bad reception

"Capital Punishment, pip pip!"

in the only book you find in hotel rooms other than the phone book or the cable guide, a character named christ told the people: "pick up your diseases and follow me." he then led them to the gas chambers and told them to shower, because he had a serious phobia about germs. yet years later, fred leuchter jr., the man who reinvented capital punishment for the modern age and despised the gas chamber on principle, claimed that gas chambers in nazi germany were a fiction. he was accused of antisemitism and now lives in poverty. other people claim that in fact it was christ that was a fiction. they are accused of being anti-christian and are largely professors or work in hollywood.

leuchter's machines are still used to kill people and he is still a proponent of capital punishment; meanwhile people still worship the image of a fictional man tortured and killed and are generally laughed at for doing so. when christians get mad, people laugh. when jews get mad, people die. historically this precident has often been the reverse.

it is not clear whether the fictional christ actually knew the showers were killing machines, however he has been unavailable for comment since his disappearance from his own grave sometime around 32 AD. speculative fiction and revisionist historians suggest the possibility of an elaborate practical joke of some kind perpetrated by the romans. though other fictional scholars insist that history reveals itself in mysterious ways and it may in fact have something to do with the french, as they point out correctly that humor in general has never been found to have existed anywhere in the roman empire, nor the self awareness from which said humor is a natural byproduct.

so when i say that i carry my very own virus like a cross, im not saying that im out-and-out contagious. i don't even have any symptoms per se. and aren't we all hypochondriacs when it comes to this human drama anyway? that's what buddhism teaches: nothing is as bad as you want it to be, and you can't get rid of that lack of genuine torture no matter how hard you try - that static, eternal symbol of oppression without which you could validate the entire universe of your discontent. after all, people who have real problems rarely complain - i get told that over and over. "yeah they get hard like street cred and live by force of personality alone. pity is meaningless to them so you can do it as much as you want and they never beat the shit out of you over it!" then they swoon with envy.

perhaps my hope is that if i complain about my imaginary problems enough they will become real problems, or at least i will attract a real problem to me, and we will mate. i have fantasies about meeting a problem in a coffee shop and falling in love. it would be that intensely passionate kind of bad-movie love - the sort of unrealistic inanity that makes all the intellectuals abhor it because there's no ironic twist at the end where you find out the main character has been dead the whole time and yet it still manages to gross $200,000,000 domestically. and all of this, of course, only because the sentimentality of critics is based on the history of themes of love in cinema and not the history of love itself.

but what does that matter when by virtue of this tripe my problem and i only fall deeper in love, even if that love is based on talking point rhetoric or breakfast cereal sloganeering? and who cares about outbreaks of creutzfeldt-jakob disease suppressed by the US government when the theme restaurant version of our favorite thrill-ride-turned-romantic-comedy opens at our local shopping plaza, and we can finally treat ourselves to weekly visits to the nostalgia of our still-burgeoning romance for under $40? as we feast on fried onion appetizers which bloom as large as our greasy hearts, we can gaze lovingly into each other's sad, glazed-over eyes and wonder why we're so afraid of real communication but never speak of it. as we our devour still-bloody processed meat entrees, completely unconcerned about the cheap immigrant labor system that produced it, and fascinated by our inability to relate on even the most superficial levels without the aid of elaborately constructed but completely banal set-pieces, we still find the wherewithal deep inside to sway gently to the classical stylings of huey lewis and the news played back to back with bob dylan. we recognize no incongruities to our perfectly symmetrical delusion. when we stay up all night because we're so awkward about sex lasting less then eight minutes and still can't share our desperate need for companionship, we anxiously discuss just how incredible it is that our lives are just like the movies!

