I am in a short story contest this week.  Go here to read it and vote.  You can vote every hour.

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TAWDRY HOME.

These domes are my future.  The insides must be stripped and re-designed.  When I grow up I want to buy a huge property of land.  Flowling fields, big trees.  Whole bunch of hills, whole bunch of valleys.  Green.  My money will come from the menstruation business, blood money.

At the entrance of the property will be two of these domes with a large hollowed out tree laying between them and stretching out onto the massive property.  The only way onto the property is through one of the pods…The testicles.  Whole bunch of demons and shadow people create a net above.  Don’t try and helicopter into my place, get your ass ate out by a demon in a fucking hot second.

The entrance pods and the hollowed out tree that lays will make a huge land dick.  There will be a vertical divider in the center of the hollowed out tree.  Two separate sides, two seperate paths.

Throughout the property there will be many sporadically placed pods.  All connected by underground tunnels.  Tunnels filled with desire and turmoil.  And in a secret place, at the pit of the deepest valley will be one massive geodesic dome formed of hundreds of these pods.  Similar to a Buckminster Fuller pod.  It will stretch a thousand miles wide and 500 miles high.

Each dome within this structure will contain a new desire, dream and fetish.  Within, all that can be imagined will be contained.  But remember, one mans dream is another mans nightmare.  It will be a man made heaven at the end of a long winding tunnel.  A tunnell that will be a mixture of heaven and hell, more of one then the other depending on the route you choose.

The only way into the center dome is from below, through the tunnels.  Bill Murray from Chaddy Cack will guard the property from the undesirable groundhogs that seek to move outside the veins of my universe.

You see, depending on which pod testicle you enter at the begining of this journey to paradise will decide which side of the hollowed dick tree you travel down.  And that will decide which tunnel you will then travel next.  Each birthing pod upon the way will be filled with something different.  One packed full of horny raccoons, you covered in garbage from that last tunnel.  One tunnel leaving you stinking of cash and landing you in the pod of syphlitic tramps.  One pod will be the bird cage, whole bunch of birds in there.  OOOOOh.  The tunnels will Kriss and Kross.  Don’t rush though.  Because theres a whole bunch of clues in there.  Need a code to get into Buckminsters house.  I’ll be waiting.

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A few days ago the little toe on my left foot got randy and tried to proposition a belt sander.  An abusive brute of a machine that has left the little toe bloated and looking like an appendage of that dim-wit Grimmace.   As far as the rest of the toes go,  I have  no excuse for their mangled state.

I’ve never paid much mind to my littlest toe until now.  But after about half a block of walking, my foot cramps and threatens to spasm forcing me to flex the toe or put pressure on it.  I move slowly, old woman with canes fly by me.  Those tramps.  Crossing the street is the worst.  Especially large intersections.  Whenever the red right hand changes to the green man walking I picture him taunting me, laughing, daring me to cross.  ”Come on you mother fucking gimp, I’m gonna turn this light red on your monkey ass so fast, your going to have to run….and I cant wait.”  That bastard.  I have nightmares about that green faceless man right there in the middle of the intersection.  That green devil, frozen so happily mid stroll.  When his lights are not on he is darting into my room, behind my back,  playing tricks on me, pissing in my soup like the heathen he is.  Always to return to the light fixture upon the corner, an innocent, the perfect alibi.  There’s millions of them, hiding out on every street corner and their all after me.  Those fucks think I don’t know?  Because I walk slowly I think slowly?  Impossible!

Finally I make it across the street and look out at the next block ahead, stretching out like a  strip of hell.  I would have better luck walking barefoot on a high speed treadmill full of broken glass and rotting wieners, squishing my way into oblivion then with this horrid path that lies ahead.

I take a break, leaning on a drying flower bed.  Of course there is something positive to being reduced to a slower pace.  You have more time to evaluate the common shit that each pedestrian represents, time to think of the death chant that is the birds song, to take in the stink of the sewer and contemplate the rats beneath.  Time slows so that you can almost see the disease floating in the air.  But most of all it gives you time, time to think all those paranoid thoughts.

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Stephen King liked to party. (He get’s into it a little later in the video, at about four minutes.)

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FILIPPO TOMMASO MARINETTI.  1909.

MANIFESTO OF FUTURISM

1. We want to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and rashness.
2. The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity and revolt.
3. Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy and slumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and the blow with the fist.
4. We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnet adorned with great tubes like serpents with explosive breath … a roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.
5. We want to sing the man at the wheel, the ideal axis of which crosses the earth, itself hurled along its orbit.
6. The poet must spend himself with warmth, glamour and prodigality to increase the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.
7. Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.
8. We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed.
9. We want to glorify war — the only cure for the world — militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautiful ideas which kill, and contempt for woman.
10. We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminism and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.
11. We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure and revolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshops beneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stations devouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung across the diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffing the horizon; great-breasted locomotives, puffing on the rails like enormous steel horses with long tubes for bridle, and the gliding flight of aeroplanes whose propeller sounds like the flapping of a flag and the applause of enthusiastic crowds.

