through the streets behind the Masonic hall where I’d heard chanting once within the walls late at night. I guess I used to be mildly afraid of the masons, the aliens, the cia, the fbi, and all of that conspiracy theory acid fried crap. It was all so disturbing running like rivers of horse foot glue through my soul slowing my heart down and on occasion bringing me to vague moments of pseudo enlightenment that lasted a few minutes faded and died drifted into sand flooded the rivers of my soul with cough syrup blood with the coke up my nose and the cigarette lungs slowed down and the acid upping the speed of my heart the ketamine knocking me down the heroin pulling me under a carpet filled with nuclear doubt ecstasy pumped me up almost puked drank a big old bottle of whisky stumbled through the streets mdma mushrooms again and then acid like rainstorms of insanity poured light-bulbs undulating starlight through all of this I remained unchanged, always the same but still at the same time ashamed. It was sincerely the stupidest waste of time I have ever experienced in my life. It was a waste of my life. I always truly believed that the drugs were healing me, that all I needed was another hit of acid to become enlightened that coke brought me closer to God or something deluded like that. It was sad really, how pathetic I was. I was so much a disappointment that I became like a strange ghost hugging every tree fading away as my mother said in the acid daze lost in the nonsense words that made no sense to anyone, deluded beyond words, best friends with that black red eyed orb of a different less obvious sense then though. I was pathetic. I actually called myself Rainbow Angel for two years straight. That was perhaps the most embarrassingly insane thing I’ve ever done in my life. That night when I really went nuts, when I took the acid and then I thought God came to me speaking in a tulip about the words of absolutely evil origin that I was supposedly Rainbow Angel and that I had to go calling myself that forever to be strong because I was actually perfect and nobody knew that except for me. That was some whacked out trip filled with foolishness me sitting there naked in front of all my friends playing my guitar and eating an entire tomato, so very sure of myself. It was then that I began to truly notice the ether-like substance of the black red eyed orb. We could all see it then, every one of us on acid could see those orbs, though they have since become one orb. We all called them shams and I truly believed that they came from Saturn to torment us as it says in revelations for 9 months concerning the life span of locusts. So I read revelation and created my own meaning from this demonic creation that is in fact the spirit of the world whether one believes me or not. This black red eyed orb is still here but it is no longer my friend and it hates me like the world and tries it’s best to implant as much madness, and doubt in my mind as possible. After the seroquel experience I’ve found that I’ve had a lot of trouble maintaining my sanity still remaining in this perpetual battle with myself over the drugged out delusions of the first poem of this book it was like I was dead. I became obsessed with the idea of that thought for awhile, soon it changed though, and I awoke with that pounding in my head, my body in cold sweats, always waking up in the Tylenol induced sleep. I watched a movie last night called sweet and lowdown it was quite nice. I Loved the music, sadly there was no recordings to be purchased at the local jazz store of its main character Emmet Ray or at least that’s how I recall the spelling of his name. So many people remind me of that man, including myself, with my excuse omnipresent throughout my life, this being “I’m an artist”. Every moment I’ve said that, I’ve always shut down a bit. I find that a lot of my writing is hiding what I truly want to say because I want to portray myself as being this very righteous figure, whereas there are some things that just were written from an purely egotistical point of view, if that’s even possible. Like my saying, calling my wife was a purely arbitrary thing. This was my cold self-denial of my natural fear of calling her, because I Love her so much and it scares me to think that she might leave me. I have to, in those situations, justify my own fear by egotistically over-compensating by sounding cold. Really I at that time actually wanted to talk to my wife because I Love her but too make myself feel strong and more in control I tried my best to remove the Love part from my writing and in replacement add ego. This came across that I did not even want to talk to her, that I was doing it out of agreement. I on the other hand had been thinking about talking to her all week and had missed her quite greatly despite my egotistical self-denial of the matter. It’s like I am afraid to accept my own weaknesses. When I really miss Katie it hurts me, and thus it may come out in words as though I don’t care but truly I do care. For Katie is a Lovely woman and missing her when we’re apart is as natural as breathing in the air. I can deny it all I want but reality is inescapable. Anyways, the main thing was I tried to solidify myself in the coldness of ego so that if she was to be grumpy at me I could protect my overly gentle heart. This might sound pathetic but it is true that I am easily hurt by her because she is so very important to me. I love the woman a lot she is beautiful and she has the power even if she doesn’t mean to by even saying one thing that is not completely loving towards me to really hurt me. It’s hard for me to accept that and thus almost all of the first 50 pages of this book were an over compensation for my own feelings of loneliness and missing her. That may sound silly, and maybe now I sound cheesy as a radio pop song but the tenderness of my heart is easily affected. I Love the woman with all my heart though. The two people behind me in their rush annoyed me. I don’t know why really, I guess I feel so comfortable and relaxed in this form of words spilling out of me like life. I can’t help what I write though most of it is just the image of who I want to be, my ego, and not actually who I am. Every once and awhile my true self seeps through and the honesty comes out through the tips of my mind branches reach out and speak who I am and then fade into ego. It is a fight to maintain my true self throughout the stumbling, and the way I desire myself to be portrayed, often as the intellectual cold and bitter man that is unaffected by Love. I often want to represent myself as being this way because it scares me to be who I really am because who I really am is very weak, and romantic, easily pulled apart, easily insulted. I want to for the most part hide that side of myself because it is heavy with sensitivity and everyone around me has manipulated me at least in some way because of it at least once. It is the part of me that is very much easily cut apart, like receiving a good review can often confuse me and make me deeply depressed. I don’t know why this is, but when someone likes my art I often feel confused. I am used to people criticizing my expressions negatively so the words if positive oppose my ego

their big noses up in the air filled with coke. You’re just a fake Fudgy quit now before you embarrass yourself. Antlers will sprout like antennae from your eyes and will reach through the nervy branch endings womb like in the web of morning rainbow. It conquers you, you cannot stay sane in this shape you are becoming like me you mad pretentious old fool but I, I am being facetious. And this became like what I was once.

Black Apple: You guys cut it out, this ain’t no fools gold this is the real deal yo, so I was sittin in the towel laden jewish sauna waiting for the fauna of actual iguana when the air rained like teal ague ties fold in the envelope of snow. It’s a rap that ain’t so cold yo, under the blasting moors cannon ball filled with gun powder by the cow shark that ate vanilla man opalescent chocolate wooden gun over the exceptional distance was the reasonable explanation where I can’t remember or care where to go but I wrote this poem Growing from the vernacular of apple light shine glow wind under the night mask it was like a phantom one could never explain not even I. But he walked through the cloudless skull and it’s eyes were gone just the bone waiting and waiting for nothing but like death your heart was silenced and you spoke like a deaf one and saw like a blind one through the yellow fingertips bruised by old habits cigarette tongue lost all flavour standing there pathetic searching for nothing waiting for nobody and at that very moment you become nobody. It is like a café that closed down and a new one opened not a single word was spoken but it changed everything when your eyes opened

like a loss of life
the whispering clock
tick and tock off to the wine red dyed

smock as

a mirror in the wintersphere

the womb shivered a blue afternoon in sonias homes

the real estate airplane flew by in theatrical decadence

landing airplanes in the moons hydro space
the aqua sea foam siren floating on the hernia split guts
of the blue dye injected concentration camp afternoon

nubm\

It was winter after all the unthinkable in the sky but it all landed upside to the right side

In accidental observation his hernia spilled the empty I oddly enough fine lies girdled themselves cutting the breath foam

from her lungs short to much or maybe less than oxygen deprived eyes look like
Two worms in a flesh cup, filthy dirt.

The predicate of the noun replaced a with nothing to make

Catholics live in the hidden shadow of self- denial. It was simple

I’d severed the final twig between the wretched arteries that thumped blue blood

into the veins of the patterns of starlight circling darkness with omnipresent hopefulight.

Fudgy: That was pretty whacked out homes. I don’t know what youse be saying but standin here I know the letters pop out like a jack in the box exploding in the peanut rush of futile impotence. I carry on into the quilly porcupine side story about shimmying custard apes with antler like antennae in Japan it is not easy to become one cowboy but until the right thing was written it yellowed the skin like cigarette faded the feature of pigment in tips of fingers. The desire to smoke is dead but it jumps alive out like

Black fire so dark it hides in the frozen anterior tibealis sector of the twice renowned occupancy of forever. I seem to be trying to express forever in words and it seems impossible but this is the green river it is the forever that cannot be fully whisked off its shadowy veils and implanted like stuffing into the turkeys behind. The anterior tibealis sector is a lonely place one not too many people are aware of it thrusts out its ugly lead poisoned eyes into the beaver pelt cap heart through the tongue of the belly it spoke words of empty hopelessness it is calling out through the hideous commonwealth of the south pacific and means to conquer the earth with it’s doubt, but God will stop the ugly gravy induced slop from any true controversy. In Mesopotamia the world was like a coliseum everyone cheering on the lion eating away and another gnarled sop standing their like a slice of bread pushed and shoved up against a gravy puddle of roast beef giblet gravy the fat soaking through his skin they all laughed along the poor old sop like a sapling fallen down under the great pressure of rotted out ancient 100 lined tree with bugs eating teeth through the hopeless branches hanging vacant spaces for people to oxidize through the breathing moss tea green dew slept in the hidden omniverse plasticizing the mad only dreams like pomegranate. That is all for now, and thus the class expediently arose from their thoughtful minded abode and sped like ticks to the center of the skin rip out to the tree branches dead that lick rot hoping to form earth once more returning into it’s previous form. It is the unknowing cycle of expression that does not discern even its own existence but goes on existing because it is existing… is gravity an apple?

Fudgy: The green river is losing its shape it is turning white with age, it is falsifying its form to the spectre of its loneliness and it melts into puddles like slush in the apple core.

I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore, but that reminds me that sleep seems sound and relaxing to me, the writing is fighting with me again, I know just know that it’s pouring like torrents through me to this wide open caracole like cycle that endeavours only to be what it is not trying in anyway to explain itself but only to exist in its stuttered
Point’s but being to over- confident to save. Man that was annoying. I continue to write and write why do I have to say I continue to write? I hate that I keep saying that it harasses me. My dreams all seem very convoluted and I continue to see patterns that really have no meaning in the world around me and that same black red eyed orb wants me to believe in these false patterns, for example I continuously see the symbol of a star and that’s supposed to make me feel like I am divinely inspired and meant to become successful in this foolish world. It’s also supposed to convey the idea that somehow God is speaking to me through these patterns like the previously mentioned star and then I also see perpetual repetitions of times like 11:11 or 9:11, really anything that seems to create some idea in my mind that is delusional and egotistical. It is this idea that there are divinely sent messages to me through some God like figure because I am so important. These patterns encourage a sense of false self-importance. In the past when I was homeless I used to really believe these patterns were divine direction and thus I continued following these patterns in a delusional reality actually believing they meant anything at all about me. This was when I was friends with the black red eyed orb. I do recall that when I began to become more of a Christian my friendship with this black red eyed orb began to fade away. This orb which protected me extremely well in situations where due to my true self I should have been stumbled but because of it’s friendship to me I was protected and even made strong by this black red eyed orb for those moments. So often times I got along well with people, and continued on un-stumbled by my hidden shame because of my strange covenant with this black red eyed orb. After rejecting my old self and following in this new path I find my true self and it’s past mistakes are no longer protected by the black red eyed orb because I hate the lies it spews at me and it hates me because I no longer worship it but worship the True God Jehovah almighty who I’m sure any worldly person would then roll their eyes at upon reading this. It’s often times that I feel like I am supposed to be afraid to express my true beliefs for the benefit of this black red eyed orb and the disapproval of the world, but what a poison that is, especially for the great transformation that has occurred within me because of God. It is a wonderfully freeing feeling to write and be unconcerned with even the possibility of being published, because with my faith and it’s expressions I will never be published. It’s quite possibly one of the truest things I’ve ever written. It’s funny about this because if I wrote on and on about Krishna or something I’m sure I’d get an intellectual pat on the back because the Beatles did coke and danced around blathering about Hare Krishna. It’s all of this deluded world that I see in the black red eyed orb it’s all that it wants me to believe. It wants me to reject my faith it even tells me it will leave me alone if I stop studying the bible. Now I understand that everyone is supposed to be accepting of everything or something like that but I don’t believe that. I don’t accept many things that the world accepts thus I will never be accepted by the world because I do not love what the world loves. I have had to listen to this man talk over and over again loudly around everyone laughing as if anyone is listening. Speaking so loudly that we’re all supposed to stop and listen or something, as if it matters. It’s like my writing, as if it matters, but here I continue writing on and on and my expressions pour forth from my mind blah blah blah I keep saying things like and my expressions pour forth from my mind, it’s so boring and egotistical. Like who really cares if my expressions pour forth from my mind, who really cares if I write this entire book and then I throw it away because it’s purpose has become once more meaningless to me. It’s interesting though, because I’ve never written a book
dying. The gray colonization of western culture arose later

before the green river was green in the Chernobyl nobility there

was no-one but Mr. Nalt who tattled on himself trying

to preach to his dead loved ones. I am Check Map Man

it looks hostile in tourniquet country so I grab a

hold the latex cubes and tackle the fat man running
naked though winners with his shirt off, and I
laugh but hollow is my laugh like a barrel empty inside is
the remains of ancient civilizations that were and always
are the green river flowing through me, it smells like
puke, roll around in your leviathan in @hotmail.com.

Computers are like Nazis, they all have funny prim moustaches.

Euchre playing surrealists talk to each other about existentialism
while we give applause to racists with Indonesian accents. It’s

simple as that friend, I am but a waking dream… Often

times one doesn’t intend anyone harm. Brain chemistry is like
Wiley the Coyote vs. the roadrunner always loses to the anti-

psychotic o Mr. Black apple man is quintessentially the most

intravenously connected acrid smelling breath Eskimo. Into

the green river the worried African diamond miner(wrote over-seriously)

A long haul from her cigarette as words flowed out of her like paper blown from the tips of gnarled hands into the night. Only for a moment could her mind be drained like grease from a fast food deep fryer. Yes, she- Esmerelda would write in those blurry uncontrollable moments of madness, and the pen marks would darken the paper so deeply with such pressure that even the words would snap like skating on fragile ice…

Down into the depths, the skates surround me- the ice is over me. Above me are bubbles (eggs of infantlife) of oxygen embedding the tissue of the body of anti-gravity (water). I wait to breathe. I feel the weight of useless underwater skates, the brown wool scarf forming a noose for my early tomb and then I am like one (helium filled) red and blue balloon. I ascend like an African diamond miner… and everyone cried and turned into corn starch after meal mints. I cast my lots into the head injury orifice and wait for

scrunched together wound circle wrap and through the looking glass of the hospital I witnessed myself die. I remembered her there then and always called for her, but to no avail at the time I will not degrade her with the proprietors sink of inclusion of the hidden sin that corrupted the soul, and the Love within. I lost her at that moment once more, like always and returned to the double heart that beat in synonymous failure until I began to break away from the two and form into the one personality of God. I understand in the last five weeks the misery within me has been most complete. It has rushed through me like injections of air rush through and poison the heart taking life instantly. It has burst the corpuscles of blood like atom bombs and radiated outwards with a half- life of a thousand years, but still it is not her to blame, but I Love her and I must remain in the expression.

I woke up and I rolled around and I felt so alone I could almost feel her soft white fingertips against my chest running their beauteous Love flow like rivers of water over the shape of my soul. I could almost feel the invulnerable Love that grows strong in her hands where her sleep is soft as pillows of cloud like snow that one can barely even feel flickering the light shadows around the heavy tears that hide in the ragged eyes drugged and filled with the charcoal footprints that scatter my memories and my feelings with the ether of the loneliness that usurps the throne of my understanding and leaves me but a powerless slave to my own fears and misery. I close my eyes and hope to dream but I cannot expect through the lifeless shadow of the wine glass flowers that hang like vines in the shadows cicadas to grow armour beyond what God has given me. But I cannot through the blue lipped hypothermic rot of seven silver tongues speaking all from my one voice speak much joy in this miserably burning bright light that humiliates me as it shines through me and sees to the very core of my center and I am like a white dove without wings catching for some breath to breathe into me and she holds the wings in her sad heart two of us combined can fly but apart the stagnant reminders are fillet docile dark and ubiquitous calm as we both wait knowing in time the return of our Love will be brilliant in it’s hopefulight.

Issac Asimov: I believe you have written some Lovely poetry there old pal additionally I see you have some hope, by jove old friend things will be much better for you if you just find a bit of hope, no more of this sad and blue blathering give it a try, try to find some hope as it seems you are finally in these lines you’ve poured forth from the tragic sadness that emits like faint rays of sunshine in one of those 24 hour Alaskan nights that though inescapable remain the strangest most numbingly intoxicating and dull depressing feelings one can experience.

Black Apple: You’ve been out beyond the walls of the Alaskan coast, through the cities and the forests that hang like violent islands through the clouded skewed and bending staircases of her mind Alaska was the bending point through the depth of perspective it dipped off into barely existing and was left through the humiliated artless asphalt to welt up in a large blue green rash that triggered the defence mechanism that split the atom that left the blood cells perpendicular and squandered the last twenty on turkey for some convoluted expensive dinner idea for all the miserable and alone people of the European descent who wait on pure silence for the day to pass in disappointment. I can feel their…

Mr. Nalt: Aww stop with this putrid rambling you useless cow bung cloud, it ain’t quite what you thought it’d be whatever you believe it means nothing to me. So he carried on with his wild eyes through the night wanting so bad to eat some food out of sight on the horizon it was blipping like morris code to the beat of some bad dj and it rusted the cogs of the earth that breathed sullenly as the deluded druggies banged out there mash of electric fuzz and distorted the souls of the animals that slept trying to be forgotten in the obsolete breeze. You hippies, you are the disease.

Fudgy: You old pal, old friend of mine, you don’t know why the sky is made of lies. It is just the way the trees hung their willow Tylenol eyes down by the rivers of aspirin a lake that faded into the sound f rushing green river that split in thee. I was a green river that split in three. There is where we had the choice to stay or spend the money leftover from the nachos and cheese on expensive tickets to la with some coke addled pony tail sleaze. This all made so little sense to me but the man in the bar was a real slug he melted just like one soaked in its own excreted fluid and moaned about the world in it’s phasing away like a birthmark it remained until that final day when it would be erased just like everything bad would be one day. The sky cloud tree house man was next to him and he talked about many things and wrote this poem in exurbanite ink next to the octagon hide I discovered was from my belated apprehension lettered in pork rinds and green bile:

The trees ladled together like soup
In a puddle the winter snow slush rain arms wore

The coat the wine drenched breath hair of dynamite

Coat of box cars cut out in paper cut outs

The wispy golden beer amber froth hair do

Washed its waves against the nine triple beaked ducks

The capitals could not be stopped in the harsh feline watching with nails attached

Claw in heart the widow with wings
Bites through trees that ash in the bark a cold darkness

The night was worn just like a skin to her abnormal skeletal structure formed of
Filth and it wormed its filmy eye sockets with black ochre

Charcoal like paste that watered the roses and sunflowers in the cloud shaped

hidden inner bleeding. Gone were his remarks

His humour had left him like dried up worms all seem to disappear after dieing
Sun parched remnants of life living off of filthy dirt.

face anymore. I have been her projecting emotional punching bag for years. She will say of course that it was because I was being inappropriate by not listening to her. And I’m sure this is a viable justification but it doesn’t change the fact that all of the things she wanted to say and do to her mother and sister she did to me in the weeks following. Anyways it all ended up and I take full responsibility for this, that she asked for the night off and I acted inappropriately by not allowing it to happen and then late that night we woke up and had the most horrible conversation in the universe and she literally quoted the exact words of her mother and then asked for a divorce after I fully explained the sub- conscious script that she was fulfilling by doing that. I was of course fulfilling my subconscious script or pattern by being there in the first place. It was rude of me not to just listen to her, and I should have removed myself immediately from the situation; the moment she asked for space. I regret not doing this and in the future will take precautions to always keep this in mind. I have to respect her because I Love her and she will have to prove to me that she can respect me in this month a part. This is how I view immoral sex, ie. cheating on ones spouse, it’s animalistic, it’s disgusting, and mechanical. It’s just like pigs in a barn raping each other. It’s too bad, men are pigs, and woman are pigs. They all eat the same slop, and act like animals. It disgusts me. After all the pigs doing it in the phosphorescent light-bulbs, in the steam of breath and flesh, I got chased around the pig stalls by an evil looking pig, it tried to eat me. I guess that’s like the world, an evil pig trying to bite at my flesh for a quick meal. It’s a pig world made with pig flesh, eating innocence like skin. I consider the world to be equal to a pig farm, all fed and led down into the whore cage where they mutually rape one another and then later, this is what’s different about pigs and people they watch it as porn and jerk off. So maybe the world is worse then pigs after all. At least pigs just rape each other they don’t have to watch it a second time. Humans are worse then animals. God will destroy them completely, at least the vast majority of them anyways. But I was like them once sick, and twisted, perverted. The desperate posterity of the world is like flogging a dead horse and calling it art. I am sick of writing about this. I need her to show me the true love, the respect that is necessary for healing our marriage.

Chapter 8:

like lye:

I miss my love
I miss her I miss her
I miss my love
I’m lonely like a dirty carpet in an empty squat.

I miss my love
real dumb one he was, they all said lifting up their hair follicles tip by tip and stretching out behind them finger shaped brainches stumped of the tips into the pressed against wall of air a mercury formless invisible darkness extended outwards into the omniverse. This is where as they said in the previous writing I was standing in shoppers drug mart reading SPIN and asking myself why the popular musicians hadn’t seemed to have graduated high school yet. They all wore trendy sunglasses and won the album of the year with silly puffed up hair that must have taken many moons and bottles of expensive gel to manifest like a crooked pyramid so close to falling over or like one closet attached to another closet towering over a gigantic portrait of Heinrich Himmler who everyone thought to be rather odd, and quite possibly secretly gay. It was much longer then as the time passed it relished in it’s after Monday opulence. This is why I am here answering you these questions. Stranger?

Fudgy: Ahh but we all understand you quite well old chap we’re so glad to have you back kindly they poured him a glass of bourbon a tall glass but not unreasonable and he began to remove his teeth implants one by one in successive pattern-like fashion replacing them with 45 cans of red and white tuna shells made of what remained of the leftover droppings of the rubber chicken they’d so long been searching for. I see you are doing well then.

Mr. Nalt: I will now nod sincerely hand shake in a seizure like fashion in the middle of each of your ear drums buzz buzz and there we were like two fat Octavian elephants slinking and glutting the elbow like whisper body of featureless plantain burnt to a crisp in the back packers guide to Europe I found while searching with you old friend for that green river that happened to be hidden all along on my moustache. (They all look at his moustache and watch as he releases the green river from it’s cloaking device and they begin to see like a jasper stone the very ends of infinite if there is any and watching him claw like star fish against the white dieing horizon was a pink cloud made up of all of the numbers in pi that we have discovered now and will ever discover in our lifetime.)

This is quite strange indeed I thought to myself typing away but it seems to be the better way to escape the numbing drawl of confronting real life problems. Therapy is so over rated. I will never try to do what is unnecessary again it is but a waste of time. I plant these seeds of the thirty yellow jacket whining sound of light-bulbs buzzing with the early morning crickets sipping on the dew like aristocrats drink cognac so luxuriantly a poisonous rabid animal tumbles madly through the night pores leaking infection and in the diseased mind there was but a single graceful truth, a hope that conquered the more mundane of these rambling expressions. That was what would inevitably unravel the spool of his physical form and the skein of his emotional understanding placating his very existence with the soft bat of a small animal with a Russian soldier like hat. Not with a title like that, monsieur Russian lambs herder jilted the local laundress in the back alley of the cafeteria near American colleges where the blue eyed black apple waited cautiously.

black apple: What are you doing out here in the middle of Anorexic limpid oxygen ground acrobat throttle torch Haiti city of glum faced fat men who spoke briefly of themselves as though they meant no more then the simple action of being born, and then
seroquel would be the answer to all of my problems, and as it was stronger and more hallucinatory than all of the drugs I’d ever done in my entire life before that point it was quite appealing at the time to take again. I had the self- control though to throw away the remainder of the pills, and now about a month later I am still deeply affected by the seroquel. I would say that the amount that I hallucinate now since before in my sober state is about 3 times as bad. I sometimes lay in bed staring at the ceiling and weird visions appear before me unlike anything before this in my sober states of mind at least. I see strange things like Old men with fedoras and strange bristly gray moustaches, green serpentine snake skin made of mathematical symbols, and voices like black shapes in the corner of my mind. Everywhere I go this occurs. I know when I was just young I had this to some extent. When I was like six I used to see patterns, and think I was being divinely guided by that similar voice the “Tom is going to school” 3rd person voice. I have heard this same voice my entire life, but it didn’t start getting all evil until my personal failures and even before that with the rape and all of that disgusting garbage better left not spoken of, but if you search hard enough you may find my first book somewhere, though I will never allow it to be published because I feel it to be too disgusting and does not in anyway represent me any longer. I hope that the complete destruction of that book will come, and that I will never have to answer to its disgusting filth that I so hate now that my conscience has been trained by God’s Word. I am writing a book, and that is a decent feeling. It is nice to know that I have something to do for the next few weeks. I hope it turns out well. I don’t really know though. We will see. I have to take a break though and use the facilities…

Chapter 14:

It’s really that I want to write 3 more full pages to fulfill the set regulations for my intended daily writing that I am writing this. Thus I am sure one’s interest would peaked after reading such a sentence. I wonder if I could write the most boring chapter possible if in some way I would be able to stop the mad man who is reading this in it’s entirety in his tracks. But really I wouldn’t honestly want to do that, but it does seem like an amusing idea. I continue always saying I continue as if it means anything to anyone and here I once more return to the rambling indecisive quality to my nature. I Love to write, it is such a tangible operation, it’s a lot like eating meat. The protein pumps me up for more and then I continue in the light hallucinations that drag light in the shape of a pattern into my eyes fused with the image of a previous memory into a weird color code of abstract delusion. My life though very poor and occasionally extremely bitter is quite relaxing when I write. It’s as though the pain and misery it pours out of me, and my emotionless outer plastic shell hides quite well the inner raw self that is ragged and beautiful. As I turn my empty pages into words a canvas of feeling approaches completion and then dissolves again built up in the word walls of my own I thought rx#9156310 talks
about it a lot Fudgy thought a lot about a lot of things but mainly he just wanted to write two hundred pages so that his book would be done. But Fudgy is not me no it is just a caramelized onion yeah soon I’ll get a bunch of olanzapine the rest of the book’ll be a bit more concise I imagine then, valium works pretty well but not enough to really make any particular mark into interestingness beyond the enmity of the world. Fudgy said a lot of things about this and that but he never really knew anyone because he lived inside a clam shell and spelt his name in a mirror backwards while Michael Douglas had to figure out that it was in fact cognitive distortion and I got mad at Fudgy but for no reason so he carried on trotting around nonchalantly through the green emerald forest:

The green emerald forest was filled with fat two headed dogs that had cloven hooves like pigs or if wolves were horses but didn’t eat straw only pink bubble gum Fudgy laughed at this it was all to easy for him the green emerald forest was such a beautiful place though and there was a princess at the end of the tunnel forming like a cloud of fog through the thick evergreen branches everyone else had left him behind but the only person who talked to him was the bell bottomed black apple who as Mr. Nalt once said was the only man he ever knew who could spell his own name in fudgish. Fudgy the miracle rabbit hopped along trying his best to find that green river; only alluded to in the previous poem. I was like that particular fish once except with four foreheads and a breast bone for a chin rest. This welcomes in the travelling group of gypsies all dancing with bears burnt feet and they close the violent shop inside the violin with blood all over it is the entire world that Dr. Seuss invited and the whos all came out and then were entirely squashed by a massive portrait of Marilyn Munroe. I am just waiting for them all to go to bed so that I can continue on writing this book I can’t wait to get the olanzapine it will be nice to get back to that strange green river kinda writing and besides it apparently helps. That’s what they say anyways Fudgy with his fat tooth travelled along with black apple to the farthest nether regions of the green emerald forest where behind some dirty glasses was my pot smoking grade 11 writers craft teacher who told me different things about this and that I guess that’s all I have to say about him, but Fudgy was kind of strange, you know he had this massive fleshy bulb of a tooth that would perpetually grow larger and larger into that innumerable moment when everyone all laughed and clapped, at that, dramatically he shed a tear and stood standing hold his Fudgish professor award and that was after all far before this journey to the green emerald forest with Mr. Nalt as his perpetual cinematographer. I thought I’d lost it said Fudgy but Fudgy was wrong and you are wrong too Mr. Nalt. You guys walking all the way through this world into this distant forest shrouded in a great tunnel of murky fog are chasing after that rubber chicken you already flogged to death. I can’t stop to read said Fudgy as he carried on through the forest reaching looking forward to that time when he like the rest of the clam shell crew could one day float down that green river again. It was after all just a complete disappointment to hear all of this from the perspective of black apple who was really uninterested in Thalidomide baby city they trekked onwards through the forest not even thinking to stop for the extra limb. Fudgy had enough limbs he had decided after the addition of his 12th not to go the extra long route with the hampering side effects of elephant tusk eyeballs too sensitive in the eye area anyways.

I thought a lot last night into the rays of moonlight that poured like electric eels or jellyfish tentacles that glow in the deep sea dark against my skin and the gelatine tips of my eyes scattered the light in docile dreaminess. I guess I thought a lot about Katie, and I Love her like a daisy loves the sunlight and it’s all like this, beautiful and rambling and we all cry a single tear while listening to a Celine Dion song. I feel so miserable lately I dream of her every night once more, the torment the usual torment my fears that seep up out of my mind like oil from the sands of the earth and I doubt her and feel like some barnacle attached to her stubborn boat of unfaithfulness. Life continues to leech off itself like a magnet sucks energy from a computer and burns out its circuits till I like a real suicide hang myself on some light fixture and then someone comes running down just on time, planned of course so as to avoid actually dieing because I really have too much faith in my life. I guess I want to see my life transformed I want to do something I never was capable of doing before. That original idea always being expressed over and over again, still it’s not enough, because it’s not Love. I want Love, I want to be strong, and I want to begin anew with Katie but I am afraid like one gets afraid out in the rain on the side of a highway alone with thumb in the air as saving grace and then the cold scowls and the dirty clothes that rotted on me with my mind. I hung out there while the wind sullenly pulled my heart from its chest and placed it in the back seat of a passing car where I sat and ignored everything too stoned to understand the possibilities of rape, and with that aids. O but I was never raped in a car, many tried and I guess that’s what I was, just a body made of pornographic pictures cut apart shaped as an amalgam of someone’s sick fantasy. I always thought I deserved it when I was in that position. Looking at a naked fat man who just got me overly stoned trying to coerce me into homosexual relations in the cab of his truck. What a pathetic loser. But it must have been the oppression that he did that hey? Anyways so after becoming a horribly bitter person I met Katie and falsified a sense of self through demonic inspiration calling myself an Angel, claiming myself in that sense to be perfect and thus not having to deal with any of the whacked out rape mind that corrupted and twisted itself like a thousand broken distorted mirrors. I can’t talk about this crap anymore. I met someone else though some other woman before that, she was made of bad brains smashing through the black of a car crash. And there we were a bunch of stoned hippies on a long trail of sunlight and delusion with helium filled balloons, what a farce. A bunch of self- glorified fakes digging up carrots and buying organic peanut butter. Wow so enlightened in the tent with the drunkards across the river rolling around in ecstasy watching a tv the size of a small building in a mansion that hung against a cliff looking down into the depths a place I surmise you could die off of. And the fall would have been silent like when one falls asleep only the slap of the water would’ve echoed outwards and then it would’ve been gone and she played her songs and we all lied about ourselves and pretended we were more then just who we were and then we picked each other flowers, ate blue berry pie, rung a bell, and then I cut my temple off with a rock cried out insanely bleeding down my face, couldn’t understand English
shopping carts, minus the televisions and computers, left now with monster aliens feared by the conspirators and then everyone’s free if they’re gay apparently. But o the oppression causes all of the molestation and the world has such a deluded idea about the female body. Well maybe the world is just deluded. Maybe the pornography you watch of woman’s bodies is what you want? I guess if your gay, that’s not corrupt is it? Because it’s free, but if a man watch’s pornography even the same thing, that is corrupt? The logic of fools is like a drunkard rolling around in his own vomit. They don’t make any sense. The cover of the book the second sex is the only thing I know about the book, but I grasp the portrait well. It is all fine you see to find oppression in one particular area of life and attempt with all your might to change it. But what is instilled within the world is corrupt and everything one tries to do to change proves ones own corruption is hiding somewhere, elsewhere. What would there be a need for a change in others if there was not a need for a change in oneself. If one goes at life like a martyr, it is because they are the opposite. It is because the martyr syndrome, the saviour, is truly the oppressor the one that needs to desperately justify themselves by some cause, such as homosexual oppression, racism, or all of the politically correct protests. Taking the role of a martyr is in fact in someway taking the role of the oppressor to another. If one is truly at peace they do not try to change the world, because it is obvious the world has failed. It is a doomed rape of itself and a victim of itself at the very same time. All of those that claim to try to change the world are acting like a victim because they have raped something else. The victim is the oppressor. The rapist is the raped. The martyr is the fascist. The two extremes of personal desire ie. the martyr, represent an inner fear of ones own failure as having hurt someone or oneself in a way one can’t forgive oneself for. As the fascist is the representation of the inner self that is hated but hidden and physically represented as a separate entity; maybe a person, or an organization. The world works together acting both as the victim, and the rapist, these are one and the same because shame drives one to believe oneself as being anymore then a simple human being with minimal potential. If one cannot accept ones imperfections and takes the roll of martyr, oppressed or victimized, one is over compensating for their inner hatred of oneself. So the one claiming to be perfect is probably extremely flawed. The one claiming to be able to change things is afraid to accept that one needs to change oneself. The one claiming to be a victim is in fact a rapist of sorts, either of themselves or of a literal person or people. You see Hitler thought himself to be a martyr, that he was doing good. He continued that way justifying himself until he killed himself. Why did he kill himself? Because despite his outer representation as being the martyr for his Germany (his world), he felt ashamed, and was in fact the oppressed one. Hitler was the victim of himself claiming to be a martyr. So as well, we can see with my sister who takes the roll of a martyr, but is in fact the opposite, having molested me. She cannot take on any of the role of the oppressor, so instead of reasonably apologizing and accepting the reality, she acted like a martyr, as though I who was literally corrupted in a mild way by her was to blame for her molesting me. This is the martyr syndrome, she so strongly believes that she is right, that despite reality, as with Hitler, she cannot deny herself of the ego, that she is blameless and in fact perfect. Though within the confines of this shell is deep inner fear and the role of the oppressor hides behind her martyr image, that she feels she must maintain at any cost even at the cost of another persons feelings. This is understandable, when one views oneself as being superior, martyr-like, they have deep rooted issues of hidden shame of
weird. I see then that his presence here is of utmost importance to understand anti-gravity reality as we know it (suddenly the entire universe flips upside down and once more they land back on the ground with a thump and the apple becomes what it used to be floating there without logic in anti- gravity)… ouch, I just hit my head pretty hard, what were we talking about again?

