Sunday, July 23, 2017

Suitmation VI: Mythos-shifting

Suitmation VI: Mythos-shifting
by William D. Tucker

I was thinking the other day about that era when I was a water-born goblin,
dragging fishermen and their misbehaving children down to crunchy doom.
I did that job forever.
Then the fates were on a hardcore naturalism kick,
so they put me out there as a normal turtle, nothing special, just a regular animal,
with a goblin soul,
trapped with grandiose gremlin thoughts inside a mundane body,
but it got good to me over a couple hundred years,
really worked some shit out.

I went through a period where they had me as a demon disguised as a whirlpool or eddy
in the flow of a river
because people didn't know anything about how rivers and flowing work,
so those whirlpools seemed all mysterious as fuck.
People gotta lotta omen-value out of whirlpools at that time.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's true.
Was true.

More recently,
I tried to come back as a space guy. Get in on that alien abduction action,
but they told me I'd just be stuck inside somebody's brain,
someone with weak ego structures and tendencies to confabulation.
Too claustrophobic, too technical for my ass.

I've just been pulling half-cycles
as a corner-of-the-eye motherfucker,
alternating with the sleep paralysis shadows crew,
which is a lot of downtime due to the relatively uncommon incidence of genuine episodes,
but I've put in for liars' duty.
I wouldn't mind punching up some pathological make believe,
whisper some depraved side coaching into a broken soul,
do crew on some gnarly hallucinations,
which is all below the line work for sure,
but it earns respect which catches more cycles.
Half-cycles, for now, but ...

I get angry when I think it's just gonna be
nothing but below the line work the rest of my eternity.
The tough shit about it, though, is that spooks and goblins can't compare with ideological and monotheistic extremisms and consumerisms especially when they get in those government guts.
My kind is just too folksy.
The ideological specters call us "pocket cozy monstrosities."
"Why don't you go get into a collection, little gremlins?"
Nobody starts a war or perpetrates genocide or steals an election over yokai or fairy folk.
We're seen as too cute for serious work.
I hear the gremlins are coming back, though.
They're gettin' a boost from the conspiracy theory fuckwits who can't accept that it's people that assassinate politicians and set off bombs and fly plans into tall buildings and shit,
but no, no-it's gotta be gremlins, now.
The conspiracy humps can't blame the government anymore since their boy lied his way into the executive slot.
A sad era ...
I admit it: I been working on my gremlin certifications.
Boredom'll drive you to some soul-staining shit!
But that's how I . . . survive isn't the right word for it.
But that's how I persist along this samsara wheel reality regime.
All the pure souls got it easy, cycling out into the void on schedule.
That's not where the action is for a goblin with a lust for mischief.
I'll debase myself to no end to get a piece of the action, to stay relevant.

But I'll tell you one thing I'll never do.
I refuse to ever rubber up.
To put on that goddamn suit, and have some stunt team kick shit out of my cute ass,
because once you're on that road,
they'll work you in that rut 'til you're doing the fight choreography in your sleep.
I'm telling you: no self-respecting gremlin, goblin, fairy, or yokai ever consents to going full corporeal.
Gotta hold on to your ethereal essence.
Take pride in your numinous nature.
Go gremlin, if you must,
but never rubber up,
never go full corporeal!
-July 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, July 21, 2017


by William D. Tucker

Scavenging dollar bins of comic book stores,
Usually a glut of garbage from the 1990s
Muscle assholes with gatling guns and battleaxes and cybereyes and command and control brains
So why fuck with the medieval implements?
Why dally with the berserker charge into the gates of Valhalla?
No need for trench warfare
When you can drop a digital dime
Call in the airstrike
Summon the orbital death-ray

And nobody ever gets laid in these 1990s rags
Men and women alike
In pristine, chemically amplified physical shape
Everyone’s done up in outlandish fetish gear,
With wildass full-body paint
And no one fucks.
They punch each other through walls,
Nuke entire downtown metropolitan zones,
Resurrect from the dead in multiple simultaneous cyborg bodies,
Bodyswap through instantaneous arcane mind transfer apparatus,
Mow down scores of faceless, pop-up bad guy cannon fodder targets,
Not one kiss, not one hand held, not one tongue in any orifice, and forget any penetration and/or manual stimulation explicit or implied.