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My friend Adoni turned me on to this website a couple weeks ago.  It’s called Weekly World News.  Sometimes it takes a bit of sifting to find the true gems, but with headlines like ‘Darren the Waving Goat refuses to be a contestant on Britain’s got talent.’  ‘Big Foot hunts Ted Nugent.’  Big Foot spotted in Gay bar.’   ‘Jon and Kate plus Ape.’  ‘Demon Ice Cream.’  ‘Manigator’ or ‘Obatma makes Larry King cry.’ you know you are in for something special.

Here are some of my favourites so far.

Captured Dolphin Has Human Arms.

Tuna Boy.

Goblin Shark.

Manda.

Skunk Ape.

Obatma Joins Special Olympics.

Half Man Half Goat Creature.

Worlds Fattest Monkey Found.

Kung Fu Monkey.

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My dream is to one day write for this site.

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Earlier last year (Labor day Weekend) I entered the 3 day novel contest.  You have from Friday at midnight until the following Monday at midnight to write a novella.  Well I got the results in about a month ago.  There were over 600 contestants world wide, I didn’t place, nor receive an honorable mention.  Though I did receive this certificate (posted above.) and a sticker.  Everyone who entered received one of these.  But it was a hell of an experience.

The book has been edited since then and is now in finished form.

The book is titled The Muscle That Moves The Atlas.  It is about a Taxidermist named Orin Exeter from Zorra, Quebec who leaves his town, his wife, his job and his step child behind, taking off on a journey to find himself, fueled by hard liquor and a fools morality.  Intertwined throughout the novel is a children’s story about a town called Bayne ruled by the Jelly Man as well as bizarre newspaper articles from the towns he travels through.  Orin Exeter meets many strange people along the way and sees many strange things.  The Muscle That Moves The Atlas is a stunning combination of art, prose, poetry and odd facts.  It is 151 pages long.  To order a copy contact hart@tawdryproductions.com.  Price is 15 dollars plus shipping.

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So depressed was Guillaume de Nittis with nature, God and the deformities bestowed upon him, that he set about eating himself into shape. He got no further than eating his stump of a forearm before he was arrested and charged with disturbing the peace, indecent exposure and grievous bodily harm. He was placed in protective custody in the prison hospital, but became morose, uncooperative and refused to eat the prison food. He was placed in solitary confinement, and while there proceeded to eat off his left foot.

He was restrained and put into a strait-jacket for his own good but de Nittis managed to chew through the straps and release himself sufficiently to eat what he considered to be unsightly appendages of his form.  The prison doctor succeeded in obtaining an explanation from the wretched creature who told him that God was such a poor sculptor that he was trying to rectify the shameful state of affairs.

Told that he would surely die if he persisted with this gruesome habit, Guillaume replied that he would continue until only his teeth were left which were the only perfect thing in his body.  Guillaume de Nittis died of shock a week later on July 4th, 1876, aged thirty-two years, exactly one hundred years after the American War of Independence, when he bit off his testicles to celebrate the event.

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Excerpts from The Western Lands written by: William S Burroughs.

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A Kansas vet known as Joe Lazarus was the instrument of altered destiny.  He had been kicked in the head by a mule and pronounced dead at Lawrence Memorial Hospital, but was returned to life.  Like Saint Paul, knocked off his ass on the road to Damascus, after his miraculous recovery, Joe Laz knew what he had to do.

He set out to produce a fertile mule.  He exposed horse and donkey sperm to orgone radiation in a magnetized pyramid, and inseminated the mare-didn’t hack it.  So Laz went further: he rigged a magnetized stall and bombarded the copulating animals with DOR-Deadly Orgone Radiation.  He sewed himself into a goat skin and whipped his beasts to wild Pan music-any woman hit by the Goat God’s whip will conceive-and finally he created a fertile mule.

Skeptics pronounced Joe Laz’s mule the most colossal hoax since the Piltdown Man.

“I had it up my sleeve,” Joe deadpanned.

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As the doctor surmised, Joe’s blind left eye was not blind.  Joe had devised an artificial eye, wired into the optic center, that presented his mind with pictures, often quite at variance with the reports of the right eye.  This was especially noticeable when he looked at human and animal subjects, and he came to realize wo what extent that which we see is conditioned by what we expect to see-that is, by a habitual scanning pattern, whereas the artificial eye had no scanning pattern.  The lens was fixed and Joe had to direct it by movements of his head.  On the other hand, the lens could be adjusted to a wide angle, which greatly extended the range of his peripheral vision.  He found that he could read motives and expressions with great precision by comparing the data of the good eye, which was picking up what someone wants to project, and the data of the synthetic eye.  Sometimes the difference in expression was so grotesque that he was surprised it was not immediately apparent to anyone.