Fudgy: We were talking about why Lameo Guy is a very important part of this story and you were just getting to something amazing, I know it, I saw it in your eyes, that glint like when sunflowers first sprout from the earth. O it was beautiful. Olanzapine will help us to understand ourselves better said Mr. Nalt to Fudgy while Lameo Guy became deformed like a Thalidomide baby and the clam shell crew grew out of the side of the green river moustache of Mr. Nalt. I said this all in 3rd person again but yet I still remain Fudgy. You’re doing better these days I gather?

Lameo Guy: I am a very important part of this story.

Mr. Nalt: Yes we know that man, it makes so much more sense now that we’re back on the ground, back in time talking to Issac Asimov because you are in fact Issac Asimov.

Issac Asimov (formerly known as Prince): Yes I am Issac Asimov said the man who with black trenchcoat stumbled on stage backwards wearing the geneticists toupee. I also talk to myself in 3rd person, it is strange. I’ve got to eat something now. So he stopped talking, no I stopped talking because I am Issac Asimov who once was as they called me Lameo Guy. I wrote advertisements for cruise ships and things like that. This is disgusting.

So it was this way for the long time they had spent excusing their gastronomic equations with haughty childish remarks about Thalidomide baby city. Poetry is not meant to be read, it is meant to be pulled like rope away from the confines of a dirty ruddy barnacled boat attaching itself it the soul. A poem is just whatever it happens to be.

Mr. Nalt: On the previous topic, we were discussing the mysterious equinox of the geneticists toupee. I must speak bluntly about the matter for fear that I may misrepresent myself in further arguments. I am obviously an unduly commander of the star-ship enterprise. I had to rewrite enterprise like 5 times until the word finally formed itself like a botched circumcision, or badly cooked eggs scrambled and purposeless like the rubber chicken.

Fudgy: The rubber chicken was in fact quite far away and in another universe at this point so I will tel- aviv you into a turkey suspended in animation and dogs with backwards recordings of their barks scattered their strange yet unremarkable and monotonous sound into the backwards shaped ground lamb man who often at times stole the geneticists toupee. O but I am getting off topic here. How are you my dear friend Issac Asimov?

Issac Asimov: I am but a single blade of grass tumbling through the threshing blades of a fiery red rusty lawnmower, run down to the last morsel of air the umbrella shaped man entitled Ground Lamb Man surprised even me with his dainty and obtuse mannerisms. A
because it became a foreign tongue, all there was, was me and my ego and my ego was to ugly, so I allowed it to be represented physically as my temple. As the endless pouring cauldron, a white murky eye filled with milk weed absolved all my doubt and then off again through the night back there again on the black hill before that eve, dancing around stoned singing for the first time. Wow a life changer, an eye opener, all I had to do was smoke more pot to get the same desired affect because after hanging out with them I could see the auras and the earth mother goddesses or something deluded like that and then we all cried, held hands, hugged trees blah blah blah. Just a bunch of fakes, too stoned to get over ourselves. After that of course hitchhiking with the big ego o I was a great artist blah blah blah and then the acid and then I was in my mind an angel and now I’m finally sober and can actually see how completely stupid all of that was, like a bad haiku. Those years were wasted in hell. A paradise of delusion filled with inner hate as a wild eyed me stood insanely trying to throw myself dramatically off the balcony, so they could all see how much I needed attention even though jumping off the balcony wouldn’t have killed me in the first place. It was just the drama and the image. I wanted them all to know that I was dead, that I wanted to die or something like that, so that they could pity me and give me their attention while I puked out the remains of my dignity in the toilet, flushed it down into the chlorinated pond of a semi- permanent septic tank that broke and spewed out a stench that blasphemed the streets. After all the crap, all the fake hippie enlightenment I still hadn’t had enough so I had to go and take more acid, and more drugs, and be more wasted, like a 4 ringed circus my mind became, walking on a tight rope of immaturity and intelligence I stumbled and fell into stupidity and called it genius. You see it all means as much as one puke stained shirt, a nose stuffed with Tylenol 3’s, and a bottle of whisky. It’s a waste, my life was a waste and then there I was hugging a tree for 4 hours trying hardest of all to be the crown of enlightenment and froze there as if it mattered anymore at all and I died up in that air that I truly believed was heaven and the moral integrity that I’d lost raped itself in the hell of my mind, over and over again. I was just a sick man raping a sensitive man both of them being me the victim to myself and I the one afraid of myself raping myself because I couldn’t believe anything bad had ever happened to me. So I lied in that silence like the world wanted me too and I denied reality for another couple years receiving quite a great deal of praise from acid fried idiots with empty heads filled with demons and black and white images of what is and what isn’t at all politically correct, hanging out with the radical left wing anarchists or something like that. They all had Che shirts and smoked a lot of pot and talked about the political problems with the united states as if somehow with their pathetic bong in hand and a sign; they could stop the WTO from occurring. And then they get all mad and get beaten up by the fascists and everyone shakes their heads and says can you believe they did that to those protestors. It doesn’t matter, all of it. Tax the rainwater and charge people for having children. God is the only one who will stop this. I do not believe in the world and it’s powers of delusion. It’s UN, it’s religions with their white ties and pornography and child molestation charges. Its false purity, and I do not believe in the whispers of the world for they delude the very strength within me and thus I refuse to acknowledge them anymore then I already have. I am tired now and all of this writing is made of bitterness. It is made of poverty. A cold tired eyeball blinks as I remember all of these foolish failures, o they ‘ll change the world will they? Or maybe they’ll just raise their children in a world separate, apparently from this world, minus the signs and the
mind. Her and He are just the same in this universe they are no different nor are they excused from their empty hearted reasoning’s they are but a brief glimpse at what could be but this is not a creation of reality but of delusion and only reflects the writer who is me. I am after all fading now into the measurmements of me and my personal reflections on myself. It is strange to become a character unlike me but also me in this book who defines himself as both female and male and barely exists only to himself in some outward appearance, some physical realty lepage estate. I write much of my writing now because it is what conforms to who I am in these moments under the influence of Olanzapine and valium both of these they’ve stated are supposed to do me good. I don’t see what good they are doing aside from spacing me out like a gigantic polar bear tumbling over on its belly under the influence of inoculation. I am like a dog chewing at his masters shoes I whimper pathetically yet still try to rip into the expensive leather outer shell to chew on the salted chemically altered meat. The entire computer screen is moving towards me and pulling back pushing through my mind a single thread of computer code that defines this written word this falsified ink on falsified paper appearing in shape before me. I see him walking through that road down into the green river up to his neck are his words filled with open eyed nonsense the trees even talk to him as he wanders like a zombie through the stars until his ego returns like an bright light and all that was powerful about him was gone left there on the gurney with the screaming girl writhing her wrists and her feet tied down after ripping apart her mothers home into pieces each object was thrown battered apart was her clothing old wedding dress left out in the rain and snow slush that salted the skin of the highway as they drove by me again as I walked by always by and by through the time field that elapsed and collapsed a sharp glint of light in everyone’s eyes burns unknowingly like magnetized carp to the feathers of a naked ostrich having it’s heart wrenched in three like a worm cut in 4 the collapsible Doughnut Universe was effaced from existence after Fudgy himself reached his full potential and returned to the beginning of time and changed the apple so that it as the only object with Logic had gravity. I really doubt the potential for any of my expression, but it is what it is and that happens to be what it is. I do not need the perspective of any fate oriented delusion, I do not need the false God of the world, but I am continuously plastering like cremation ash the white grey dark of charcoal to my heart as I ramble into the new form of antithetic dirt soup. Two leeches in a flesh cup. I saw them trying to suck through the blood orifice but they were poisoned with salt and Mr. Nalt read on and on and then finally after much staring and under the breath grumbling, he stopped. I am going to try hard to Black Apple and then put the paper on a windmill and went hang gliding with his long winding green river moustache stretching out infinitely behind him. I am going to see the beginning of the collapsible Doughnut Universe he told me.

Fudgy: What is this tripe, man, what are you even saying?

Black Apple: It’s about the inner metamorphosis of the metaphysical separation or duality of the self. It is the perpetual inclination towards self- defeat, when one tries to conform to some particular mirror like idea that is based solely on egotistical principals one becomes like their own collapsible universe or collapsible doughnut universe if you would like to include the doughnut in the phrase. I paraphrase all of the minute details of my subconscious so that meticulously even accidentally the words form their own

I miss her I miss her
I miss my love
words are only words, they only disgrace my true feeling.

I am as tired as clattered out old windows after a train comes tearing past life:

I don’t want to walk home
I don’t want to see people
I have an empty stomach running occasionally with mind like my nose.

The people in their clothes terrify me
I pretend to be another one alone
they approach me unbeknownst to them
I am a cats tail sleeping. I don’t waste away.

I am terrified of her. The words she says
they crucify me. Cut my innards out with the dagger
of her tongue. I cannot bear her anger, it eats
like lye through the fatty tissue of uncomfortable silence.

The first ever brain transplant:

I love my body I don’t want to
hurt my body but I want to change/
stop my mind my mind is the

problem it shuts down expires starts
when I’m tired I can’t stand my mind or
maybe with a different mind A normal mind
with normal wal- mart thoughts I could be spock?

My body is tangled fishing line calmly creating an old newspaper nest of upside down rabbit silicon lips speaking lies. That was always the way of the world, its plastic chests, and empty heads, its rooms with nothing in them. Its brain’s of cocaine and blasphemy ramble out the blather seeping into the electric conduits through the cathode rays into the eyes applied like glue to the prostitute. It all shows up backwards on the t.v. screen and returns empty handed in the nonsense called art. We could stare into that machine for hours looking for something in the static rays like waking up after dreaming the impossible. Winning the lottery in the corner of our subconscious, that desperate desire to achieve more then nothingness work in the factory, with the usual creased foreheads and empty packages of cigarettes. Not everyone is like that but it’s interesting to note that the large majority are, just panting like dogs on and on until the end of their lives for some porno fulfillment, some winning lottery ticket. Alright gots to go pee again… and I’m out of time on the computer. I will walk home bleary eyed into the fading day…

Black Apple: I think they’re worried you’re gonna sue, so they give you as much of the pills you want yo!!! I guess it was the perennial haunt of the yester thawed acorn that when finally fallen from the squirrel nest remaining in the blank shelled tip of the iceberg wretchedly pulled each feather from the wings of the flea and transformed while still breathing into steam upon the table my tomatoes tasted like strawberries aural hallucinations day. I realized today that each and every bi linear cycle roots from a singular cell implanted by God. I do not believe in the birth of God as the catholics do but I try to remain in the perpetual truth that overcomes all doubt with scriptural reference. Who would have known that the miracle of Life came from the hand of God, obviously not to many. I suppose you could say in the anti- gravity sway that this universe is made of upside down triads made up of introductory speeches from bad presidents in the past. Although I remain non attached to the rural mirror representing cities and coach shaped alimony I continue drifting astray from my previous sobriety today. I have a new story to tell shall we speak?

One day among the rapid inflections of spring colours blurring and bursting from the drab confine of curtains of wintry eyed white hung in the apple mouthed pig a road a long and stretching road.

One that reached above and before the lines of the horizon as expressed in any fairly decent painting, not to abstract of course. In that thoroughly impossible region of expression lay a winding green river like road that though toxic could not float but it was winding through the planets of our solar system and it walked a fine line between Elvis and Issac Asimov’s thought process it carried continuously into wonder island where the bleached eyed prophets did poetic rabbi dances and split their groins on ancient rock crevices a simple dichotomy of isles of infinite light. The green river was not so easily corrupted by the doubt intrinsically poisoning the world. I watched it pull a man through the other side of a mirror his very soul at stake in the vanity exchanged for apprehension even fear after misunderstanding. He stood their naked as a jay bird in the blue tv screen glare and watched as each drifting motion tapped like a nail taps maple syrup into a tree slowly bleeding out the sweet joy of memory. In continuous moth like motion it returned drivel and all thriving off the fresh naked skin of the newly realized existence stuck between time and anti- gravity the only thing that could save him hung like a fish with a hook in it’s mouth that watery blood dripping out universes complex and interconnected against the backdrop of ancient pyramids that actually were invented by the Dalai Lamma who is in fact a reptilian alien or if they tell you otherwise is no more then Heinrich Himmler himself secretly disguised as a bhuddist monk. I care they say to me each voice echoed inevitable in yellow shadow against the corrupt rust of her tongue that like the green river is sopped in nuclear waste the words like disease poison each expression and dissipate the skin like water into a flesh cloud where dew drops Rembrandt and Monet farm exceptionally ugly diamond eyed ectoplasm. I crush up that potential fear into the Ground Lamb Man’s mind and lobotomize him until he becomes one with the long stretching green river reaching like orange peels unpeeled over and often into the numeric consequence left behind in cellular decomposition in the rot of after morning guts. It was most definitely scary for him but he walked further down this road after being transferred through space and time into this new shape in the omniverse where he stared like a blank slate or a nobel peace prize thrown away into the empty undulating hopeless shape of her
skin could shiver Brahma Kosovo and opulent xenophobia,

take me past into tourniquet country I said knowing

well the trouble turning back at the last expedient ornament
of hope, when the glass slipper shivered off ether like

and Nalt Armstrong glassblower leprosy began to plasticize me into
undulating octoquardam is the green river. My whole
writhing inculpistable form blocked any limpid flow.

I saw the green river formed itself in solitaire cards
and I began playing for a few minutes until I became
ugly as the y- day camp and continued writing. It is a
long story, the black apple spoke without care:

I bleach orange juice pigment red into anti-skin eating away

The dead wasp it’s tongue spoke lies even he wagered
his last dollar before dying the dignified way in a reptile
casino with millions of chicken soups for the teenage soul.

Too morbid in Talbot st. to think about… every one is
now exhuming omelette teeth in solitaire cards over-
whelming lye missing each other the green river once more
became tonsillitis ague teal ties river and slipped though

my oxygen holes into the impossible brain a green river

flowed into the impossible brain a green river flowed into

the improbable black-hole of Orion’s black dwarf. I saw that same

kitchenette with kneeling Ogres army men folded in an

white envelope frozen in space deep fried by liquid oxygen.

Their skim Saharan skin wriggled off into shapeless binding
attaching itself like dust to whirring ceiling fans by

the green river flogging to death a rubber chicken latex cubes
he was a troubled man (I was born on July 9th, 1985 in British Columbia)
indecisive, I guess I could guess I could gesture to

that solipsism woman in a mirror but she’s blind and

Ground Lamb Man: Hey homes I knows ya ain’t the working class man but I got blue lips and a cardiac arrest to figure in the mathematical equations of tangential over differentiation anomaly tri- linear garble to be spelled with that same brilliant eyes in the sparkle I never saw that before but it’s evil. I know that much. He hated when people talked to him like he was some secondary deformity, a mutation they’d once molested but now lay dormant, unusable, like a blow up doll with a pin stuck in its side. They’d gotten their pleasure out of me they’d stuck their hands down where no-one should they’d focussed there hate on me and I willingly allowed them to molest and abuse me. What a strange and sad world we live in when going to McDonalds after 11 you can’t even by one of those breakfast sausage sandwiches anymore. What have we come to?

Fudgy: You’re so pretentious man even Mr. Nalt would say that.

Mr. Nalt: He’s not pretentious Fudgy he’s just confused, you see he does not have a fat tooth so he could not persevere like you do with your obligatory insults pouring forth from my mouth in the shape of everything you hate. I am the post modern representation of your own self deprecating self. I barely exist but in your minds eye I am the shape of understanding the one that will apparently guide you to where your thoughts will go anyway. It all seemed to make sense, evil was the lie, and good was the truth. Thus his previous calculations that evil was just the same but opposite as good using different words of course were both a delusion and a fallacy. I care not for sunlight he said and I knew it to be true.

Fudgy: what are you some sort of fat toothed vampire saying all this deluded garbage, you obviously exist man just ask Issac Asimov, He’ll set you street wise straight. He knows what’s going down. And thus they all including the cabaret party drinking champagne and the gypsies with the bears with burnt feet gathered together and walked in a semi- circle around the infinite glow of Mr. Nalt’s green river glowing moustache he was now unable to hide and we all got pulled through to the other side speaking to Issac Asimov isn’t so difficult if you’ve got a fat tooth.

Issac Asimov: Well I ma deeply grateful for your kind hearted reflection on my indecent plasticized self it is not without the geneticists toupee theatre act that I could be here right now. Everything seems to be losing track of itself like a train tumbles off its tracks the weird mixture of colours and shapes blur together filtered through the absence of emotion. I cannot live like this much longer it rots me until I disappear old into hopelessness winter is cold the window reflects transforms image blue jacket with red coat man one shape felt tipped imagination. I do not feel like myself. I feel empty and wispy, like a plastic bag with a wal-mart smile. Take me through this o my God I can barely breathe in this air let the intoxicating poison intimately surround me and I will sleep in the white bleached haze. I must escape this evil somehow, I must turn my head into a drill hole for the rain to seep in pores leaking misery like sweat, the smell of my dying soul lifts me away from me. Wow that’s really depressing sounding isn’t it. I guess now I could talk about hope. Issac Asimov began crying dramatically…

preparation that I will be rejected and insulted. That’s exactly it I egotistically prepare myself for possibly emotionally traumatic situations like calling my wife. I put her down, and the possibility that she cares, and will be Loving of me to prepare my ego for attack. Of course often times my ego proves to be a lie and my preparation disappoints me and makes me feel ashamed knowing that the Love expressed to me I had previously judged beforehand has already been degraded before it could flourish. This is my problem I because of egotistical preparation destroy the possibilities for new Love to flourish by underhandedly judging it and thus setting it up to fail before it isn’t even given the opportunity to happen. This is a foolish problem that I’ve had now my whole Life and I most definitely need to work on it. My writing will be continuously poured forth out of me and then it will stop and my book will be done and what will have it done? I imagine like most of my writing it will be both healing and detrimental to my future hopes with Katie. I hope she does not take offence to my previous expressions of anger and resentment, they poured out of me like a poison and now that I feel more in control my words become more like me and less like who I want to portray myself as. It is hard to just be me because I allow my heart to be opened up to criticism and I then become an object to be manipulated and peeled apart like an orange, poking at my sensitive innards makes me bleed and then the world can choose from the words I’ve written whoever reads it of course and pull at the strings of my heart use me up and degrade my self- confidence by planting seeds of doubt in my mind by using the words I wrote in madness. With Katie after speaking to her on the phone all of my previous judgments about her were wrong so I was left like a fool having to make-up for my own egotistical expressions denying my personal fear of rejection. I continue writing this way. I wonder how long the book will be? A lot of people believe that if one writes something it defines them for all time, but I believe what one writes defines them only for the moment they write the words and even then it could be a skewed self justification and a false definition that could easily be hiding it’s true self. So words are like words, they only represent either the ego or the true self for the moment they are written, and then just like sand blown into the ocean they are gone to be replaced with more sand. We are Dust to dust, words to words, we are nothing after we are gone unless we are useful in wisdom and even then nothing compares to the wisdom of God’s Word. Yes, close the book intellectual man and shut your mind, it is of no concern to me. I did not write my words for an intellectual man, or for a Christian man, I wrote my words for the sole purpose of healing myself from certain damaging resentments. I do not expect anyone to read the words from my mind, nor does it concern me if they do. I do not consider this to be a publishable book. It is of no concern to me, though money is nice. All of that though is something that once is gone is useless like Life, unless a good name remains. The acid devoured soda pop into the orange insecure freedom of fear fantastic collapsing attacks continue to render me perpetually as proposed but not truly acknowledged just accepted or misrepresented as though he were nobody more then who they believed themselves to be in that only until the sky opens up and the million blue tears of coloured refrigerator magnets fall into the rain soaked dimples of a lazy eyed lame dog stumbling through the streets soaking into his skin the very infallible defeat that corrupted his essence and left him breathless poisoning his very hope and left with the dock standing in the corner less shadow white were the words of a room filled with skin and all the universe coated in red pale blue and greedy eyes celebration day.

Black Apple: That all seemed fine but I escaped through the window behind the shaded watermelon tree against the weak pathetic cucumber huts lined solemnly prepared to fall over like the world in distress in it’s weak protective eggshell blanket that left much room for hope but warmth was not aware for the skin of ignition had thus impeded retarding the senses and leaving him like a dull ape standing there once a dog now an ape soon to become a carp. I garbled down the last tooth and the spilt blood of an ox could not atone even for a moment for the sins of the world. I walk a thousand tree stumps to the lines between each area life is not tree stumped but incensed with itself it argues angrily with the voices many leathered in their anger opening and closing their blind eyes disgusting the passer-by.

Fudgy: I was sitting far in the distance beyond the tip of nights earthly birth where her womb still reached orange into the sky crying for the last sun dried echo of dawn and I called out through the ages super imposed upon the millionth chapter were all these thoughts well expressed in only a few short sentences.

Black Apple: There is no end to your words friend you have lost the capability to properly understand your own expression, what you need is a starting gun to fire you off like a well loafed pancake in the Saskatchewan air through the penguin breath he Loved once the voices all clear now soon dissipated and it was gone there was no-one left for him there, there was nothing but his body on the gurney waiting listening to tin gun hospital officer talk.

Mr. Nalt: He was so alone absolutely nothing left for him there but he continued into the millionth chapter as every sense of self left me and I became out the waterless regions where Issac Asimov arose in his tired eyes shaking the sack-clothe of repentance from his
Eyebrows and meandering through the excerpted chicken giblets that stuck together milky in the ageing gravy of astral progression through the waterless regions they met. We lay there together huddled together in clown skin waiting for that one singular moment when we like hopefulight would rain in the cosmic showers of infinite misunderstanding upon the open mouthed evil of insanity into the darkest bowels of hate where only the world could feel as bad as I did then. I rotted there in the gurney chair the brain roughed up a bit from the remaining droplets of seroquel pressed so ever incessantly against the tear duct needle injection brain afraid of blood tests till out of my lungs choked the fear inspiring words.

on through the Antarctic ocean into the clam shell crew rambling and it was this way for a very long time before everything froze up and the entire universe collapsed into a glazed doughnut and we begin this story once more right from the beginning at

Chapter 1 million (the rewrite)

Fudgy: Hey you back down in the south side with annihilated crow wing feather dilapidated in yur dreadlocked cacophony it wasn’t you that stood by the ancient canyons and disregarded the very essence of existence by jumpin g far flung into the great gaping mouth of the ocean curling it’s black vile heart into teeth and chewing you into the leftover seaweed hair relief that you hung there swaying just like a flower does in the breeze. That must have tortured me, but now that it’s gone the words are all like they’ve never been and I carry on writing as though the aluminium foil wrapt turkey could withstand the hideous winds of dissension that now wickedly proclaimed their power as though any hope at all was inspired in these lines by and by it up turned the vessel as she paddled madly in the reversible moon light gazing deep into the encephalitic bruise the black contusion inertly bleeding a severe reprimand and then a fading away back to numbers and words and shapes each without meaning or mannerism. It explained itself fairly clearly but still left something to be desired. I do not desire to explain my poetry to you Mr. Nalt but you seem quite sure that it is useless. I do believe you are right in that sense. I hope someday I can write as well as you can Mr. Nalt. You truly astound me with your inflection and subtly, your placement of words as though they were only there from the very beginning of your birth, as though you just reached into your mind and pulled them out each one perfectly descending from the shape of the sky into the arms of the Love that was left behind, traded off for a quick fix.

Mr. Nalt. I know you respect my art, but all your poetic explanations are unfit for the quality of my art, let me tell you right now, I am not to darn pleased with your expressions concerning my writing. I do not think it is quite the most capable expression, but I will try my best to reinvent what I have already written in a more substance filled dish of expression as you know words are just words they only grasp at what they are when together, if apart they mean nothing.

Black Apple: I guess that’s about as much as I mean to say to you Mr. Nalt, you are definitely a very tiresome overbearing man, and I do not want to scream and shout about your demeaning such a fine writer as Fudgy. I believe Fudgy to be every bit as good as me at writing.

Mr. Nalt: I am quite taken aback by your form of speech to me. I did not expect such an oblique wall of discontent from such a successful and highly appreciated artist as yourself. I am disappointed to find that you do not deserve the most obvious and definite intricacies that flaw Fudgys works. I do not think his work worthwhile even to look at.

Fudgy: Well Black Apple, I hope you know that he is right there is nothing wrong with your poetry but mine is always quite the disappointment. This all seemed so strange to Fudgy with his fat tooth standing there waiting for some desperate reply from Black
gay takeover of the world where absolutely everyone does it the homosexual way. The homosexual world domination: I wonder if every single person on the planet was gay if she would still say that she was oppressed? O well I’m sure there’ll be a team of politically correct homos to come bang at my door if this ever gets published talking to me about the oppression. Apparently no-one told them nobody cares anymore if you’re gay or not. It means nothing, get over it. Leave me alone. So after getting in trouble for getting molested I took another valium and walked down to the water in Guelph by the river that flowed through green nerve branches of the brain of the body of the earth and I read the bible. I suppose that is oppressive to gay people I don’t know but I Love it. You see the oppression is too much now for the gay people, they’re going to have to make co- ed bathrooms in every university in the universe and put sprinkles on their bearded faces male woman and woman men all gathered together for their homosexual reunion and drink cocktails while talking about the oppression. It must get boring after awhile all this dealing with oppression and not accepting the reality that they’ve hurt people in the past. Actually I went to the gay pride parade along time ago and boy did I get molested and boy did that ever degrade my sense of self, but my sister the oracle of all homosexual knowledge told me in her enlightened state inspired I’m sure to the same level of perfection as the genius of the Dalai Lama only gay, that all gay men weren’t like that and that I was being homophobic expressing my distaste for the treatment I’d received by such like ones. Every time I would get molested by a gay man and tell her about it I would get in trouble for being homophobic because the oppression is too much. I’m assuming it was the oppression then to lure me back to his apartment and lift me off the ground while grabbing my penis and attempting to force my body onto the ground to I’m assuming rape me. The oppression eh? But no, not all gay men are like that just most of them. It seems like more then 50% of the gay men I met attempted in some way to have homosexual relations with me forcefully. The other 49% insulted my religious beliefs. Huh? Anyways I guess it’s the oppression that’s getting to their heads, that’s why they molested me, that’s why my sister molested me, must have been the oppression. And then there’s more. I could talk about this forever really but to what avail? It doesn’t matter because Steve and Chris will quite politely frame me as being homophobic. I guess getting molested and insulted almost perpetually by homosexual men and then stating the facts is homophobic. It’s just the oppression though isn’t it? Now I’m not saying its only homosexuals that molest people, certainly my brother is not a homosexual and he molested me. Here is an accurate portrayal of what happened in a poem:

I was born. I grew up and then when I was 4 I got smacked really hard with an aluminium baseball bat. The sound was a bit like the sound when metal hits a hard wooden leather cow flesh wrapt ball. Instead of a ball, it was my head. I was standing behind my brother who later sexually assaulted me being an imitator of an umpire, though in reality I stood too close behind my 6 year old brother who later forced me to watch his friend have anal sex. I thus unbeknownst to my brother became the physical baseball of flesh and he not seeing the bizarre closeness stemming from his highly receptive eyes watching with complete unwavering focus, as the ball was about to be thrown in his direction. As it was thrown he wound up for one of those miracle home run hits the kind that get played in the movies where everyone cheers because Mr. Successful smashed that ball bruised it so deeply into the flesh of the blood orange falling Tom Thompson sunlight seroquel anti

Mr. Nalt: O you are such a pretentious old lunatic aren’t you my old buddy Fudgy, when are you gonna learn to stop tapping out garble like that from the Stephen Hawking head set you got on backwards. It’s cool to ride a wheelchair upside down, it’s the hip thing to do. I waited in the back alley with an extra bowl of soup and a rice krispies square to offer to whomever was hungry after bangin out on the piano old keys that echoed boldly innocence through the dusted choir of pentacostal people. What a bunch of nonsense.

Black Apple: Now you’re beginning to sound like Fudgy, and we all know where Fudgy’s at. (they all look awkwardly over at Fudgy with his fat tooth farting and roll their eyes, quite obviously so that everyone can see, then each of the characters start laughing ridiculously.) it all comes shattering clear to the wind mill that cycles through the loneliness circle a cloud that burns away by the uncaring brittle empty of marrow bones snapping sunlight. The fading away it seems continues for much longer then this.

Mr. Nalt: Ahh yes I do not want to end up like Fudgy, thanks for the tip homey!!!
Now that the end is just in sight I realized in the claustrophobic after noon glow of my own neon escalating windmill that the anti- climactic African diamond miner escapade was surmount ably more then I was willing to accept or understand about the passionate expose of frequent visits to the fat toothed time machine factory wherein gigantic carp are all morbidly aligned in the pasturage of infrequent trips through space and time. It was not obviously as he had expected it to be but there was far more, everything was a carp after much analysis he ceased to exist the only thing left was a carp. It was a strange lost ovary security of his own sense of self revoking beast and began speaking to me in low utterances.

Fudgy: I exalt in the un glued corpus of insanity a wide open window that spilt it’s African bandaged air into gas vents made of concentrated orange juice cartons. It was strange to be sure but the whole thing seemed to elapse in a mere moment before distorting itself like one steps through the freak show mirror of anti- psychotic open aired veins bleary eyed he wretchedly continued plasticizing the sound of each morself of chicken flavoured carp to the loud talk he could hear now. A german accented voice with hideous realizations. It was to far gone now besides he had drifted into that space time continuum that eggy mental illness that so long fathered his opinionated madness expressed poorly albeit clearly in the white speckled starfish air dusty with the twin echoes of a thousand mile island babies heart beat against the translucent igloo staring through into the eyes of central intelligence African diamond miners.

Black Apple: There’s no-one after you man I guarantee it I would just try to get some sleep and let the morning soak like hinderanced antelope to the waterless regions wherein you may find Issac Asimov waiting like a wild coyote without meat for days his eyes hungry red and rabid in the tortured null skull of nubm and it was that wasted self that died up there o(rb)n the lonely gurney to her screams entrenched so enduringly in her mind. It was not so easy to find that end he said laughing and then crying and then even carrying on far to long, at this point no one cared and it was after all only what had to be expressed for his own sense of self revelation

that passes, and thus becomes no longer meaningful. Words of the human mind are filtered through so much egotism and deeply engrained education and belief programming that they could not possibly represent the true self for more then a few sentences before fading into some pre-conceived idea of who we want to be or think we are or think we should be. I cannot turn back from what I have written but what I have written cannot speak for me now. I am not the words that I write. The words that I write are words that express a part of me, but rarely do they express the entirety of my True Self. For the True Self is hiding, many have called it “the inner child”, but that concept is self- denial. The concept of “the inner child” creates the idea that a part of us is always frozen in the past. That is a lie, and creates a large amount of confusion for people. We are not in any way children if we are no longer children. We may have childlike qualities, but to say that we have an “inner child” is to live in self- denial of who we really are. There is no-one else but the individual that we are, the “inner child” creates a second personality separate to our own, it is a delusion. The concept of the “inner child” may seem to be healing but in reality it is detrimental to the reality of full self- acceptance and pulls us away from our true selves. The true self is both the age of our physical body, and the way our mind truly thinks uninfluenced by philosophy or education (spiritual or physical). The bible shows me who I want to be but it is not my True Self, because I am not perfect. I have found that the transformative power of God’s Word has been rather miraculous in my Life but it has not made me perfect. The true self that is within me, though it is the purest core of me, is in fact imperfect. The entire human race may delude itself with separate ideas but in no way are we in any way perfect or anything else from ourselves. These concepts “the inner child” and others like these depersonalize us from our true selves. The philosophy of this idea creates an idea for the world to hide behind so as to escape the reality that we have done greatly disturbing and wrong things in our lives. No matter how much philosophy one reads, one can never escape the reality that they have done something wrong and do feel ashamed of it and thus have lost their innocence that they may have had as children but now are adults. The idea that we are anything more than ourselves is a delusion. We cannot help the fact that we are imperfect human beings who all stumble and do what is wrong now and again. I have done my writing for the day now. I have to get to the meeting…

I don’t want to write to much today as
it is I cannot drift as I have thriving in the
white skin of the rainy air snow coated by
airplane trails like a scar on the flesh of the sky.

The body of rain a capital star into the plastic openness of erroneous
talk. I continue listening to the voices around me. I

no longer hear my own voice when it speaks. It is drowned in winter rain water

falling into:

the purple asphalt made colourless by the tetrahedron iguana

Apple to conceal his hidden anger over the matter of Mr. Nalt’s constant criticism of his work. It scared him to stand up to Mr. Nalt, but in reality Mr. Nalt was just an angry young man with a cynical and bitter mind, a heart of stella artoise, and empty pockets.

Mr. Nalt: How dare you insult me Fudgy, I am not so empty in my pockets, I have quite a handsome sum of money hidden away somewhere down this green river beneath my moustache that we are all following to arrive together at what end may I ask?