none of this ever happens of course. this isn't the movies, or a story. this is real life. i meet no problems, and i never fall in love. yet i find myself pining for the privileged attention of the disabled. the way they can just hobble around in their disability and do and say whatever they want without fear of reprisal, only consistent, sad admiration. i want to be longed for like that. i want people to love the idea that they'd hate to be me. i imagine becoming the brightest and best of the invalids, constructing a giant battery in which i could store all of that pity energy and use it to power my house like i were some kind of special-olympics wilhelm reich. i'd win all kinds of specialty awards for achievers, open up my magnificent but tasteful and wheelchair-accessible home to the public for a small fee, maybe even get on oprah to discuss the politics of my non-profit organization.

and that's why i want to be ravaged by a terrible virus. it's not so much about how you got there as it is how much attention other people will give you for getting there. how much sacrifice you're willing to display openly for all to see without an ounce of shame for such decadent exhibitionism. "fake the cross till they make you a cross," like the old saying goes.

there is a serious romance to being a carrier. when they know, people look at you different. it makes you special, whether or not you're wearing a crown of thorns around your head. it's almost implicit. AIDS as a status symbol: there is no historical precedent for you, so you've entered into the arena as a gladiator battling for your place in the future. everyone knows gladiators are sexy. they get all the chicks, and thusly pass the virus on.
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(no subject)

It began and ended the same way all things begin and end: before the Beginning and after the Ending. In between Before-Beginning and After-Ending Everything occurred.

Once Everything was over all the Universe had to show for Itself was the Inverse of the Total of All Things, and a big fucking space between the Beginning and the Ending where Nothing went when it had nowhere else to go.
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    big bangin
bad reception

Jerry Meyers, Fragmentations, Ezekiel....


I'm alone in a stone room with her. "The Queen". We stare at each other like we're not looking at anything important at all. I am licking mud off of the stone floor as worship.

"Does this impress you?"


I know without her saying that I cannot impress her because I already have Impressed her. "This stone room proves this." The room was staring at me. I hate this room.

I tell her: "Licking the floor is going through The Motions, and Motion is all I have." Or so I think.

"Or so you think."

I think what you tell me, I don't say.

We're not really speaking anyway. Are you in control?

Control of what? There is No Such Thing as "control". You know this that all of this is Figment.

Thus true.


She resembles flames (f-males) made of crystal (christ-all). Or a burning tree (Tree) or a burning bush. Also: flesh of some kind not usually known but not bad like is usually assumed. None of these descriptions are at all accurate, however I will continue for the sake of the sake of: Her mannerisms are obviously phallic but only superficially. Somethings - soft, slight, sad. Beneath the red fires is blue/green/turquoise. Amber is the result.

You are complicated.


That's it. A complex. You have a complex.

I have many complexees. You have a complex.

Your complex.

Correct. (and others... --"of course")

"This is all very overwhelming" I (think I) actually say.

You don't need to do that. (sorry..)

Which of us is talking, here? I am no longer sure.

Me either. Is now a time that it is important to distinguish? Hard to say. (at the same time: "hard to say", and then echoes...)

Is this generally how it happens? -- How should I know? I am as blind as you.

You don't seem blind at all.

Nor you. Extraordinary things abound. -- indeed.

I want them to continue. -- me too. (a third: do we have a choice?) (a fourth and fifth, respectively: "yes!" "absolutely not!") (a sixth voice says nothing.) (a seventh...??...)

But I am tired. All of this stone makes it cold, despite your warming.

I know. -- i know.

And so...

They turn now and stare at their reflection. In The Reflection (and, the reflection) Everything (and, everything) is Happening (and, has happened). He becomes a lightning rod, and she places him on her crown.