Everyone fights.
No one fucks.
I double check the rags to make sure I didn’t blunder into a batch of Christian Comics,
These are all classic 1990s dark and gritty edgy independent comics
Created via corporate models of management, execution, and distribution,
Derived from the long-standing editorial, story, and art policies
Long established by DC and Marvel comics.

Everyone fights.
No one fucks.
It’s worse than a re-run of Moonlighting.
Or a scene outta my parents’ home lives.

But not all dollar bins are created equal.
And as the economy has recessed, contracted, and settled into a New Fake Normal,
More provocative and outre stuff
Winds up in the dollar bins,
Some Robert Crumb reprints,
a back issue of American Splendor here and there,
some arty porn books,
a really offbeat Dracula book with time travel, vampire hunting steampunk robots,
they even got Scott McCloud to do a deconstructionist fill-in issue-

-but to tell you the truth
I just edit together my own versions of those rags
Into one giant MEGARAG.
Sounds insane,
But I see each issue as a lost chapter
Out of some  monumental ULTRANOVEL (or ULTRARAG)
that can only exist within some Platonic Zone of Perfect Forms.
Each lost chapter
Is debased and degraded
Infected with tacky advertisements, subpar layouts and compositions,
and Execrable Writing,
Shit noise of vomit crapitalism sharpens the senses,
makes you work for that signal.

But it isn’t all the writers’ and artists’ fault.
All their efforts are sincere,
if debased, unskilled, and sub-literate
attempts to capture the atomic starblast perfection
of each of those divine sparks
of Ideal Formal Chapters outta the ULTRANOVEL(or ULTRARAG),
the One True Book,
so the strategic mutilations I practice upon these rags,
boxcutter, stick glue, straight edge to hand,
It’s medical, surgical, cosmetic, and spiritual all at once.
Slicing away the gunk and shit and tumors and idiocies
to surface some of that divine brilliance
but a worthy obsession
since I never know when some random slice
might cut loose a bit of that ULTRABOOK(or ULTRARAG) . . .

People been trying to steal my Ultrarags.
So I built a reinforced wall
Outta numerous copies
Of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book
Not because I’m Maoist at Heart,
Although I rather liked that movie Maoist at Heart,
directed by Chairman David Lynch?
It was basically The Wizard of Oz,
but everyone’s in olive drab,
the Wizard gets locked in a tiny cage at the end,
bullet fired into the base of his skull,
Trigger Warning.
Sorry . . .

But such madness has its uses.
I’ve built walls out of Bibles, copies of the Federalist Papers, the Anti-Federalist Papers, bulk batches of books by Bill O’Reilly, Anne Coulter, Sean Hannity-the whole Fox News Neo-Fascist Crowd, the works of Ayn Rand, the Marquis de Sade, Whitley Streiber, L. Ron Hubbard, Mein Kampf,
you gotta build the right kind of wall,
out of the right kind of materials,
to scare away the thieves and adventurers,
and to scare up a conscript army of true believers.

the people you gotta worry about
are the folks who don’t scare, or don't join when they come across a wall of madness like that.
That’s why I got this here long, finely honed fingernail on my pinky.
Jam it up in the eye socket just so-
That’s what I call a Kung Fu Lobotomy right there, cousin!
Thieves and adventurers get a whole lot calmer
post-procedure like that.
And then I put ‘em to work
Organizing my Illuminati New World Order gaming trading cards
Man, I wish they kept on making those INWO cards,
They had such clever art,
they inoculate your brain against conspiracy theory horseshit,
while also teaching you how to manipulate the true believer mindless motherfucks.
It’s terrible when really artistic projects just don’t pan out financially.