Black Apple: I can see you two are purposeless in existence you are the same person but different only in the sense that one of you is the ego and the other is the artist. You both are about as useless as each other, and I would say in this sense that wasting my time interacting with such half- wits is near blasphemy. I will continue on down that green river with you for now but I must go out searching how to remain in this strange conflux of past and present, it is a melting reality one where dreams form themselves loosely based on the days events, and then upon awakening they are gone simply and expectantly. I was thinking about sleeping in a big bed with the queen beside me, no that’s the princess at the end of the green river but that seems so pathetic and far away. I guess I will have to put up with you lunatics for the time spent. I must say please keep the eyes peeled for Orangemen they are not as you would presume them to be. The clicks and the clacks should not dissuade you into thinking them to be stupid or docile, they have a vicious bite to them like one of those modern day energy drinks that cause heart palpitations.

Fudgy: I am sorry Mr. Nalt for insulting you with my words, may we just continue to carry on down the green river since now we have passed farther into the great beyond, behind us lies Thalidomide baby city and even further is the green emerald forest, ahead of us is anyone’s guess, but I will continue walking this way clear to the end of the green river of infinite with you, Black Apple, and Issac Asimov. Ground Lamb Man should appear sooner or later.

Ground Lamb Man: Hey y’all I was just thinkin’ about cookin up some country fried chicken and eatin a glass full of watermelon seeds with dried banana skins sautéed in mushroom and artichoke heart mustard. I want y’all to come down and join me at the square dance, we’ll walk up and down to the mechanical banging away of the silent drum-set that runs by laptop as the old people follow the lines lonely and dishevelled across the uniform sky. I want y’all to join me after too, we’re gonna have some meat pies, and then a glass of orange juice too. Got me? Or am I gonna have to give you a knuckle sandwich…

Fudgy: I’m in for sure you crazy paprika salad dressing astronaut that severed even the limbs of the atmosphere anchored only to that mad wild drive you have to keep pulling you like a virtual motocross game through a seemingly moving screen but really going nowhere slowly descending like a ceiling fan from a rotting ceiling to the point where finally it breaks through the floorboards whitewashed tumble like staircases tumble down piano walls and so on and then I become Chad Croegger and the entire Universe explodes
lost sense of myself for a moment. Anyways life went on like that. I always say anyways when I don’t know what to say. I know that:

misery:

Life is misery and then it’s done
it was good for a time, but was is
never always. Life is like a bruised apple

if it’s a good day, you ignore the rot, if it’s a bad day that’s all you see.

This is the long story of my unacceptable inappropriate rude mind that is not wrong because there is no such thing as wrong. You see everything is the way Katie says it is. She is the superior authority in every aspect in life. I’m being sarcastic and bitter again. It’s actually quite hard for me to deal with her pushing and pulling me around, but this is what I have fallen in love with, a woman that treats me as horribly as everyone treats her when she is being affected by the negative stimuli of her family. She can be quite Lovely when she isn’t projecting all of her inner anger and resentment for her family onto me. But it’s hard to get back to that state once her family has made a fairly lasting impact on her mental health, with their cold, uncaring, predictable cruel abuse towards her. Her family treats her like one would treat a dog. You throw the dog a scrap of meat and she goes after the scrap of meat because she has nothing else. But since she is not a dog she resents this treatment and thus because she is highly reliant on her family to keep on throwing her scraps to maintain this façade of integrity treats me like a dog(sometimes). I am supposed to then chase after her scraps of meat and beg whimpering at her feet for forgiveness but not for being wrong because there is no such thing as wrong, for being “inappropriate”. I am of course once more being sarcastic. O well I do Love her, and I am just venting frustration in a way that is healing for me while at the same time reserving any major immature insults from being expressed because I do not want to hurt her, because she is beautiful in her own way. Katie is a wonderful woman when she isn’t projecting resentment and anger onto me that roots from her family. I have in fact been disrespectful in the past but will try to change my ways now.

Chapter 6:

I don’t get my welfare until tomorrow, it was terminated upon my lack of any proof of moving to my new address. I write because it’s all that I know how to do. I expect nothing from my writing but what is expressed. It is freeing to walk away from the delusions of fame and glory, age, and illusion. I have no desires for personal gain aside from the want for video games from the mid- 90’s, and old vhs tapes that cost at most 3.50$. I eat the food I buy, and drink the alcohol I buy, take the valium I was prescribed. I drift through the day and ignore the violation of the whispers of the world. I could often…

you would have criticism for all that I am, because it is easier for you to hold onto resentment, and carry on as though nothing is changed. In that sense I suppose the only words that I could say to you are, I Love You. I hardly think they mean much to someone who criticizes all that I do. It doesn’t matter who I am, if I changed or not, all that matters is the simple fact that I still Love You. All of these words can pass and if only those 4 remained I would be at peace, knowing that you know that. I recognize a lot of what you feel is very much what you feel, it is not disguised in some delusion; this is good. I am glad that you feel the way that you feel and show that to me. It would be such a wonderful sight to see you present your true feelings to the people that have stolen and physically abused you though. I guess you trust me enough to make me your scapegoat in times that you are hurt by those surrounding you. It is as though you are this well endowed boat floating about through the ocean with me. We sail together in that same boat for awhile, and then along come the angry emotion pirates with their violent actions, and you throw me overboard, after much screaming, shouting, and crying you cast over the life saving floater, and I grab a hold, and you take me in once more. Sheltering me, Loving me, showing me you care, with that hint in your touch that I am disposable. All of your words are like pretty flowers you chop apart in your projective anger. I am disposable am I? Easily disregarded am I? I suppose you would say “It’s not my responsibility”, about absolutely everything that I have stated out of resentment towards you in this book.

Chapter 13:

Okay, as I have read in the previous chapters, here a sort of descending into madness, a suicidal hint. All of that seems stupid really, as well my persistent whining about my wife, trying to justify my Love for her as being something that is wearing on me, when in fact I am in denial about the fact that our Love strengthens me, that my Love for Katie is sacred. I suppose with a Loved one it is easiest to project your innermost feelings of anger and resentment on, because you trust them. It is not fair though because I am projecting my inner anger and disappointment in others onto her, and using her like a scapegoat for my own problems in this writing. Thus by doing this, if she were to read this, it would push her away from me, instead of what is necessary for the betterment of our relationship, connecting us. The thing about trusting someone to the extent that you begin to project all your problems and feelings of anger, resentment, and so on, is that it is denying the reality. I am truly angry at myself, always getting myself into this stupid situation, where I being so self- concerned can no longer see the person I trust more then anyone (Katie), as someone who has feelings and emotions. Thus she becomes the focal point of all of my anger and resentment. Composing much of this book, with my degrading whining about her has shown me one thing, I Love Katie, and trust her more then anyone. I realize I do not have the inner strength to go complaining about my sister, my brother, my mother, and my father in the way that would be healthy for me. It scares me to complain about people that I cannot escape from. My sister for example is one of the rudest, coldest people I’ve ever met in my entire Life. Her entire basis for conversation seems to be based on degrading others. The way she makes me feel when communicating with her is as though I am worthless. Her flagrant displays of egotism in

until I got a dust mask, it was too late. The day was done, swept all around the stupid bland place for old people to pass away like numbers in a calculator.

There was to be a massage therapist, a sauna, pool, the whole bit, but it all wore me down and I walked home finally after monotonously ignoring reality and sweeping circles around and around into the sound of echoes through the big steel walls of fibreglass calling out bland loud cacophony and the dissonant sound of a man who’d worked his entire life complaining about the poor job I’d done. No-one told me where to sweep or how thoroughly I explained and he reasoned this to be a fine answer, after all I’d not worked in 4 years. I walked to the bus stop out of the stupid dust house with gloomy porno men in their electric sin talking and leaving behind at 4:00. That’s what a man does is work. There is no room for mental illness in the industry of sucking out of another’s mind innocence, joy, and life. A man’s job is simply to work constantly and then to die. A stupid despicable fool built up of half-hashed philosophies and empty hearted reasoning’s. This was the man’s job, to be big and tough, and to work everyday, and then die so that the senile old grandmother could look approvingly at the stubborn old militant of a man because he wasn’t one of those welfare bums. So I went back to labour ready cashed my cheque took the bus home and there I saw my wife pulling in with her meddling mother and it all seemed to coincidental. The way her mom looked at me like some demon or monstrous creation curled lips twisted smile enjoying the pain in my eyes told me quite clearly everything Katie “felt” because Katie is (in her mind) her possession. I guess that’s what happens when one gives their dignity to someone who incessantly abuses them physically and emotionally. Katie then hid behind a chocolate bar machine scowling at me like I was somehow contemptible in the most lowly sense and wouldn’t speak to me. I told her I loved her. But that wasn’t appropriate. You see it was inappropriate for me to coincidentally arrive home at the exact same time as she did, it was rude to have seen her and then gone over to tell her I loved her. It was inappropriate because that was Katie’s space, and she was busy studying. She could not have someone saying that they love her at that time. It was inappropriate, but not wrong, because Katie says nothing is wrong. Anyways after that another kind of splinter took place in my mind and I was accursed with insanity like fear finally toppled over everything good in my heart and I was left walking up and down up and down the streets looking for help but afraid to ask, screaming out in short bursts words of hidden shadow. I began to lose control of my self, each voice I heard each step I took I saw seemed to take me further from wherever or whoever I was before, and I stumbled over and over in that moment like a glitching cd onto the cloud of delusion I walked floating around then in a drifting dream dipping into the dark mouthful of mental abeyance. The blood sky lit with obtuse rejection. I ran in front of speeding bright blur cars scratching like diamonds against rushing incandescent glass burns through that place I stood almost dead. I guess you could say I was insane. I walked into the face of a police man and he after I told him I felt insane told me quite conservatively that he couldn’t help me. I thus in madness walked away into the asphalt sidewalk on and on it was pavement, but asphalt sounds nicer. I contained myself in front of an empty roll of toilet paper and called a crisis line and talked for 3 hours until I became me again. It took awhile, and boy was Katie ever mad about me coming over the next day angrily banging on her door uninvited for a divorce. I must admit that was really wrong but I was out of control. It was as though I’d

with apprehension. Ain’t you had enough anti- psychotics?

The question acquiesces like 1 pernicious impetuous voice

that wrecks calm silence raping its languid iguana tendrils
with a voice that itches licking black apples bruised with eye o
dine shadow. Occurring to me now is the blasphemy implied in

a few chords. I guess pulsating aphorisms quibleed.

Cocodiamoacetate as it is useless without green river
of shampoo. The black apple boat weighed in dollarama

kitchenette accessories floated inexorably down the pine
anti- tree laden psychotic reef or bed of caramelized onion.

It was this way stands with fists Dunbear spoke to me, you

must not cross into Africa, nor to the farthest regions of
amphetamindia, it is tourniquet country. I laughed rolling

my eyes like gigantic toasters, crackling toast grommit.

The dog weeping like Aunt Jemima’s guitar, it is an impersonal
tomb, inhabited by Malaboch. Down that green river over the
placid swamp and the burnt burger bog. Behind the overly processed
armadillafat was a sinking boat, in that green river

he spoke: I am the twenty white yellow jacket light
bulb, I can tell in a few stanzas what is behind:

The world pulls deep inner vaccumoney. It calls

To the aloe tree that Loves, it cuts the glowing branches
of open Love bleeds without pine into corrugated

nalt, an exurbanite but highly expensive brand of octagon hide.

The nalt fellow in his whit e words talked a lot about his thoughts.

It ain’t that easy farting, and squeezing the latex cubes with
air bubbles by aspirin lakes the green river passed into

borscht cities, fat with pig meat, the geneticist in toupee

spoke subtly of the future as though a heart so coiled in snake
with their extended argument, and then one day, after many years, after voices changed from childlike highs, to pubescent lows, to middle aged groans, old man grumbles, finally there was a silence from behind that curtain. The man behind the curtain never spoke again, and the other man grew hot with anger and his countenance fell and he screamed and tore the room apart, still trapped and waited, finally calming down for some words, some reply anything, but there was nothing. And then he sat there for many years alone staring, realizing his enemy was dead, and that death would soon arrive for him with its rot, and its nothingness. After a while, so bored with himself, he wrote a book of poems, and then died. Everyone clapped their hands, observing the entire life cycle, and read his poetry, and cried. They called him a genius, and they gave him the nobel prize. But what is a dead man to do with a trophy? This is the story of mankind, applauding foolishness with more foolishness. I suppose that makes sense from any artistic standpoint. I should get home though. Life goes on. Into the rainy November day today I’ll drift away…

Chapter 4:

The day goes on and on, it was born from a Tylenol, alcohol, and valium cremation where the ashes of the sleepless night hung like heavy smog from tunnel vision of white factory lungs. The collusion electric abeyance melts me in somnolence. I am better in the sense that in one day I awoke before 3 in the afternoon. A closed door, I woke up and forced myself through the morning motions, the coffee cradle like a poultice for the burnt out after-math. In the languishing slurred blur of a dream I pop another valium and drift like Neil Armstrong in space. The prescriptions, so legal and well prescribed by professionals, gets me into the warm glow of valium. I guess you would know everything is a disastrous failure. My entire life is convalescing from bad to better a slow return to reality. The counsellor welfare prescribed tells me things I don’t want to know about my wife. I would rather pretend I didn’t hear them. So I continue on, I’m sure Katie could tell me otherwise anyways. She obviously does nothing wrong and is a perfect example of how everyone should treat everyone else. We could all observe every perfect thing she ever did and amaze ourselves at how lacking we are in comparison. I am being bitter now, the cold sarcastic hiss fizzles out like I am more then just (broken and predictable)
doubt. I could be a flesh eye brain satchel (God didn’t create me just to die)
hormone filled bag of blood, but I am w

ithout

a saccharine nose. I die, the hospital is cold

it is no place at all. Abiotic organisms attach. I waited so long fearing you would care.

I’m sure you care because you are the one who married me. It seems often like you try to show me how much you don’t care though. I guess I shouldn’t resent that though, because that would be “inappropriate” to have any feelings or thoughts that oppose your ideas of yourself in relation to me. As you have spoken, we are equals, these are your words. We are equals, why would you have to make such a statement if it were not already naturally so? I suppose you wanted to reiterate the matter that is obviously not
true. I can see that you feel powerful when you push me away, this makes up for your own failure to push away those who truly hurt you. I accept full responsibility for my actions, they must have been extremely annoying to have to deal with. I do have deep rooted fears concerning the matter of space, this needs to be maturely dealt with. I will respect you, but I would like to see you respect me. This will be my test to you. I’m sure your mom will give you extra money for this Katie. I suppose you want me to write you a perpetual façade of a love letter, going on and on about how beautiful and wonderful you are while you pick apart my expressions to you, piece by piece until they fit the criteria you desire. You always ask me to tell you how I feel. Why bother? When every time I tell you how I feel I am reproved. It is a discouraging thing to have to deal with. You see I very much love you, and I very much want to respect you. I need to see how well you will respect me though. I’ve had enough of this talk, it bores me now. I have expressed my anger now, surely to be criticized and resented for. It is as though I walk on eggshells trying not to crack, the sound echoes out and I am bitten. It is as though I should be the silent man, who does not speak, but is run down like the rain ruins ink on paper, blurs words and thoughts. I am your scab, your scapegoat I am the bottom of your food chain. You spend your whole life being eaten up by your crude family and then you chew me apart as a way to maintain your falsified sense of dignity. I hate the way you treat me, after involvement with your family. You project and project like I am your problem. You are your problem not me. Get it straight Katie, you are your problem. I am a loving, caring, reasonable man who in the past has been inappropriate regarding the issue of your desired need for space. I do not need to justify this. What am I? Look in this white thorn red rose sandpaper grows like bubbles from the bottom of a fizzy glass of pop. I continue in this swamp of Rome was made of stone. I am falling down into a snaking staircase of crackling I don’t care leaves reaching in circles falling like dreams from the subconscious into the skin of reality-smudges of inner loneliness in the eyes of the passer-by. I have been lonely, but the nuclear glow of radiation alters the core of my mind in valium eyes. I am free for this moment, buttered onions, pot-pot holed with burnt popcorn water boiling, coffee percolating, cathode rays. It is to be like a blue flower. I grow from the white kitchen countertop into the grilled cheese not quite burnt. I dream:

Thus I took my first Olanzapine. It is well with me, I breathe.
The fine frosty road is filaments of another shadow bright light
weighs in translucent circles anti- psychotic orb is aptly titled Olanzapine.

Why they always put pine beneath the word?

It becomes a strange anomaly, the white dove is crying a glass
slipper from the feet of snoring antlers. The bear was loose,

his tongue slipped in and out with intention. I will tell you

a long story: The green eye of sleep is a river flea bitten

Fudgy: You think it’s all easy don’t ya? Ain’t the white tailed riverboat floated down into the carp laden after scar of the Vietnam war movie long ago suggested in the backwards elated sambuca chocolate rain filled with old people and instant coffee powder. The grounds collapsed and it was as he had thought it to be before but that all gone now only thing left was his lonely madness and his absolute bitter shock and disappointment over her. The mad Love he shone in the aglow of his brilliant eyes as the word of God poured from his lips. It was unlike anything he’d ever known because I am but that dust the green acrid air that solipsism defines itself with. The empty vacant space blank of all reality that nothingness wore as a leech like coat feathered with the long skin of a snake with crow feather ears. He spoke like spock and it made no sense to any of them but to him but to her they were sorry, but to him but to her they were Loved ones. It was madness that would not stop it continued to pour like violence through the hearts of the television man screened into his mind was the shock of the electrolyte murder and the skin all forced up against the mind a screen computer in opportunity was raping each moment like a tendril of thought that had long rotted into dried cabbage or a sinew like flavour in carp skin it roasted in the blaster red off window ends of a winter filled with disappointment he poured his death bed into the shape moilded into his mind a body of fear in that until then he was discordant the hypocrite. T the utmost strange letter was spelled upside down like two l’s if they were capitalized and didn’t in anyway relate to one another like each thought lain barren in the memory box of addiction in the plasticized core of his insanity he missed her.

Mr. Nalt: It ain’t over yet old pal old snail f razor eyes mirror distorts but remains unchanged it will not part in the snapped after wards I don’t go to the home with the nurses bodies all roaming the drill bit pulling through into an under belly of fire breasts of intoxication. It is unclear but the mirror did not break it remained unchanged almost though you could see the shape of it shivering in it’s brutal pressure stroke like the sounds of a whale stopped in the cork of an aquarium calling out in near death defying fear for something anyone but no not broken.

Fudgy: You’re in denial the Dallai Lammma was never the queen of the 1600 fleet of carp chicken rubber turkey slim jim tea part of the boston bruins who sold out with half of Arizona in the cold war Russia lost what’s the opposite of that thought America lost.

Mr. Nalt: America one you pretentious ham, you stutter up all your logic it’s the number one you can’t escape from like the red October run down in the middle of the ocean pondering it’s own demise waiting for the right man to defect to starve the whole thing of any sense. I could not desire to destroy you but the hatred is clear in the voice that runs like worms through the earth of doubt into the core of fear and inner skull a gold and gigantic orb is pulsating into night the scar is not an echo but you hate me, because I do not hide.

Fudgy: I do not hide. That is right Mr. Nalt and I do not hate you but I prescribe through the man inside my eyes the kosher wine and then drift by that lie. I soon encumber the very nexus of my ability in the schism of thought he could not change nor trip through

and that or defining me as someone who has this or that wrong with him. It all made to much sense then as they pilled me up with over 100 new valium and 5 refills of olanzapine which seems to be dragging me slowly farther and farther away from reality into some mutated orb of existence leaving me fighting with my subconscious to stop singing old Christmas carols afraid that they may in someway bring dishonour to my God. I replace each word I’ve written now with a new one that makes less sense and thus begin my trip back down the green river of infinite where Fudgy and Mr. Nalt left off talking to Issac Asimov and black apple. There was still yet to come the newly introduced character being Ground Lamb Man who is often subscribed to various home and garden magazines and receives many successful apprehensive glares from his business counterparts. I am not a parrot said the Ground Lamb Man and thus narration begins again, not yet though because I am enjoying this rambling episode of delusion.

Ground Lamb Man: I am quite concerned with the way you address me as being quite as easily combustible as the previous plaintive agreement signing that affidavit was to much for the gumby like fool to concentrate so he carried on in that strange form of speech asking why have you done this to me? I simply replied because you have a fat tooth Fudgy.

(The whole scene has changed into this gala event where people sip on champagne and there is this big caricature of a chandelier above them swindling the university of quite a handsome sum of money. They all laugh at Ground Lamb Man’s funny yet reprehensible dialect, pouring him of course an extra large glass of bubbly.)

Fudgy: Well if it isn’t old Ground Lamb Man the proprietor of many scintillating projects as of last year I recall you sold your own grandmother for forty pounds of slim jims.

Ground Lamb Man: Now you know I am embarrassed about such behaviour, please forgive me. I must be off to the men’s room in there I shall find my inequitable silence.

Black Apple: Wait a minute fat tooth you ain’t my father and I am not your twin sister on a fourteenth of February marquis de soliel lamb chop requested a malaria shot for his 23rd century fellow ingratiated patriots. They all laughed at me then but I wouldn’t stop I continued like a mad rabid animal charging into the bright brilliant light of a shifting electrical current that slit through her eyeball and exploded her brain into cosmic dust like a glazed doughnut or when a star implodes into a black dwarf.

Fudgy: Is there meaning to a lie? All I know is that this drink is quite abnormal like the twitching face of an Olanzapine man no longer able to comprehend his own creation he continued tapping away sort of pathetically to the null thudding drum of a universe that carried on half crazy deluded by it’s capitalistic cycle writhing in it’s impregnable womb was there undesirable faith that they denied and puked on till the very time of the end when the sky lifted open it’s curtain and a fire like the plague but stronger inexorably swallowed the world and it’s supposed heavens turning like grey pebbles into slow dust.

monorail but all of it, all that life was worth it just for that one moment when little jimmy smiled melting into a glue of materialism forming him into the proper polite capitalist with the highly successful job and the university education, so he could appropriately re- enact the same delusion for his own son, all the while supporting political parties that encourage WTO and everyone holding hands together around the UN flag attending the catholic church because the Ethiopian Children were better dead anyways. They served their purpose crafting the fine quality of wal- mart for children everywhere to ignorantly prance around with, in deluded bliss while you and I have to sit by the Christmas tree waiting for our turn to open another present, maybe a pair of dull looking gloves and a toque of course because I used to be on drugs one would assume I had down syndrome and at December 25th couldn’t find my own way around town and often times couldn’t even put my own pants on let alone think to purchase a toque and a pair of gloves in minus 20 degrees because I am to “special” to know about cold or weather. One has to help out with the donation of the toque and gloves and tell me discreetly that I’m not wearing any pants because I’m drooling out the side of my mouth and my nose is running all down my shirt and I’m obviously quite retarded, to be politically incorrect. This is why I have decided along with religious reasons to never again celebrate Christmas because aside from the obvious pagan origins it’s just a purposeless excuse to waste money on people that secretly hate you. After all I’ve been both molested by my brother and sister, upon my confronting my sister about the reality, I was insulted, screamed at, accused of being “so f---ed up!!!” so on, you see it’s better to live in denial so that Mrs. Perfect lesbian martyr can valiantly prance around with mechanical trans- gender transformers and save the world of gay people from the already fully accepting public of non- gay people. But no it has to be forced down our throat that everything is still so far behind and we all have to read the second sex and look really smart with a cynical look in our eyes and watch the L word together while crying because Ellen is gay. We then have to dress up with all the rest of the homosexuals in hip trendy clothing and fill as many stereotypes as possible by cutting our hair short if we’re female or talking with a lisp if we’re male. Strongly talking about co- ed bathrooms in university because the guy with male genitalia thinks he’s a girl but no he is a girl, he’s just in the wrong body. Then we have to stand around crying because of the oppression o the oppression against gay people, isn’t it so abominable, o the oppression. And then when I confront my sister about her molesting me when I was a pre- teen, I knock all those walls down because gay people don’t do anything wrong because of the oppression. No, gay people wouldn’t molest other people because gay people have to deal with the oppression and read the butch diaries and cry about the oppression while insulting other people for believing in something they don’t. You see grammar is a waste of time. It stands in the way of me expressing myself freely. The world can use grammar all the way it wants to but I refuse to. So I was told quite sincerely as if I was so desperate to befriend my sister that if I didn’t apologize to her for bringing up the reality that she molested me as a child that she would never speak to me again. O boo hoo the oppression must be kicking in so much to deal with nowadays with the oppression how ever will she recover from the damage of the world of oppressing influences on her homosexual quest for the complete
looking as though they had just graduated high school with “hip” sunglasses and two hour haircuts to boot. They were “cool” after all. So the fame got to there heads all mixed up with the wrong crowd, and it became quite a disappointing arrangement for them, thus they decided to rebel and look like they were 16 years old and hadn’t graduated high school. They were then awarded the MTV music award and later went on to greater and more magnificent things, reaching new heights in expensive hair cuts, and doing much more coke then they’d ever done in their entire lives. It was that lame.)

Mr. Nalt: I guess it was the plastic surgery that got me the most he said sort of sadly in a white dried out calcite kinda way. It was always that way for him it never made sense but the blue Illinois sunset kept drying out his heart like a desert far long too parched in the cacti night the prickly splendour of ignorance poured out through his mind like the time when I was raped in the green effervescent neon glue of his nuclear eyes ate that caribou flesh just a naked little boy with his entire body laid a waste desolation rain through my veins like a needle pumped blood leech like till I fell over diseased in the distance no innocence it dissipated it don’t uncover the envelope the wire arches of fire hidden behind his lime coloured veins popping out red veins where the screams came creation itself gave birth from those lungs the exhausted dusty eyed brain washed blue rape lit the fire burn my empty heart like winter burns through the hopes of a soul so long gone into the ever distinguished omniverse expressed vaguely and without much detail in the past few paragraphs. He said to me when the day was wiggling like a worm throughout the ill eyed alien morning glow I awoke. The green plastic air was a flesh glow with bullet eyed introvert distortion ague teal ties they said all of this before

Fudgy: Yeah what’s your point homeslice? The rap ain’t done till the egg is genetically cloned spliced in two so you can never break me. I said that quite clearly but still the wolf ate me like a caribou don’t you know I’m supposed to be free of that man who raped me, maybe it’s better for me to say that nothing bad ever happened to me ever before, that everyone in my entire life who ever molested me or hurt me in any ways was perfect and that I had made everything up because I was that ugly, and useless maybe that would dissuade their annoying torment of tumultuous voices on the telephone. I can’t stand it any longer, all the bludgeoned to death rubber chicken heads made of television and movies, popcorn, and porn, it’s as simple as that smoke the last drop of steam from the table I sweat with my teeth the tomatoes still taste like strawberries they pull me through a gigantic rose and I find myself there born into the collapsing star and I reach high into the upper regions of the blue sky-red with the anger of a thousand years angry at me. I ran away from everything and it collided insanely into the open hearted ignorant rambling as I go insane here in these words and you play your mundane mind games trying in desperation to prove to me that you Love me. I Love you too, but I jutted my heart out to far now it hangs on the noose of the executioners sack-clothed face waiting to hunt me in the fern grass and trees of poppy seed amber that lit the morning glow worms aflame through to the infinite astronomical dimensions of the true universe that I do not speak of because it scares me. Speaking of true feelings scares me. I am Fudgy that’s all I can be.

Mr. Nalt: You know how pointless you sound, you sound like a big fake, a phoney, one of those fakes who write for SPIN magazine or who pose on the covers of magazines with
reason we fight is solely because I ignore her needs in an act of egotistical selfishness. I do not respect the necessary needs because I have very little trust in Katie, as I fear that she will leave me if I let her be alone from me for one night. That is the deluded logic that has justified my insensitive action in the past, this has to change so that Katie can see that I care about her and respect what she needs. This is very much important to me, because it will mean a great deal to the future of our relationship and also for my maturity as an individual. It’s true that in this book, so far I have expressed a complete cycle of acceptance, self-denial, regret over self-denial, and once more the return to acceptance. This is quite different then I would have imagined it to turn out but by allowing my subconscious to pour itself out I have been able to observe myself as a kind of therapist and see this cycle to be one that perpetuates self-defeat. I am strong enough now to change this completely, and observe myself in a way that is aware of my tendency towards this cycle. By being aware of this cycle I can change the way that I interact with Katie, and will find the strength necessary to respect her completely and with a greater sense of True Love. The practical Love that I speak of is not romantic, it is the necessary Love that helps grow a relationship and changes it from the pattern I have now fairly well expressed. I Love writing honestly because it allows me to see myself as I want to be, as I am, as I don’t want to be, and as my own personal therapist. To be most certain I will continue writing for the set amount of time until I can have a reasonable length for a book. I like good lengthy books, as if my personal opinion matters. Maybe the process of writing when it is not for personal benefit is not possible from my mind at this time. I write to learn about myself, and I have certainly come to know much about myself through these words. These words might not exactly be grammatically correct or even actually very interesting but they are my words and my way of understanding myself. I feel like it is an unnecessary concern that continues to pop up in my mind over and over again like a vulture floating over my head waiting for the book to die so it can eat away at it’s innards become criticized and then in my own inner rage I could become like the humiliated corpse tied to the stone and it all acts out very humorously as my fears become reality and I am mocked and emotionally decapitated to the pleasure of those appearing before the critical execution of this book. I suppose that I do not know what will happen when this book is done, but I am quite certain that it will leave behind a large amount of paper and it’s words will have formed in my mind and then faded away completely, despite the realization that they are so important to me right now that I feel compelled to carry on writing and writing these words all populating the cities of these chapters with different individuals that root from my subconscious sailing to green glowing gold islands fillet’s of fish burnt on sticks over burning coal hot fires burning each word off the page as the only remnants left behind ash into my eyes into my lungs the ink of the words poisoned me. I burn a lot of my writing, it feels freeing to watch all of my expression, all of my time burn away like reality disappears day by day. My art is only what it is, it cannot escape what it is, and thus it is like me. In fact this might be a very accurate portrait of me. Is that why people write? Is it to paint portraits of themselves that they compose? We all often times look within to find our true selves but I find the bible sees me more then my words truly express. To find one-self within ones own words is to find only a moment

Mr. Nalt: Well you sure figured out the strange places you’ve been nothing else I suppose to say then? It was well then if it conducted the light electric shape of fatherless clouds fired by the thunder of a dark ill begotten suicide this is what madness is made of. It actually occurred to him then, that the poor boy might actually need some help so he gathered up his thethered bag of old ham chunks and lentils and took him down to the fish mark where the meat lasagne king fired his desolate house maid in the black dwarf upside down boredom of insane gelatine lukewarm biased critical analysis kitchen skins made to cork the clam shell crew rhinoceros ride thing good eye tomorrow into the plasticized liaison neither of the until the wait to jelly flavoured after shave green river puke stain envelops peel slowly the picture of the garbage man and in it the words featureless no words green river hate hurt me but it burns sequined like gold tassels to the flourish of fire beaded pomegranate faces beaded together on a triangle prism rectangle light jet black hernia passive aggressing wait…

Black Apple: O you know me, I guess so he said wanting to cheer himself up a bit the whole escapade seemed a bit well done if you ask me I’m writing a book. I was saying that to myself and then it became quite obvious that I should write it down, it is a beautiful thing to watch myself fade away into the background disappearing completely finally from everyone into the silent tomb of ascetic relief and then finally death. I suppose that is mildly emotionally angst ridden but in some ways it just reflects me and my own sadness quite clearly. You all can forget me, I am nothing now, and I will remain nothing for you if you desire. I am but a waking dream and I do not look for hostility but hide here in the lad of forgotten and I ask you all to please forget about me and who I am meaningless and a waste filled with doubt and selfless hate that has pulled me all the way down into an abyss of draconic rule where I conquer my own empires each one burning like words inflames. The eastern gaze pondered over it’s disappearance for a moment and then became nobody, like me and the tulips all wrapped in a round shrink wrap plastic indecisive and insidious laying in front of me at the footstool by the tear store that held the ugly yellow toothed woman inside eating at her flesh like a red apple cannibal in it’s desirous form I am mustering up the last of my dieing hope and trying to hold on to Love.

