Suitmation X: The Devil's Superstructure
by William D. Tucker
up from the impossible depths
seventy stories tall
the confused beast Gastropia awoke
displacing a vast amount of water before His august self
which swept all that had been conceived and constructed by human minds, labor, and resources inland
causing unimaginable devastation, misery, trauma, despair for the future
Gastropia, the hungry beast of all-consuming desire, defied all laws of physics
shouldn't be able to walk
yet He does
yet He exists
His extraordinary absurd origins:
once He was a low-shitty human adventurer
who wandered far from human reality regimes
took on vast powers from the blood and data of worthy foes
'til all His memories grew fraudulent, amplified by speedy supernatural highs
sparking off self-reinforcing cycles of rival paranoias within His magnificent mind
all the universe became as ENEMY
a vast, clanking, shitting, moaning, hooting, squirting bio-cyber-mechanical theatrical contrivance that needed to be utterly annihilated
in order to unmask the cackling puppeteer-impresario who had erected this spectacle to contain Gastropia within a show-of-shows of scintillating idiot joy
because Gastropia was the greatest god that ever used the word god as a verb
Gastropia was the most horridly beautiful fuckface to elicit arousal responses from an accomplished plastic burial disposal site in the benighted state of Florida
only Gastropia could be the star of this cosmic shitshow
only Gastropia could fuck volcanoes the hardest, restore them with sexual healing to active status
Gastropia granted Himself the right to murder all that stood between Him and the busting of the sweetest nut
Gastropia swore to climb the ladder of ambition 'til He reached that never-ending country buffet in fake-god's heavenly party house in the satellite-clogged sky
nothing would block the action of Gastropia's gorgeous bowels as they launched only the fattest shit monoliths into the most gilded toilet bowls of fake-god's long-evicted angelic occupation forces in all the far-flung precincts of kinda-hell
Gastropia was all right
Gastropia crashed every fucking thing into ruin
rubbling every last bit of the insidious, lying set designs,
and now digging down through concrete, sewer, secret fallout shelters,
forcing His way ever closer to the heart of mystery, the heart of the impresario's evil
the heart of boner-crushing disappointment
For
in all His rampages holy
Gastropia has yet to find the secret satan He seeks
but the self-sustaining structures of paranoid true-mind always crank out whole-assed internal mytho-fable to normalize and stabilize His ego complexes and keep the cycle turning over,
year after year
holy rampage after holy rampage
Gastropia updates His blame-beasts which disperse among the human population, burrow into susceptible minds, win over new fans, followers, worshippers, casual enthusiasts, fuck buddies, and Gastropia ghosts His august self off to a happy space to recharge, ingest numbingly massive quantities of muscle relaxers, and catch up on house of cards
"that kevin spacey, man I'd fuckin' vote for that guy for the president of every-goddamn-thing"
Belly laughs and farts and imprecations against the evil impresario echo through the minds of brain-burrowed acolytes praying for the next spectacle
as long as it doesn't happen to their town, city, rural route purgatory
yard littered with hollowed out gas-guzzling suvs, nixon-is-still-the-one and bush/cheney '04 yard signs, confederate battle flag bumper stickers plastered all over every surface-some of their houses are more confederate battle flag bumper sticker than house
Gastropia
the reliable devastation His big ass brings
that's
like
the only thing some people got to look forward to in this life
Gastropia was all right.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Friday, August 18, 2017
After Iraq 2003, after 8 years of Obama, after white supremacist insurgency in Charlottesville . . .
After Iraq 2003, after 8 years of Obama, after white supremacist insurgency in Charlottesville . . .
by William D. Tucker
Processing the all the too recent past with comparisons to authors, works of literature, narrative constructs:
George W. Bush and Dick Cheney: satirical grotesques out of Terry Southern or Voltaire. Destructive evil executed in the name of the highest ideals and deepest self-delusions. Dr. Strangelove, Candide come to mind.