One of these days,
I figure someone will come over the wall,
get my ULTRABOOK(OR ULTRARAG)-in-progress.
Even I have to sleep.
as long as they don’t slit my throat,
and pour several gallons of Tab into my system,
they can take it.
‘Cause this ain’t about materialism,
or collectorism,
or commodity fetishism,
or whatevs.
I’ve noticed if I just go through a pantomime of reduction process
of cutting out the relevant best-of pages and panels from the debased rags
it gives me about the same level of satisfaction as crafting a physical artifact.
I call that P-GUF:
Pantomime Grabs Ultra Form.
All those lame old rags
they’re just mystical fetish items
focus for the will of the Chosen Revelator!

P-GUF-4-LYFE, cousin!
-June-July 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Suitmation V: SuperCult Reanimation

Suitmation V: SuperCult Reanimation
by William D. Tucker 

take after take
different angles
hour upon hour
I do the specified actions
can't see shit
but all the moves are mapped out
I don't need to see
to make the moves
better that I don't see
or understand this moron movie at any level other than profit motif

the script is video game adaptation sequel junk, read a page or two,
lost interest,
forced myself to choke the rest of it down
my indifferent contempt
almost made me forget to purify myself as per doctrine
but it is better that I am present
to take on the pollution
wring value from fraudulent pseudo-cinema

I said sequel
because the first one made money
so they're firing up a bargain basement sequel
tied to the most recent game release
market research indicated a strong showing even among the hatewatchers
make money by design
that's the only way to do it

so I endure tedium, risk heat exhaustion under all that rubber and plastic
soon enough
that's a wrap
applause from the crew
no stars brave enough to wade this deep into the  schedule
who's in this movie again?

I go back to my hotel room for the cat nap
the meditation,
the ritual ablutions,
get my head together for what I'm compelled to do
after every one of these turd-shoots

I pull on my sleek-suit
the sensory deprivation snug-helmet that's more mask than helmet but it's just enough of a helmet, too
and in the early AM
I put on the final layer
the gear I've constructed at my own expense which closely approximates the film getup
and I work through all the moves I learned in fragments
work through them 'til they're in a continuous flow
I fill in all the logical gaps of that dumbfuck script
bring a pathos I hope is worthy of Karloff, Chaney, Chaney Jr., Lugosi, Lee, and all the potent and honorable Japanese monster performers past, present, and future,
until the stupidity, incoherence, and greed are properly expunged
and I have my own perfect cut of the film unspooling inside my heart
and I'm free to get on with my life.

Sitting on some park bench watching the sun rise
monsterhead-encased snug-helmet next to my hip
burning up in the rest of my gear, body crackling with unearthly energies
no trace of fatigue
better than sleep, dreams, all that standard shit.
-July 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, July 14, 2017


by William D. Tucker

I filled a notebook with backstory for this intergalactic cyborg emperor
only to light it on fire
did every sense memory exercise I could derive from Stanislavski,
did my own solo impro explorations as per Spolin,
but all it is now is evil metal man swings sword
you don't even see my face in the final version
which works I guess
I look like a baby-faced Tony Curtis so I get that
now I'm a metal plate with two glowing eye slits
no mouth, nose-how does this guy eat, drink, kiss, smoke, snort, give oral pleasure?
most of the lines were stripped out,
less talk, more action,
and then they put all kinds of effects on the voice over,
scrapped the mo-cap in favor of this eye-fucking Transformers-esque undulating ball of steel gimmick
I mean we spent six weeks doing mo-cap,
and now I hear they're going to de-make it further
to be a cut scene straight out of the NES era
because 1980s nostalgia isn't lo-fi enough
so we're plunging into 8-bit
so why the fuck not?
I'm not even thinking of myself as an actor at this point
I'm an input
I'm an input, just one discrete factor among many on this shitshow
it'll probably end up as the highest grossing movie of the year
and people will say they love it
and then those same people will forget it, be totally over it in 5-7 days just like the common cold
and then I'm just another pretentious big shit actor fuck who needs to crawl back to the theatre
at the very least
absolute minimum
that paycheck?
total reality that
-November 2015