Fudgy: You expel your madness like one puts himself on trial and delivers himself up as a sacrifice but not quite as noble, you are just a beggar with thieving eyes collapsing into something quite new morally clean but still contemptible the way it was in the past took a thousand illness to heal and the cure was a lie that bandaged up its rubber chicken leg with a poultice though the leg was not affected and I limped like a heavily burdened ox up a hill to the top with all the luggage and burdens of the past heavy laying me low and you there with your picked away scab and your fingernail flower tipping me over with a flick of the snot on the tip of your finger overloading my burden and sending me wildly insanely and devastatingly rays of gloom and dark ubiquitous shadow into the coated bastion where I feel alone down into the dust of selfless hate. There I lay, and then with a tear fallen you came running with your glass slipper in place and saved me from utter waste but when things got too much it was the same over and over again…
the face of real pain in my Life prove to me her lack of inner care for me. I find this deeply disturbing but understandable considering the life paths we have both chosen. I see that by my confronting pain in my Life to her and observing her vicious reaction that I cannot trust my family. I have even been rebuked for expressing something that really hurt me. Thus my anger turns to Katie because she is not nearly as hurtful of a person. My brother after hearing in an email from my sister that I’d come out about his perverse forms of incestuous molestation of me and homosexual relations with the next door neighbour, where I was forced to watch, called my mom as though I was insulting him. True reality is much more then an insult, it is a powerful, necessary liberation of the soul from the oppressive nature of those who have in the past been sexually abused. This has been the hardest thing for me to deal with, dealing with my brother and my sisters, “you will pay for this” kind of attitude as if by me trying my hardest to heal, I was in fact attacking them. It is not about attacking anyone particularly, but it is about dealing with necessary things. My brother molested me many times when I was younger. My sister only molested me once, but did try to incite to sexual relations with me once. My brother forced me to get naked in his room with the next door neighbour and observe them anally penetrate one another. My brother also forced me to lie on the bed naked, while alluding to the idea that he would then anally rape me. Thank goodness my brother did not anally rape me, but the implication was very disturbing. I told Claire about the pain she’d caused me, and her response scared me away from maturely confronting my brother about the matter. I have other fears too, like confronting emotional and mild physical abuse about my father, because we are finally getting along. I have issues with my mother as well, the way she makes me feel like I’m pathetic, that my goals as an artist are purposeless. I resent the way she talks about my faith as though it is a bad thing. I resent the way she insults my piano playing, makes me feel like a child without any hope. I resent the way my mother talks to me when I need money, as though I am lazy, and capable of being more then who I am. I am a struggling man with some undiagnosed form of mental illness. It is hard for me to deal with Life, let alone the prospect of working every day from 9- 5. I really truly fear confronting these people that have actually hurt me(my mom and dad have been very supportive in recent years). You see Katie has hurt me in a mild way, as I have to her, but the way I describe her in the previous pages is unfair. She is a wonderful woman and certainly the least annoying person in my Life. It is easier for me to go on whining about her forever and ever, then to actually deal with my real feelings of resentment, that reside with my sister and my brother. I feel like my whole family wants to see me fail, like I am just a stumbling block in the way of their perfect capitalistic realities. Like Claire for example, it seems that because I want to heal, it is holding her back from being the perfect lesbian martyr. Like Steve for example, it seems to bother him that I want to confront the pain that he has caused me, because it opposes the social status, and familial acceptance that he has gained. You see I am supposed to perpetually be in the role of the drugged out black sheep, who is disgusting, and best avoided. I am supposed to fulfill for my family the role of the shadow figure, the one they talk about with shame in their voices. I no longer feel the need to escape my reality with the perpetual destruction of my mind using street drugs or drinking to excess. I have found that my faith has transformed me. I hesitate to allow myself to confront the true problems in my life because I feel a great pressure from my family to remain as I’m supposed to be…
Fudgy the collapsible bunny floated through the crescent moon like one of those handless spoons you find if you look hard enough through the trash trying to find cold French fries they all spell out the words drunken bombastic loud people bangin away I guess I could join them but I must talk about Fudgy the collapsible bunny now. Well Fudgy was a funny character he had a fat tooth that gained weight more then his body he was on a tooth diet. This is why he had to purchase only organic also it was the only way to become as enlightened as the Dalai Lamma. I care very little for the people now that the silence has been driven out of me Fudgy thought to himself and shut the clam shell door of his home. Fudgy the collapsible bunny could minimize himself into the shape of a pearl and slept quite well inside a clam shell that was all fine by the pirate ship with the big eel coming outside of the left side soon I’ll have some olanzapine to take me out of here down the green river again but for now the valium will suffice, this is really the only way the book could ever possibly make sense Michael Douglas is Fudgy and he has that serious overtone to everything he does like in one of those popular thrillers where everyone gets beaten up except Fudgy, who is often remarked upon by his friends, the clam shell crew, as an odd bird though they’d never seen a bird seeing as they were clam shells and had no ideas about life over top the sea but the potato eyes had been genetically implanted by Heinrich Himmler on his vacation bible school with the rest of the Presbyterians. Anyways Heinrich Himmler was not the nicest guy but if one gave him enough gin and tonic he could talk quite fluently in fudgish, this was well appreciated by Fudgy the gigantic robot who was disguised by a cloaking device as a collapsible bunny but we’ll get into that later, fudgy, fudgy wrote short stories about cats and strawberries. I guess he didn’t really understand his own language so he wrote in English in fact one of his very own stories went like this:

I fudgy the magnificent clam shell home owner was walking one day by the layers of darkened seaweed and drank the ocean salt air like people drink water at the expense of chapters in the hallmark gift card section with white walls and a very small pathetic poetry section. You will notice that the lack of poetry sections are quite astounding nowadays Fudgy said and then he

fell

through jubilant but awkward
cities Fudgy the man eater chose his best bet and hit the bus for New York City with his coat full of arms and an AIDS soaked blanket for protection. The whole disappointing mockery of his formal self fled out behind the dusk light soaked in a pretentious curtain of rain fade out the end…

Thus was how Fudgy’s stories went very awkward and boring sounding, he once sat on his bed and dreamed about an fertile female rabbit but often times he doesn’t think about anyone but his own furry fudge self, it was lame, I hate fudge Fudgy always said the whole thing was a tad to ridiculous people singing like fish dieing in the air after hook in mouth ripped out that teeth full of blood biting at nothingness it was that easy to die he thought

Issac Asimov: And it goes like this as he cut the tops of his wrists with his father’s razor and placed them back carefully in there usual place so the words could bleed through into his neck too, it’s so weird but it’s true. I wanted all the pain to be because of him, but my father was just like anyone who lived in life the way one would if they weren’t raped. Despite all the madness, he was in the end, through the divorce, finally quite a companionable man, and I do very much Love him for his care…

Fudgy: You were right about the justice that tripped the stumbling block before and it was a quintessential part of American history, pre war days when the ravaged country lit its candle bombs splaying the glazed doughnut fish eyes of the wine drenched midnight.

O I guess screeching to a halt the static television eye remained interchangeable I could observe the many hidden patterns no-one else could see because I invented them but at the same time truly believed them as when I looked upon the ruddy psychiatric hospital floor bathroom forming from the black and blotch tile Love shaped in heart the miserable black and white psychiatric hospital was the same in essence but I had changed only slightly, and the faded out disease pumped me full of Olanzapine now I’m stoned and writing in strange decadence in socially acceptable reality because it was prescribed to me, but I will say it helps by the next day a bit, but I really think I just want to get back to the clean path, sober and free of hallucination the visionary madness diseased eyes go ahead leave me divorce me cheat on me I am nobody now I am nothing to anyone. I do not need anyone because I am like nowhere if it were physically represented in the form of flesh and blood and spirit. This is why you are allowed now to leave me completely you are free to go…

Fudgy: It
S alright man nobodies home in your head anyway you could drown me now in the black star that raped me and left me out in the grass with my anus bleeding, I’m sure you win now. Congratulations I will award you with my freedom, I set you free, you no longer need to Love me, nor do you need to care about me, nor do you need to believe that I exist because I have gone past the brink of reality and reached the bland stasis of obsolescence where I fade now forgotten by my own mind in the red eye blood dripping with fear…

You win now it’s you who can do what you want because I have become nothing to Me.

Goodbye then I’m a disappointing shade of distasteful grey one best left pushed far away.

You should take my advice and do what you can to remove me like lice from your mind.

I am not trying to be overly sincere, I am just saying what seems to be me, breathing and I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
O I guess I was all alone, no-one green musty smell like blood iron in the foot of a carp.

Issac Asimov: And suddenly I died, and it was like exploding but then I became nothing, truly nothing, and I lay on the gurney, and they lifted me up into the space that grey uncomfortable chord of inner humiliation silver fish rand thoroughly through this song…

I am disposable.

I’ve had enough writing about nothing now, it closes the door behind me but my foot bounces it back open and then I know I can’t hold onto nothing no body warming me tonight. I can’t exactly distinguish the fire extinguisher red and yellow blue kite that itself is enveloped in the mirror sky eye wearing pearl jade eyeball earrings through the east Indian hunger father reality hits like disease slowly vents through exhaust like in a garage door closed with window open and engine on long and soft the ether like death that fades away completely and then is gone. I don’t see beyond each of my words anymore they are dancing together like two bears rumbling throughout, ecstatic as aurora borealis.

It will not die,

it will in time find away beyond all doubt thanks to My God Jehovah. I Love her…

Fudgy: Yeah man the whole thing seems hip to be on a five footed bicycle hand tractor with ornamental pigeon feathers extraordinary antler and moose bear teeth laughing…w

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Product of Canada

RETOURNER POUR REMBOURSE-
MENT LA OU APPLICABLE/ RETURN
another day is drifting away
past the alleyways and the electric wire
where the spit of strangers yellows the black of asphalt and rain and snow

women like men walk by in the night. I escape the glares
like shadow inescapable tri-linear shapes formed from illusion. The
primordial excuse runs rampant through the fake mind Deluded by lies. I

would only write you this letter by the tips of flames licking away the words.

All of it all of it all of it returning to cinders and then ash and then dust nothingness.

With the red opalescent baby unborn in womb I hope for nothing but the beating of

the heart:

childless without time insecure purposeless for that time before the new path I walk away on. Into loudspeakers blasting impure logic against walls of over education into his throat the words form speaking like two or

three people as the same three people but

all a deluded creation. A schizophrenic under the monkey paw ash tray latching itself
like flu to the innards of the soul. A smattering of ox blood and disgusting voices terrible

worlds with alienated hearts eyes rosebud collapse through the neon gloom

a miasma of blue mould I guess
one could burn it all of it all of it all of it
tourniquet country again. A babbling lonely old man. As

I stutter like a child under pressure speaking openly until the caste system collapses
the z nebulae in it’s unconcerned rambling breaks the dog wine girdle I make no sense
cutting out the shape of my body from a mass of intellectual flesh and another

writer rambling. It doesn’t matter anymore. I am dieing here, in my words, choking on them like dust, in the vomit neon afterglow of hate:

So I’ve decided to remove everything negative I said about my wife(to an extent)… this will be quite a bit of the book, I guess I’ll be the only one to read that part, I already deleted one 5th of it now I must continue the deletion process. It will be better for me to delete the words I think this is better to clam up the old neon glass shells with ham string foreheads all belching excessively together. I will erase everything negative I said about my wife, and thus free myself from concern. In fact because I have heard that the writer should write about what they know, I will do the opposite and make something even more unpublishable. Here goes…
hard in the head and then they saw weird rainbows coming out of a strange triangle shaped washing machine that walked slowly zombie like through the desert. There they were at Edgefest after smoking some weird possibly pcp laced marijuana)

Mr. Nalt: Woah man, where are we? He asked his dear friend Fudgy. I don’t know man but I feel like I’m underwater or something like gigantic eyeballs are water droplets in my head drowsy blood shifts through the cocoon of this mystery. Wait a minute man I’m not you, you’re Fudgy.

Fudgy: I don’t know what’s you be talkin’ bout’ homeslice but the grilled cheese ain’t been cooked. You wanna read my poem:

(Fudgy unravels a very long and sketchy scroll of strange poetry)

The king was a rubber chicken in the collapsible Doughnut Universe

I stood aftershave in my arm pits and crawled like a Microsoft employee

Where did I go? I dude went to Arkansas

That place was strange\\

It was easy then nobody knew my name, I could jiggle the wungle forms of
in thought universal reptilian cramptabulation
\
it wasn’t easy being on top of the AIC’s list

it’s the opposite of the gunk Illinois humiliation tree that hung

it’s dirty flesh branches asunder against the back drop of millions of miles of ocean like space still

that red apple hung in nothingness without gravity

while we all walked about not understanding

the red apple of anti- gravity

but then one day under then moon dyed in electric bathing shoes

was a fat man running naked through winners clad only in the Jethro Tull t-shirt
he still had from Woodstock in the omniverse as the lameo guy said smoking another joint

the lameo guy plays a very important part in this story.
thought whispers that topple over themselves transmuting into new forms colliding with one another like atoms and bursting exploding with new shapes all to fall over again and then to begin again. I find that so long as I do not allow myself to become overly focussed on one idea, the entire work is greatly benefited. As soon as I allow my focus to hone in too completely on one idea the words get mixed and I trip like a child on shoe laces into the dirt the words are spoken and the faces are etched in stone but they dissipate losing meaning with every word trying to grasp more and more so for some feeling or expression that has already lost it’s real power. I then end up with a convoluted plot line some half decent characters and a complete loss of real quality expression. Often times my writing then becomes forced, even dumb, like a predictable block of words without anything particularly original about them. I have to go to my meeting later tonight so I hope to finish up for the day fairly soon. When I get on a role like this nothing seems to stop me from the constant pull of expression outwards into the sounds I hear echoed into the words typed out sporadically in a spew of loud clicks and taps throughout the surrounding bubbling echoes of voices in the library filled with people like torrents their voices join together, no longer having any sense they babble in one conflux of noise, laughter and discouragement with the entire range of human emotion. The loud speaker calling for security and the people with their business on the computers doing what they do. Like me with serious eyes tapping away or clicking on the mouse writing to whoever they may and living their lives while I live mine in my own way. It is always this way with people, we are so disconnected from one another in our own self-importance. It is important to bridge that gap in someway but at the same time it is fear inspiring to have to overcome those barriers, those fears of rejection. I am after all just another person, no better then the man beside me. I do not want to compare myself to anyone because I am Me and cannot help but being me. I am filled with my own mind traps that I must realize to heal the Love me and Katie share. I miss her a lot and I really do hope that I can overcome the problems I’ve had in the past respecting her need for space. I really need to avoid that trap. Do you see the full circle I have made now with my writing. At first I fully accepted my responsibility for the problems with me and Katie’s relationship because I did not listen to her need for space when she politely asked for it. Then secondly I insulted her, and expressed my inner resentments towards her. Then thirdly I regretted doing what I did previously to the third change and actually dealt with honest anger and resentment, not to say that all of my expressions of resentment and anger towards Katie were a lie but some of them most certainly were. Finally I have in the 4th change returned once more to the beginning where I fully accepted my responsibility for the problems I had caused by not listening to her. This is very interesting, I have composed here an expression of the cycle of my inner psyche and I must find away to break this cycle. It is better for me to be alone for a night, avoiding a massive unnecessary fight then to force myself against her will to surround herself with my energy, and essentially over-stimulate our relationship to the point of causing contention and thus the unavoidable fight. The

I slept then and then I saw unravelling from your face the green river

and it reached like an black anaconda across the rivers streaming inkscript like snake skin

it was flushing red like My humiliation and then it came before that very
red apple and it died as it should have but because of extenuating circumstances it had to take something like 8000 more years

before that would finally happen

but before that happened in the collapsible Doughnut Universe

the red apple suddenly took on the form of the sole inhabitant of gravity

thus we all floated around away into nothingness whereas in the previous time before

the red apple was the only non-sensical thing in the entire sane and completely understandable universe of the Collapsable Doughnut, this is right beside the Omniverse,

where Lameo guy lives and reads SPIN magazine alone in the shoppers Drug Mart.

So then when I Fudgy saw the green river ethereal shifting over the golden gate bridge reaching on into infinite hiding beneath your moustache that would often times melt into gravy I realized the full potential of my existence and thus returned to the moment before the Collapsable Doughnut Universe existed and transformed everything so that instead of the read apple being of anti- gravity, it became the only material or existent thing visible, or invisible to have gravity. We thus became anti- gravity as the red apple was before

and floated away

though the omniverse didn’t change to much, the only difference was that the sky turned blue instead of neon green. I guess that’s about it for the poem then said Fudgy while still writing the poem faster then Mr. Nalt could read it. This was strange for both of them at this moment because they both had reached that inner anxiety caused by the madness of this expression and it dissipated their entire knowledge or even understanding of Yolope or whatever the name of that used car salesman was. I then appeared while Fudgy continued writing the poem and Mr. Nalt observed and then typing away they all just became fragments of my imagination and thus no longer existed to me. The end.

Mr. Nalt: What was that about?

Fudgy: Well don’t you see? It is obviously about the modern day analysis of post modern sub culture representing the various different paradigms of the Byzantine like architecture we have viewed in The English Patient and various other films with the word English in their titles.

Thus I took my first Olanzapine. It is well with me, I breathe.
The fine frosty road is filaments of another shadow bright light
weighs in translucent circles anti- psychotic orb is aptly titled Olanzapine.

Why they always put pine beneath the word?

It becomes a strange anomaly, the white dove is crying a glass
slipper from the feet of snoring antlers. The bear was loose,

his tongue slipped in and out with intention. I will tell you

a long story: The green eye of sleep is a river flea bitten
with apprehension. Ain’t you had enough anti- psychotics?

The question acquiesces like 1 pernicious impetuous voice

that wrecks calm silence raping its languid iguana tendrils
with a voice that itches licking black apples bruised with eye o
dine shadow. Occurring to me now is the blasphemy implied in

a few chords. I guess pulsating aphorisms quibleed.

Cocodiamoacetate as it is useless without green river
of shampoo. The black apple boat weighed in dollarama

kitchenette accessories floated inexorably down the pine
anti- tree laden psychotic reef or bed of caramelized onion.

It was this way stands with fists Dunbear spoke to me, you

must not cross into Africa, nor to the farthest regions of
amphetamindia, it is tourniquet country. I laughed rolling

my eyes like gigantic toasters, crackling toast grommit.

The dog weeping like Aunt Jemima’s guitar, it is an impersonal
tomb, inhabited by Malaboch. Down that green river over the
placid swamp and the burnt burger bog. Behind the overly processed
armadillafat was a sinking boat, in that green river

he spoke: I am the twenty white yellow jacket light
bulb, I can tell in a few stanzas what is behind:

The world pulls deep inner vaccumoney. It calls

To the aloe tree that Loves, it cuts the glowing branches
of open Love bleeds without pine into corrugated

nalt, an exurbanite but highly expensive brand of octagon hide.

The nalt fellow in his whit e words talked a lot about his thoughts.

It ain’t that easy farting, and squeezing the latex cubes with
air bubbles by aspirin lakes the green river passed into

borscht cities, fat with pig meat, the geneticist in toupee

spoke subtly of the future as though a heart so coiled in snake

skin could shiver Brahma Kosovo and opulent xenophobia,

take me past into tourniquet country I said knowing

well the trouble turning back at the last expedient ornament
of hope, when the glass slipper shivered off ether like

and Nalt Armstrong glassblower leprosy began to plasticize me into
undulating octoquardam is the green river. My whole
writhing inculpistable form blocked any limpid flow.

I saw the green river formed itself in solitaire cards
and I began playing for a few minutes until I became
ugly as the y- day camp and continued writing. It is a
long story, the black apple spoke without care:

I bleach orange juice pigment red into anti-skin eating away

The dead wasp it’s tongue spoke lies even he wagered
his last dollar before dying the dignified way in a reptile
casino with millions of chicken soups for the teenage soul.

Too morbid in Talbot st. to think about… every one is
now exhuming omelette teeth in solitaire cards over-
whelming lye missing each other the green river once more
became tonsillitis ague teal ties river and slipped though

my oxygen holes into the impossible brain a green river

flowed into the impossible brain a green river flowed into

the improbable black-hole of Orion’s black dwarf. I saw that same

kitchenette with kneeling Ogres army men folded in an

white envelope frozen in space deep fried by liquid oxygen.

Their skim Saharan skin wriggled off into shapeless binding
attaching itself like dust to whirring ceiling fans by

the green river flogging to death a rubber chicken latex cubes
he was a troubled man (I was born on July 9th, 1985 in British Columbia)
indecisive, I guess I could guess I could gesture to

that solipsism woman in a mirror but she’s blind and

dying. The grey colonization of western culture arose later

before the green river was green in the Chernobyl nobility there

was no-one but Mr. Nalt who tattled on himself trying

to preach to his dead loved ones. I am Check Map Man

it looks hostile in tourniquet country so I grab a

hold the latex cubes and tackle the fat man running
naked though winners with his shirt off, and I
laugh but hollow is my laugh like a barrel empty inside is
the remains of ancient civilizations that were and always
are the green river flowing through me, it smells like
puke, roll around in your leviathan in @hotmail.com.

Computers are like Nazis, they all have funny prim moustaches.

Euchre playing surrealists talk to each other about existentialism
while we give applause to racists with Indonesian accents. It’s

simple as that friend, I am but a waking dream… Often

times one doesn’t intend anyone harm. Brain chemistry is like
Wiley the Coyote vs. the roadrunner always loses to the anti-

psychotic o Mr. Black apple man is quintessentially the most

intravenously connected acrid smelling breath Eskimo. Into

the green river the worried African diamond miner(wrote over-seriously)

A long haul from her cigarette as words flowed out of her like paper blown from the tips of gnarled hands into the night. Only for a moment could her mind be drained like grease from a fast food deep fryer. Yes, she- Esmerelda would write in those blurry uncontrollable moments of madness, and the pen marks would darken the paper so deeply with such pressure that even the words would snap like skating on fragile ice…

Down into the depths, the skates surround me- the ice is over me. Above me are bubbles (eggs of infantlife) of oxygen embedding the tissue of the body of anti-gravity (water). I wait to breathe. I feel the weight of useless underwater skates, the brown wool scarf forming a noose for my early tomb and then I am like one (helium filled) red and blue balloon. I ascend like an African diamond miner… and everyone cried and turned into corn starch after meal mints. I cast my lots into the head injury orifice and wait for

the unduly presence of Mr. Nalt himself arriving late of
course he speaks, how’s the Olanzapine? I took
another Olanzapine. It seems to relax me, but still I’m trippin’

out an Orangeman arm length. We all, all all are allowed to
think, breathe speak, communicate verbally, but still I’m trippin’

like a worm slit open with all it’s innards in a Petri dish.

(a large picture of a maple tree)

I slept then and then I saw unravelling from your face the green river

and it reached like an black anaconda across the rivers streaming inkscript like snake skin

it was flushing red like My humiliation and then it came before that very
red apple and it died as it should have but because of extenuating circumstances it had to take something like 8000 more years

before that would finally happen

but before that happened in the collapsible Doughnut Universe

the red apple suddenly took on the form of the sole inhabitant of gravity

thus we all floated around away into nothingness whereas in the previous time before

the red apple was the only non-sensual thing in the entire sane and completely understandable universe of the Collapsible Doughnut, this is right beside the Omniverse,

where Lameo guy lives and reads SPIN magazine alone in the shoppers Drug Mart.

So then when I Fudgy saw the green river ethereal shifting over the golden gate bridge reaching on into infinite hiding beneath your moustache that would often times melt into gravy I realized the full potential of my existence and thus returned to the moment before the Collapsible Doughnut Universe existed and transformed everything so that instead of the red apple being of anti- gravity, it became the only material or existent thing visible, or invisible to have gravity. We thus became anti- gravity as the red apple was before

and floated away

though the omniverse didn’t change too much, the only difference was that the sky turned blue instead of neon green. I guess that’s about it for the poem then said Fudgy while still writing the poem faster then Mr. Nalt could read it. This was strange for both of them at this moment because they both had reached that inner anxiety caused by the madness of this expression and it dissipated their entire knowledge or even understanding of Yolope or whatever the name of that used car salesman was. I then appeared while Fudgy continued writing the poem and Mr. Nalt observed and then typing away they all just became fragments of my imagination and thus no longer existed to me. The end.

Mr. Nalt: What was that about?

Fudgy: Well don’t you see? It is obviously about the modern day analysis of post modern sub culture representing the various different paradigms of the Byzantine like architecture we have viewed in The English Patient and various other films with the word English in their titles.

madness to ruin itself in it’s façade of understanding, and the listless rambling of a baby are more understandable then the words of the tongues of the seven whom form this one expression. It is skewed reality that inescapable albeit is still unafraid to thrive in it’s new understanding it is like giving birth to a new life form in it there are a thousand tears coloured each in the jungle of white noise the static of racing hearts to the end.

But of course it is not the end, because the end was somewhere way back in the previous pages and won’t be found until I splay the pages out randomly across the floorboards of my room and piece them together as randomly as the words formed themselves in this writing. I will do some editing to be sure, but I would like it to remain its full expression, not altered too much for the purpose of grammatical understanding. Green River runs through me and I play the pats of the various forms. I cannot stand in this word puzzle, this tower of confusion, I can only keep grasping at each sound and syllable like a mad man grasps for his hair ripping it piece by piece out of his scalp in some hope that the words will find meaning but they lose themselves as much as I lose myself in their expression. I write so much that the words make me sick, it makes me crazy to write them.

The Writer: I just wanted to make a side note statement. I do not in any way condone the usage of drugs or violence, the representation of some of these previous characters acting in such a manner reflects on factual events that took place before I became a Christian. I do think that doing drugs and being violent is wrong and was ashamed to have done what I did in my life time. I am much more clean now, though I am having some strange issues with the medication Olanzapine, that seems to have inspired much of the last half of this short book. I hope to totally clean myself out of any desire for medications eventually. Mainly I take this medication because my psychiatrist suggested it would be beneficial for my mental health. I have not seen any gain from them yet, and have noticed an increased delusional quality to my existence upon taking what my doctor has told me to be a healthy amount of both Olanzapine and valium daily. I am beginning to take on schizophrenic symptoms in the process of consumption of these medications. I have both literal and aural hallucinations that when sober before were far less prevalent. I do believe though that in time, either this medication will begin to do what it’s supposed to do, or I will stop taking it all together. I find that the valium has been extremely addictive, and is difficult for me to go a morning without a pill. A lot of what I have experienced on this Olanzapine is unlike anything I have ever experienced before in my Life. It is a totally new and bizarre world that seems strange and zombie like reminiscent to only descriptions I have read of schizophrenic episodes. I am happy with my writing though and it does seem to be fairly interesting, but at the same time the long term side effects could be rather harmful. Yesterday after writing a large portion of this book I after finishing writing walked to the basement floor of my house, and I used the washroom facilities, but when I was walking out of the bathroom I saw a sharp glint like light reflected off of glass rise up into my eyes from the floor, this glint materialized into more shard like splinters of light reflected from imaginary glass, then as I walked I noticed they seemed to form into a cave like place reflecting these diamond like glints of light now all around me, and it became as though I were in some strange pathway through an open door stalactites crystal glass like reflections grew around me, and I walked, all the while
again, and then it goes away again, always goes away, and then I am hallucinating in the darkness, and I see the strange faces pressed together against the psychedelic ribbons of ethereal creatures, that form and coalesce like maggots seem to become one conflux of a beast eating away at the soft rot of that dent in my brain filled with vacuum, that pulls these words from my heart, and wrenches me away from my Love for life. So nothing is nothing and I haven’t eaten anything today. I have to call her today I wonder what insult, what subtle push will be put before me today. I wonder how she will speak to me, in those undertones of disregard, as though I am nothing more to her then a burden. I suppose I take the role well, the burdened fool who stumbles himself, humiliates himself, for all to criticize and make light of. I am just a laughing stock, a useless pitiable shame to my family. I am the one they look down upon, the vile disgrace to be forgotten, the black sheep that just won’t die. I suppose it would be better to die, in an untrue sort of cry out for help kind of way, with the suicide attempt and everyone running together, screaming and caterwauling, on and on, about everything being so scary. I guess it’s just not anyone’s responsibility to care about me, and when people do, I don’t understand why they bother to. Katie seems to be pretty good at showing that she cares very little about me, that I am quite easily summarized, catalogued, and figured out. The very idea of me bothering my roommates, I’m sure would bring a smile to her lips. She seems to hate me, in many ways I think she does. I don’t know why I ramble, on and on, it goes nowhere, like Michelangelo. He could not fly, as neither can the planes made of tin feel. As I am not a metal beast, I walk on the cold streets in the dandruff flakes of snowy skies, and waste my days, writing away. Writing for what? For who am I writing this for? Material things bring me nothing, like my words bring me nothing more then words, maybe more though, maybe healing. I see the usage in the words, like they are necessary protective garbage, tossed away after eating up the deep fried fish. They hold the corpse for awhile, until it’s eaten. Until it nourishes me, and I become once more clean of many things, many fears spill out in these words, like rushing splattered blood sprays from a slit wrist mixing with bath water in the distant cry for help(suicide lie(that will never happen because it’s just not like me)). If I were to kill myself, I’d kill myself permanently, and I won’t do that, because it is of no interest to me. There is so much to be enjoyed in life, despite this recent lack of happiness. Happiness returns with Love, when the time is right. I have faith in that much. I have words that speak for me, and for no-one else. I do not pretend that the future holds anything more then what it holds, nor do I make predictions, like writing in the sand it is to no avail. Life is unpredictable. It is not known what will become of me today or tomorrow, where the shape of the day will form itself. I do not know anything more then what I know, and that is a minimal childlike knowledge of the universe. I cannot think, nor can I try to hard to think, but yet I seem to be doing just as I spoke I couldn’t do. So what am I thinking than? I am thinking about days when we Loved each other more, before the mother in law, and the table bangers, before the crack addict insults. I am thinking of the times we shared in Love, so free in the summer time, together holding hands, writing songs, like they were just there before me, without ever stopping, always growing from the core of my burning heart. These you found each one to be whatever you wanted them to be. You would have criticism for all I say and do, and

A fatherless boy found out alone poor as pity in the streets that could deprive the young lad of a meal but a tap on the shoulder, the old man gave him a bag of lentils a bowl of soup and a couple nights in an inn for the hope that somehow the young chap might find a way back out of his confused madness. You got to help the young ones out now and again ya know. He walked with a limp the young boy guess his Irish father drank too much hit him in the corner of the elbow threw him across the room where the peeled orange nose of the pit bull growled and moaned hungry as a hog waiting for the morning feed. It all riled out of him and the pig faced slob drooling out the puke in the morning noticed his son was gone, so he gathered up his hobo suit spattered his face with some charcoal paste to look more pitiable and ran like one runs the marathon race, slowly but perpetually, a strange sight to see, an old drunk running at 6 in the morning still half limeyed from the booze hounding, he’d been anguished with, in the hang over conformity. There he chased along down them train tracks where’d the young punk go this time he got his old belt and beaten eyes leering around lookin’ like a predator stalks its prey, but he was gone, and gone for good the boy never came back after that brutal beatin’. But the old man saw him there in the distant city he’d hopped a train to ride through the dirt worm farmers fields where barley and corn grew and the hops factory passed pumpin’ out steam and fog from the mire of the working class haze that shivered like a tobacco lung chortled and spat and coughed out the pghlem and carried on shaking up the wet paint cans till the rain fell and the sky turned red from october’s dead leaves. The boy standin’ there always searchin’ for work with his torn hat, a mouse eaten through, stood like a dejected peg legged sailor with nothing left but the one bottle of rum and a cheap pack a smokes, ya know. The old man saw the young fella lookin quite down on his ways all bent through and through quite pathetically and he offered to put him up for a few nights at the local hotel. The boy accepted with a glint of real true sincere joy in his eyes and they both went then and had a warm bowl of lamb stew at the house of the bartenders before the couple nights in the inn. Really the old man just wanted to see if the boy was really good hearted enough to work up the steam to be a mail delivery runner, with a heavy bag it could be hard work and if the boy was liable to betray some real kind hearted folk then they’d better off be searching for someone else, but no the boy remained quite considerate, even offering to clean the dishes after the humble meal. So he tested him out, observed him as though he were just gonna help him out this once, but what he saw softened his heart, the boy upon finding the old mans wallet on the ground handed it back to him, with the sincerity and true concern one rarely finds in an individual. That astounded the old man, so he told the boy to sit up with him and old grand mama, as he called the bartender woman, and told him that he’s long ago been a father of five young uns not unlike the little boy himself, and he handed him a grey mail bag and told him with a proud look as though he were his father himself that he’d like the young chap to stay on and live with full room and board, as well as an allowance if he did some daily mail deliveries and picked up the milk for old grand mama, the bartender. The entire scene seemed so beautiful to the young chap that the boy excitedly leapt to his feet and made for the stairs preparing his new home. What a relief after that miserable hell of a life with his brutal alkey of a father who was still back there, rolling around in his own puke, spending his own father’s inheritance on prostitutes. The young chap was free of the diseased alkey of a man, and now had a new chance.
shamefully shake their heads at me and pretend I was lost forever. Now that I am no longer lost forever they seem to despise me. They hate that I come to them with the truth. I never once molested or hurt any of my siblings, but yet both of them did molest me. So why is it then that they are seen to be more important in the family chain then me? Because they have jobs, capitalistic success, and I am recovering from massive post- traumatic stress. Of course now that I am showing true signs of recovery and am knocking down these walls of self- denial and confronting my family members about the pain they’ve caused me, they hate me even more. But because I am confronting my problems I am releasing myself from the role of scapegoat thus leaving them angry and disappointed. Maybe I was supposed to hold that shame inside, the hidden secret, so that they in their deluded materialistic ego could continue abusing me as though I were of absolutely no meaning. I went to the cottage this summer with my wife to spend time with my family. It was awful, me and my wife, newlyweds were consigned to sleep in a tent, because in my selfless lack of confidence, I couldn’t ask for a room for both of us to sleep in. They of course will then say it’s my fault. But I do believe that for any other newly wed couple it would be appropriate for the hostess to offer a room, no matter what the response. Anyways so my brother and his girlfriend Lisa were allowed to sleep in a double bed while we out of degraded selflessness were consigned to our tent. My sister, for the first two nights slept in a room with two beds. This really makes me mad, because she then pulled this musty old pile of crap of a mattress down the stairs and set it in the middle of the living room, as if we were supposed to resign ourselves to sleeping on it. Well all of this was quite degrading, and I do believe that my inner self became enraged by this, though my outer self hid it appropriately, still playing their scapegoat game. As though I a newly wed, deserved to sleep out in a tent, with my wife while the non- married but socially successful couple slept in the Queen sized mattress bed with their dog. I really understand now how degrading this was to deal with. Katie and I then spent the next few days dealing with Claire’s annoying homosexual friend, who in the background of every conversation insulted my religious beliefs. I surmise in the homosexual “oppressed” viewpoint, even though apparently one accepts everyone’s beliefs, if it is Christianity, it is to be opposed unless it’s the more bland dulled down false forms, where they all get together and have anal sex while reading the bible. Anyways so the politically correct team of homosexuals insulted my religious beliefs and carried on with their degrading judgmental stares at my wife, as though she were a lesser being, somehow sub- human to the enlightened anal sex encouragers. Anyways, I really don’t like Claire’s friend, he really makes me feel angry, the way that he looked at Katie like he had summarized her, like she was not even worthy of being spoken to. Of course Erik (Gay friend of Claire’s) continued talking in his forced fake lisp, and waving his arms around like a dainty school girl, while trying his best to incite some sort of argumentative reaction out of me, while we were trying to leave. When feeling such stress from being around my family we locked the keys in the house. Me and Katie of course as newly weds are attracted to one another, and because we were consigned to the tent, and my mom was sitting outside, we in a mad rush of passion went up to my brother and his girlfriend’s room, and while with one another in Love we were of course embarrassed, and Lisa, Steve’s girlfriend came barging in saying, “that’s not cool”. Well, I will say one thing, it’s really not cool to put newly weds in the position where they are forced to express their attraction for one another in a place where someone will be invading upon
that intimate space. This was extremely embarrassing, and I am still very much angry and resentful of my Mother for putting us in that position. Where despite the reality that socially we as a married couple deserve more respect then a simple boyfriend/girlfriend relationship were treated as inferior, and offered the worst place in the house. My mom had intended this to be our wedding party, I had asked for no celebration. But really if this was her way of showing appreciation for our marriage, then I’d rather never again involve her in the personal details of my Life. After being “caught” in our passionate expressions of Love, Lisa jumped on her opportunity to humiliate us in front of everyone by running downstairs, and shouting out in crude terms, our natural interactions. Thus we got in trouble, and we were supposed to feel ashamed of our marital relations because I took the role of the scapegoat, and allowed myself to be put in a situation, that would both degrade me and my wife. I must have really hurt Katie by allowing that to happen. My family were extremely rude to me, they forced me and Katie into a position where they could insult us, embarrass us, even pull us apart. So much for a wedding celebration, this was extremely detrimental to our marital relations. I allowed this to happen by not accepting the absolute necessity for a room because I treated myself and most importantly my wife, as black sheep’s, to be abused, and thus we were abused. I accept my role in this. If I was truly free of any fear or resentment of my family, I would’ve asked directly, knowing full well the necessity for a room, as we are married. My family showed absolutely no respect for our marriage, in fact in their own way they seemed to have tried to pull us apart. My mother who was apparently so supportive asked me and Katie to leave, after Lisa had made such a disgusting embarrassing scene. We as the newly weds, who were naturally expressing our Love for one another, were asked to leave for the benefit of those who socially do not deserve the respect that marriage brings. Lisa went on and on in her fake pathetic puppy dog look, like she’d been abused because we were married, and doing what was natural. You see taking the role of the scapegoat betrayed not only me, but also my wife. I acted without respect or dignity for my wife by turning down the necessity for a room, out of fear of my family. So thus Katie and I went to gather our things and as we were just about to leave, in a rush, because we so absolutely feared my “family”, we locked the keys in the house. This was the final degrading insult to end all insults, they all came down looking at us like we were a burden to them, and then Steve saved the day by getting in the house, while Erik the drama queen, went on trying to incite anger or verbal insult from within my soul. It became so completely embarrassing and degrading to be around my family that as we drove away, me and Katie exploded into one of the most vicious arguments ever, screaming at one another, she slammed on the brakes and we pulled in at a cabin shop to observe the woodworking for it is what Katie found interesting. She always wanted to build a cabin. I am very resentful, and angry at my family for their blatant disregard for the emotional well being of me and Katie’s relationship. Katie and I thus began a long period of time where we did not even touch one another. We then slowly descended into fighting and swearing, and finally this time apart, that is supposed to last a month. My family are a horrible, humiliating influence on my Life and it is a necessity for me to take the best possible precautions needed to remove myself from them at all costs.