President Barack Obama: Sophocles, Aeschylus, Shakespeare: nobility, tragedy, ambitions thwarted, conflicts between rule of law and extrajudicial expediency, heroic effort, but ruthless enemies sabotaging every effort. The Oresteia, Henry IV, Hamlet, Oedipus Rex.
Fake President trump: a swastika carved into a school desk by a disturbed seventh grader who whenever he takes a shit can do one of two things: wash his hands or wipe his ass. Can't do both. Can only do one or the other. A teacher sees the swastika, asks herself, "Is this really still a thing?" and then she brushes her fingers across the profane carving, an unconscious gesture to confirm the reality of the vileness before her. A HALF HOUR LATER: She eats a late lunch. ONE HOUR LATER: She experiences severe intestinal distress, must call in sick leave for a week. A WEEK LATER: She is hospitalized for severe dehydration, is unable to return to work for a month. A MONTH LATER: Little swastikas everywhere.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
by William D. Tucker
Processing the all the too recent past with comparisons to authors, works of literature, narrative constructs:
George W. Bush and Dick Cheney: satirical grotesques out of Terry Southern or Voltaire. Destructive evil executed in the name of the highest ideals and deepest self-delusions. Dr. Strangelove, Candide come to mind.
President Barack Obama: Sophocles, Aeschylus, Shakespeare: nobility, tragedy, ambitions thwarted, conflicts between rule of law and extrajudicial expediency, heroic effort, but ruthless enemies sabotaging every effort. The Oresteia, Henry IV, Hamlet, Oedipus Rex.
Fake President trump: a swastika carved into a school desk by a disturbed seventh grader who whenever he takes a shit can do one of two things: wash his hands or wipe his ass. Can't do both. Can only do one or the other. A teacher sees the swastika, asks herself, "Is this really still a thing?" and then she brushes her fingers across the profane carving, an unconscious gesture to confirm the reality of the vileness before her. A HALF HOUR LATER: She eats a late lunch. ONE HOUR LATER: She experiences severe intestinal distress, must call in sick leave for a week. A WEEK LATER: She is hospitalized for severe dehydration, is unable to return to work for a month. A MONTH LATER: Little swastikas everywhere.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Suitmation IX: Again we work, again we live
Suitmation IX: Again we work, again we live
by William D. Tucker
In the pipeline at last with our pre-modern historical panorama
We've collated our research and reconstruction on the Oldline Individuals
So much of their minds submerged
by so many contingent quirks of evolution
We have no idea if any of our dramatization is even close to accurate.
Our depiction is something like a chess game
with the individuals as pieces
and all their desires, instincts, property, laws, religions, illnesses, stray notions
as the players
it all takes place in the era prior to the advent of Free Will
the Great Cognitive Engineering Feat
which has an aura of romance in our time
We're amused
that an imperfect, probably mostly bullshit
historical re-enactment
is now destined
doomed
to take on the force of history
even when we know very well
the difference between history and entertainment
We'll have our moment with this one
a real breakthrough in the usual schedule of flickers
and most likely cycle out again into the exploitation programmers we've constructed for so many cycles
work those tropes to death after death
We may get our chance again
if we choose not to die
and those eons do grow long
dense with the free all practicing true choices
'til that priority pipeline just had to emerge, re-emerge, implement control and protocol
our chance will come again and again and again
if our mind(s) can endure the crushing boredom,
that weight of post-time time
where we're always choosing our moments
right up to the end which may not actually end anything
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
by William D. Tucker
In the pipeline at last with our pre-modern historical panorama
We've collated our research and reconstruction on the Oldline Individuals
So much of their minds submerged
by so many contingent quirks of evolution
We have no idea if any of our dramatization is even close to accurate.