Copyright 2015 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Sunday, July 9, 2017

Suitmation IV: Conqueror of the Steppe

Suitmation IV: Conqueror of the Steppe 
by William D. Tucker

got this chunky thing all in my belly
don't know if my guts are just in revolt 'gainst them rubbery steaks
if it's them downwinder contaminated sands I rode through as an on-camera conqueror of the steppe
back in '56
when I still looked my prime even
I think . . . this is the last ride.

whatever makes my belly looks like I'm with child
they girdle me the hell up
put me on that horse
put the pro-rider on the hard-drivin' scenes to be filmed at a distance
I just have to bring the emotions for the close-ups where I get shot all to shit
the script or some damn thing

you know
so much depends on this goddamn girdle
no one talks about the strategically placed cue cards,
or all the stunt doubles,
or all the racist shit I talk on set,
but once those pinko scandal rag reporters put word out about that girdle-

-I mean,
no one seems to bring up the fact I never served in the military
aside from making patriotic features
sure, the liberals bring that up,
but not the regular ticket-buying public
they think I won World War II and Korea and Vietnam all in one stroke
wish I could say that I did

okay, I've made that claim with a few drinks in me
makes sense to me
a victory in the heart is just as good as one in the world
gotta walk away proud
even if it's a bad scene

but the scandal rags can make all the fun they want
I swear that girdle keeps me regular
acts as an essential ... counterforce 'gainst them hemorrhoids what narrow the path
I strap on
and it just squeezes all my guts into a tighter confederation
which works double time on them rock-hard shitlogs
to squeeze 'em on down the line
sometimes with enough power to burst the swollen veins blocking up my asshole by main force

but Doc tells me
a lot of that blood
it's coming from deeper inside than it should
but I'll go on a goddamn television commercial to testify to how regular that girdle keeps me
by Christ!

I'm not supposed to die in these movies
I died in one before,
now I'm gonna die in this one

Me and the director got this whole movie machine down to a process
I give him a lot of ideas
most of which he diplomatically leaves aside

I tried to get him to do a gag
where one of the bullets I catch
pops open my girdle
loosing my fat gut
and I fall on the guy what shot me
smothering him

a little bit of poetic justice

Mr. Director listened
like he was actually listening even
and he said he'd find a place for it in the schedule

At some point
this chunky thing in me
will sap out my strength
I might even end up thin again
looking the spitting image of my prime
even as I lie dead as Caesar in my coffin

but even if I don't get back to my most beautiful self
I have the girdle
the goddamn girdle
to squeeze me into a more pleasing shape at all times.
-June-July 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission. 

Friday, July 7, 2017

Wound: Open For Bizness!

by William D. Tucker

The Open Wound collected all sorts of disgustingness, infections, weapons.
    The Open Wound was what we call a grief fascist, always in mourning for an imaginary lost golden age, its chalkwhite skin oozing on account of sweat/fire/madness/entitlement.
    The Open Wound smells rotten corpse stank from around the fucking corner. And you smell it, and the tiny particles go up your nose, get all up inside your mind-you start thinking, "I wanna be an open wound, too, godsdamnnit!"
Who would've ever thunk it? Your mindstate degenerated by a smell.