Furthermore I do believe Lisa was jealous of me and Katie’s happy love, thus she created the entire scene to humiliate us, and to once more put me in the position of the black

dusty rum and ginger beer dried stick to the skin
no-one left but me in my self-important ramble
nowhere else for me but the words and solitude

the grey charcoal eye molests me in the hate light.

Issac Asimov: The ugly yellow toothed woman is fat with the corpses of holy ones that she ate, that desire of shame eats away at her as she waits for more meat the bodies pile up high in unmarked graves they won for now it is nice to wonder why there the instant relief of the numb song gagging itself on itself again, it brings me back here read revelations if you want to know what goes down but you probably won’t understand it.

Fudgy: Yeah so it goes through the molten cloud of fake dust light oscillating like a cheap electric fan through her inner fear orb like a second skin that hangs baggy over her eyes through her nuclear heart is the green river that flows within the anti- gravity apple that flows without logic of bliss it is such a wonderful feeling not to feel anything but this sound and the words the right tongues hand arm sheet of paper split tongues like silver skinned humpback whales beneath the worm belly eyelid fellow I don’t care…

Everything is starting to end with three period marks because I can’t seem to find the peace to be comfortable with an end at each expression. I really am understanding nothing I write but I am a miserable man or is the other way around apartheid and exodus.

We wither like genius after a long enough time into somnolence wearing it’s black cubicle eyeglasses that scratch the dentist core of futility o it started again nothing but that throughout the illness weathered with the naval officer in the forgettable anti- gravity suit floating to the moon like an otter without padded feet through the fur skin after pork jew orange the flesh has withered like ego is genus the word surreal is gluing its tentacles to thimble lined asterisks wincing eyes blinking glares of icicle tear downy innocence thin gladiolas sway like wispy ego is equal to the word genius because genius is a lie defining us to be anymore then anyone else genius is ego each concept is the same there is no difference. It’s either good art or it’s bad, the suggestion of anything beyond that is a lie. The gelatine eyeball is pierced with ox nostril and it is brotherly in exchange.

green river is not the whimper that pathetic
the usual predictable cry and the strange sigh
a man with his ocean coaxed out of the clammy skinned hotel

where the rubber bunny is chicken flexed in the nostril libido
where the anterior tibealis stretched in lifeless agony as he died that man you told me:

o you said

and it disgraced you

you became what the sky could green with acid lies
and cut them up into logically definable (from your perspective) patterns, but really Katie I do Love you, this is not an attempt to say anything more then the words I Love You. If it is okay to say these words, to tell you my Love for you, then here you see who I am, and here you will know that my strength is above what is normal. Of all the people in my Life that I have ever met there is no-one that compares to you in brutal awkward honesty, and simple kind hearted expressions of unconditional Love. You are like me. It is as though we are two people as one. The one person is brutally awkwardly honest to the point of being extreme even dishonestly cold in some resentful grasp at hurting oneself. The other is the hidden side of us exploding outwards, beautifully one together, in the most brilliant peaceful ecstatic emotional dreamlike universe of soft touching hands in Love, feet touching feet, bodies together like a dream, words Loving, supportive and free.

Chapter 11:

This one person is like both of us. The battle of these two sides is difficult in the sense that when either of us feels hurt by the others, because of our passive nature, we project much of our anger and resentment onto each other, creating a lot of pain and confusion. But the possibility for the healing of our Love is much more immensely important than any trivial matter of the past. The main thing is that we respect each other, by listening to one another. Unless I’m just rambling and this is a waste of time because you no longer have any interest? Either way at least I’m expressing my true feelings. I recall in the past the way I’ve been and the way I am now, and I drift like clouds in my mind to those places to feel them to understand them again. The past holds only what one is willing to accept of oneself. I do not forget the bullish reality of my drug days. Those have formed a very distinct part of my new self, refined by God. It puts hairs on your chest, adds character so on. You know the way people speak. Much of religion is a disturbed perversion of the essence of true Christianity. Even then though, the true essence of Christianity opposes the philosophy of the world, this being, it’s better to write a bunch of rape scenes and murders, so it is of no concern to anyone, and thus all art composed by a Christian is quite simply un-publishable, unless it subscribes to certain mundane Pentacostal, Presbyterian, or Baptist rantings about Jesus this and Jesus that with hits on the head, and trinities, and rapes, and murders, all related to one growing their apparent faith in “Jesus”. This is all fine, but then you kind of have to write like a hick, and watch Billy Graham on tv, and jerk off to porn behind everyone’s back. Christian writing sucks pretty bad, for the most part. It’s always so dumb and dulled down like some senile old man pooing himself, supported by depends. It stinks, all they ever do is write like they know everything, and go on and on about Jesus, and then all of the freakishly fake smiling Presbyterian’s gorge themselves with the crap they’re fed, and hiss at everyone who doesn’t hang a cross over their neck, and punch tables shouting about “Jesus” while embarrassing me, most completely. They always seem to claim to have divine powers, to see into a persons mind, and speak to demons, and cast them away. Wow, you’re blessed by God because you punch tables and immaturely insult everyone behind their backs, while drinking endless containers of boost, and shouting on and on like a sick lunatic about “Jesus”. All of this combines into one extremely annoying evening with Katie’s Mom and her cult member friends. They all blather away about a bunch of nonsense. Christmas is so important, because it shows we appreciate Jesus, even though it’s a pagan holiday, and elusively represented as one God supports. The whole perspective of the mass market schizophrenic team of nut bag Baptists who stomp to death other people to get the tickle me elmo doll made by a starving child with a gun to his head in Indonesia, while shouting “Jesus” and claiming to be divinely guided all over the world to extort money from senile old men who can barely comprehend the spelling of their own names. Christendom is for profit, an organization made of child rapists and schizo’s barking off about “Jesus”, embarrassing everyone, except for themselves. Because that’s what they have to do in the middle of a restaurant, while families try to eat food; and people sigh, and roll their eyes in the seats behind. “Jesus” barkers are sketch bags. They care only about their incessant desire to control the conversation. “I’ve found that everyone knows everything”, that’s what my friend said, and I know what he means. I recall in high school, the Pentecostal kids, with the rebellious but contrived and well combed long hair, inviting me endlessly to the Christian youth groups, with buddy holding his arms out at the front, like he’s all knowing, like the way the pope looks, I imagine, before he molests a little boy. It’s alright though, life goes on. I was raped by a Christian too. It’s good to hear that so many Christians are good at raping, and molesting children. It really is astounding to know that these “puritan” Jesus barking table punchers view children as just orifices to rape or molest. That’s what it was like for me. Christian rape I’m assuming is more pure then non- Christian rape? This is really pretty funny for me to write. I find it incredibly amusing. They really should ban all religion, and have laws enforced against it, involving the attack of all religion by physically annihilating each one. My friends will understand why I want this. But you won’t. I am just writing to the bland computer screen, benignly rambling on and on with this inner dialogue, expressing all that I need to express, to become stronger in myself until one day I get eaten by a gigantic starfish, and turn into a white tailed deer prancing down a trail, to be observed by two lovers drinking kosher wine while observing the silent remnant of the forest area of the Sifton bog in London, Ontario. That was really a beautiful day, seeing all of those deer, so peacefully walking by us. They must not have been afraid because they seemed to be just as interested in communicating with us as we were with them. Standing quite close to us, all

The Furniture Salesman: Hey yo, I be here to sell some sofas and some leather stools yo! I want you to think real carefully about these kitchenette accessories as well though I’m not supposed to sell them cuz they’re my wife’s and all all but for you anything. The green river requires the usage of these kitchenette accessories as they will convalesce the green and purify the waters so that once more you will be able to flow cleanly through the soul that is you without corrupting it with this pharmaceutical storm that lingers tormenting you so constantly. I will give you the prescribed pills but in time the only way to be free is to let go of these and release yourself from this drug induced albeit socially acceptable disease. This ain’t cool that you be poisoning yourself so much with these meds yo!! You gotta turn away from what is bad even if the world says its right, you can see what it’s doing to your mind your writing like this, mad as an old hatter with lead implants in his brain tubes collapsible as the doughnut universe soon you’ll be deaf as Beethoven if you don’t pull out the implants stuck like knives to the inner sections of the mental cavities like black coves no-one should enter you have roamed you have seen the subconscious hell that involves the perpetual drawl you have followed the scattered glimpses of the technological nightmare road the highway that reached through your soul in the shape of your well described green river and you have existed at the very brink of extinction like a dinosaur during the Ice Age. You have tumbled backwards into the corner of your thoughts where you were chlorophyll ragged and thrown in the trunk kidnapped by your own characters as they gathered your hearts desires up and diminished your sense of self and corrupted your balanced life into this lie this pre meditated self defeat that you call psychiatry. What are you doing to yourself man? You were sober just a few months ago and now you’re always stoned pulling yourself away from the sensitive man that Loved and felt and cried and feared. You are becoming zombie like without feeling carrying on with your mind as though it were a burden to pollute and forget in the back of your mind there is something eating away at all of this lie. You must begin soon to return to the logical way, cutting out the poison factory of psychiatry’s quick fix over medicated madness and remind yourself of the life before the green river pumped force fed down your throat into the eyes of charcoal bled night the oxygen holes through the impossible brain. I don’t want to find you nutso like one of those crazies in the hospital tappin; out the mad old rambles of some secret chemical addict in disguise even though it is socially acceptable. You are prying for to open that whole in your eyes you are pulling far to completely away that scab that has comfortable covered the blackness that shrouded your mind in the drug induced street days of homeless hell that coated your name in shame but the selfish longing of hopeless self hate running around naked in the streets you screaming like a coyote stuck in a bear trap at the cars in the rain the rain like clothing coated you and you whimpered pathetically in a drunken stupor while the leftover remnants of madness dissipated in the anger of the blind man that walked with eyes clearly seeing me deluded insane, and lost thought to hurt me would somehow strengthen his sense of inner shame. But the spread out world with its perverse burden eats shallow water through the low sink of its own disgusting filth. Until the end of this system of things, this will only worsen with time so do not rely on the empty hearted reasoning’s of the world but rely on the good word of the bible and pray to Jehovah your God.

Fudgy: Wow man you really care about this guy don’t you, I think you represent the side of me that actually has a lot of hope for future things maybe someday I will shed the old

orb is black, when I’m alone it talks to me, when I’m with others it poisons me. It screams in silence, the words, all poison, undignified, and monstrous, like the spirit of the world. I continue on writing and writing, I have failed my set duty, my 58 pages for today. I will never write that many in the time allotted. It is as though I woke up and I gave up. I woke up and I rolled around in the coldness of my tired body, and imagined, not Love but medication. The very notion of contacting my wife seemed horrifying and (I am in denial) arbitrary. I feel so bland in the face of all of that overwhelming emotion, now that I’ve consumed my valium, and my poor man’s Tylenol. I don’t drink enough water, and my back it’s begun to arch, it bends over itself like an old man bends over into his senile mind, into his grave. Into the built up city with its great awe inspiring walls of nothingness. It is an empty room filled with space, empty even of that room, even of anything. They await their deaths, all of them, with pockets filled, stuffed like kangaroo babies in their bellies, chewing on the rape meat of intoxicating violence, in their porno minds the data is verifiably hidden from the social eye, but I burned like a virus through the hidden shadow, within the boisterous man. I stumbled through the blasphemous hole of insanity, to heal in words that disgust me, and repulse me, words that I was ashamed to have written. I miss my Love, I always miss her. It’s just that when I have valium, it takes away the madness, the uncontrollable desire to disregard her requests for space, and to barge in triumphantly through her door with my beautiful smile, and my gentle heart, seducing her into a long night of love making, and holding hands, romantically talking, and sharing each others warmth. All of this is deluded, but it well describes my mind, where it goes when it is filled with fear. It tears all the walls of memory down, and I am left standing, like a desperate fool, lost in his own delusions. It is writing itself, it exists as I am existing, breathing, and babbling like a brook of tumbling water, intoxicated with chemicals prescribed to me, generously. They understand my anxiety. My anxiety dies when I take my prescription drugs and drift through the day, by and by, it fades away by night, and then I return to sighing and moaning and missing. Like a river dried up, I return to the fear, and the shadow mind filled with subtle desire. But once more I pop the pills and I become impotent to desire, the human anxiety is subdued by the valium, and I feel free. If it is freedom or not, I do not know, but it is a wonderfully relieving feeling, no longer being touched by that leper finger, into the poisoned disgrace of personal doubt. I can run away from my feelings but they catch up to me, until they are conquered by medication. I understand you people and your sober minds, your simple lives, it’s all so easy for you to get up every morning and work and talk to people you hate. I cannot even bear to talk to myself. It is as though I am a toppling over, upside down pyramid, it tumbles and crumbles, into that one final stone that holds me there naked, cold, and alone, and then I pop another valium, and the pyramid grows strong again, and then it goes away again, always goes away, and then I am hallucinating in the darkness, and I see the strange faces pressed together against the psychedelic ribbons of ethereal creatures, that form and coalesce like maggots seem to become one conflux of a beast eating away at the soft rot of that dent in my brain filled with vacuum, that pulls these words from my heart, and wrenches me away from my Love for life.

Fudgy: I am nothing. In between all of that they were playing ping ping and it didn’t much matter who won just as long as they hid in the darkest recesses of the magnet igloo syllables the brain synapses and it’s strange counterparts of cellular decomposition all measured together in equilibrium with the a biotic structure of plant life exposing each others freedom yet at the same time realizing the failure that had settled like a discomforting voice filled with discontent hidden beyond the lines of blasphemous reasoning in the white washed wisdom-less universe washed away in the collapsible doughnut that no longer exists to this day.

Black Apple: The carp are fine old friend but I would not remain where I was if I were them standing writing their memoirs in the back of a pick up truck minus 50 degrees Fahrenheit trying to spell patriarch but still for all the life of them green goobied glue heads nostrils foolish and polluted whining on and on about church food in the omniverse where we all had never graduated high school and yet remained like a smudge on a dishwasher of food marks. Why must he rant on and on and then in the backwards logic collide his conflux of form and subtle suggestion in this ideal yet misrepresented expression of impossibly difficult philemon city. I will pray for all of them today it will not poison me as I fear everything does that hides behind the crackled bacon eye of the black turpentine flavoured earth of his words that tourniquet countires are made from. Into that green river we flowed into that barking river of dogs chewing through the apple core of the universal paradox that though impossible to comprehend hung perplexingly in the air without logic before them.

Mr. Nalt: What’s that about anyways man I have no idea what to say no more then a ball of dice formed in cubed onion bits cooked with ham and turkey ground lamb man interestingly enough entitled himself as being some superior yet benignly interesting being. It wasn’t easy writing when nothing else made sense and the whole universe was a collapsible doughnut but here he carried on speaking in various forms through the characters he’d made upon the gurney he’d laid upon the gurney he’d lost his heart.

Fudgy: His heart was like a window where all that pain and sadness echoed in short blips like a corrupted video tape creaks through like an aging funeral procession dirge like carrying the long slew of elderly folks through the ultimate finality that is ;until God changes everything.

Black Apple: I always think you have more to say but here we remain in between the void of understanding and the shape of things in their most lost and unrealized. They only exist because they are what they mayb e is only in the belief that they may be in that shape the jungle of fire is whispering My Love is like me into the distance a drifting melody is startling the doves from their white green eggs blue sphere is one carp in the eye of thalidomide baby city it carries blue robin eggs down into the sky above white feathery snow hair is Eskimo chains skeletal remains of Jacob carried along across the Egyptian air into the exodus begun. Not to long later they all shifted back like a chlorites onto the gasping moon where the stars hung their shady disappointment in red Orion shaped diamond tears languishing golden in the reflection of the unsevevered mirror.

my insane battered brain’s state I called her for a drive home, and upon not getting any response, I had to walk home for 2 and a half hours blathering to myself in absolute delusion walking back and forth up and down the road finding deep meaning in nothing spaced out blistered ignorance and some deluded hope that Katie could for once see beyond her block of “inappropriateness”, and see that I am a human being and in quite a lot of mental trouble, needing assistance only for a ride. But you see in her mind, it doesn’t matter if I was in hell, if I was dying with slit wrists on the side of a road it wouldn’t matter (okay, bitter over-exaggeration), because in her mind it didn’t fulfill the regulations set earlier and thus without any emotion at all, I had in her mind done something wrong, no she would say it isn’t wrong, it’s “inappropriate”. My resentment over this matter still lingers to this day. It is so cold, I can barely understand. After this then, the next day she wrote me this bizarre text message “to just chill out man”, as if I was acting out of the way I should be acting after being through one of the worst experiences of my life. Then she claimed “we all care about you”, which at the time seemed so vague and disturbing that it scared me to the point that I had to call my mom to tell her to leave me alone. I saw lines of green symbols shaped evil like serpent skin ensnared my throat as I lay on the couch reading those words. I do not think she knows how much that disturbed me. After all of this was said and done, I finally got the nerve to call her, and she scared me once more with her cold voice as if I’d done something wrong by un-knowingly taking this medication that drove me out of this world, so high I’ve never known such a feeling. Often times I think she thinks that it only has to do with her and that I made the whole thing up to make her feel bad. This is quite possibly the most selfish and deluded thing I could imagine, and I am not suggesting that’s what she actually thought, but I wonder? If she thinks this way, than she assumes herself to be far more important to me than even my own mind that when insane is out of control. Truly, she is a wonderful woman, and I’m sure was still angry about the previous events that happened before that. But it does not change the fact that when I really needed help, all she gave me was selfish ego pumping by making it sound as though my problems were meaningless compared to her need for space, saying in the text message “wow I really needed that space”. As though her self- importance was far superior to any hell I could have possibly experienced and was thus easily definable as being made up and thus could be disregarded. When all I needed was something like “I hope you are okay”, she instead said “wow I really needed that space”, as though my feelings were lesser then hers. As though my existence was not worthy of being recognized, as though the destruction of my mental health was meaningless compared to her selfishness. When she wrote that it made me feel like I meant nothing to her, like I was the least important person in her mind, like any pain I felt was meaningless to her. When she wrote that it made me feel like disappearing, like I was totally void of any hope. It made me feel humiliated to see that after all the pain and misery I’d been through all she had to say was “wow, I really needed that space.”. I would’ve loved to have heard something like “I’m really glad that you didn’t take two”, does she realize that after one seroquel I was having extreme anxiety, my heart was beating incredibly fast, and I began to have palpitations? Does she realize that if I’d taken two my physical health, my very life, may have been in jeopardy? Or at least I would’ve wound up in the mental hospital if I’d taken two. It all seemed to mean nothing to her in her messages, all that mattered to her it seemed was that she smoked pot with some people, and did some “really good writing.”. I do recognize

Mr. Nalt: Yeah yeah fatty you don’t stand a chance in the comin clown-skin aftermath when that crumby icicle hits the ceiling eye shadow shaped champagne glass fan with helter skelter Dramamine drops you won’t know the difference between animals and plant-life.

Fudgy: I laugh at you, you pathetic accuser I have had enough of your downing me down I won’t carry on with your yogurt smelling garbage. It seems the words were like footsteps that carried him everywhere he would walk and they would be like the shadow beneath his feet the schizophrenic scattering of ether pseudo shape lurking in the barest third person corridors white washed away in the morning brain it was so easy you see to drag me apart like one pulls a dead caribou to rip its teeth into.

Mr. Nalt: But I won’t have it anymore the realization that each half lunar lapse of ornery old eyes is blistered with cold aching sores the pain of malignant thoughtless hate that turtle like remained hidden devoured in self- denial in shell behind which the world could not see but fading their was a portrait of you Fudgy.

Fudgy: You got it all wrong homes, no, I’ze be the hippest slow mo capital of france since ten years before the French civil war where Jacques won his hat while Shakespeare ate a herring and died miserably, Othello did em in.

Black Apple: I am just waiting for that time when all the clam shell crew reunite ya know in the difficult time ahead the shed blood of the ox changed nothing all the sacrifices meant nothing now that Jesus died. It was fine he said and the dissipating cloud the molten feathers confused with the wings so long carrying empty bottles cheaper prices through windy gallows empty streets cold winter hours afternoon dreams into the blackest chill inside the basement of poverty he dreamed of a day where me and the empty window would reunite by the classless shadow the humiliation that stunk like sewer water hate like bodies in the early graves. He hid his shame like one hides noose after noose on the electric curtain radio shower of impulse that shifted into hours of absolute nothingness it was all gone before it had begun the steps along the dry waterless regions where Issac Asimov and I met in the core of that tired glow whisky kept the thumbs from noticeably freezing off and behind the balaclava everyone looks menacing like a bad movie.

Ground Lamb Man: Finally I make an appearance and I am no other then me, so you see I been standing around sipping gin and tonic by the side of the highway when the tree breathed exceptionally and asked me where did my mind go it went to mars in the backstreet boys after party yo I could rap about the plastic armies with their happy smiley faced general and his blood lips grinning smacking together against the side of the boat a dead carp and the whole scene with the cows chopped to a million pieces mixed with kidneys in the big mac supreme.

There is so much I don’t know about me. I just express it though these words.

swallows up my life in December, like cold air bites the ears without a toque. The whole day disappears into these pages, written away gone, and then I miss her, when I’m un-medicated (her beautiful face, her soft skin against my chest, her hair in my hands). The smell of her body pressed tightly against my heart. I miss her in those moments that sobriety sets in, and then the terrible return of emotional response, and ultimately the hallucinations floating around me haranguing me like splinters of glass in between the skin cells. I am rambling now. As I can see, afternoon always feels like morning. I remember some kind days beautiful in thin mellifluous air, sitting on top of a mountain- side, the sand in my hair, her hands in my hands, kissing me. The sounds of strange birds cawing like old cigarette man made of matchsticks and lung cancer. Mechanized voices speaking about how bad it is to smoke cigarettes, shocking us all because life is so important when you’re breathing. I guess wherever one goes human beings will hold on desperately for life, like one holds onto to much money but even worse. So afraid of the inevitable, all of them secretly knowing, that death is nothingness, to afraid to admit it. And I continue once more writing about Life because I am alive. After all, self- denial of existence is a lie. I am obviously very much alive, though on prescribed medication. I continue, on and on, writing into the blue tv screen light of the cathode rays and the scintillating hallucinating ghoulish faces of green floating about me when un-medicated. When I’m not on the pills I miss her so much it ruins me. I become depressed, carried along by the wind into that circle, that tunnel, that undertow, as I am hunted by my own will into the metaphysical island of Love. I begin to need her. I begin to delve deeply into my heart, recalling her hand against my back, her body pressed up against the side of my soul, and I know she Loves me too. So it reigns in the silent kingdom of my drowned out heart, and now I cannot reflect to much on true feeling, for it is barely pumping there like blood, a subconscious undercurrent that I on medication can ignore for the most part. I would like to write her all the beautiful words, and show her all the beautiful shining colours in words, and shapes. I would like to be her blue umbrella, that protects her from the rain, but right now it means as much as the pills I take, and that’s enough for me to falsely escape. I Love her though, but at least I don’t go nuts and invade on her space. That just corrupts everything good when I do that. I run like a wild man into those moments, like an idiot, knowing full well the emotional response, but still hoping by some impossible miracle for her to come out from behind the grey painted door with

Fudgy: A lot of people said the train tacks were filled with possibility you could hop on there head south through to mexico in a week or two gun shots and false pregnant woman running behind lammas and emus singing about raspberries that taste like tomatoes. Good to meet you Ground Lamb Man. I’ve heard a lot about you, but this defies logic and is easily the strangest occurrence I have ever read in the previous ten thousand words at least. They all laughed a little, kind of awkwardly stifling their inner sense of relief just to see one another wasn’t in fact created by their own mind. What a strange day, it’s been.

Black Apple: Soon it pours through me like an green electric computer box chip it has welded to it each of my thoughts and companion thoughts to further themselves like white lines electricity and stupidity in that intravenous computer chip eye I see the outline of featureless thoughts pouring like the memory images ethereal over my own hand words already written but before Elvis the words were yelling into my heart Humiliating me before I had the chance to press restart.

Fudgy: I am not a retard? It was a strange thing to ask especially considering the very nature of such a statement based solely on the predictable convulsion of socio economics and the political regime encountering problems, words like that just didn’t fit in with the political correctness of Indonesian children making expensive toys with guns to their brains filled with thoughts and feelings each one breathing hard to believe really the famine face really exists drooling in the sand there pulling with its fingernails for some flesh at the disappointment of empty mouthed pan filled lips bent face wrenched disease infected drug injected head lice bred ridiculed and abused without medication dead and led brown skinned head. I know they exist they all say, but how could we really know?

Ground Lamb Man: I was sitting at home by the tv tree that called from radiation branches words bent out of shape from the twisted curled lips mouth of lies world of deceit awkward and bereaved smelling like gynoecia. It wasn’t that easy to escape the dangers of the omnipresent moon that purchased for itself every night except a few a viewable sight. The commercial tree with branches of pornography hung in the sky trough the rainbow hat produces the chemical libido released in the brain is a mosquito stinging the dead bodies on the rise. The stars made of disaster scenes dead bodies cry from the falling buildings that seem to slide by just another live action image thriving on the insidious hate that manipulates the undercurrent race of our sick human race.

Black Apple: I am happy you recognize all of that strange worded voice of a man that saw seven tongues speaking lies from the star of filth. Filthy dirt is hate the mercurial evil is shifting into another universe. Really I am well aware that there is only one universe that a lot of what I am saying is not meant to be literal but I say it because it has this shape that cycles through my mind on this anti-psychotic it is taking me away from the ugly orange rinds rotted in the deeper chasms of her smear campaign.

Issac Asimov: Finally I have returned from this long winter in the grey hair undressed in starched white eyebrow ochre coloured iodine ninja ice cube puke. The wire electric rain thinning the blood tell luke warm and thus the rain doorknob is occurring over the hapless fool instinctually impermanent in the backwards whisper that sounds like

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die(Thus I took my first seroquel. The vhs player seemed to be distorted, it was faster then I thought. I feel nubm in the 23rd century. The stress channel is fading away, static exhibits itself like a thousand ritalyn voices. The neutral zone. I feel nothing, no emotion at all. My brain is a security camera. Damage report. I am dead or missing in action. How we deal with death. I feel like a tomb or a simulation of one. It is contrived to be dead, it is obtuse. Love is insane I cannot pay attention to anything. It’s not my birthday, it is my momentary funeral. I am growing into my womb. I am not yet conceived. I have a brain, it is transmuting into nothing. I do not care if anyone Love’s me because I am dead.)

like grey pebbles cannot
feel each other, I cannot

even while touching emotion
feel. Observing emotion like

a computer is hopeless. I

am like nothing, like
the space between I and

am. I am free as I am trapped (Is there meaning to a lie? Or is a lie just the same but opposite as the truth? Is reality anti- gravity is gravity an apple? Two leeches in a flesh cup a black space. Filthy dirt. The hate is dirt it is ugly it is a worm in a scar a bleeding eyeball of orb. The black orb with a white eye, it is hate. The pupil is red and ether is shifting a mercurial evil, a hazy nothingness of skin cells and brain tissue.)I am dead as I am alive. My heart is a window:

pharmaceutical storm
is flushing red like My
humiliation. I mean nothing.

I am nothing, yet I think.
I am overturning the infinite glow

huddled together in clown-skin.
I whimper pathetically like a dog
chewing on it’s masters shoes,

hopeless as anti-septic. My Love (whis-
pers)is like Me. I am hidden inner bleeding.
A slippery vasectomy implodes hopefulight

as rain. I want to feel Love. I don’t feel Love, I don’t feel hate.

I am crying, My left eye is dry y
I am quietly displayed as a seroquel doll
in tin gun hospital officer talk.

I mean only the ink on chicken paper
tastes like garlic fear. I am nonsense,

if I am only a divorcee
then I am dead, normal
as a dishwasher with food
smudges like birthmarks.

(2)

People appear like fog (fingernail flower
psychiatric doctor
discouraging moth
eats fingernail flower

Mortuary mortar a
tactless continuum
eggy mental illness
menstruates zebra there is ing or
errors in everyth…). I can remember their faces fade
like sunlight blotches the eyes.

(3)

“What happened to my mind?”,
the trees seem to as(h)k.
I am white/black lifeless

red leather and diamond eyes Open

glass peephole, to see me and too hug me, and then maybe have sex with me. This is all like a foolish boy’s impossible dream. It always ends the same in those moments, she casts me off, as is well deserved, and then for months afterwards resents me about it. That is what I create for my relationship, it is a white tailed riverboat that tells a long story, and then I cut off the tail, and it has to grow back again. The Love we share is far to strong to be stumbled by any of these foolish acts, because as I act in this way I begin to finally learn how to mature, how to act appropriately. There is much that I have done wrong in all my foolishness; I have insulted her, I have come into her own apartment after 6 months of not seeing her and sat there waiting for her the whole night in the winter cold. I saw her there and she looked shocked, but instead of doing as she truly desired, she allowed me to see her. That was the power of her Love for me I suppose, but in the long run, it was quite damaging, and I have my regrets about the matter. There is all sorts of skewed things I’ve done in moments of over- sensitivity, that she has forgiven me for. Of course her lack of sensitivity balances out quite well, with her seeming lack of care for me, for months at a time. I have always had to contact her, after all these lengths of time, and in all that time she did not once express herself willingly to me. Other times too, like telling me she doesn’t care about me, and critically analyzing my love letters to her. Leaving me at a café for 45 minutes, and then upon my leaving after getting fed up, she did not apologize, but asked me to apologize for getting angry at her. The fights and the screaming. The cutting me out of her life because of her mothers involvement, has been fairly frequent. Always it seems her mother would join her to the court house when applying for a divorce, or to have me banned from her apartment building, and so on and so forth. All of this, being ridiculous, and foolish, and very impulsive, based solely on a momentary feeling of resentment or anger. I of course have also acted impulsively towards her, banging on her door with no prior notice, writing insane resentful letters to her. It’s just annoying to think about really. I would just rather be better now and change my ways so that I can finally respect her. Even if she continues on with her cruel, insensitive word use, then so be it, but at least I will be able to take the lead and prove to her that I am a respectful man of integrity. I Love her very much and obviously our marriage is sacred to me, and the only way this negative pattern will change, is if I begin to respect what she asks of me. I need to listen to her when she asks for space, no matter what. So I admit my failures, but I am often asked to apologize for her failures, and I often do. This is funny enough I suppose. Other cold things, like out of the blue, disappearing for two weeks, after saying a few words vaguely stating that she needed space for a week and a half, I having no idea where she could have gone. When this happens my mind often returns to the time she tried to kill herself, but she doesn’t seem to recognize this as being viably traumatic enough to accept as a reality. Really though when she disappears without clearly stating her purpose, place, and whereabouts or intention fully, I am reminded of the incident, when she gave me very little information about where she was going, and then I was left alone not knowing. She then apparently tried to strangle herself to death, leaving behind massive bruises around her neck, and then tore off all of her clothes, and ran out in the middle of traffic until someone helped out, and took her to the mental hospital. If this isn’t traumatic enough for me, then what is? She spoke to me in the exact same sort of laissez faire word use she’d used before, in the suicide attempt, after again, disappearing for another two weeks. Do you not think this could lead to a traumatic fear inspiring time for me? I am sure she would say about

once more dieing. The scratching over head continues to plaster countless cloud like substance glue to my Aeolian aftermath of unequivocal romance. I told you Fudgy not to come back here, but here you are, what you need a room now?

Fudgy: I never meant to cause ya any trouble black apple but I was beginning to wondering wherefore there I was right here in front of you with Issac Asimov and Mr. Nalt but suddenly Mr. Nalt and Issac Asimov just effaced themselves like one wipes out the very shape of a word in chalk with an bristly smudgy brush ether like they existed but only in vague moments of fading memory that soon were forgotten and then all that was left was just you and me black apple.

Black apple: O boy is black apple ever mad he comes out with the whole nine card shaped acronyms he’d been hiding in the back alley with Shakespeare’s bone shaped cardigan he’d bought on e bay for 30, 000 dollars that was of course after the 1 millionth chapter. What am I talking about said I. I am black apple and it is quite obvious that Issac Asimov and Mr. Nalt are standing directly beside you.