Our depiction is something like a chess game
with the individuals as pieces
and all their desires, instincts, property, laws, religions, illnesses, stray notions
as the players
it all takes place in the era prior to the advent of Free Will
the Great Cognitive Engineering Feat
which has an aura of romance in our time
We're amused
that an imperfect, probably mostly bullshit
historical re-enactment
is now destined
doomed
to take on the force of history
even when we know very well
the difference between history and entertainment
We'll have our moment with this one
a real breakthrough in the usual schedule of flickers
and most likely cycle out again into the exploitation programmers we've constructed for so many cycles
work those tropes to death after death
We may get our chance again
if we choose not to die
and those eons do grow long
dense with the free all practicing true choices
'til that priority pipeline just had to emerge, re-emerge, implement control and protocol
our chance will come again and again and again
if our mind(s) can endure the crushing boredom,
that weight of post-time time
where we're always choosing our moments
right up to the end which may not actually end anything
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Free Agent 2: The Throne of Contemplation
Free Agent 2: The Throne of Contemplation
by William D. Tucker
As part of my indoctrination into RIVALCORP, I am cracked, scanned, and drained-which means I sit in a well-appointed Throne of Contemplation with all my bodily needs attended to, the drug-pump primed just so, and my choice of authorized flickers via direct brain stimulation. I re-watch the Beverly Hills Cop Trilogy, including the TV edits. I'm actually a really big defender of Beverly Hills Cop 3, and I even think there are some inspired cuts in the censored-for-television version. A couple of the shootings are actually more abrupt and violent with the cartoonish squib-work cut out, but other scenes do suffer. I go through every iteration of the Beverly Hills Cop saga before cycling into a state of lucid dreaming.
I got into the habit some jobs ago of refusing to dream when locked down into the Throne of Contemplation, because I didn't want my internal phantasia to be recorded and made property of the system. But then they would just interdict the sleep state, and that took awhile to resist. Once I got into lucid dreaming I forced the most depraved scenarios and imagery into the system: vast howling chancroids vomiting up greasy feces and broken off teeth; syphilitic samurai seppuku; cockroaches eating eyeballs out of Muppet Baby faces; a U.S. president eating nothing but hair for every meal ... but I got worn out with that routine.
Why bother to monkey wrench the system? The system is, itself, Sabotage Incarnate. The true believers keep it puttering along on a lean mixture of malice and avarice. Juvenile shock perversities are amusing dirty jokes to spice up a puritanical day.
Moreover, I'm certain every loyal employee has engaged in such acts of so-called resistance. I got the idea from a colleague who has been mostly deleted from my memory. The system is fully capable of total erasure of an individual identity but that method has been deemed, for now, to be inefficient. The web of an individual mind has too many useful strands, connections, intersections, and working networks to be obliterated outright when it can just be steered onto the right path with the proper rewards and stimulation. Some pruning-sure, fine, and they have refined that capability to a shockingly precise degree. I admire it. I do. What they've achieved is absolutely astonishing. Solo units such as myself have largely seen an enhanced quality of life at the end of all processes. So why fuck with shit?
I don't exactly love Big Brother, or whatever you want to call it-it ain't that warm of a sentiment.
And I wouldn't say He loves me.
But He's done right by me in terms of the basics.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
by William D. Tucker
As part of my indoctrination into RIVALCORP, I am cracked, scanned, and drained-which means I sit in a well-appointed Throne of Contemplation with all my bodily needs attended to, the drug-pump primed just so, and my choice of authorized flickers via direct brain stimulation. I re-watch the Beverly Hills Cop Trilogy, including the TV edits. I'm actually a really big defender of Beverly Hills Cop 3, and I even think there are some inspired cuts in the censored-for-television version. A couple of the shootings are actually more abrupt and violent with the cartoonish squib-work cut out, but other scenes do suffer. I go through every iteration of the Beverly Hills Cop saga before cycling into a state of lucid dreaming.