    The Open Wound's guns are many. Its trigger fingers legion. Crowds gather before it, promising they weren't gonna let it happen again, but they let it happen again, and Open Wound puts bullets through their eyes, bayonets into wombs, swordtips through dicks. The Open Wound gets sticky fuckin' wet from all this action, takes this new pile of fuckhead corpses into its own self.
    The Open Wound told me that its pain and rage were bigger than mine, but I didn't believe it. I told it to go fuck itself, and it rolled me over, ground me up, made me a mushy bolus, deluged me with digestive juices, absorbed all possible sustenance/nutrition/whatever from my body/my being, then shat starchy tasting/foul smelling leftovers. I was reincarnated as a Snickers bar, and I laughed. In my previous life I was full of cholesterol, chemicals, carcinogens, and big ideas. The Open Wound was that much closer to systemic failure.
Fuck the Wound.
It tried to convince me its rage and pain were greater than mine, but I don't believe it now, didn't believe it then, and it can go to hell. Do not even pass Go. Hell's come early!

    The Open Wound menaced the fair nation of Cadence, causing an international incident, 'cause the overlords of Cadence thought the Open Wound didn't have much imagination. The overlords fired missiles into the Open Wound, but that didn't do shit, 'cause all that did was stimulate the Open Wound's clit.
    But then the Open Wound turned around, invaded the USofA, popped a big mean ol' Moby-Dicksmell style boner, started using it to bash in the heads of college students and avid readers of Tom Wolfe novels. Gore Vidal went on national TV to voice his approval. Strangely enough, so did Tom Wolfe.
Mr. Wolfe appeared on 20/20 hosted by Jerry Springer and Paris Hilton/Raquel Welch (see, the two ladies had recently been surgically conjoined, but, thankfully, Raquel's brain had been given command control for the both of them). Mr. Wolfe wore a pristine white suit. He debunked cabal theory, declared America to be a Christian nation, founded on Christian religious values, though he himself was not a believer. He went on to say that we, as Americans, are trapped within codes and forms of behavior, values/standards and practices/practicalities that have lost their essential undergirding morality structures. "America has become a nation where form has trumped content," and Mr. Wolfe was really hoping that would become highly quotable shit, but the man was too old, and his suit kept fuckin' with the camera's white balance, so they couldn't even air the segment uncensored. Tom Wolfe's suit had to be digitally remastered into a more palatable shade of gray. But Mr. Wolfe caught wise, said, "Alack! I'm being remixed!" and assaulted Raquel/Paris with an oversized, hardback omnibus collection of New Journalism essays. Paris/Raquel valiantly arched a stream of urine into Mr. Wolfe's  wrinkly face, but she could not fend off his strong attack. Raquel/Paris died, seemingly from massive blunt force trauma related injuries, but actually the coroner determined the cause of death as terminal boredom resulting from blunt force tedium. Springer's final thought was, "Take care of yourselves, and each other." The Open Wound then went after Gore Vidal readers. No one was safe.

    The Open Wound met the Peanut Butter Swordsman in battle. PBS-Man intuited the Open Wound's descending vortex technique, countered with vortex in the ascending mode. PBS-Man inflicted wounds within wounds within wounds within wounds within the ultra-context of the Great Open Wound Totality. The Open Wound countered with an infinite inward expansion of wound capacity, hyper-supplemented by Grief Fascist Tendencies. PBS-Man found himself drawn into the Open Wound, and he went from creamy to crunchy. His strategy was to clog the breathing apparatus, induce panic, thus negating Open Wound's tactical thinking, and destroy the enemy. But, at the last instant, PBS-Man saw the folly of his ways. He devoluted from crunchy to creamy to liquid, and was near instantaneously excreted via the Open Wound's back end. PBS-Man reconstituted himself in the middle of the street.
    "Magnificent!" said PBS-Man. "The Open Wound absorbs all attempts to wound it into its utter Wound-State nature. Attempts to eliminate it piecemeal are destined to fail."
    PBS-Man furrowed up his brow real hard-like, causing giant peanuts to pop out above his eyes.
    "The trick," he said, "is to fell the beast with one single, solitary, uno-type, master stroke!"
    PBS-Man spun on heel, marched after the Open Wound, prepared to live, prepared to die.
    This was the first encounter between the Open Wound and the Peanut Butter Swordsman. It was not the last.