I do not know what happens after this.
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bad reception


You're going up on an escalator that's also a ladder that's not moving but is. You're going up only it's really Everything moving down to fascilitate Illusion. Who's fighting with Delusion over who's got a better head game going. Nobody's talking but all you can hear is Somebody. Illusion and Delusion both are claiming that one for themselves. Belief laughs, long and deep, from the belly. With a hint of (from?) Malevolence but it might really be Indifference. Everything/you keep(s) moving down/up. You think you might be dizzy, see a light, know where you are, etc... But Nobody has teamed up with Delusion now to get Belief to convince you that Somebody/Illusion has fed you a bunch of bad acid, but Somebody is adamant that Illusion is Nobody and Delusion is a fucking liar, and you're not sure if what that means is: all of this is True or: none of this is True or: some of it is true and some of it is false or: what it would mean to accept even meekly any of these options as even remotely possible. You don't even know if they are options. Hallucination laughs, short and manically. She's fucking Belief with a black serrated dildo. Belief is doing something too horrible to see, but you look anyway. Just don't write it down.

Truth remains awful silent, or Nobody's talking too loudly for you to hear Her.
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    cell exploding

(no subject)

Deconstructing Deconstructionism: Mostpostmordemism. i-ronnie, is dead!
a play that plods in five pods.
by Wilhelm Longshanks Snakeeyes Right IIIV: Ninja Poet, P.H.E.D.M.I.A.

Chapter Onus: The Derth of Raisin or...something else, but funnier.

We see a stage which looks like a room made up to be a stage, but poorly. The mood is somber, but festive. Two heavyset men in orange jumpsuits and turbans and gold chains feign ignorance and solitude, but really couldn't be any less alone and knowing, and the audience is made aware of this by subtle variations in the ambient noise outside the theatre, and by the temperment and veracity of their white blood cell count.

Spectaclesiasties E. Charbonnean: Borritus, why hast thou forsaken meat?

Borritus Clit On, aka xSexXxy Mark deSwayzex: eh? too bootay! OOOW! (ala michael jackson)

Specialsaucitease: ANDAGAINANDAGAINANDAGAIN (ala michael jackson)

Borritus dances like a motherfucker til the morning light. Spectaclesiasticicities masturbates to the Spanish Nazi Food Channel while his wife and her girlfriend and her brother and their dog film themselves pretending not to watch. They all die "blazing Gory", a new Pfff-meiser Psss-eudomeneudo drug of the Future, but the audiance should no longer care at this point. If they do, they should be tortured vigorously, with much glee.

The lights fade. A small child walks onto the stage. A spotlight illuminates him. He has a painted face (ala michael jackson), breasts, and is somehow otherwise horribly deformed but looks completely normal from this angle, or maybe it's just the lighting.

Ponce Dev0-tional: God bliss us, quoth the Raven, everybore. In this, the year of our Lard, Sevenseventrysmevenwhatever, we finally enter Thee Kingdom ov Heaven, where, as the poet once said but meant something else, No Thing is always Happening. Why? Detraction will not suffer these slings - nor arrows, nor snow nor sleet nor Morning Mountain Dew? Nay. I say unto thee, make love to thy layboroughs, smelt thy children in the fire, prick us till you breed, and never, ever say never ever again. Have a shotgun snack or a Real Coke with Real Coke (TM) and kick back and watch The Game, (and by "Game" I don't mean, by the way, that crappy Mike Dougl-ass movie.) Alas, all the Salesmen are dead, the mailmen have all gone home to roost upon a rapier's point or a critic's head. I knew them well. There is nothing left to do but bite the Big One, oh sons of Misery, you kings of Trite. So get yours right now, today, immediately, with gusto, saith the Lord, before this offer expires, and recieve absolutely free and at some charge and also you pay for shipping this cheap piece of crap we couldn't even bother to name or pretend a function to. En spirial sanctu mystico. Dulcimer Jesu. Play me out, Jim; it's not in my juristinction. And lo, and behold, it is good. Amen.

bad reception

(no subject)

"I became burdened in childhood with useless baggage that I now want off my back. I want to uneducate myself of these worthless concepts so that I may return to a virginal personality to a rebirth of real intent and of real self. Then I wont be lost in the collective hole that fits nobody because it's made to fit everybody. However this regression is not simply affirmed wholeheartedly, nor is it without it's price."

- found scribbled in someone else's handwriting on the back of my head, while lying in a room made entirely of mirrors