I got into the habit some jobs ago of refusing to dream when locked down into the Throne of Contemplation, because I didn't want my internal phantasia to be recorded and made property of the system. But then they would just interdict the sleep state, and that took awhile to resist. Once I got into lucid dreaming I forced the most depraved scenarios and imagery into the system: vast howling chancroids vomiting up greasy feces and broken off teeth; syphilitic samurai seppuku; cockroaches eating eyeballs out of Muppet Baby faces; a U.S. president eating nothing but hair for every meal ... but I got worn out with that routine.
Why bother to monkey wrench the system? The system is, itself, Sabotage Incarnate. The true believers keep it puttering along on a lean mixture of malice and avarice. Juvenile shock perversities are amusing dirty jokes to spice up a puritanical day.
Moreover, I'm certain every loyal employee has engaged in such acts of so-called resistance. I got the idea from a colleague who has been mostly deleted from my memory. The system is fully capable of total erasure of an individual identity but that method has been deemed, for now, to be inefficient. The web of an individual mind has too many useful strands, connections, intersections, and working networks to be obliterated outright when it can just be steered onto the right path with the proper rewards and stimulation. Some pruning-sure, fine, and they have refined that capability to a shockingly precise degree. I admire it. I do. What they've achieved is absolutely astonishing. Solo units such as myself have largely seen an enhanced quality of life at the end of all processes. So why fuck with shit?
I don't exactly love Big Brother, or whatever you want to call it-it ain't that warm of a sentiment.
And I wouldn't say He loves me.
But He's done right by me in terms of the basics.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
Suitmation VIII: Tortsov's Lesson on the Soul of Monstrosity (excerpt)
Suitmation VIII: Tortsov's Lesson on the Soul of Monstrosity (excerpt)
by William D. Tucker
On the last day of class, we did not know what to expect. Tortsov himself was a few minutes late. He called us to order, and went straight into a lecture.
"We have worked many weeks on spontaneity, on living truthfully in each monstrous moment. We have seen upon this stage many wonders of monstered revelation. We have followed our transformations wherever they have led, and experienced continuous liberation. Now, we must come down to earth, and consider the likely course of our professional lives beyond this classroom. In the professional world, monsters are not heroes, protagonists, or even complex supporting parts-we are allegories, symbols, propaganda, mysteries, omens, fantasies, and inner conflicts made manifest. We shall be called upon to symbolize fears rational, irrational, bigoted, individualistic, nationalistic-we shall be called upon to enact certain patterns and tropes and rituals and rites which usually entail our ultimate destruction. It is easy to grow jaded and mechanistic in these kinds of roles. However, I exhort you to always strive for that vividness of the inner life in each moment no matter how hackneyed, cliched, propagandistic, or downright idiotic your allotted monstered role may be-who knows? If you play your part well, truthfully, and vividly in each moment, perhaps you will honestly give life to the soul of monstrosity upon our stage. And in that blazing moment of spiritual illumination may come a turning, and we may then be asked to play monstered heroes, monstered protagonists, monstered quirky supporting characters, monstered comedic leads, monstered romantic leads-I promise nothing, I prophesy nothing. But when the life of a soul is truly played . . . there may indeed come a turning."
At this point, Tortsov declared the class dismissed, and thanked us all for being his students. This was quite an emotional scene. All of us had never been through such an education. Even Tortsov seemed stricken with a kind of sadness that this journey was at an end.
Tortsov embraced each of us as we exited the class room and boarded the waiting military transports. A war was on, and allegorical beasts were needed in the Ritual AgitProp Division. I barely had time to say goodbye to Ferapont, and Katharine, and Igor, and Dolman and Rita, as the masked and armored troopers took roll call and divided us up among the three waiting vehicles.
We were off to incarnate the lives of essential beasts in the name of the state. Who knows how many transformations lay in our futures? Would any of us recognize each other after the day of victory?
The transport doors sealed themselves, closing off my last view of Tortsov's school for the next five years.
-July-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
by William D. Tucker
On the last day of class, we did not know what to expect. Tortsov himself was a few minutes late. He called us to order, and went straight into a lecture.