Fudgy: O yeah I didn’t see them, I mean I forgot or something to that effect, the whole thing seemed too bizarre, he really had seen them disappear but soon his fat tooth began aching and I am angry at you black apple I thought we agreed to keep this on the down low for an excessive period of time that does not involve now. What on earth is that supposed to mean?

Issac Asimov: I only know that you are not as fat as you say you are and you better lay off that green inflection of eye shaped black oldie eye music kinda stuff for sure it’s black and depressing it’s making you like one of those fat people who eat with the midgets and the queers. All of what I said was politically correct in the omniverse. So it goes then.

And off they went back down the long trail of the green river through the sacred starlight of the jasper stone into the moustache of Mr. Nalt they walked even now Mr. Nalt rejecting his previous form followed along through that strange green river and began floating down on a strange cubby hole like boat where each one was boxed in like ice cream in an ice cream cone. The putting engine pulled down that green river they go.

The ship sailed awkwardly amphetamindia was the first stop but they avoided entirely instead following along into tourniquet country that’s where the chief executive officers roam with their ugly headed shampoo made soap poems flogging to death a rubber chicken. Who knows what goes up Freud’s accentuated poise it definitely isn’t as predictable as you’d expect it to be. The whole team was together now all of them

Black Apple: the man with a second to third hand Illinois accent.

Mr. Nalt: the man who thought a kitchen was like mayonnaise.

Fudgy: The odorizing machine that wrenched ice holes in an iceless lake fishing for carp

sheep, and I became once more the scapegoat for my entire family to make fun of and humiliate, behind my back. Yet when I finally confront the reality that both my brother and my sister physically and emotionally molested me, I am supposed to apologize. Wow, this really makes me mad, and I have in the previous pages been perpetually complaining about my wife, who understandably would be resentful of me because I treat her with as much disrespect as I treat myself. By me allowing my family to degrade me like this, is to allow my wife to be degraded equally. I insult my wife by allowing these fools to corrupt me perpetually. They have shown no Love to us, only the trickery needed to corrupt our Love effectively enough, to get me back into the position of the scapegoat, or the black sheep. I am much stronger now though and they hate it. My sister hates that I have taken away her degrading power over me by confronting reality. I must confront my brother next time I see him with the reality as well, to release myself from his annoying, degrading grip on my mind. These people have abused me. I do believe that this entire scene could have been avoided, if I was confident enough to accept that my brother and sister really have no respect for me, and would rather see me divorced and alone then happy and in Love, because it doesn’t fit in there minds the role that I am supposed to play to fulfill their pathetic egos, corrupted by their materialistic self- justification. They have really hurt me, and Katie’s marriage, and I am really mad. I want to tell them how mad I am. I want to release myself from the bindings of this lie of a role, this scapegoat, this black sheep. These people have hurt me, but more importantly they have hurt my wife. They are not deserving of respect and I should no longer accept them as being members of my Life now. This will be hard. I have expressed myself both to my mother and father on the matters of past resentments (they were accepting). I have also expressed myself to my sister, and have successfully alienated her completely from my life. This is going to be good for me. I must do the same thing now to my brother, to free myself from the bindings of their degrading influence on my Life. I no longer want to involve these people (my brother and sister) in the choices or relationships I share with other people. They have shown themselves to be a degrading, and insulting influence upon positive relationships and choices that I have made. I owe these people nothing. I am glad to remove them from my Life. Family is an illusion built upon a failed idea of hierarchy. I am as meaningless to them, as another bum on the street. Well I would prefer to be forgotten by them, they no longer deserve my respect. I will not be their scapegoat, nor will I be their black- sheep. I am a new man now, and they can find for themselves someone else to treat so poorly, to make them selves feel strong, over compensating for the reality of the pain that they have caused me. If Katie and I can get through this, I will have learned

know, where to go from here. (So out of the very confines of Fudgys fat tooth appeared a time machine, one I did not believe to be so possibly large and rotund like a fabulous watermelon wired to the electric cathode rays of his tv eyes.)

Mr. Nalt: let’s get in man, this is too much for my mirror, and of course the whole thing collapsed and Mr. Nalts weird mirror was separated from reality but no not entirely affected still completely intact. Why did I just speak about myself in the 3rd person Fudgy?

Fudgy: I don’t know man but Tom is going to have a shower, and Tom is a brilliant man, and Tom is racing down the ski- hill, and Tom is gonna do that and this, and Tom is just talking to himself from my perspective and also in the third person perspective as an egotistical representation of his true weird brain. Fudgy realized at that moment that Tom was mildly insane and even though he didn’t even believe in the word genius he replaced it with the word ego, he still thought in just that slightly embarrassing goofy 3rd person kinda way ever since he was just a kid. I am Fudgy darn it, what’s going on with my brain?

Mr. Nalt: I don’t know man but we gots to get out of here, the whole place is collapsing, even the green river I’ve been hiding inside my moustache e for the whole time.

Fudgy: You what? You knew where the green river was this whole time, and you never told me? What kind of mad, psychotic member of the clam shell crew are you?

Mr. Nalt: I couldn’t help it man (he spoke coldly, trying desperately to mask his true emotions, even crying a single tear that appeared from his eyes and fell down a thousand stairs into chapter 1 million turned into a gigantic rose and then I Tom Prime who lived under that very bridge at the time walked into that gigantic rose and disappeared into some weird 60’s melodrama about Vietnam with Charlie Sheen as the drag queen nurse who had to shave her head to work the mans job in conscription killing off all them clones of Heinrich Himmler until the entire thing strange and convoluted completely faded out of my memory and then I am sitting alone in a room typing this flagship enterprise novel about carp.) I was worried you’d leave me. Sorry man.

Fudgy: Well now we’ve got bigger fish to fry relating back to the strange carp incident he sort of stammered over his words and talked for awhile about the London Transit bus strike while everyone began puking what am I saying? I can’t think straight said Fudgy who am I to say said Fudgy? I am Fudgy so what’s my blue blooded Ancaster chap stick commercial gonna be like when I get familial law involved yo!!!? Sorry Mr. Nalt the words they’re too strange I can’t help them. How are you?

Mr. Nalt: I’m alright now let’s get hoppin through the fat time machine tooth.

(Thus both Mr. Nalt, and Fudgy hopped into the time machine and severely bandaged their red sunburnt necks arriving strangely enough in Quebec with an extremely painful hangover. Someone had spilt hair gel all over his pants so Fudgy kicked him real
meaningless to me.

Chapter 14:

I wrote this last night:

My head hurts my head, it is always this way. I don’t want to know the time. The clock it dies like medication leech’s away the time. My head hurts my head, it’s going to sound now very dark, maybe bitter, and then I will complain about someone or something, and then I will stop writing and go to sleep. I really don’t see any other possibility for this night, so I will stop myself, no spare myself from the predictable blathering. Goodnight.

Well that’s cute isn’t it, as all of the usual sufferings today glare at me through rolling epileptic eyes, and in that sense I believe the whole world is in a state of comatose. The seizure has ended and they are left in a very brilliantly crafted dream built up of Christmas trees, smiling children playing violent video games, watching people get murdered, and drinking egg nog. It all makes a lot of sense if you partake in these boring delusions of false worship. In that sense I am bored of the perpetual luring animal desires of this Christmas celebration. I waste my time even writing about such pitiable worldly matters. The entire celebration adds up to a puke stained toilet seat, and a rather creepy old man in a mall, asking children to sit uncomfortably but encouraged even by their parents, on his lap. It all seems so cute and wonderfully quaint with the jingle bells and the miniature cartoon portrayal of elves all running around smiling and doing santa’s work. One could almost imagine them all colliding together freakishly into one massive transformer like holiday mascot the easterbunnycupidsantaclausetoothfairytransformer, mutating now together to form the hallmark card company. The transformer then walks down alleyways, blaring loud obnoxiously annoying but mildly conservative Christian rock music, and everyone clapping, and eagerly awaiting the next dull banging of the guitar about Jesus being accepted into everyone’s hearts and thus the sweatshop children join hands together, and prance around in a circle, around the weird transformer, while the transformer squishes each one with it’s big ugly money made toes, stopping out life from within their run down emptied out lives, used to completion. I suppose the excessive drinking and loose sexual morals coincide well together with the Presbyterian moral guidelines. It is a corrupt world, and it can easily be denied in it’s elusive capitalist greed eye filled with lead and charcoal disapproval in the eye there is jingle bells and dissonant out of tune voices clashing together like a wall of sound, the voices rushing together a thousand of thousands pouring forth like torrents of water filling my head with oblique sound imagery I cannot describe that dream completely but the voices formed into walls like rivers or ocean sides and hung there around me, while Egyptian pharaohs floated by me. I continued in this stream
an old woman, not to old with a squished together
face. Two faces, a young woman combine the same face

in the shape of a neon rainbow triangle, the buzz and blue
of water buffalo hurtles by me like a fiery eye-green teethed lips
of exhuming nuclear fumes floating inwards to the centre of the vision

it’s face forms, over all of them, into a black orb. Embers towards the

corner of my eyesight, a pure white cloud of injected light swallows
my attention, walking blankly on amethyst is the body of I flickering

in and out like the disorganized static of a tv screen coaxial cable,

loose. I am stumbling. I saw a face at the top of the page, green eyes.

There was more still even more. Arab men, long black beards, cloned, all laughing like
air bubbles float to the surface, popping the skin of my reality, and an upside down man.

The pleasure-less forms all subside in the Tylenol drawl, that willow tree calm, and

I wait in this near sighted bubble that is collapsing in on itself like bubble gum pops.

A continuing ramble of successive voices arise and fall but the mirror holds her face in the child’s form. I am consumed by the darkest black, the oil of night. Turpentine in the alcohol waits and then it becomes normal, once more, all of it. Everything becomes normal again, and I fall asleep into that drifty impotent calm. I turn into a quiet, cold and burdened statue, not easily stumbled but not very loving. I can see that she might wonder, where have I gone, where has my over-sensitivity, my calling at 3:00 in the morning while crying gone? Where has my desperate love letters, and impulsive angry banging on her door unexpectedly dispersed to? I can see, that she must wonder, where have I gone? What have I become? But I am the same with less feeling. I cannot totally destroy all feeling though. So I do Love her very much, and I do believe the writing of this book is healing me of a lot of resentment. It’s not exactly what a romantic would want to read, but reality is rarely romantic. Going out into the day, it drifts by me the wispy haze of my brain becomes a conflux of winter acid rain and the smell of deodorant stained into my skin from my early morning shave. Women are no longer attractive. People no longer interest me, but for a passing glimpse, maybe a few words and then… gone like the day. it
Ju jubes he hated he the body said

It’s my body not Mine.

The end of along

rose garden of spring to summer bear like in appearance the widow cried

carrying the remnants of body left in ash held up to the wind it

stung her eyes with shame when the words
echoed true like Irish hillsides swallow words and puke them back at
ugly eyes holding such heavy hard to deal with burdens secrets
that ashamed of one would never release

and they poisoned her as he was him

and the miracle spread it’s wings brighter then any colour could describe

a rain drop the size of texas coated the elapsed time and then it was gone

the poor lonely thing with its half life breathing one breath and then lips numb blue like
upside down umbrellas cringed curled and left this world into dirt. I could

not cry door opened and I slept through the morning till afternoon. I had nothing

else to say or…

Mr. Nalt: That was stunning old pal Black Apple, you write them better then Fudgy for sure. Fudgy is just a phoney. I don’t believe I have read anything written by Fudgy that has any degree of merit whatsoever. I write great poetry though. I just won’t show it to you. Mr. Nalt is actually known as the most fastest prolific writer in the universe. In fact in one day I wrote ten thousand million pages while playing every single metallicca song on the guitar that I metaphysically created. It was amazing the madness that poured forth.

Fudgy: Yeah man Mr. Nalt is the real deal, he knows what’s up and what’s down don’t ya know, groovy isn’t it? Who uses the word groovy, I certainly try my best to avoid it, it seems really dumb, and reminds me of the snow, it’s all gone. I am just writing what book were you reading. I was read red a book it’s called black out. It was quite interesting. It’s a mystery novel. O so like world war 2. Trying to gather information about viruses infecting the database. Yeah rowing across the atlantic ocean in a twenty foot boat. The French portion of three months of rowing. I just couldn’t imagine being that alone, not a soul, you wouldn’t see the ships in the night before anyone could see her. Wind electric system. He was crazy and he almost died swimming after a volley ball.

Thus it continued

all of these things, that it’s not her responsibility, especially about picking me up after my stay in the hospital. Well that’s true if you’re a cold heartless computer I suppose. Anyways, here I go again, the resentful and bitter voice that rises up from beneath the rather loving expressions before. I am so tired of writing about her now.

I’m writing my second book. It is of no more importance then the moment my fingers tap on the keyboard. The rest is past and becomes like visible dust, the shape of meaningless nothingness, for the sake of my own self- understanding. I understand that everybody chanting ohm and benignly stating the word namase while bending on a yoga mat and praying to some other god, will hate me, because the hare Krishna chant is someone else’s belief, and it matters so much. I once met a hare Krishna, he said the whole world was like a bad acid trip, with the inclusion of “man”, at the end of his statement. Apparently no-one told him, the world is like him, deluded by its own corrupt philosophy. I was always interested to analyze myself in the past and will do so once more. I recall in my more pretentious days, picking at the acne on my face in high-school, pretending I was eccentric, to gather up attention like fire flies catch the eye with their brilliant electric light. I was just a fake with a loud screaming annoying voice, who smoked a lot of pot, and looked at the sky as though it were a 3d cardboard cut out of the real thing. I’d steal my dads alcohol and sit on the porch with friends late into the night, cooking vegetarian burgers and smoking pot, while the river flowed by me with it’s cow dung, and foamy aquarium chemical aftershave, floating atop. I suppose the smell of the barbecue drowned out the smell for my mom. I don’t know though. I mean I was wasted almost all the time back then. I would steal her cough syrup, just to trip out. I have no idea how she didn’t notice all of those pills missing from her advil container? I have no idea how she couldn’t catch on to my flagrant drug dealing of acid. Kids were coming to my door, and then I’d run upstairs with a big bag full of acid, sold all for an inflated price, while I wrote my drugged out rambles, and pretended I was more then I was. I was just a pathetic loser people liked because I wrote music and poetry reasonably well and of course because I was insane and hitchhiked everywhere across the north American continent, not entirely, but you get the drift. I was real popular with the kids, cuz I was a bigger mess then all of them. The druggie minds, I vacuumed them all up into a black hole, brought them together into mutual destruction, encouraged them like some deluded self- help speaker, and then I became like their pathetic Kurt Cobain, or their dumbed down John Lennon. It was all quite lame, and then it was done. My whole sickening bender of a life crawling across the basement of poverty, through the ashes of regret, into the leeches lips I drowned in the mercury rivers blinding me in my own sin and through all of this rot, the tunnel vision melted extraordinary ruination into undulating sewer canals filled with dirge rats in my veins. Rats in my veins crawling through my body eating out the joy, the blades ionized, in the perpetuating cycle of sin. It was quite disgusting really, who I was before repentance just a black trench-coat man with pockets full of rotted fish corpses selling skeletons in the
hatred that thrive like a neck vein pulsating red in the glued eyes of ripped at hearts swelling with hatred leaving behind the decanted waste of the entire human race.

Black Apple: It is the judges that inculcate their obsequies democracy falling to there knees in false worship of the people made up of filth, their world in their faith the failed empty design of political reality collapses indefinitely into the near future and then is once and for all completely obliterated by God’s Will.

Fudgy: That is the way it must be, and the streets will be silenced by the green river flowing into three cross section shapes of severed forms of hope that despite high ideals could not relate to the hard pressed reality that squashed the empty hearted reasoning beneath. That was torment to the men with the cigarette eyes and the picked off scab sunlight, but they lived a life of lies, and I do not deny the thorn in the flesh that comes with this Sodom and Gomorrah that we call North America.

Issac Asimov: I will move to Iqualuit where the wind is cold frozen in the Scottish isles where the plastic Indian man stands with his tobacco themed sales purse forwarded in the front hallway of aboriginal racism. It was the standing up into the purple orb of neon light shade where thee jew stand emerged in the water sawn asunder.

Black Apple: I waited out there for you by the green river that flowed through my soul and the day emptied itself out through the bowels of the degraded sense of reality you call Love. It was senseless and disgusting but the lust pull attaches you and thus all care remains for a moment like a call for help and then it is spat on stomped on chewed up pulling it through liquefied knives that cut apples in halves in package that saran wrapped crinkle and crack as the music goes back and back restarting again in the nine eyed spider shape of the demon skinned spirit of the world that God will abyss in due time.

Fudgy: But still it disgusts you and you throttle through the mirror fornication course and rape your body of honest core and leave the Love apple core in the cyanide corner of hepatitis midnight. The filth of the flesh wrapt round about one another exhumes the very stench of putrid rotting meat chewed apart by maggots in the streets. They will leave us out their in the streets that’s already happened but soon to a more extreme.

Black Apple: The hornet formed it’s wicked mouth on lying target attached it’s skull and burnt that cannon of his formless heart upon the body that died in the raped midnight forced oral sex face of my squished together tentacle lips. I hate the old rain and the drained out grey brain she leaves me excess gravy in the slur of the bottomless pan.

Mr. Nalt: I am but a waking dream as she wrote in those cryptic tongues she was just wasting away in the deformity day falsified floppy under belly lurking gurgling burping disgusting unfaithful hate of the God she was formed from. The she is the he, and the he once was me. I stared out at the titillating trees candy ice box frozen heart wart.

Mr. Nalt: The skull is a red field filled with the alter they burned their children through.

Black Apple: I read that in Deuteronomy partially you have offered poetic license I see but that is not unnecessary. I grew scared of myself in the horrible moonlight as I lost through the signs pointing this way and that the patterns guiding me from there to then and then passing by me in disappointment of what had become of the Love that had just begun.

Fudgy: It was far through the green emerald forest that we’d walked and inside the cross section cardboard cut-out of the collapsible doughnut Universe the trees wept their bloodless tears ringing their hearts out like tea towels squeezed and releasing the thin mixture of water and blood diluted by the roasted lamb that now eaten lay dormant being digested in my stomach.

Mr. Nalt: The man with the stomach for his heart wrote his long songs about thunder and lightning and exploding diamonds but still he rushed through life like the sun blotches the eyes fading the people as they allowed their heart rates and turned from child to adult and died through the exhausted lungs of the tv ray heart that beat like a thermometer at minus zero. The mercury crushed like strange inter-dimensional insects, lied.

Fudgy: Why the green river coincided like butchers knives with the flesh of dead meat the slit throat dead cow blood spilt could never offer a complete sacrifice. It was simple he saw the computer without feeling and became nothing in that emanating white light thirsting for the core shadow lunging like a snake with it’s horses mane spread out wide kissing even the mint of man’s fear odious in death through the built up wall in the utmost differentiation and disappointed heart left like a poisoned rat after cheese ate snapped and broke the back but that was all in passing it remains like a mirror shaken but never breaking guarded in the inoculation light justifying it’s descent from motion into dirt into death here the sky awoke the long sleeping bodies that life formed through skin tissue hazy now I can reach out in thought at the clusters of night orchids in the populated scar opening it’s red leather and diamond eyes I am in the hospital.

Ground Lamb Man: A more current electric thrust was soon culminated in the somnolent cry of pastel crayon coloured orbs that when combining were melting in the green iguana tetrahedron glue of the horse feet formed from marzipan ice-cubes.

We are just normal people drinking drinks and talking, having a few laughs.

The people with their laughs hahahaha

They laughing are each muzzling the rabid bite of the dog inside that carefully

Manipulates werewolf like throat sinking in the stunk ashen influence.

The funny talkers with their happy voices laughing like bird in the morning chirping

By the sunlight bleached curtain of eyesight numbed by the mornings leftover medication

shapes of square hits of acid in the rain I drowned myself and digging, picking across the ground like a pigeon for roaches with coke in them, rolling them up, with herpe tobacco. Into the methadone the man gave me, Scotty smoked some crack and puked into the dewy rain soaked grass, screamed at me, and ran off into the night. He often smoked crack, it seemed to be his favourite thing. I guess his mom smokes crack, so he was into that. I never found it appealing. I smoked it once. It was like becoming a schizophrenic drag queen dancing on streetlights to the unholy blur of burning embers, melting the skin in my throat, the lips burning, and it was crack o I disappeared into nothingness and came back, stupider then I was before. People are idiots. They think they matter more then they do, they’ll do anything to maintain the crack high, the self- superiority false God trip. It wasn’t nearly as strong as seroquel though. I guess it just isn’t “how to become enlightened” by the Dalai Lama. I guess it doesn’t have the genius ring of “Imagine”, ugh I hate that song. Its cheese puke melts like Kraft Dinner slop into the bowels. The words that pour out of me are important for the moment that they’ve been written, and only for that moment. I no longer need the words after they’ve been written, so they fade behind, left in the wake of these new words, and the boat of my writing does sail along un-stuttered, over the waves, the abeyance of storm. I continue floating sullenly through the fog of my mind and it may break apart a few times, but it gets back together eventually. It’s a lot like my soul is connected to hers, like I cannot run from her Love, like she cannot avoid her Love for me. If that is an extremely presumptuous statement to the one reading this, let us hope they understand True Love someday as well as I do. On the rare occasion when I can get past all the resentments and the anger, and I can find the peace to grasp a hold of the strong feelings, the fearless Love that is true. Often times Life leads me to the cold and bitter shut off valve, where I ramble on and on about how angry I am at Katie. When in reality my Love for her is quite strong, as is hers for me. It is the impulsive nature of our minds that shuts off for a time. So convinced that this is the end of everything, but the true Love is what connects us, and that shines through, despite all logical presumptions. I am glad to be so deeply in Love with Katie, because it has formed a constant beautiful bond, like two trees with branches intertwined. I have a lot of hope, despite all my previous incarnations of various particulars of myself, these being the resentful, the angry jerk that rants, on and on. But I do confront some realities that may be hard to deal with, no matter if I am being optimistic right now or not. It is better to express true feeling, then to hide it, and let it bubble over, like boiling water burning the soul, like it literally burnt Katie’s leg permanently.

equilibrium and express themselves better then my own understanding of their expression. I do not wish to reach the heart of the reader, I only wish to let the forms and selves interconnected blend and intermesh into one form this form seems ultimately to relate to the only logical thing, the apple of gravity that we all seem to float around in disarray after you Fudgy reached your full potential and returned to the space between times birth and existence itself in the entirely created delusional Universe of the Collapsible Doughnut. This is why I write, and I do not write for your own particular understanding nor does it concern me Fudgy whether you think this to be tripe or not.

Fudgy: Ahh I see, but it is still tripe even if it relates to some minutely understandable idea. I think you seem to have a basic understanding of what you are saying but still I find it hard to believe that it is actually anything more then tripe. He laughed at me.

Issac Asimov: Well now Fudgy it is not necessarily just tripe there is some poetically pleasing moments throughout, but I do understand what you mean, the story seems far to ridiculous to actually have any real meaning, although one could create quite a counterfeit meaning to this written word exploration into Black Apple’s psyche.

Mr. Nalt: This is far better then your writing Fudgy, besides you’re just a pretentious sap who’ll never get anywhere, you’re writing is dumber then a bag of hair attached to a gigantic manta rays tail tied around throughout the outer regions of the African lion safari they reserve only for particular higher up members of the republican party and of course everyone who has been or will be nominated for the homoerotic nobel prize award for who is the gayest of all. It would make sense that they would invent such a reward it is quite understandably deserving to be handed off to the ether laden brains of a previous African American pirate named Abdul in the secondary application of all these terms there is but one hopeful truth beyond all of this and it has been mentioned in the previous chapters many times. So I would say Fudgy, despite your complete lack of understanding of this great work of genius you might still win the metaphysical award of being the most pretentious fat toothed irrigation equipment in the universe. That being said, I will now honour you with a large glass of expensive bourbon and we will sit down for a long winters game of checkers before checkers was even invented. I hope to see you soon.

(suddenly there is a loud array of musicians with various trumpets, harps, and violas ascending out from the gallows of the stage floating up outwards into the open aired midnight cold and biting frost red nosed in the abolition of juniper berries burnt out in 23rd century and exchanged with an organically compiled mixture of textures surrounding northern India which had become much like the Antarctica in the collapsible doughnut universe, of course the omniverse was quite the bore for all of them and it continued on to be sort of some dumb hippy acid trip or something, whit them all rolling around on the ground with their eyes in the back of their head in complete delusion excusing their foul minds for something in their minds they had deemed to be superior to the perplexingly stupid world they claimed to Love so much. I guess in that sense that the whole yellow bellied accented American crusade was exchanged with some guy who practised jazz guitar for extended hours daily and played in some cheap knock off band of radio-head trying his best to remain in the “now” as they say with the most successful musicians all

Fudgy: I do I Love Me then I closed the window with the pharmaceutical storm shaking the mirror still remaining intact somehow by a miracle one only knows that the accidental orbit of confusion continues on and on until the rust eats sideways through the skin of the fat strong lion walking between the road waiting to eat the man that was dragged by lies to his last meal.

Black Apple: It isn’t over though he said in that strong accusatory tone to the pharmaceutical storm but he was defeated you could see it in his tired eyes an old man struggling up the stairs through the skitchen falling empty handed with plastic capped container toppled over in the kitchen sink eyes pulsating red like a glued down cardboard cut-out the googly eyes x ray vision and asks himself where the chair went too. He was defeated there but it meant as much as this book and the words it scales falling off of me like old snake skin burnt rubber melted plastic burnt skin charcoal eyes filtering emotion away. Those charcoal eyes he could see through had once Loved but in the empty engrained under current of the restless beating heart waiting to stop he no longer cared for anyone.

Fudgy: The man on the beach stood with umbrella in hand and the Muslim song in the mouth the spread open sails pushing hi out through the wide circles of his own fear hearing the grey seagulls caw in pebble like fashion he choked on the dry parched skin of his waterless throat a grey pebble just like me.

Yeah I’m crazy that’s right this medication is making me crazy it is stale bread ruined with mould in the green blue omniverse they called as the brain synapses carried me like a doubt to the center core of the heart an melting the hearth into a formal easily acceptable slower down syndrome fork in the heart thrusting guttural cries reaching outwards the words were like colours drab in his charcoal eyes they gave up on everything. In his charcoal eyes in the evening by the bench in the middle of the sun where the chariot of golden horses red medallion sliver of glue in the green river slit the pomegranate ink blue eye dyed jew it ain’t true that the universe was just an explosion. It blacked out he said and forgot what it was once before, what a lunatic. I guess everyones right about me it’s all me, I invented everything even my own nothingness, that’s a lie though and I write it because I hate it and I hate their words like poison leeches the time of the life out of the green numeric skin cells scrambled by the brutal hypodermis length of the elbow that slew the marrow wound and drifted the damaged bone to the dry skull that saw through his charcoal eyes and it was all gone, it was all gone. That was fine he said but the universe was a blank it persisted in its omniscience that is God I cannot fully understand but it passed into the millionth chapter where I rotted in the silence of the failure of my own disappointment try to leave me but I will just leave the black asphalt yellow urine soaked midnight soup container that lay in the dust with the bodies carpeted in the frozen squat too cold to find laughter and you think in that moment the frozen moment how did I get here?

Fudgy: Wrapped up in a carpet were ya?

lonely sadness, like they’ve lost something as I sit here, in the winter without their families like my family. I have lost my family, they are no longer related to me.

The Ground Lamb Man: I have lost my family too, it is sad to see them go as I waved but the pharmaceutical storm took me like a ship without sails through a wretched green river that bent and tore through my impenetrable soul and left me breathless choking on the dust as the sun poured down burning my flesh like the rust of the risen chicken as it’s fat splinters in the cooking pot. It was a misery to fall asleep so early and arise so late now into the night typing away but the feeling is like a calm green glow through my entire semi altered soul laying forth these wordy foundations to be thrown about in their prose.

Mr. Nalt: Well now that we’ve all had our weekly emotional release let’s get back to playing plachinko and interacting with dolphins through antennae antler headsets purchased by Japanese merchants in the western part of Ethiopia. I no longer have any idea what I have written, but I have a feeling that I have written finally something kind about my True Love who is troublesome to my heart as I am sure I am troublesome to hers. I am glad to know that I have written those words through the various characters I create to shape the consequence of my minds internal exchange of thought patterns that shift like a paradigm of various shapes and like colours formed from the pigments scattered through the micro-organisms making up the solution of rain water and those minute lives that thrive up in clouds fall to earth and double triple quadruple into something new maybe a flower would grow if faith would allow. I would hope so.

Black Apple: I think the whole group has turned themselves around you reality voices you ritalyn voices you neither neutral zone or missing in action forces that defines the exurbanite of octagon hide where inside the pollen like breath of the whispers seeding into my heart the desire to Love her the green sprout pops up from the earthen area and it grows wild like white orchids and opens it’s could to mine eventually our Love will heal.

Fudgy: Yeah I got faith in the matter too. Lets start on talking bout’ something fun yo so the chemical clam shell crew were sailing down the green river tat split into three as the cross section the pervasive influence of the acquiescing leaf that lay openly allowing rain water to soak it through and through here we are like Lovers. The strange and the beautiful as it goes, all the way through the wind tunnel that held the green river in an anti- gravity tube for long enough to shake a rubber chicken at. The rubber chicken returns to find itself where it left on the back of some carp sales mans toad stool.

The Ground Lamb Man: A lot of futuristic films are based on the concept that the rubber chicken can fly at light speed and that people can somehow reverse the polarity of the martian landscapes so that they can regenerate them and populate them with green vegetation playing the role I presume of God. Apparently none of them have realized that there is no need to escape from where we live, because the earth is our home and it is a beautiful gift that thrives in perfect harmony with itself. We as humans are the only ones that corrupt this beauty that God has blessed us so graciously and undeservingly with.

Space Aliens I could go that route too, space aliens all combined together and it was like a strange conspiracy that one was best to ignore. I read my own writing and I find even to myself it to be nonsense. If I were someone else I would never have read this far. But here we are nothing else to say but that Fudgy continued travelling through that green emerald forest where the ugly two headed dogs came along running along through skin coloured cloud walls that surrounded him whomever he was, they hung up the phone both of them resenting one another but resigned to deal with reality slowly.

Fudgy I guess was very uninterested in the way other people thought he only cared about the way that he thought seeing as he was friends with Mr. Nalt the greatest cinematographer outside of Thalidomide baby city. What are you talking about?

Fudgy said quite sincerely that he was analyzing his subconscious and expressing much needed expressions because it was therapeutic or something like that… Mr. Nalt rolled his eyes and kicking his intrinsically created flesh connected clamshell home that travelled with him wherever he’d go. It must be the most bland and boring conversations drunk people talk about so confidently. It seems Fudgy listened into those walls of embryo of Thalidomide and wondered in that massive womb of a glowing city that shivered into the neon eye computer human lips speaking with a very forced I’m a homosexual kind of lisp. It was pretty dumb but that’s what they all did, while drinking cocktails and talking about Oprah. O the drama of the Martha Stewart case was amazing I can’t even remember what exactly happened but it’s all gone now. Fudgy had many problems escaping the moat of the mushy city of Thalidomide babies and it became quite strange for him as he carried on down to find that green river that would carry him past into the Desert abode of Mr. Nalt and finally beyond that onto the gigantic whale with four thousand ritalyn voices on top into the submarine filled with violas the princess he had to save. How absolutely mundane Mr. Nalt rolled his eyes again, this happened quite often every time he spoke about anything really but enjoyed Fudgy for his quaint minutely pathetic charm. I have to eat some more food though. Man drunk people are dumb.

Well there goes chapter 1 million it was deleted by the pull of the electric chord from the plug of the plastic unsaved slug. I got the nations all figured out said Mr. Nalt reciting everything he remembered something about how his moustache was in fact the green river of gravy that melted into the throat of Fudgy the fat toothed midget though that isn’t politically correct to call his tooth fat. Fudgy shook his head after all that writing and then it was

Just gone like that armadillafat in the previous chapter, oh was he peeved they use that word when they don’t know how to speak enlgish, they think it means poplar tree. I was surprised to find that the very exurbanite my dear friend was crafted from came from the octagon hide Old Jibby who’d in Chapter 1 million died in a sand spit sinking because the Japanese deserts are really barren and they all look like cowboys except they have ant antennae’s out there, it’s weird in Japan people don’t actually speak any language it’s just psychically with their antennae’s, really that much more advanced then us. I thought

and resentment through written word frees one from the need to brutally state it in argument and allows personal and relational growth to be opened once more to the prospect of a more complete bond of trust in Love.

Chapter 10:

I just ate a bag of cheetos
the orange chemical die sticks
to my fingers bright like the crossing walk guards

protective coat, painted with reflective stripes.

The people are all elbowing themselves together,

they do not suit the pasty lips that they speak from.

Each one is a reflection of oneself, in their mirror they are

so difficult to express, the mirror it opens it’s window to ego

much more then this, is the quiet carelessness of those drifting through
somnolence, into, after, until it squid like tumbles like an orange octopus tentacle hand into

the devoured obsequies many faced one who lures them with lies. He speaks lies like daggers through the corner of imperfect reality and he will be destroyed by the Almighty.

As I reject his voice while I wait for dreams as:

the sad moon is not sleeping
it is hiding like bright shadows
veil the thread of stringy rain

upon the ribbons of streetlight
of insidious night, wrapping its

ego in doubt. Elusive morning I
in unprovoked impulse continued
to pull at the long strands of air,

as if it were melancholy. Low

in the gut is fear, insolently corrupting itself it will always inevitably be cured by the Almighty. As it is though, a

hissing influence, squanders time, until it abysses completely, as

Love will always find away through the doubt. Tomorrow it

will be a day unlike today, but of it’s own unpredictable path,

it will walk as it walks. I cannot know
where it will go because I am no more
than me. But my hope is strong through the

eternity of the mysterious equations, abstract and impossible to logically define, is Love.

Love will remain pulling through the hollow souls,
the skewered angels with their wicked hate to be saved by God.

