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Found My Undead Uncle

Found My Undead Uncle I remember, I said to Enver Pasha, that we ate mussels on a Monday, honey bread and hungry grain, a portion bowl of Golden Grahams. On shredded wheat tv seats we sat and watched coughing alcohol, the Pope speaking in Hanover, Germany, sermoning on curses and certain death, we burped up purple bubbles and crept through the rectangle window onto low, tangled grass and sugary clouds the shape of baby cougars rained down diamond diabetes and we each greedily lapped it up like labrador pups, it was our supper, perhaps our last, my undead uncle was still inside eating mussels, listing enemies, after that it was stinging hot mint pies that gutter stunk of arabian tainted oil and boiling otter intestines, we pile inside a VW bug with weevil antenna and pretend we can receive all of the malignant signals given off by evil people as they breathe, weaving the evening streets, we stop a lop-skulled prostitute named Toot-Sweet with a pool cue's length between her front teeth, sad and passionless, we offered swift death, assisted through the mists, into the bandwidth of Attica, she shattered at the thought often cause's so coffin-bothered and lost brought to her inner submitted law, this mitten state with it's prayers of deliverance made, by ulcerous country nuns who worship none but Cerberus, near Suffolk township are gun-toting Tolkien fanatic priests hiding in light-dinged attics, unhinged, wild-eyed, assaulted every Wednesday by 2 wily ghosts named Smiley and Moses with plastic, white knives that ring tunes from Christmas crooners on the 15 days of stabbing mass the 16th day is a stay of acts, on it is the Harlot Art Holiday, day 17 the Madeline Day of Anthems, where the clotted blood is washed into flower pots bought from Lowe's, the 18th day, the dismembered remembrances of all Lietzmas penitents are hilled up high on a yellow & sky blue rowboat also from Lowe's to push off shore, all wearing werewolf masks half off from Walmart and phantom facades at full price from Party City, smeared with four cans of tomato paste and bodies sloshed with tool shed pails of lantern oil and the severed antlers of sun-dried snails, towards a Viking funeral, whitening the sky aurora, the politest of mice retreat to their soily coin-width holes of filth and whisper listener tales of the great fire of the Almsday of Alle, written on linen parchment as a payday on semblance-sentence lay of Arch-annihilation - the viceroy of knightly mice of the royal-door court of King Obastion Mort upon his wine cork throne, describes icily, the viceroy, as Ivan the Decisive, the sole remaining sword-sorcerer of Cord, hero of the Mole Wars of Lofftwagen over 55 years ago, describes in rhyme the doom vessel settled in ageless flame that loomed so ever close less than seventeen pestles from their westerly raining-gate, the council bounced against the glistening walls and their were my earthbound ears listening to it all, and i stomped in their tomb, a winter armageddon out of thin air, the remainder put up a trained enabler and leapt at me, i kept the siege and shaken cans of Pepsi i had offhand and opened, hopelessness to this pathetic assembly, trembling entities, they ended ties and spried into tented cities, at this nightingale sight my frontal lobe darkened, part of it fallen to endless rot, torrents of dimensionless pain, shameful aches of wayward hard mercilessness, how delicious it seemed at the wished-upon minute, my spirit was ifrit, a hybrid of dried-up eyelids over irises, the kind that pirated and hoarded away all the spiteful violence of unrecordable horrible days spent in fugue states and malaise, the spirit raised as a bruised star, rootless, a roof-like ascendancy, just to mention my name brought down from the shroud the loudest hammer from the afterworld upon the clamoring cabinet-folk, jumping over fences, huddled in troubled groups upon the field - long gone all around them, my puzzling uncle has become something otherly awful, a four-headed skunk with a pump action shotgun, shooting down the looting crowd into buckets of viscera, and drinking it all between the 4 mouths, store hours, lessened, veiled male aggression upon the blessed pregnant engines of future generations, crude gynecologists with myopic sight, tightened fallopian tubes into balloon animals and cannibalized the remaining yet maimed stabilizers of life, smacking lips, these simians given now to cracking whips, lightning sighted but no bright signs of divine intervention, just the Kenyan death march into legend, the bleeding weak seasonal like beetle-suite weeds, border our streets, east then north our swollen corpses push forward, or, we might distort the orchestrated torture into portraits of open orchards, into pastoral farms with coral-tinted skies, dull pain into piercing pleasure, blood stains into white pines, tighten the binds, i don't care, i'll just continue to stare upon the ground, beyond it, into the world of gnomes adorned in armor artfully carved in precious stones, into baroque hell with it's toad-ish lords wearing coats of upholstered gold rope and its annually