"We have worked many weeks on spontaneity, on living truthfully in each monstrous moment. We have seen upon this stage many wonders of monstered revelation. We have followed our transformations wherever they have led, and experienced continuous liberation. Now, we must come down to earth, and consider the likely course of our professional lives beyond this classroom. In the professional world, monsters are not heroes, protagonists, or even complex supporting parts-we are allegories, symbols, propaganda, mysteries, omens, fantasies, and inner conflicts made manifest. We shall be called upon to symbolize fears rational, irrational, bigoted, individualistic, nationalistic-we shall be called upon to enact certain patterns and tropes and rituals and rites which usually entail our ultimate destruction. It is easy to grow jaded and mechanistic in these kinds of roles. However, I exhort you to always strive for that vividness of the inner life in each moment no matter how hackneyed, cliched, propagandistic, or downright idiotic your allotted monstered role may be-who knows? If you play your part well, truthfully, and vividly in each moment, perhaps you will honestly give life to the soul of monstrosity upon our stage. And in that blazing moment of spiritual illumination may come a turning, and we may then be asked to play monstered heroes, monstered protagonists, monstered quirky supporting characters, monstered comedic leads, monstered romantic leads-I promise nothing, I prophesy nothing. But when the life of a soul is truly played . . . there may indeed come a turning."
At this point, Tortsov declared the class dismissed, and thanked us all for being his students. This was quite an emotional scene. All of us had never been through such an education. Even Tortsov seemed stricken with a kind of sadness that this journey was at an end.
Tortsov embraced each of us as we exited the class room and boarded the waiting military transports. A war was on, and allegorical beasts were needed in the Ritual AgitProp Division. I barely had time to say goodbye to Ferapont, and Katharine, and Igor, and Dolman and Rita, as the masked and armored troopers took roll call and divided us up among the three waiting vehicles.
We were off to incarnate the lives of essential beasts in the name of the state. Who knows how many transformations lay in our futures? Would any of us recognize each other after the day of victory?
The transport doors sealed themselves, closing off my last view of Tortsov's school for the next five years.
-July-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Friday, August 4, 2017
Free Agent
Free Agent
by William D. Tucker
Mid-cycle
None of the faces or uniforms or masks or languages registered
ran diagnostics on my eyes, ears, heart
it wasn't my eyes, ears, heart
I went to the company store to buy new getup
was promptly removed from the facility
And they were kinda rough with me
which was funny at first
made me feel like Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop,
but they weren't truly abusive,
didn't throw me through a plate glass window
The paramilitaries looked new and shiny
upgraded from combat webbing and shaved heads
into a league of techno demi-gods
or a cosplay science ninja team
heads encased in robo-insectoid helmets
On the street before the great and convoluted facility
I stood crying
I tried so hard to suppress all emotion
but the internal drug-pumps had already deactivated upon my termination
the tears flowed
I blubbered even.
I stood there for an hour or more,
half hoping I'd be shot by a shiny paramilitary
but no dice.
I stalked down the middle of the road,
hoping to be rundown,
but all the autocars swerved just so,
even broadcasting messages of compassion, recommending suicide prevention hotlines, Jesus Christ,
Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard;
one especially devout car offered to roll with me along my dark path,
but I mouthed insipid syllables 'til it left me alone with a pamphlet full of mistranslated, out-of-context Bible quotations.
A half hour passed
I settled into a stalking rhythm which the autocars found agreeable,
just a little deviation from their ground-plans
didn't even get clipped
I'd always wanted to test the collision detection on these machines
and an autocar pulled up next to me, told me to get in, and something inside me responded to a signal
-the chem-pumps I think-
which guided me to yes.
In the air conditioned cab, stimulant-alcoholic drinkbox in my hand
the autocar spoke at length about all the opportunities that awaited me inside RIVALCORP
which wasn't the true name, but a cipher
because the real name was knowledge reserved to the executive class
or possibly just the great algorithms in the Cloud of Clouds
the near immaterial deities rumored to have the whole game on lock these days.