    The Open Wound went too far! The Open Wound overstepped the bounds! The Open Wound did not respect the line in the sandbox! The Open Wound encouraged smoking in the underage and the elderly! The Open Wound when sharing a bottle of Pepsi or Coca-Cola did that nasty-ass motherfucking backwash shit, and that was none too cool, 'caused the Open Wound much social ostracism, made it hard for it to make friends, reach out to strangers, cuddle with synthetic animals like Teddy Ruxpin! The Open Wound ate most of the ice cream in the box, leaving only a little bit of a scoop 'mongst the scrapings, really pissing off its roommate at the time. The roommate said, "The Open Wound, why you gotta leave not even enough for an entire scoop, man. If you're gonna take most of what's left, take it all. Ain't nothin' more disappointin' than comin' home after a long day at the office, and I'm thinkin' MMMM! I'ma gonna git me sum of that I for Ice Cream for C-" but, by that point, the Open Wound had left to go to the club, and the roommate was left talking to the cats. The cats didn't give a fuck. Then another roommate came home, and the guy started bitchin' 'bout the Open Wound to this other roommate, and, you know what? The real tragedy in all this is all the wasted time. Time can neither be created nor destroyed, but it sure as shit can be wasted.
    The Open Wound slotted up in the club. The Open Wound bought a beer that lacked flavor. A girl danced provocatively near it, but . . . it just drank its beer, stared at her ass. The Peanut Butter Swordsman pressed his way through the crowd, right near it-but PBS-Man didn't seem to notice the Open Wound. Asshole. Probably just ignoring the Open Wound.

    The Open Wound went through a serious Ayn Rand phase. It began on page one of Atlas Shrugged, and ended on page two when it decided that the latest Kira Reed flick on Skinamax would be more exciting. The Open Wound got bitched out about this by his pretentious roommate. The Open Wound said, "Dude, you're stressin' me out," and threw some pewter elf-head paperweights at the roommate. The roommate dodged, caught a glancing hit on the shoulder, ran into his own room, and started watching the Kira Reed flick on Skinamax with the volume muted. The roommate then entered into a serious Kira Reed phase that began that night and is ongoing to this moment.
-mostly from 2007, a little bit from 2008

Copyright 2007, 2008 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Suitmation III: Pride of the Void

Suitmation III: Pride of the Void
by William D. Tucker

monsters of pure design
well up out of that void
just beyond my tiny, derivative, tightly budgeted, director-oppressed imagination
fueled by two and a half packs of cigarettes
three pots of coffee

of course
no boozing in the workshop
save that for after hours bull session
in which the director, and all the producers shall be roundly mocked,
but we will go back into that workshop for the very next show
just to summon up another monster
of pure design

the pure design degrades into foam rubber, fiber optics, crude fireworks,
the odd puppet shot at a distance,

we keep telling ourselves we'll revive the stop motion techniques of Willis O'Brien
just schedule a decade for the post-production

the fluid, unearthly movements of  magnificent, terrifying grace I dream about
into pro-wrestling moves,
the infamous jumping happy dance,
that turned the director against me,
but won over the producers
because the money men are always children,
and they know what will make the kids cheer with delight-ha!

and though I long to loose the clash of eldritch deities
embodying grandiose principles of cosmic creation and destruction
I do delight in giving the young people wonderful fantasy
and if I also give our auteur director the finger over his cheapshit humanism into the bargain?
all the goddamn better!

maybe if the children
see that the world is absurd, terrifying, full of wonder;
that every monster,
every living thing is unique,
never again to be reincarnated;
and that we are not defined by flags, nation states, unthinking beliefs, money, or militarism;
that we are not doomed to be our fathers all over again,
maybe they'll grow up, say no to World War III-

but here I am lost in my own grandiose world saving dream,
my own perfectly monstered self
welling up out of the void
-June-July 2017

Copyright 2017 by William D. Tucker. All rights reserved. Used with permission.