clanging angelical bells, to the solvent psalms kept in tumbler-esque desk bottles kept inside the Adderall Temple of Chattering Teeth, past the loft of the Sultan Boffin of the Mad Hatter Cult, through the abominable hall of embalmers, classes taught by Paulist-Star instructor, Dahmer, felon 7765, assisted by nine Clementines with stitched eyes on a Cropsey 88-style autopsy, i could see beyond hell into the Basement of Baal, where 195 million severed heads with their open eyes bleached white by Drano and plain old micro-surgical knives and paint thinner, all were on reserved seats unnervingly singing soprano in sync with an orchestra upon a stage made of strange amorphous orange blobs, the only one discernible was a pop-purple lobster demon dressed like a Gloucester deacon, i looked beyond the Basement into the earth's molten core, and with my sublimely lightened mind i quickened up silken rivulets of the celestial hellfire to balm my open sores, my booming wounds, i then saw into glacial space and with a maddened glad heart received this Drogheda of a more epic draft, the star-sent harvest of humanity, this cardinal red martyrdom upon italian market towns, sydney art shows, even not sparing children's hospitals, carnivals and struggling businesses turned profitable, is a racing Pantarian asteroid a mocking ayer's rock, the fading clock, the slayer's scythe that stays an awakened mind, we will be left as vicious insects, aware at only this moment that we have spoken. the universe will not reverse itself at the deserved death we are dealt, we are self-serving Celts that bathe in Roman blood, we grow our trees into splinters, seeds we toss among memories of holocaust and often we repeat, we reptiles in steam rooms, we remove all the screaming muslims from our lances, we laugh and we break glass, wine spills and simpletons are forgotten, we break their necks at birth, we strangle british street walkers with wetted down shirts to make the tabloids, devoid of soul, we open brothels, and endorse the Gestapo, infest the police corps with infectious corruption, we are less than nothing, we are oblivion, barely evolved gibbons with ribbons of flesh stuck in our teeth, christmas wreaths tossed unceremoniously upon the trash heaps, marshmallow peeps stuffed into the hollowed out eye sockets of a soccer-playing eleven year old girl named Marsha Leeds, found last week, top story in the papers till it trots slowly to the vaporous incensed chamber of momentary aroma and lessening flavor, another of the sour patch kids thrown to the roadside, 14 year old brides hidden into thatched huts, next to the husks of cracked open walnuts, i'm out of touch with reality, i steal realty signs and ignite them with gelatin fueled flames in order to glean the names of corporate demons i fear surround me ready to spring corded rope around my neck and shove paychecks down my throat until i puke up pudding cups and oatmeal, i also steal goats and paint them silver with black stripes right before the sacrifice, i roll D&D dice to determine how many man-sized bites i should take of it's lower intestines and after ingest it's adrenal glands and lay land to stare up at the southern stars so apart from my bubbling troubles, i wring my hands, wrest the ring from my finger and linger star-seeking a starving carp's length more before finishing carving up an English teacher named Maude, her cries sound exactly like a school bell stamina clanging it's stupid shell to our anguish, i already, steadily know, snow queen, this english language and all the curse words too, the purse's contents is all the usual dutiful day utensils, no signs, no wonders, just a wandering blonde's honest keepings, i coat my open body in her aired-out arterial blood, and pretend i am flying arms outstretched through the wheat field adjacent to the hut, i stub my toe on an upturned stone, and bend down and hold it for over seven minutes, and when i had temporarily halted by delirious flight i, in mind's sight, saw the altar rise before me, felt the spiraling wind beside me, tight and slow, spin into lazy circles, luciferian shapes, broken plates tossed off the dinner table of hade's, headless infants floated ghostly in topsy turvy form before rotted turkey flesh forced me to pinch my nose, the shadow beast approached, it's astral magic managed to enter pinched nostrils and now my world was a flower, wild grown upon a widened field of bones, and i bowed, for i was famished for further madness, it was not kind, left me behind, and I speak of the electrically-lit wicked world of shit, and honestly, too, kibble pea-soup vomit, from a three-legged dog's bowl, and also, sold to me by an old detroit apostle, crippled people vomit from out a three-headed God's bowels..as the madness of Samson, of cabin passion, of uncaught ripper of Wales, Blankenship and Manson seeped into my half-asleep eyes, my brain shrunk even further, into a murderous neanderthal in thrall to woodland goddesses, their lottery on life, their intense white, their ice, and i ran inside the nearest home to the road, with my carpenter's saw now a forever part of my arm..

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