I couldn't even recall the name of the company I was just fired from,
my mind only coming up with PREVIOUS GIG, PASTCORP, variations on that general theme.
I swiped my consent through screen after screen
of terms and conditions
just like I did when I got headhunted for PASTCORP.
Why do they even allow any memories, for fuck's sake?
They write in so many strategic erasures and interdictions,
everybody's hacking into everybody else's chem-pumps,
just do the full wipe, fer Hubbard's sakes!
I'm pretty sure they like it like that-leaving in just enough to promote an illusion of free will,
easy enough to frustrate, tip over into despair in a world of unlimited choice,
and thus conformity, obedience, self-indoctrination follow on with the quickness
to still the cognitive dissonance.
Also,
a full wipe just means you gotta increase resources devoted to re-skilling, re-indoctrination lead times,
so,
yeah,
it's cool.
The autocar regaled me with readings of official poetry as it whisked me towards another great and convoluted facility. The verses stirred my at-a-distance-controlled heart. Shit would work out for a few hundred cycles more, I would know where I needed to be.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
by William D. Tucker
Mid-cycle
None of the faces or uniforms or masks or languages registered
ran diagnostics on my eyes, ears, heart
it wasn't my eyes, ears, heart
I went to the company store to buy new getup
was promptly removed from the facility
And they were kinda rough with me
which was funny at first
made me feel like Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop,
but they weren't truly abusive,
didn't throw me through a plate glass window
The paramilitaries looked new and shiny
upgraded from combat webbing and shaved heads
into a league of techno demi-gods
or a cosplay science ninja team
heads encased in robo-insectoid helmets
On the street before the great and convoluted facility
I stood crying
I tried so hard to suppress all emotion
but the internal drug-pumps had already deactivated upon my termination
the tears flowed
I blubbered even.
I stood there for an hour or more,
half hoping I'd be shot by a shiny paramilitary
but no dice.
I stalked down the middle of the road,
hoping to be rundown,
but all the autocars swerved just so,
even broadcasting messages of compassion, recommending suicide prevention hotlines, Jesus Christ,
Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard;
one especially devout car offered to roll with me along my dark path,
but I mouthed insipid syllables 'til it left me alone with a pamphlet full of mistranslated, out-of-context Bible quotations.
A half hour passed
I settled into a stalking rhythm which the autocars found agreeable,
just a little deviation from their ground-plans
didn't even get clipped
I'd always wanted to test the collision detection on these machines
and an autocar pulled up next to me, told me to get in, and something inside me responded to a signal
-the chem-pumps I think-
which guided me to yes.
In the air conditioned cab, stimulant-alcoholic drinkbox in my hand
the autocar spoke at length about all the opportunities that awaited me inside RIVALCORP
which wasn't the true name, but a cipher
because the real name was knowledge reserved to the executive class
or possibly just the great algorithms in the Cloud of Clouds
the near immaterial deities rumored to have the whole game on lock these days.
I couldn't even recall the name of the company I was just fired from,
my mind only coming up with PREVIOUS GIG, PASTCORP, variations on that general theme.
I swiped my consent through screen after screen
of terms and conditions
just like I did when I got headhunted for PASTCORP.
Why do they even allow any memories, for fuck's sake?
They write in so many strategic erasures and interdictions,
everybody's hacking into everybody else's chem-pumps,
just do the full wipe, fer Hubbard's sakes!
I'm pretty sure they like it like that-leaving in just enough to promote an illusion of free will,
easy enough to frustrate, tip over into despair in a world of unlimited choice,
and thus conformity, obedience, self-indoctrination follow on with the quickness
to still the cognitive dissonance.
Also,
a full wipe just means you gotta increase resources devoted to re-skilling, re-indoctrination lead times,
so,
yeah,
it's cool.