In all of the strange lies, the umbilical chord attached to the womb of the spirit of the world will die and only the one truth will shine through, the truth of God who is Love within our hearts

the Love we share, we will Love healing together once more from the obvious damage done. I was afraid for so long that

the world would destroy our Love
but with the strength above what is normal,
there is hope that the Love we share will heal and
I do care about you Katie, more then you could ever possibly know.

So wait for me as I wait for you and let the renewal of our sanctified marriage be born into healing a new beginning, a renewal for our hurt Love, so pulled down with the world’s doubt. I do pray everyday for our Love to heal. O through this day I live my life, and I remain the same but slightly changed. I hope in you for you to know how much my Love for you is obvious, through the resentment and the cold, the anger, and the old, all written, all sailing forth across these orchards of emotion. I trust that if I respect you, eventually you will learn also to respect me. I am sure that you do believe that you respect me so greatly, and so on, and so forth but there is always a great opportunity to grow and to change, to be transformed into a stronger soul. So I do not deny that in many ways you have been very respectful of me, but you can read in my previous resentments that I am more concerned with physical respect, not just logical, intellectual respect. This is what I need to see, to prove to me the reality of the words of Love that you have spoken through me into my heart. I need to see the respect of the physical aspect of our Love before I can begin to trust you more to grow into a more complete bond of Love. own criticism
eyes, calling me pretentious and a fool in my discussions of homosexuality because they know everything and are published in the New Yorker. Here it is ladies and gentlemen Don Patterson the winner of the award that I forgot the name of with his cheesy modern poem about rain and the tears and old woman clapping as he stares over-sensitively out at the world with his immense wisdom, writing and writing about his own self- importance. This weak cluster of words that looks and reads like everything a critic would want a good poem to read. It confronts nothing, it insults no-one, it aggrandizes itself like Howard Roark and then it’s done with it’s stupid italicized ramble about how it doesn’t mean anything, as if that’s supposed to be of any importance to anyone to read. I mean a poem is a poem, but that’s not a poem, it’s just a cut in paste subconscious spew of an over-educated collection of different poems from better artists. But maybe the world is so desperate for something bland and boring like that, that they’ll give anyone an award to write that crap. It exhausted me to know that anyone would read that, let alone offer an award for it. I found the whole thing contrived, boring, and predictable. I don’t know what to write now. I wrote this after my insanely bad trip on seroquel; it is a description of its effects upon my mind:

I went home after receiving the medication not fully informed of the possibility of such a reaction as it is something like .001%. I waited a few days, then I decided after a rather anxious time concerning myself with my on and off relationship with my "wife" to take it. I had been told that taking seroquel would be comparable to advil calming me down, putting me to sleep, taking away pain, so on. I popped the tab of seroquel with a ginger ale, turned on "the wrath of Kahn" (Star Trek), and after some short time rewinding the wrath of Kahn, I began to notice the infinite speed of the vhs player. It scared me. Thus I sat down and my mind became this weird vortex of different ideas flowing star trek and psychiatrist voices with their words through my mind. I began to write a very insane book. Thus it came to the point after awhile finally realizing that something was wrong. I got out of bed, the box like shape of my room had exchanged itself, with walls warped into an orb like shape, bleeding black yellow blood red neon green around me. The hideous trip began to horrify me to the most extreme extent. I called the ambulance worrying this would kill me. After communicating very vaguely and having insane hallucinations with the police, tracers on my head followed me like everything was a photograph of a photograph of a photograph, and so on. The ambulance pulled up and thus exploded my mind insanity I in all my Life have never been that high, it was like as I said in my book "I felt like I was on another planet, only I was the planet, even beyond that I became anti- matter, nothingness.". I was the ambulance. I could read everyone’s mind. I was higher then I have ever been. You could do all of the drugs in the universe. You could shoot up heroin so much that you would die and you would never ever feel that high. It was horrible though, because in the process it was as though my brain was fighting to sustain emotion, and the seroquel was cutting it apart like savage wolves rip into the carcass of a dead caribou. The sinew of my emotion was ripped apart, gobbled down, and then I became absolute nothingness. This is where I felt like a God. I have never felt that way on any street drug in my Life, this was way more insanely amazing and beautiful then I could ever describe in words, but it was also so absolutely hopeless and evil. I was like a God that at the same time thought it was dead. I was like a dead God without feeling. Go ahead people do all the psychedelics and opiates, stimulants whatever, you will never get as high as I did. 6 days later I am still high like a mild acid trip. I reach waves of insanity, it breaks me apart. I am utterly distorted of who I used to be. It has ruined me. It is what your street drugs want to be. I am fighting myself not to take it again. The valium helps a lot. I feel so insane, it is like all the healing of a year and a half of sobriety has been totally corrupted, and I am worse then I've ever been. You jokers and your heroin and crack, you don't know what high is until seeing through my eyes, when I felt seroquel both bring me to the most beautiful brilliant high of my Life and at the same time corrupt all the joy and natural feeling of emotion into nothingness, affecting so poorly my relationship with my wife that I have become horrified of her. It was the worst experience of my adult life and the most addictive. I’m alright now though.

I will say though that things have improved quite a lot now that it’s been about 3 weeks. I feel sane again, but the effects on my relationship with my wife may be long lasting due to my treatment of her, at the time of this chemical breakdown. It really ruined me for a time, to the extent that I was afraid of the word Love. I thus used the word love as a purely arbitrary expression to anyone who expressed it to me. Katie took it pretty bad, I think, though she’s not exactly admitting it. I do think it hurt her that I had to have my mom call her to tell her to leave me alone. I was really nuts though and I really don’t think it’s fair to hold it against me. That trip was the trip to end all trips. It drove me totally insane. Anyways the poetry I wrote on seroquel is on the first page of this book. It took awhile for my desire to do seroquel again to fade away but it is now gone quite completely seeing how absolutely pathetically screwed up I was for weeks from it. I am doing a lot better now. I do take valium everyday now, but I have finally begun to return to my normal self, albeit slightly changed, as I have become extremely bitter, about this and life in general. My wife has threatened to divorce me as I previously expressed and I fear that she will cheat on me, but if she doesn’t that would prove to me that I could finally begin to trust her, and that she actually cared about my feelings. A lot of words get spoken when one is happily in love, but when anxiety corrupts love those words are not necessarily the truth anymore. So I will see if she remains true to me. This is my test of her. I guess when I was in the hospital she was smoking pot with a bunch of people. That must’ve been fun. I called her after being in the hospital for a drive home from the psychotic episode, from my awful moment, and she did not arrive to help. In fact later she asked me to apologize to her about the matter, deeming it “inappropriate”. As I was insane at the time I hardly think a cry out for help is “inappropriate”, even if it breaks the set regulations previously expressed. I do believe within the confines of rather extreme circumstances a call out for help is a sign of love, not a sign of rudeness. Anyways so in

Fudgy: The Hospital ain’t that the reckoning zone where the neutral zone passed away and was replaced in the filthy dirt by a mine field of shiny tin scars catching light through the clatter of machinery the abeyance of insight. That which stole the moment and drew her like a mire in the fog toppled into disappearing all gobbled up.

Black Apple: It was sick, it was filth they said chortling away in the curmudgeon of familial distress as the cat rusted away on the bed in the diarrhoea laden near funeral form. It scared him so much he left the window open and vampires floated in red dripping eyes fear inspiring lies they sat down with papers in hand discussing the local parade and the distressed phone calls rang long into the night like the chug a chuggin of train wheels pumping heavy loads of black oil through mountainsides and snow waiting through the whisky leer alone to repel away from the nearest course before gunshots rang out deliberate and horribly real at the traversing hippie with his long hair unshorn.

Ground Lamb Man: I recognize y’all think I’m some kinda hippie, but I ain’t none of that its just as I thought it would be, said the Dalai Lamma under his breath a mixture of laughter and regurgitated caribou meat to the pups he fed bigger wolves to reach the masses in their affectionate shame glare cove where pillows lay out a million medicated heads filled with a million mediated heads filled with a million dieing seeds of thought that arose toppled over in the cathode rays conquered by the scintillating shower of information. The infirmary of wasted thought deluded in the dregs of ugly skin shapes whoring themselves a tree carcass with eyeballs spun together it’s long outwards beautiful lacking in shame purpose. The body was spinning in it’s elephant tusk teeth, it’s monkey paw eye liner carrying Thalidomide baby city down that long and exhausting river nuclear radiated with homeless methadone orange veins you can’t inject into afraid they’d remain the stabbed out leg blood orifice for the drug. It was much like the television orbit forehead with it’s Saturn like impulse to storm that pharmaceutical storm is flushing red like my humiliation in it a fingernail flower formed and drew blood from his endorphins where the dolphin fin tipped sky securely measured in silver lining but fools old implant though the winter was short to him Life passed in essence the faster the passing the closer he grew to the day that was long foreshadowed into the dead form laying underneath some dirt to remain a moth shaped ego that melted like rain melts away the ink on a page.

Mr. Nalt: that is unbelievably facetious, I must carry out the Laundromat with the chicken broth in the afternoon, I am amazed at all that you of all the particles bouncing together in the universe formed into one complete living breathing form.

Black Apple: It is not the form that transcends the novel idea of everlasting permanence but it is God’s Will. The form is useless without God’s Will.

Fudgy: I remember those days long before the apple was anti- gravity that a tree hung a million blue apples upon the underneath ocean of hearts intertwined by intercourse in Love by the very attachment to God. It was before this so called revolution that failed leaving despair for the rest of the remnants of form the inherited failures of our physical first father carry through and intrinsically connect us in our wars, and our damaging
though that before this seroquel experience I was very inappropriate to Katie and I take sole responsibility for not listening to her when she stated her need for space. That is entirely my fault and I have clearly recognized that, and outline the many possibilities in the future for avoiding this, if there even is a future of course. You never know I guess. But anyways she’s pretty sweet, and holding her in my arms with her head pressed against my chest is one of the most comforting feelings in the entire universe. I miss her greatly but expressing my resentment will help me to better deal with this in the future.

and I understand that because she was at that time very scarred, and deeply traumatized from her suicide attempt, so this was very wrong and disrespectful of me. Thus I do believe we have equalled out together in our lack of respect for what one another asked of each other in times of extreme circumstance. We both disregarded what each other felt in our most insane moments, preferring to pursue our own particular desires with our own selfish justifications. But really when a human being is deeply hurt, they need to be listened to, and all the past needs to be disregarded, so as to respect their request. I understand that we both have our justifications for the matter, but there is a little thing called compassion that is often expressed in times when one is deeply injured by an extreme circumstance. Compassion should by the human heart open up the mind to a Loving, albeit logically “inappropriate” reaction, where a sacrifice is made to help someone in need. A cold response to someone’s cry out for help may be justified as “appropriate” logically, but from the perspective of the heart, it is like poison to Love. So I understand her justifications, I’m sure they make so much complete sense and she can blah blah blah her mouth off justifying it, but ultimately, I was desperately in need of someone to show the least bit of compassion to me, and I turned to her, and she rejected me. That really hurt me.

Chapter 9:

Popped 3 valium, put on pac-man (it’s ruining my mind) and fade away like the end of a bad movie (whimper). Clasps of gold encrusted with barnacles attached to my boat. I sail away into the night, cannot sleep, its poison is teary eyed, and pathetic window is hoping the skin of her mind won’t forget. This was all the past, it’s gone now…

I have begun to hallucinate, madness… cinders.
totally at peace, unperturbed by the entire massive strange delusional scenery that surrounded me the light was bluish tinted but scarred into my subconscious so bright that tunnel like through my heart I could not feel and thus it was beautiful in a strange way to be walking through this crystal cave in the basement of my rather normal house. I walked up into my room and played some pretty guitar and then fell asleep. I awoke surprisingly quite early the next morning and sat by the window drinking coffee watching the light rain like drops scratch into the semi- permanent glass like vision of my Olanzapine influenced eyes. The image would hang there with the weird refractions of sketchy light hair that seemed alive like the marks in a dead tree when bugs eat out the inside with their miniature teeth. I think this medication is beginning to degrade my sense of self awareness, as I lay awake last night trying to feel Love for my wife, even though I couldn’t feel anything but still Love is what I feel for her, it’s true. I felt stranger this morning then I have in some many years, like the whole of sober existence and it’s peaceful yet fragile eloquence had been washed out to this deep and dark entrancing ocean of Olanzapine over medication where the sea weed branches hung like a meaty noose around the many necked selves of the green river that conquered through the hole in my heart that she’d left behind in her words that defined the action that created the anger and the emotion that drove me here silent like a crab as T.S. Elliot said scuttling across the ocean depths or something along those frames of perspective. I am quite concerned about my mental health at this time. The day has elapsed and I am once more in the same state as I was before this time with a longer turn around, less deferential refraction from the emitted plasma glow of the used television sets squandered for paper bills counterfeit reaction and then a new thing owned. It was altogether a fight of a day, one that dragged me through anxiously hidden in my own black coat of complex horror that shone rosy red in the grey drab green of frozen grass thorny poking through without snow. Another long enclosed day where I waste away being angry again and again. I thought to myself as I sat in the library that being in Love is like killing myself over and over again. It just torments me to be so angry at someone but soon the comforting numb of the drug will assuage the fear and attach poultice like upon my poorly bandaged heart very emo-like. I carry on, throngs of greedy eyed Christmas whores glaring in the sky rubbing together their finger tips in quiet anticipation. What will I receive they seem to ask each other as the day goes by ugly and dishevelled as before. Was Christmas simply invented to create the illusion of something peaceful or joyful in the most horrible disgusting blandness of December? I wanted so badly to pull each strand of my dna codes genetic make up apart until I became like some deformed carp laying waste at the bottom of some rickety old pick up truck running over raccoons through the drunken desert where the orchids lusted after the eyes seducing like the siren call to invite the welcoming eyes of any passer-by. The white eyed orb orchid envisioned in the sky yellow In it’s thick skinned stubborn cigarette eye. Always trying to leech onto the next hapless fool with a credit card the cigarette man and his eminent presence everywhere lurking with that peeled scab look in his eyes, it feels so great. After much time it ran away and it was after all just an old package of smokes left out in the cardboard frozen ice sculpted by wind and the thaw and de-thaw of southern Ontario temperature shifts. I missed her today, maybe that’s because I’m partially insane. Walking around in the quiet ramble of the day under the breath mutterings fleeting glimpses into nothingness and returned glances into the window making sure the man with the snarl wasn’t on shift to open the door and stare at
the wares for sale in the closet of my mind I knew it had already left into the pocket of another. Waiting to long for anything poisons the possibility of it’s re-growth. As much as Fudgy wanted to emulate Mr. Nalt he was happy just to be him, in that spiteful innocence that I lingered by Oceanside depths of ignorance where one could fall chipping ones tooth on the cornerstone so long rejected. I replaced my mental capacity with another form and thus began again in the similar wispy current electrified with the medication now blobbing through the blue lipped woman in the snow curtain walking past like a paper bag floats in the dust of old lunch saran wrap. It was so hard for me to carry on I thought. I woke up this morning and at my most awake in the entire day I said to myself as I stopped 3 times to sit down that I was tired. It is a different form of sleeplessness, it is not measured in hours or eyes closed with the window closed in the winter cold and the darkness arresting me in its envelope fold. It was just to be me.

Mr. Nalt: I think all your writing is a bunch of pretentious crap and let me tell you right now, this book will never be published, and then he laughed because he’d thought the title was a fine idea himself, and snickered silently like one watch’s a senile old man stumble up words, it almost sounds perverse, not with a title like that.

Fudgy: Well I changed my mind, I ain’t writin’ no book called that, it’ll be called something else, ain’t figured it out entirely, I’ll leave it till the end to discover for the sake of finality.

Mr. Nalt: What, you’re not calling the book that anymore, it must mean something more to you then. What’s it mean Fudgy?

Fudgy: The book is a piece of my soul and it combines with your soul so let go of your defeatist attitude yo!

Mr. Nalt: O you pretentious old coot I was being facetious I could’ve guessed you’d change the title because you are blameless and upright in your ways, you are not given to slander, or the trivial desires of the flesh as the world is.

Fudgy: Well that is nice to hear a righteous aside from a cynical old man. Now let’s hear some of your poetry. You “genius” he said now sneering his personality now switching completely with Mr. Nalt. No it’s not that’s just the way I am Mr. Nalt’s just a pretentious odd man, facetious tin gun hospital officer talk.

Black Apple: The airplane seems to be flying high above into that grey abode where emptiness holds it’s lifeless arms out ready to let go coffin nose through the soul and death arrives in packages in turn by the squinting light through the helicopter morning orange burst rising in the distance long into that heathered purple earth England lay a distant travel through the Himalayans he marched in the sweltering snot of the bursting bubbles of lava puking over into tonsils made of crushed rocks turn into grey pebbles are just like me.

It was easy to thrive that unclean way, it was natural they would say. Charismatic.

So it goes and it’s gone. I am gone into another day, you wonder why I even both stayin alive.

Mr. Nalt: That’s very pretentious, and it also sounds hormonal and angsty, you aren’t allowed to feel that way because it’s not up and current. It’s not gonna cut it homeslice.

Fudgy: And I was just as I was before gone, and gone I was gone and gone and going now into another night that shifts slowly into day running away from the sun in it’s afternoon bliss that reclaims its glory like a final requiem and than it is gone and its gone like the snow into spring melts and the days cry the leaves of the autumn and trees are what they’ve always been being born and dieing and then gone like all things seem to go and be gone like the soul stands in the skylight that stutters in the bald moon wide eyed as the reflective sardonic cries of the failed lives that I join and stand beside.

Mr. Nalt: I rolled my eyes because that’s the most pretentious emo wank I ever read and it couldn’t be cool until you knew the hippest and the crude so you hung your head in the sideways clock tower that ticked away the time like lice running through a heavy burdened homeless head in the thudding crumple of sound that arose my tired soul underneath the empty bridge where everyone stagnates in their own pretension. I can barely understand the passing and the conclusion of these words they are all but the tap of the keys he said to me the rose tear formed like the earth was a receptacle for the raindrops filled colour reflected darkened shades of wine red blood in the snow that seemed to hum as it fell like crisp hardened tears frozen from a deep pain an hidden inner bleeding and the people I can remember them in the eggy mental illness menstruates zebra a long life to live seems to release itself and disappoint like an old man’s fart it’s all gone. That’s what you said ain’t it, it’s all gone. But what’s gone?

Fudgy: I don’t have to justify you or me or the tree or the world because it is a lifeless lie that we all seem to hang onto this material possession you form your god around dies with every empty hand it passes by the sky gurney holding me a dead tree rotted from the insides like a zombie. The rest is history she did some things I regret to inform me. I left her then, but still I couldn’t help but Love her then and thus it remains to this day.

Black Apple: I wonder if she would regret anything she ever said if I would regret me in the clasping gold necklace strung round my neck in the silver iron rust smell of blood up my nose that spilt cross the drab sheet into the floorboards it stained a piece of me. Through the carrying pigeon who followed me with her whispers in my mind attempting to recover the lost time with words of Love that could possibly do more then I ever hoped for. I thought each thing was a façade but still Love never fails, it remains catching it’s breath at the peak we’d both run up the wrong mountain to see one another but no-one was there only us standing parallel in view of one another emptied of energy but regaining in the journey down past the peaks the rocky crevices and the tree line that hung just above the green evergreen tree forest horizon eye like whimpering I n the belief that everything will heal in time. It’s so hard for me to believe. I Love me.
that’s why I’m writing this book isn’t it? With some desperate impossible hope that someone will publish me for this insanity riddled with grammatical error, I’ve dumbed myself down or upped the anti on the shocking, or including the nipple, or the alien. I am also either to lazy to work, or unable to, due to my severely unbalanced mental condition, or both. I would like to work but I really am entirely un-experienced. I wonder though would I just work for one day, and lose my mind completely like last time. I went to work in the blue gray of the 4:00 in the morning it shivered in the blur clouds walking for an hour coffee pumped heart big ugly boots walking through the cold, and the stain of employment hung in the air. I arrived at the labour ready in the usual self- justification work force attire. Wow, I did it arriving there early enough to grow big black bags under my eyes. To the people waiting with their cigarettes; burly men talk, and the usual implication of brute strength in the movements. All seeming to say, yes we can work, look at us, we aren’t like those welfare bums, and there they are talking amongst themselves the bad coffee with whitener bleach impulsively thoughtlessly poured into my dirt coffee waiting. I ripped out a part of my lungs and left it there soaking in the dried out waste of everyone else’s life. We all work they seem to say, looking for approval from the proud grandmother with shining slightly senile eyes. We all work, we’re not like those welfare bums. I got there too carrying myself in the same weight, a façade of sorts, had to fit in. I sat until my name was called, gave me a yellow hard hat and I walked like a cigarette butt falls in a sewer to the bus stop. I waited once more with the eyes of approval. You see he’s got the hard hat, the gloves, the boots, yes he must be a man that works. But I was a fake, hadn’t worked in years, but I tried to elude them with the rough look, that image of lower middle class gruffness. I got home showered in the phosphorescence and hopped back on down across town to work. It was a disease, the work, all of the men like lumber jacks swaggering around muscle bound cigarettes, and porno tongues talking like snakes in the dust of nothingness. Wow another day for them, I couldn’t measure up, so they all bent over carrying doors on their backs while I was out of breath, like a starving Ethiopian compared to them. Lifting doors something jumped out of me like two hundred rocks under an automobile splaying out was that morbid insanity, the kind that ruins me. I washed it off in the dust of old pavement icing the air like cake mix and I breathed in the sludge, choking up all the white putty goo into my lungs a yellow green goop, I spat out into the dust. The work, it was moving heavy objects but I was no elephant man, or maybe I was, but to beautiful. It all ended up I was sent to the stairs with the broom and the clothing of ash into the stairwell sweeping away dirge like opera Bizet maybe beating my broom against the steel hand rails it made music like weird echoed voices in my brain. I was insulted previously by the blind hearted man with a big ego as I watched him carrying a door strapped to his bag to show his apparent superiority. Was difficult to imagine living that way everyday. Once again though I write, I don’t know if my mind is capable of the torment, standing on the roof I snuck away into the green horizon no-one knew my name and I thought there, why I had lived this long. Why I had dreamed about things out of reach. Why I had hoped for anything more then a long depressing fall from the top of the retirement complex bashing my head brains into bits against the ground. I suppose you could say I hated it. The work was torment, and I just continued that way,
jaundice. I guess you could say it was like a glimpse into hell, they all shook their heads understandingly and carried on scribbling away little notes in their books comparing them with other books published and accepted by society and prescribed him politely with seroquel. A lot of people say that they just make up their own last names and change them with Yolope or whatever the used car salesmans last name was again. Fudgy was not easily amused, he did not budge his fat yellow malaria eye like a missing glow stick at one of those ridiculous puke stained bathroom raves with everyone molesting each other, enlightened as they would say by their failed attempt at escaping reality:

Let me tell you something about reality Mr. Nalt said to Fudgy looking at him very starkly the wind blowing in his hair the nipple and the robot all colliding in the background and then the fat man running naked through winners once more screaming away about how much his spandex chaffed him it all seemed so utterly normal thought Fudgy. Thalidomide had to change, this was not what he wanted for his city and yet he still walked further from it travelling to the very nether regions of the “omniverse” whatever pretentious hippie term that lameo guy said the lameo guy plays a huge part in this play. It is now going to be written in script form:

Old Jibby: I died and this is my last words recorded before I died by Mr. Nalt. Thankyou

Mr. Nalt: O well Old Jibby you weren’t really cut out for this strange exciting land of wonder and beauty where all the politically correct “little underwear headed gnomes roam” (it was disgusting he thought).

Fudgy: Come on now Mr. Nalt let go of the old bag of fastidious fruit the fat tooth is starting to kick in, hey isn’t that the green river right there on your… face?

Mr. Nalt laughed awkwardly and paused turning to draw wild even radical interpretations of Vincent Van Gogh sketches he’d seen in Africa before Timbuktu reached its collapsible doughnut Universe stage; that was of course before chapter 1 million.

Mr. Nalt: No way dude (spoken condescendingly), it’s not cool to be dissin’ me, yo (the hidden sarcasm was confusing for Fudgy because he had a fat tooth)

Fudgy: What you be sayin’ homes ain’t the tuna white like a snowflake, ain’t that the reddest apple ya ever darned seen? (and suddenly all the while the entire collapsible Doughnut Universe reverses it’s spectrum and the only gravity left is the apple that they observe with great awe and wire eyed madness)

Mr. Nalt: What is happening Fudgy? Why are we floating away from everything, is this anti- gravity, was it really true then that gravity is just an apple?

Fudgy: I don’t know (speaking with a graven morbidly disturbed tone) what’s going on, only that, that apple is the only thing that has gravity and everything else including our very souls have only anti- gravity. Let’s go back in time Mr. Nalt and talk to Issac Asimov, I think he write books about robots and time machines, that way we might…

Mr. Nalt: (rolling his eyes) What a stupid and pretentious poem you have written, how could you be so morbidly un-intellectual. I hate to read such predictable, contrived garbage. You are just trying to be like one of those people who write romance novels in the shoppers drug mart.

Fudgy: (looking sorrowful) Well yeah, I guess you’re right, this really was just some pathetic attempt to write a rehash of many popular harlequin romance novels that I’ve read at previous times in my dull and mildly pathetic life.

Mr. Nalt: (smiling, knowing he’d won) Well at least you can understand that much.

Fudgy: I hope that I can write as good as you one day.

Mr. Nalt: (laughing) Never will you read the magnitude of my infinite genius (laughing absurdly now, almost to the point of being annoying, but Fudgy had too much respect for Mr. Nalt, so he kept quiet)

Fudgy: Could you please read me some of your poetry Mr. Nalt?

Mr. Nalt: Sure, here goes, I’m sure you will be amazed, and then you will cry because of how pathetic you are. (just as he is about to read the poem lameo guy appears)

Lameo Guy: I am a very important part of this story.

Fudgy: O hey lameo guy, yes you are a very important part of the story don’t you agree Mr. Nalt.

Mr. Nalt: You’re so pretentious Fudgy, of course I agree. I was being facetious.

Lameo Guy: I am a very important part of this story.

Fudgy: Is that all you have to say to us man? Or is there some deep meaning to what you’re saying, maybe Mr. Nalt and his infinite wisdom could conclude some sort of revelation from your words.

Mr. Nalt: Yes I see that he is expressing his inner fears of not actually mattering at all to the story. But I am reassured by his words that in fact he is a huge and unmistakably massive part of this story. It was after all him who claimed to be a very important part of the story. I don’t want to offend him because he seems friendly so I will accept his statement, and adjust my thinking to understand the revelation of his words. It is deeper then one could hope to ever understand, it is like the mystery of the origin of the octagon hide that I am an exurbanite of. It is a deep entrancing kind of story one that would take 1 million chapters to tell, but since the 1 millionth chapter has been deleted by accident we will have to make due with a shorter explanation. Lameo Guy is quite smart for his age but he’s still got quite a few kinks to work out with his relational problems and all, but at least he doesn’t dress like a cowboy and have ant antennae’s on his forehead, that’d be too
of rice and we throw out massive portions of meals and go to our psychiatrists, dealing with depression. I hate the world it is an ugly lie. And then the enlightened Baptists and enlightened Buddhists and Barak Obama get together and start a big massive sado-masochistic orgy and beat each other with whips and carry on about Jesus or something like that or maybe they’d talk about nothingness, who cares really. But there you go people, that’s the world’s enlightenment. I guess beating each other with whips and chains until bruised and bleeding is somehow erotic to the crack-heads, meth- addicts, and junkies, all of them equally as enlightened as the Dali Lama, Barak Obama, and the majority of the Baptists especially Billy Graham. Imagine a breakfast with Billy Graham, wow!!! I couldn’t wait to sit down with him, a glass of orange juice, a bag of money, and a punch to the head with the exclamation, “you’re healed” echoing outwards, as a bunch of carny looking freaks cry and moan, because Benny Hinn saved the universe, one line of coke at a time. Well at least one of them was on coke anyways. I don’t know who that was, but I will use Benny Hinn’s name as a physical representation of that name. I feel so bitter and bored right now. I’ve got to get out of this place. This bland carpeted floor, the security walking about, making sure everything is in order for the druggies. Alright then so now I will talk about William S. Burroughs. I really think the man wrote brilliantly, but what he wrote about was so stupid. It’s too bad really; all he wrote about in Naked Lunch was predictable contrived garbage. Yes and the junk, and the rape, and the murder, wow what an amazing idea. Anyways I just found William S. Burroughs to be such a waste of intelligence, with all this crap about murdering and raping, it’s so boring after awhile. Life is fine but if you want to waste it writing about stupid crap brilliantly then I wonder, what’s the use? I guess he was pretty drugged out though; maybe that’s what made him so immature. I don’t know though, but I guess it’s what the world wanted, a brilliant writer, writing about stupid predictable crap, over and over again. I did the same thing with my first book but it was far more disgusting and perverted so I know where he’s coming from but still it was his whole life. I guess he wrote about cats once, never read that one though. I saw this video of him showing off his weapons. I just thought that was so stupid and immature, it’s just kind of pathetic you know like, “look at me I’m a big man I can kill people” or something. Did no-one tell him that violence is boring, that after about 10 years of age GI Joe is no longer interesting. I suppose not though? But he was a genius whatever that means. It’s too bad about all of these drugged out fools writing their blather brilliantly with the sole purpose of shocking people. I’ll stop writing soon. O I have transferred myself now to the library to continue writing in this bitterly congested way. O well at least I have the ability to write on a free computer in a decent country. But at what cost do I sit here on welfare? Is there nowhere else I could go but where I am going and where that is I don’t know. I am writing this book because it seems like something to do, or maybe it just is winding out of my fingertips like nerve endings from brain tissue trees or am I a fleeting glimpse at who I will be now? Or is this all I will amount to, sitting here in the library partially insane, spewing off bitterly with no chance of ever getting published for the benefit of no-one, not even myself? It seems strange to write like this, like my words mean nothing, like they fold themselves up in a waste basket filled with torn paper psychotic stadium. It was my head though and black overcame me there I was sitting naked in my brothers room while my brother pushed his penis into the next door neighbours anus. They told me to lie down on my stomach naked he poked around for awhile at flesh like plastic and then awkwardly released me. I came out the black side of silence and there I was on the bright green landscape of suburbia with a sharp light white cube sliver of high pitched ringing. I got up off the grass walked around, things felt slower then, they always feel slower now…

she could never have molested me because she was oppressed and gay and that was impossible that I have a clear memory of her touching my penis while I was standing in the bathroom and her showing me her vagina trying to get me to have sex with her. That was all made up you see because she could never hurt anyone because she’s gay and oppressed. Just like my brother is straight and yet what is this then? I must have also made this up then too. When I finally stand up for things that have happened to me because of them I am both attacked, insulted, and actually asked to apologize for the things that truly did happen. It’s just that for these fools feeling guilt about reality is to hard thus it is best to turn that guilt onto me in a way that makes me seem like a liar so that they can continue to be the innocently oppressed. The troubled yet strong homosexual, the hard working puritan strong man. These true stories destroy there egotistical image of our relationship together. I am supposed to be the degraded one. When I confront them with reality it humiliates them, it destroys their power and they are left with a rather pathetic grouping of swear words and loudly shouted insolent denial. O the oppression it must be so hard to hold on through these troubled times being so gay and falsely accused and all and o how could I say that about her. Blah blah blah and then it goes on but instead of having power over me they have nothing and I am free of them. You see my sister plays on who I used to be to escape her own disgusting molestation of my previously raped body. It is easier for her to sum me up in a few words, define me, and judge me to the extent that my feelings become meaningless. She does not have to care about my soul that she molested because she has created a complex of false superiority due to my over honesty. But she lives in denial and I do not. I have never molested or raped anyone and I am happy for this, the shame must be so awful. It is sad the way the world shaped me from my raped body. All self- definitions if defined by

Issac Asimov: A fat and mildly boring man who ran through winners naked in spandex.

The Ground Lamb Man: We know nothing of him yet, but soon his presence will come to fruition and we will welcome him as the new member of this strange gang of eccentric shapes and intangible objects quintessentially their own impulsive and paranoid selves.

The new beginning of Chapter 1 million couldn’t possibly be written for another 3000 pages. It would be to deny it the justice it deserves. I really think this is muggy out their in the fog torn window glass curtain vase kitchen hat soup air spores mould blue green toxin feet yogurt yacht thalidomide baby city watch. It’s a souvenir, albeit quite expensive but worth it if one is willing to part with some jelly fish like babies from the thousand mile islands resort right beside the Chernobyl look out house where the family with 5 tongues lives dancing the jig under the severely mutated flesh lamp of living organism electrical house. I already spoke of that once before. I need not concern myself though with the hapless fool who spelt his name with a symbol or called himself Rainbow Angel. What whack job would do that? To be sure it must have been the drugs.

I write like a sieve through a serrated edge under the bridge waterfall is bled with the urine smell oxygen coat of oil and dirt thinning the blood dieing outside like one fear’s the cold bitter empty years alone in their bitterness. But I can change that path before it happens besides they all together now are travelling now uncertain of where or who they will end up becoming all that is for certain is the definite reality that they are now travelling down the green river. It’s exactly as it was in the past. I wander the streets half asleep upon finding you I deliver the entire emotional explosion of fear and then efface myself like fog burnt away in sunlight into the pavement chalk asphalt air a raven stood on the hood of an automobile stuck there in the silver awning of plexi-glass and hockey equipment. I

Continue sorrowful in this expression not concerned with how or when it will end only because if I stop I fight with the final word and it seems more words were arriving before me like a heavy boat carrying orchards worth of red apples still that one is levitating to this very day. I got to sleep late last night and dreamed nothing as far as I can remember.