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On building McDonald’s and Hilton hotels in the the last great Rainforest.

He can see it already.  The jungle Hilton’s…”When Orchids Bloom in the Moonlight” on the Muzak…the bar, with orchids and a tank against one wall full of piranha fish.  The management throws in live goldfish and pieces of raw meat.

The motels and souvenir shops and hamburger joints, drunken Indians, polluted rivers, the gritty bite of diesel fumes.  In front of the Manaos Opera House, tourists pose with a boa constrictor.

Terrible scandal: a big pop star, in a jealous rage fueled by cocaine, grabbed his girlfriend’s Yorkshire terrier and threw it into the piranha tank.  As the piranhas attacked the floundering dog, the hysterical starlet threw a heavy bronze ashtray which shattered the tank, spilling snapping fish and bloody water across the patrons as the disemboweled, screaming dog dragged its intestines across the floor.  Quite a scene it was, and of course there were plenty of camera to capture this edifying spectacle for posterity and export.  It’s the little touches that make a future solid enough to be destroyed.

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The only way forward is through a hybrid being.

The Zoo Team plunges into an orgy of outlandish operations on the animal subjects…hearts, kidneys, lungs, livers, appendixes are exchanged in the operating room where often six operations are underway, the surgeons passing organs and instruments back and forth, slipping on the bloody floor.  Brains are slopped from one pan to another like scrambled eggs.

“Move over!  I got a pregnant wart hog here.”

Each day, stretchers loaded with patched-together animal cadavers are carted off for autopsy, and some to Recovery.  It is surprising that the animal subjects were able to exhibit any behavior for study after such surgery, but some of them were able to walk, bark, howl and snarl.

There were no meows, since Joe would have no cats in the Zoo, nor any raccoons, skunks, minks, foxes, lemurs or any creature with a high cuteness rating.  He did not want even want to contemplate or describe dubious surgery on these creatures, mute evidence that at one time a Creator with skilled, delicate and loving fingers drew breath on planet Earth, before the bad animal, Man, put an end to creation and so brought the evolutionary process to a halt.

For Man in indeed the final product.  Not because homo sap is the apogee of perfection, before which God himself gasps in awe-”I can do nothing more!”-but because Man is an unsuccessful experiment, caught in a biologic dead end and inexorably headed for extinction.

“All right, boys, let’s cut our way to freedom.”

The hybrid concept underlies all relations between man and other animals, since only a being partaking of both man and animal can mediate between two species.

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So in his pride of prowling healers, the runty, ugly, half-impotent pathologist finds a big surgeon humping his old lady.  So he frames the adulterous surgeon for prostate cancer and everybody knows there is only one cure.  The surgeon is castrated and his nuts sent down to Pathology.  Holding the nuts of his enemy in his hand gets him hot and he surprises his wife with a real pimp fuck.  He’s got another surprise for her: as she comes, he shoves the severed nuts down her throat.  As the Germans say, unappetitlich.

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An excerpt from an essay written by Philip K Dick, the Science Fiction writer.  Really puts things in perspective.

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What could a man living in 1750 have learned about himself by observing the behavior of a donkey steam engine? Could he have watched it huffing and puffing and then extrapolated from its labor an insight into why he himself continually fell in love with one certain type of pretty young girl? This would not have been primitive thinking on his part; it would have been pathological. But now we find ourselves immersed in a world of our own making so intricate, so mysterious, that soon a man may have to be restrained from attempting to rape a sewing machine. Let us hope, if that time comes, that it is a female sewing machine he fastens his intentions on. And one over the age of seventeen-hopefully, a very old treddle-operated Singer, although possibly, regrettably, past menopause. Of course a time may come when, if a man tries to rape a sewing machine, the sewing machine will have him arrested and testify, perhaps even a little hysterically, against him in court. The leads to all sorts of spin-off ideas: false testimony by suborned sewing machines who accuse innocent men unfairly; paternity tests; and, of course, abortions for sewing machines that have become pregnant against their will. And would there be birth control pills for sewing machines? Probably, like one of my previous wives, certain sewing machines would complain that the pills made them overweight-or rather, in their case, that it made them sew irregular stitches. And their would be unreliable sewing machines that would forget to take their birth control pills. And, last but not least, there would have to be Planned Parenthood clinics at which sewing machines just off the assembly lines would be counseled as to the dangers of promiscuity, with severe warnings of venereal diseases visited on such immoral machines by an outraged God-Himself, no doubt, able to sew buttonholes and fancy needlework at a rate that would dazzle the credulous merely metal and plastic sewing machines, always ready, like ourselves, to kowtow before divine miracles.

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