The autocar regaled me with readings of official poetry as it whisked me towards another great and convoluted facility. The verses stirred my at-a-distance-controlled heart. Shit would work out for a few hundred cycles more, I would know where I needed to be.
-August 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Suitmation VII: Be Invoked
Suitmation VII: Be Invoked
by William D. Tucker
1.
Rubbleminded
I called upon the vengeful deity
rival shrines creating too much static
I raised my voice, focused all my blood flow
-if I had to shoot the blood out of my face-
pirate prayers cut into my invocation, steal my bandwidth
rage
I spoke the handmade defense syllables
a pirate brain burns
My prayers rose up to the god of vengeance
A shop burned in the heart of the city
I saw the blaze go crazy
Eat the whole block
Men, women, children
Consumed
The city
Consumed
I vomit all over the shrine I spent so many days and nights drafting, constructing, consecrating
I feel a hot wind on my face
I cry out-slapping at my beard, fearful of ignition
Knocked on my ass
The arsonist deity cackling at me
I cowered before the great heat
My private shrine ablaze,
I ran into the house,
walls ignited,
I ran into the night
Some days pass in wandering
I visit priests and shrines and psychologists and seers and motivational Wealthmaster speakers
I lock myself in porta-toilets on construction sites
I sleep nights and days in parks and downtime shrines to naive gods of peace and mercy
All my nightmares stage my beard lit afire, the god of vengeance eating through my face
Pain’s on a loop
And there’s a fucked-up chorus of churning goblin guts
I think that's what that's supposed to be, sounds like it.
My house, my shrine, all my pro parts
Do I dare go back to behold the ruin?
What if the god of vengeance still dwells there,
Waiting for a new prayer signal off of a seething rubblemind like mine?
Could be, could be …
I drift from prayer house to shooting gallery to hate rally
All the nation seems caught up in the rubblemind
My throat’s raw as fuck from vomiting too many times a day
I cut that fucking beard out of my face
Nightmares of the burning beard less frequent
A religious hate rally climaxes with a well appointed clusterfuck with exotic imported smartcars designed and iterated for maximum erotic impact
But I walk out of all that
Haven’t had a sexual feeling in weeks
I sign up for dungeon duty with a degenerate priest, assisting with the floggings and electrocutions
Volunteer for experimental blessings in the R&D section of a start-up megachurch
My beard still burns.
The deity of vengeance’s still on my all-too-chapped ass
I almost forgot about all that
That time of fires
I stand, now, in the amplifier zone of my worship arena of 75,000 seats
I think that fire on my ass drove me howling up the ladder of godhood
So many defense syallables, words, auto-mouths, drain fields, and security idols thread through my domain at multiple levels of reality.
I had to cut all sorts of deals with all sorts of obscene deities to extend my life, save my state, so that I could work out all the pataphysical dilemmas of crafting the perfect security state.
Gods from all over got strange appendages, stranger influence into my hypercollateralized soul
So long as I set aside a good portion of my believer base for my creditors
Steer them into brave new hells and paradises
I’ll service the debt for an aeon or three, no problem.
Radical re-authorship of myself down to my soul to stave off that burning maw
Required that I cut myself out of self
Many times over
To the point where my spiritual security culture mandates thrice daily meta-molting
To noise up all the signal lines
Throw off my persecutor
The REDACTED
Insists I give REDACTED all my cast-off body and soul shells for REDACTED’s collection
To be used within REDACTED’s own private pocket universe of B-movie monster cinema
REDACTED told me that the cast-off shells are sometimes used for monsters and character bits, but mostly REDACTED just needs extras for the body count to be filled with souls from realities too delicate to name in my language.
Yes,
Sure-that’s creepy as fuck.
But all the deals I’ve cut have been worth it to set up my own little dominion of worship.
‘Cause now I get to be the fire on some asses.
Good work if you can get it.
-July 2017
Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
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