Well the day sketched me out the red lights blurred from the back of steaming exhaust pipes into one neon wall of bright red alarm light and I walked on in that confusing haze from my absolved self understanding nothing only that people are annoying and good at the same time and this was where I stumbled down those foggy exasperated staircases words slurred together in a murky cobweb mixture of nonsense and dissolution. I was quite careless today in the dust remnant of sobriety in the case of my triangle green yellow eyesight that finds patterns now in everything that I see. It is quite unusual for me to write this way. I carry all the blankets of my own self- deception encouraged by the wisdom of some psychiatrist. I stumble through the dark hallway in the distance is a mirror reflecting my soul distorted then into separate realities for just one moment there is where I found myself half mad pressed against the walls screeching like fingernails on chalkboards against the wall pulsating was the heart of the entire universe sleeping through that yellow green triangle was a tired face stoned on pharmaceuticals prescribed so politely to me by people with their dainty and bland garbage rambles signifying this
call into that delusion. I’ve been cruel and resentful to Katie, but sometimes it is better to pour out the grit and the dirt then to hide it secluded in the lie of self- denial. It is true that at times when she is influenced by her abusive family she has often times projected her emotional and mental anxiety onto me. This happens of course with the justification from her part because I was being disrespectful to what she had asked of me. This being space, ie a night to herself. I do recognize my inability to control this matter in the past as my full responsibility rooting back to her suicide attempt when she spoke in a very laissez faire matter about leaving for a week and tried to strangle herself, ran around naked on a highway and wound up in the hospital. All the while I had only thought that this week of space was going to be a week of space. One is often confronted with their fear of this, though highly unlikely, happening again, due to the traumatic highly unpredictable nature of the event. I have to accept that this is the past, that this won’t happen again if I just leave her alone for one night like she asks. This is all my justification for being inappropriate and not listening to her. It is necessary for me to confront these fears, because they are unlikely and really terribly affecting my relationship. I continue on trying, prying away at the past until I can finally be complete in my remaining in fine conduct, unperturbed by her rejection. I need to accept that one night apart is better then a month. I take full responsibility for my words, my actions lacking in self-control and I am sorry for the swearing and the screaming, and not listening to her when she needed space. I fully accept responsibility for this. I need to see her take responsibility for her own actions. There is not growth if one is constantly shifting blame. I hate Christmas music. I find it torments me, it disgusts me, the way the world shifts like a big ectoplasm blob of shivering nuclear jelly against the backdrop of Christmas trees and mirrors lines with coke. It’s quite despicable the whole world it’s descent into delusion year after year expensive lights hung about and trees chopped down and Ethiopian children getting paid 4 cents an hour working over time while being held at gun point, all so little jimmy can open his space monorail and stare up with those glowing greedy eyes possessing the dream present and then the laughter and the momentary high, the illusion of joy as the parents poor themselves large amounts of alcohol in egg nog and walk around in semi- modernized houses with the façade of traditionalism, extremely vacuumed floors and that annoying tormenting feeling, awaking sitting there with those awful glittery Christmas colour wrapped presents crackling and shifting on the pine wood floor as the poor Ethiopian child dies of starvation and is left in the street to be lifted up, another in the dead body burning truck but wasn’t it worth it? The coffee percolates while the mother moans a million miles away for her child died working overtime for little jimmys space
I just want to eat a piece of chocolate cake and hold Katie in my arms and go to bed and sleep with her hair in my nose and dream sweet dreams strong in her arms strong in her heart thumping against mind. I think about these things and then I fade back to the anger.

Mr. Nalt: I hope so. I truly hope so…

I finally awoke in the lonelinest core of my existence and felt as though a black hole of loneliness had formed at the core of my soul and it called out for her body to hold mine in it’s loving warmth. I finally felt the gentle misery of missing her and it was relieving, I lay their awaking from my dreamless sleep really missing her despite the medications numbing influence on my emotions. It is now that I realize that finally through this haze of over medication nothing that I do or say can detach me from my true Love for her, my inner longing for her soft and warm Love that rounds down the jagged edges of my heart and leaps bounding forward like a new born robin into the spring air prepared to finally fly. I Love her so madly that in the depths of my soul and in the loneliest corridors of my heart I have hidden her and even covered her in the drug daze. I exchanged the Love for the temporary magnet release of medication that in the past has successfully obliterated any feeling of emotion towards her or anyone, but now the feeling has returned even when I am under this intense influence of both anti-psychotic and anxiety relief medication. I spilt water all over the floor as I write this it sops itself into the new towels given to me as a wedding gift. I miss Katie because I Love her, I even almost cried laying there so benignly inoculated, so subdued by the prescription carelessness. I in that intense haze began to feel that longing for her that I have hidden now for so long and it is difficult to express but I Love her ever more so now and do wish to hold her against the inner parts of my chest and whisper Loving kindness in her sweet ears, and I Love her like one Loves one’s own soul. The Love I have for her is equal to the Love that I have for myself.

It tortures me the things that have become of our marriage how disappointed I was when I heard the sad news and yet I will not let her kind name be slandered though she has hurt me. I was left alone in that discordant bank of the cacophonous zombie role that mushed my skin together like garlic presses its flesh into nothingness goop immobilized and discreetly well behaved I was a seroquel doll dieing in the last faze of my existence. Through the open wound that sauntered through me like an aging prize fighter jumping this way and that trying to play the illusion card that he still had some fight but behind the façade he’d become like a worn out limping dog just hopping half-heartedly by the end, having made a rather complete waste of energy and a foolish display, resigned then to chewing on his masters shoes sullenly and whimpering pathetically. It was not the life for me but that was the dichotomy of my two halves at that point. I had lost myself so completely in the gurney blue cloud void of dissatisfaction and undeniable nothingness.

All the while on my glimpse to hell, the travelling sales merchant arrived but we will not speak of him for the time would escape me and I did not consign myself to the walls of old history book shelves lined with dust and hidden mould, smelling of cigarettes 30 years old. I watched from the parched desert of my mind as I died. I witnessed my own long bodied aisle after aisle winding shelf filled with memories and truths and lies twist itself up into a white plastic garbage bag green wire connect the plastic in forced in their anorexic bodies talking about sex and the city, and crying because of the oppression. All the while these apparent victims, or oppressed ones, go home and masturbate to pornography watching as a soul is basically mutually raped for their pleasure and the paying public. This is disgusting but a reality, for pornography is to rape oneself as well as to support the rape of another, thus erasing all the good one does in their deluded martyr mode outside in the world. It is an obsession to be perfect in this world, because the acceptance of imperfection breeds doubt and shame if one is not repentant. The catholic island of starched white shirts and child molesters is all great and wonderful though because they have expensive stained glass and they allow homosexuals into their congregation. Hey everything’s good now that the president is black. Everything’s been figured out now. We all continue this way in this rambling form and it bores me, because I have returned to God and I am no longer one of the We. I write a lot though and it fills my head with words. I suppose I am very opinionated, maybe you should just stop reading now, and go turn on Imagine by John Lennon and cry while reading “how to become enlightened” by the Dalai Lama. I feel so tired of this, it’s like I am running through a brick wall, over and over again. Writing and writing, it is like white lines on a mirror that efface themselves in the nose of a radio voice, singing about Jesus. It means barely anything. It is just another book. It will be forgotten like everything else made by mankind and then life will go on and Margaret Atwood will write another book and win another award and we’ll all cynically read her words and realize how far our society has come now that there is fair trade coffee companies all around the world, all the while changing the entire universe and altering the very fabric of the space-time continuum. Thus we continue in that desperate way to win and lose, to gain and profit, to accept our roles in society as of utmost importance and trade off our lives for a few weeks in the sun on some Haitian resort while children murder each other with their bare hands in the street for a slice of bread. Now that the fair trade coffee companies have saved the universe, we can sit comfortably in our IKEA brand modern but wonderfully quaint chairs, and talk about Jesus and Billy Graham as though they are equals. And then we can all go to Swiss Chalet together and punch tables shouting about Jesus and how the Angels are communicating with us and telling us to fly to different countries to preach the Baptist word. And then they all gather together rolling their eyes in the back of their heads crying and baptizing each other, while ecstatically shouting hallelujah with torn paper and are erased from time and existence forever…

Black Apple: It was blathering in the past but there you were laying on the bathroom floor just trying to sleep a wink after almost being raped by a fat naked man lured me back to transport truck got me high and pretended like I was a whore for his sake I guess they all play with fire but the burning requiem came through the cigarette dust of the lungs that spat out the phlegm of burnt paper and chemical oblivion nose was a fire hose of evil languid tendrils of dripping snot thistle like pain gristle shaped like melted fat fell from my nose. So kids that’s why I say don’t smoke, cuz that’s what happens when you quit. They all laughed and idled in thought for awhile…

Fuddgy: You asked me where my story was going well we’re all floating down the green river and we are inside the anti- gravity apple that floats without logic in the gravity of the earth around and inside the apple we float down past the green emerald forest and the Thalidomide baby city into the cyanide seeds where the core of the apple is diseased and that brings me right about up to here where I am me, explaining me in the delusion of character fused with reality o it’s the conflux of the clustered eggs bursting in the ovum of condors that the grated cheese hand had been burnt up pretty bad because he was a witness, I saw it standing there the skin burnt to a crisp tortured in mexico because he wouldn’t deny God. It all makes sense from the standpoint of some nut bag greedy pig faced dog running gruel like through the heavy bowel of some morbidly obese monster of government in mexico in Russia in everywhere the hungry ugly yellow toothed woman waits a harlot on the assuaging bath of the nuclear hearts running steadily blocked arteries through the green river that bleeds shifting mercurial evil.

Fudgy: That’s nice old jib why you be talking yourself down like that ain’t their more to go? I said I don’t know you ugly man, I’m not ugly. I thought I was ugly but I am beautiful as a poorly played piano made mistake that sounds right but ultimately is just not fitting to the set piece being played o well ain’t it clean of me to recognize that I am a freak mistake that sounds right but is actually not in any way part of the melody composed it just kinda sits there strange and dissonant but beautiful that is where I remain and I edit each thought away as it goes to become something more grammatically correct for the ugly yellow toothed woman to criticize and to hand press her own clothes standing by a steam roller in a concentration camp counting the jews as they go by burning with the witness’s and then they’re all gone yah the Catholics won…

Incandescent light bulb and cracked pine floor

I really do Love her a lot, it took me along time to really accept my responsibility to respect her as an equal to me. Honestly I was quite inappropriate in my actions expressed to her. I would often times when asked if I could leave for the night refuse because I was trapped in my own fear of being alone. This is really not much of a problem when I now see what being alone really is. I just get that lonely feeling now and again and then I can’t sleep. I take pills that drowsy me but still I stay up late in the darkest parts of the night when the street itself seems to sweat with old rain, cold shivers down my back as I lay awaking in the night with either a boiling of the flesh or refrigeration. But when finally the drugs poison mind enough to sleep I do not dream but only drift through the white core of nothingness and awake less alive then the day before. At the moment, last I saw of her was in the shoppers drug mart while I was picking up my pills. I guess she thought of buying some cheaper foods but in her mind it was after Christmas when all things were ridiculously low in price. I looked at some picture of a woman with obvious plastic surgery with her and commented, “I guess anorexia’s out of style now.”, and then we said goodbye after a few parting words, but it was nice to see her. I went home, walked home, a long walk home, all the way through the grey day with valium in bag and missed her. Madly missed her, I am 24 with the fading but still raging hormones. I recall the time when I had seen her face for the first time in months, me with my long strands of golden dirt hair and guitar waiting outside for her to arrive. She looked lovely then…

was cold out their but I don’t need to remember the false places the diseased faces their lies because I am one step farther ahead then they were one step behind me.

Mr. Nalt: It ain’t easy bein as dumb as you Fudgy, you can’t even write a decent story all your rambling adds up to nothing and means nothing more then empty headed reasoning’s raisin loaf and buttered toast with the cheese factory broiling right in front of the blood orange sparkling teeth that when excavated from the tomb of memory are decisively erased and replaced with hair pins so perfectly placed in their confusing mismatch disarray. My poor cat died today, but the medication takes all my feeling away.

Ground Lamb Man: I know by the principles I’ve learned in the bible that things will work out if I continue in the way it teaches me. So it goes I carry on like this through the word wisdom and understanding growing strong like a forest through the trees are all the encapsulated photographs of memory that torture me. All the evil that I’ve seen that still haunts me remaining there like an execution in my heart. The murderous tinge to everything, even though now I am morally clean I cannot take back the disease of yesteryear. It is like a perpetual surrounding that comes evil in it’s sin and shamefully grins at me as I stumble through the open doors of life sinking my own battleship as I waste away these days in this laissez faire dreamy languishing turtle on a rock with teeth prepared for protection and thick green shell persuading the loneliest eye to leave me alone and I drift through the green river now like winter drifts through the seasonal shift of the paradigm benign defection. The mutiny already placing back hours even days by the time shift that split the two mirrors razor like through the non laser beam orb light that skewed each reflection and transferred the energy of each word in a backwards sort through the sense expressed by cognitive distortion that bled its words backwards through my heavy head that carries the words of these tiles that are so carefully aligned like stars in the sky against one another, side by side the shapes mixing and bending the grain of wheat is slipping through the sandy eye that levitates a dark wave that hallucinates the ethereal shifting air brain that dust opulent thorny bug biting like one eats the skin of dried lip as it falls away into the oblique dust matter soon to be replaced with the rehashed and the reiterated. I conform to this conflux of imagery in the head pain daze that thinks for me each word another valium maybe but the sky cannot iodize the blood berry tree hung from the flesh flower ham that has soured in the murky pale of her glaucoma eyeball the merciless scythe of age after her tracking the pin shaped eye-sockets with one fear and we drift by the word death because it creates confusion even fear no-one left remaining in the hubris of the defeated. Words are barely anything.

This quieted the clam shell crew down and silenced their strange calls for help I nubile and alive though away my old shape and discarded the face of disgusted self hate into disgrace where the darker particles massed as one and deceived the entire earth, the planet it runs wandering through this valley of grey pebbles I recognize that I am no more then a grey pebble I cannot feel, nor can I touch another soul in this place this strange landscape, the grey pebbles are like me, they are practically nothing they were born from mountains. They are practically nothing they will return to dust, just like me. I am an unremarkable shape like grey pebbles cannot feel each other I cannot even while breathing or farting, or sighing or crying be anything beyond what I am. I am much like
these grey pebbles, these connect the dots bodies defused by millions of years of degradation eroding slowly from mountain to kickable sand, I am not dead like sand but I am not alive like the Mountains, I am fading once a mountain now a grey pebble without feeling with my existence barely connected to the loose strands of grey pebble string around me but we are all nothing rooted from a flaw in this way we have nothing but our own disappointment to answer to as the sirens call. It is not unlike being a hospital.

Mr. Nalt: That was fine, you just had to go on and on with your depressing gloop didn’t you, I can’t stand your garbagey writing style, you’re like a bad poet who just won’t stop after the third line of a haiku. You’re the worst writer I’ve ever read in my life Fudgy, why don’t you just quit, because it doesn’t matter about you or me, we are as you said just like grey pebbles, so get over it, you fool.

Fudgy: Yes, I suppose you are right about that Mr. Nalt, I have been very pretentious and not facetious enough I should write in a manner that is better and more pleasing to you. I continue on and I will stop talking the way you don’t want me to talk, and I will speak in a manner fitting to the way you desire me to speak. I will give up on my previous self, and give myself completely over to you. I will allow you to abuse me with your insults forever and ever, because I am just a pretentious old sod undeserving of anyone. Especially not someone so gracious and kind and honest as you Mr. Nalt.

Mr. Nalt: Well you’ll never become as good as me, at poetry. He laughed at me, at that point the universe collapsed once more in it’s all predictable doom and gloom sort of roll your eyes kinda way and then we began at the beginning again with the same poem that I wrote as first probably the last poem I wrote as second, it was strange to see the two of them bartering with each other’s egos about nothingness. It really added up to nothing.

The parka was Eskimo made but donated by the night sky is the clam shell crew wading

through the green river that was slow and obviously sick of the cool damp softness of Love that threatened it’s end so semi-permanently until the semi- permanent clown-skin wore off and fell haphazardly to the torn earth the ripped up sod where the animals had trod their miner coal teeth through. A definite escape from reality:

I am in the hospital.
It is just like me. It
watch’s Life begin and die(Thus I took my first seroquel. The vhs player seemed to be distorted, it was faster then I thought. I feel nubm in the 23rd century. The stress channel is fading away, static exhibits itself like a thousand ritalyn voices. The neutral zone. I feel nothing, no emotion at all. My brain is a security camera. Damage report. I am dead or missing in action. How we deal with death. I feel like a tomb or a simulation of one. It is contrived to be dead, it is obtuse. Love is insane I cannot pay attention to anything. It’s not my birthday, it is my momentary funeral. I am growing into my womb. I am not yet conceived. I have a brain, it is transmuting into nothing. I do not care if anyone Love’s me because I am dead.)

positive influence on my mind. I take valium everyday now, it seems to help a lot with the anxiety. I just learned that mixing alcohol with Tylenol causes kidney problems. In the past I have had a drink and taken a Tylenol, I will stop this way now. I borrowed two dollars from my roommate to make the phone call. I always find borrowing money to be embarrassing and degrading and it reminds me of my owing other people for money lent to me a year ago. I guess that would be the only good thing about artistic prominence, is that I would no longer have to be in debt. The spirit of the world is a cunning adversary and its whispers hang like a shroud in the corner of every thought. Through this place I walk, in the streets lined with winter coated bodies stumbling across the grey sidewalks in the grey sky with the grey eyes and the cigarette tongues burnt away all taste speaking obscenity in the vacuum of morning two suits walking side by side look startlingly like Mormons and move like me bored and bitter through the morning by the train tracks running through a dull red light of city streets the horizon hanging empty like wispy yellow smoke kissing grotesquely the windows of impulse drably dressed the bag lady, and the broken legged man. It’s enough rambling for now anymore would sound pretentious. I change thought patterns and words pull out of me like needles pull blood from beneath the skin in the veins of a heart that beats softly slowed down and blood is pulling outwards into the air never to be replaced. Into the open air the skin touches cold air like a harsh slap it reddens flushing with ambulance sirens ringing through schizophrenic hair filled with hourglass starlight melting out thawing intravenously into the veins are whispering words upon words never stop writing it seems to say and I continue lying to myself pretending that I can keep this up everyday until it’s done. I often hear things in my head like “now Tom is going to sleep”, and “and then Tom wrote his great masterpiece.”, and “Tom is a great genius.”, it seems to me these voices come from the black red eyed orb and it seems to try hard to fill me like a poison umbilical chord I cut off with ego. It seems to want me to go screaming on and on about how much of a great genius I am, and how important my work is. When in reality I really find no interest in my work, it just seems particularly necessary so as to keep me focussed at least on something and is an excuse for me not being able to hold a job because I am probably mentally ill and actually incapable of work. I haven’t told the doctor about this stuff though, and I do recall before I became a Christian the black red eyed orb was like my friend and it would tell me these things and I would believe them. Now I no longer believe in these lies but it does not change them from existing there like an ongoing commentary of egotism, as if everything I do matters so much, as if I am so important that the very idea that I am about to have a shower has to be stated in 3rd person. This I will say is mildly insane but the black red eyed orb speaks to me now out of hatred not as a friend anymore and it does at the same time as try to degrade my true self with ego also insult my religious beliefs, and attempts to pervert the very natural transformation that has occurred within my mind thanks to My God. I recognize that the faith I have is not socially acceptable so I ask please then close up this book and read something else. Maybe Oprah will guide you in what would be better. I really see my writing to be of little importance to anyone but me, and even to me it is just here for the sake of being here written, and then once more write another book, and so on and so forth, until one day I get eaten by a gigantic starfish, and turn into a white tailed deer prancing down a trail, to be observed by two lovers drinking kosher wine while observing the silent remnant of the forest area of the Sifton bog in London, Ontario. That was really a beautiful day, seeing all of those deer, so peacefully walking by us. They must not have been afraid because they seemed to be just as interested in communicating with us as we were with them. Standing quite close to us, all of them walked by seemingly unafraid of the violent hand of death. They seemed to know that we were just peacefully drinking kosher wine (that tastes quite nice with a pomegranate mix: for future reference). Those were the days when we had the car, and we’d walk through the bog, the whole place seemed to breathe, as if the very earth were a chest. It’s lungs within, inhaling and exhaling, moving as we stepped upon it, like ants upon our own bodies. We stared for a long time at the sun-shine turning red in the horizon, in the soft green of the early winter leaves, fading in the last of autumn’s tears. The truth of our Love is that with time it will convalesce. I know our Love is stronger then words and temporary separation. I have faith in the Love we share, in all ways. It is true that I Love no- one else, to the intensity that I do Love you Katie.

Chapter 12:

After watching stargate, I turned on this bizarre screening copy of Orson Welles Othello, and it truly was one of the most shocking performances I have ever seen in my life. I was in absolute misery due to the tragedy of the end, it was just awful. Jago reminded me of Katie’s mom, this meddling smooth lipped talker, his manipulative undercurrent, his pull to ruin everything before it could begin anew. It horrified me, and melted me into a heavy sadness. The insomnia it burns through me, like a cigarette burns through skin, melting it, to its very incineration. I seem to be losing touch with reality, getting so spaced out and groggy, and this book seems to be the carrying on, into the inner desire to escape reality. I seem to have lost any concern for those around me. While I’m high on this valium, it drifts me through a wonderful glow, a warm space, like an oxygen mask filled with spring air in the aftermath of an astronauts failed mission launch, burning through the cage of empty light, the plastic glues to the melt of his skin, and in that time he rots, just like plastic to the ever present screams of the others, fading behind him. That was some failed space ship wasn’t it. They burnt up in their cockpit before it took off. I wonder why then they would bother continuing on in that way, with their rambling voices. I just want to get to 50 pages and get out of here. This writing, it taxes me, it bores like a screwdriver through my temple and implants this null empty void of a dent into my mind, like a vacuum that sucks out all of the joy and innocence, wherever that went. I suppose the turning of the crowns into serpents, on the heads of clean skinned soon to become lepers, represents well the fate of the world. I burden myself with this writing. With each word, I drag myself through the darkest hand of illuminated amber. The colour in the white orb is always as it should be. This white…

Mr. Nalt: (rolling his eyes) What a stupid and pretentious poem you have written, how could you be so morbidly un-intellectual. I hate to read such predictable, contrived garbage. You are just trying to be like one of those people who write romance novels in the shoppers drug mart.

Fudgy: (looking sorrowful) Well yeah, I guess you’re right, this really was just some pathetic attempt to write a rehash of many popular harlequin romance novels that I’ve read at previous times in my dull and mildly pathetic life.

Mr. Nalt: (smiling, knowing he’d won) Well at least you can understand that much.

Fudgy: I hope that I can write as good as you one day.

Mr. Nalt: (laughing) Never will you read the magnitude of my infinite genius (laughing absurdly now, almost to the point of being annoying, but Fudgy had too much respect for Mr. Nalt, so he kept quiet)

Fudgy: Could you please read me some of your poetry Mr. Nalt?

Mr. Nalt: Sure, here goes, I’m sure you will be amazed, and then you will cry because of how pathetic you are. (just as he is about to read the poem lameo guy appears)

Lameo Guy: I am a very important part of this story.

Fudgy: O hey lameo guy, yes you are a very important part of the story don’t you agree Mr. Nalt.

Mr. Nalt: You’re so pretentious Fudgy, of course I agree. I was being facetious.

Lameo Guy: I am a very important part of this story.

I could figure something out by writing stuff down you see it’s therapeutic to write about these characters yeah yeah I say over sincerely with that look of deep understanding and a glint of real sincere hope in my eyes as I write away about octagon hide, Fudgy the mechanical robotussin container and Mr. Nalt who after many years of being catholic became a Muslim and finally played that song with cat stevens you know the cats in the cradle and the silver spoon blah blah and after that I guess he joined a rock and roll band and gained a lot of weight opening for used car salesman Jack Yulore’s house band. They often times regarded each other with disapproval but wow they sure could play that tri emptive poodle lamma ocarina. I never really got the gist of what they were after but it was something back in chapter 1 million about o I forget anyway the green river that was secretly Mr. Nalt’s weird gravy moustache flowed along around them as they wandered melodically through the hapless residents of the green emerald forest thus Mr. Nalt jumped on a porcupine and was after much apprehension filmed in the latest star trek voyager episode covering for Janeway in the captain’s seat it was strange to see Mr. Nalt and Heinrich Himmler up there as old pals, I never really understood that thought Fudgy the mellifluous very graceful yet easily pushed over wall of cards by the whisper of a sunlight fern the very branches but had to lift their organic texturized elbow web implants to the crouching innocuous flesh girdle wine dog fat eat the kitchen sink I could never eat that much chicken again Fudgy said as the sole inhabitant of Thalidomide baby city after the return from exile in 1923 they had all left proving themselves to be absolutely unaware of this chapter 1 million that I speak of. It was a good chapter Fudgy thought thinking aloud his glowing green eyes like white sceptres filled with glowing red embers of snowflakes white washed away in the collapsible glazed doughnut universe they existed in even those darned gypsies were part of that universe. I read enough he said throwing the pages to the floor awkwardly splayed in a logic-less disarray and meandered down to the untouchable furnace of grey cloudless cat urine. It really stunk there but at least Mr. Nalt carried along the camera for old times sake I swear I thought I was a goner he said watching Old Jibby go down like the titanic or those poor “little people” as they like to be called in that really strange melodramatic gladiator like game with the annoying American guy jumbling all his words together like a fat green Texan with cloven hooves so absolutely undeserving of the usual intention eco starch he ate fairly well.

The biological germ fruit frenzy cocktail of fat toothed ingrates with hapless toads for fatherless anti pasta. What a strange thing to say Old Jibby thought just before he died in the sand pit sinking what a strange thing to say and then just like that the entire west coast lameo emo scene got together and watched sonic youth play their garbled crap for two hours and cry when Billy Corgan broke up Zwan, all of this hurt Froggy so much that as his only friend Mr. Nalt could say was depraving him of any natural tendency to excuse his very muscular structure in the massive plastic underpants he wore on his head to hide the war scars he’d received in the previous perversions of nature. What happened there one of the Thalidomide babies asked him.

Mr. Nalt took a deep breath and sighed one of those long tunnel like sighs wearing a tie he looked slightly proper but his eyes were heavily burdened very dramatic you see he was clueless about the whole idea of expressing the tragic consequences of to much of
Society’s philosophy. These philosophies are made to be broken. I’m trying to speak honestly of my experiences and beliefs. That’s enough of this rambling…

Chapter 7:

I drift off into a different idea momentarily and then I begin anew. I remember the events leading up to taking the seroquel that inspired the first poem and led me to the prescription of valium that has haunted these pages since. Me and Katie were fighting a lot I had just seen her mom manipulate her into giving her brother her phone number even though Katie is incredibly uncomfortable with her brother. It was humiliating to watch her be pulled into an emotional trap like that. They all stood around her like in some Mafioso movie minus the cigars and the guns in the middle of the restaurant while Katie tried her hardest to escape the giving away of her number. Her mom used the purchase of the dinner to sucker her into handing off her personal information to her schizophrenic brother who talks about his own semen in front of his 10 year old daughter. Anyways life goes on I guess. Prior to that Katie and I had been invited to thanksgiving dinner with her crack addicted sister and husband. We all gathered together and ate food while her sister insulted her for not wanting to hug her after mocking post- traumatic stress as though it were an excuse for her lack of any interest in touching her sister. Her mom then came in saying o but it’s family. I guess than one would consider, it must be family to steal so much from Katie and then claim it be ones own? Anyways we all headed out to the garage (I believe this was the night before) me Katie, and her mom, and then her mom went on whispering negatively about me until I finally confronted her, quite disgusted in her accusation though hidden in the whispers of conversation on the telephone calls and in the distance where I could not hear, that I was to blame for Katie’s suicide attempt. I confronted her about this and o boy was there tears and screaming, her mom even tried to close the garage door on Katie’s head. I’m assuming because she thought of Katie as being a traitor for telling me. After this she grabbed hold of Katie (after Katie had expressed her desire not to hug her) and shook her violently while Katie stood with her arms spread out like a plastic doll. After this and a few other snide remarks we were back to the car and driving home, Katie complained for awhile about her mother and then about 3 days later all of her anger and resentment turned to me and I was the one who was ruining her life, and I was the one who she didn’t care about, and I was the one she needed space from (she had previously said that she wanted to tell her mother and sister that she didn’t want to see them for the winter) thus all of this was transferred over to me. And I am the cause of all of her problems and I so intolerably treated her unfairly that she cannot even look at my

dusty rum and ginger beer dried stick to the skin
no-one left me but me in my self-important ramble
nowhere else for me but the words and solitude.

The grey charcoal eye molests me in the hate light.

Issac Asimov: The ugly yellow toothed woman is fat with the corpses of holy ones that she ate, that desire of shame eats away at her as she waits for more meat the bodies pile up high in unmarked graves they won for now it is nice to wonder why there the instant relief of the numb song gagging itself on itself again, it brings me back here read revelations if you want to know what goes down but you probably won’t understand it.

Fudgy: Yeah so it goes through the molten cloud of fake dust light oscillating like a cheap electric fan through her inner fear orb like a second skin that hangs baggy over her eyes through her nuclear heart is the green river that flows within the anti- gravity apple that flows without logic of bliss it is such a wonderful feeling not to feel anything but this sound and the words the right tongues hand arm sheet of paper split tongues like silver skinned humpback whales beneath the worm belly eyelid fellow I don’t care…

Everything is starting to end with three period marks because I can’t seem to find the peace to be comfortable with an end at each expression. I really am understanding nothing I write but I am a miserable man or is the other way around apartheid and exodus.

We wither like genius after a long enough time into somnolence wearing it’s black cubicle eyeglasses that scratch the dentist core of futility o it started again nothing but that throughout the illness weathered with the naval officer in the forgettable anti- gravity suit floating to the moon like an otter without padded feet through the fur skin after pork jew orange the flesh has withered like ego is genus the word surreal is gluing its tentacles to thimble lined asterisks wincing eyes blinking glares of icicle tear downy innocence thin gladiolas sway like wispy ego is equal to the word genius because genius is a lie defining us to be anymore then anyone else genius is ego each concept is the same there is no difference. It’s either good art or it’s bad, the suggestion of anything beyond that is a lie. The gelatine eyeball is pierced with ox nostril and it is brotherly in exchange.

green river is not the whimper that pathetic
the usual predictable cry and the strange sigh
a man with his ocean coaxed out of the clammy skinned hotel

where the rubber bunny is chicken flexed in the nostril libido
where the anterior tibealis stretched in lifeless agony as he died that man you told me:

o you said

and it disgraced you

you became what the sky could green with acid lies

Issac Asimov: And it goes like this as he cut the tops of his wrists with his fathers razor and placed them back carefully in there usual place so the words could bleed through into his neck too, it’s so weird but it’s true. I wanted all the pain to be because of him, but my father was just like anyone who lived in life the way one would if they weren’t raped. Despite all the madness, he was in the end, through the divorce, finally quite a companionable man, and I do very much Love him for his care…

Fudgy: You were right about the justice that tripped the stumbling block before and it was a quintessential part of American history, pre war days when the ravaged country lit it’s candle bombs splaying the glazed doughnut fish eyes of the wine drenched midnight.

O I guess screeching to a halt the static television eye remained interchangeable I could observe the many hidden patterns no-one else could see because I invented them but at the same time truly believed them as when I looked upon the ruddy psychiatric hospital floor bathroom forming from the black and blotch tile Love shaped in heart the miserable black and white psychiatric hospital was the same in essence but I had changed only slightly, and the faded out disease pumped me full of Olanzapine now I’m stoned and writing in strange decadence in socially acceptable reality because it was prescribed to me, but I will say it helps by the next day a bit, but I really think I just want to get back to the clean path sober and free of hallucination the visionary madness diseased eyes go ahead leave me divorce me cheat on me I am nobody now I am nothing to anyone. I do not need anyone because I am like nowhere if it were physically represented in the form of flesh and blood and spirit. This is why you are allowed now to leave me completely you are free to go…

Fudgy: It
S alright man nobodies home in your head anyway you could drown me now in the black star that raped me and left me out in the grass with my anus bleeding, I’m sure you win now. Congratulations I will award you with my freedom, I set you free, you no longer need to Love me, nor do you need to care about me, nor do you need to believe that I exist because I have gone past the brink of reality and reached the bland stasis of obsolescence where I fade now forgotten by my own mind in the red eye blood dripping with fear…

You win now it’s you who can do what you want because I have become nothing to Me.

Goodbye then I’m a disappointing shade of distasteful grey one best left pushed far away.

You should take my advice and do what you can to remove me like lice from your mind.

I am not trying to be overly sincere, I am just saying what seems to be me, breathing and I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
O I guess I was all alone, no-one green musty smell like blood iron in the foot of a carp.

Issac Asimov: And suddenly I died, and it was like exploding but then I became nothing, truly nothing, and I lay on the gurney, and they lifted me up into the space that grey uncomfortable chord of inner humiliation silver fish rand thoroughly through this song…

I am disposable.

I’ve had enough writing about nothing now, it closes the door behind me but my foot bounces it back open and then I know I can’t hold onto nothing no body warming me tonight. I can’t exactly distinguish the fire extinguisher red and yellow blue kite that itself is enveloped in the mirror sky eye wearing pearl jade eyeball earrings through the east Indian hunger father reality hits like disease slowly vents through exhaust like in a garage door closed with window open and engine on long and soft the ether like death that fades away completely and then is gone. I don’t see beyond each of my words anymore they are dancing together like two bears rumbling throughout, ecstatic as aurora borealis.

It will not die,

it will in time find away beyond all doubt thanks to My God Jehovah. I Love her…

Fudgy: Yeah man the whole thing seems hip to be on a five footed bicycle hand tractor with ornamental pigeon feathers extraordinary antler and moose bear teeth laughing…w

Part 3: Igloo

directions are the same as the nubm poem

· I wrote this poem in the hospital after my first true suicide attempt on Saturday.

Igloo: By Tom Prime
I am a disaster tree
it is cold in the quiet air
the blood lips are intravenous.

The callous skin remains
in blister and orchestration.

The hospital stasis flush
injection drip fluid ripped

the dead hope curdles Love
like sour blue milk hated.

Igloo crown orchid is
flowering in Olanzapine
suicide tomb eloquent
hand hold skin from slit.

Taxidermist abortion (the
dead heart hangs black
inclusive tingling
crusted I heart)
eco- system of nothing.

Enthalpy

Sunday, January 31, 2010

"Samuel" My 1960 novella

Friday, January 15, 2010

Heckscher Park by Siona Koubeck

Birthed From

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Mr. Nalt:

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