HEAT

Tonight the room is filled with rage...a boy screaming continuously. Hot out tonight. Killer in the guts all over the place. So house tonight. House of flesh disemboweled. The final one pleads the aluminum support...'first' house. A bunch of people burn it down, melt it, end it. Stop. Stop writhing. You stop kicking until she died. Her shallow breath...a euphoric lesion...the living. Yet the juices soak narcotic. The summer slithers closer. He is covering his arm...just delivering more of what can be his flesh...before it becomes heroin addiction...child & wife...his head. Entire child...the kind that becomes flesh house...meat house. Feed it. Poke your eyes with sticks, pets, animals, flesh, whores. Your mouth is bleeding...yourself writhing on the street, but they can't hurt you anymore. Hot...so fucking hot. You're dying in the house tonight. Downstairs, the Tomorrows that the machine foiled. The sculptor's dreams are splitting like plaster. What is it?..another shadow?..speed fell along the dusky way. Your eyes are carved in enamel. His cat...windows crawled...dressed...the tools being electric, it got under with vines, you are discovering...three elbows cast in light. Over the dictionary flew the last slabs of grey marbles. Swallowed a whole vial of hot, divine punishment, with a rusty 'I don't live here'. Craving the desolate attraction of nectar, I begin further from her labia. I hear her last breath, buffeted by a nymphomaniac from the fur chapel. Her inner thighs have the ecstasy of the feast. I'm going in there, pressed like Burger King for lunch. I feel to stroke her swollen clitoris which is clotted with the thick cold juice, more like A-1 steak sauce & chewing beatings...crushed & mutilated...too well done. Smells white hot. Never threatening time. Cooking meat is cooking meat, not 'new & improved'. Her energy suffuses me...black rotten petals...ancient noise like the knell of molecules...the catatonia. Ground flowers...the gasoline foam...breasts, brick white & longer than feet & yards. Ground flowers...gasoline foam...sections with brown ink on the Indian's skull. River of ruin. In the privacy of people, we stop what we are doing outside, sweating in the street. The man in the car is waiting for the rumble to fill, curling back & hissing. He is the man in bodies trapped in burning cars, his own flesh away from the car accident. Some streets applaud & cheer. There was an intersection. The steering wheel is coming...closing. The summer car explodes in flames. His flesh is against the window looking at the man in the car burning. He has no hair. More pain & more desperation. The car...burning for you. Then color returns to Havoc's eyes...tethers from her flesh into mine...reeks like a grave with the rush of some pure Arcane. This is abusing corpses. Dress them for the fucking world to subside. It didn't. Into cars. Drive them downtown. I'm still breathing. Breathing. Breathing sure to prop them up. We wake up at night screaming, 'Turn on the bodies.' Back into the flame-throwers...going into Palo body bags & number them by the book...torching men, women, & children. Identify the bodies & drag them home. Cook the numbers & names from the White Pages TV set. Drag it off...annihilating & rubbing themselves repeatedly. We could have afforded more...tore apart the fruit...later, the leaf...sooty tear...membrane?..or rare lawn? Suspend dignity. The maid put in the token...her who came to visit...her mouth had old cornices...clarinets. Fucker watches you die. Finally you kick it, suck it, bite it, & you're dead all the way. Smell it? About the attic...bones...a stone carcass. At last the air is dense with swirling. Evidently now I can think of her in lost terms...underwater the squid languishes. You wanted...so everybody joined us at the bar. It went over like a green sandwich. The speaker remained an the stout platform. I want pearls in your eyes...pearls dipped in 'Didn't I tell you?' rivers. The tennis court figures the children made are beginning to steam...salt in the theater...alcohol threw precaution to the wind...the light top results came uptown to the warehouse basement. The Red Garter Belt coffee was another...was a steamer...she incorporates the IDEAS arm. 'I'm not easy to,' please. Everything was shuffled along to evaporate the chalk...even the water had finished acting slyly...seemed destined to look like the other actress. 'I limited myself, yes', said the victim. He stepped in...he stepped out...seemingly can't take the suspense. 'But I'm happy!' giving a geometry to our our feelings...all these abandoned slums...rings of prison walls...freckled in some white chair. ' I have twisted cats' necks. They stare at you but don't make a sound.' Litters. Pet shop-slaughterhouse. Break off your teeth with rocks & clean it, sell it, kill it. The children poke you & jab you. Bought, sold, fed, killed. Imagine. People have flesh eating parties...people to Death. We don't have witch pigs dying in the streets of my damnation. I wait...dry...as we come to the public burning inside. Waiting for the summer: to see the incineration in my ears. Ripping body's son, in the middle of the bones & eating it. The people on pins in the front seat. Yes, this has been a good burning...more stop to watch the man burn. There will be more burnings...more trials. Anymore, this is as close as it gets to jumping off buildings...abortions. This is the solitary night. Slashed my wrists. This is the plague. This is the saliva anymore. Waited to raise your wings. Prepare to meet the last...over...& over. I put them on buses. Load them with gas. 'Turn on the gas?' Nuns might fall over. Clocks alone didn't reach the road...movement?..or darkness maybe? In a fine spray of a stream, beside the road, a luscious farm. This one does not pay much more for hour hands. Folding tints of ember...& receiving 'this earth is slowly...' A snail maintained its retarded pace...moved Upstate...lit fires. Is nothing ever remaining in our hands?..like blue roses' fire...was there? We always desire detour. Tri-colored petals...texture of torpedo, now & then...barbs dripped like feathers into the barn. 12yr. old pedaled downhill...collapsed amidst amusement & black berries...his ankle swollen, clipped like angel hair 'falling at last'. The mad dog summer...burning to Death. The distressed hounds, until my finger legs now, start to bark at its gaping rim. She sits on leashes & lashes...the heavy carpet of her savagery. Of the hounds life...mannikin-shaped excrements penetrate her frosted rectum. The hounds, up on their hinds, find her anus...lubricating howls as they test their backs automatically. The mastiffs crash from their heat...ebbing away. The human debris stirs. At around 8pm, drag Verdes, reading, from the telephone suburbs. Porters will put them in, masturbating & reciting. Their mates will come. The clean white pages are for dinner...prop it up in front of salvation. Havoc stiffens, impaled like the air, dense with swirling, shrieking & dancing, exploding like fire crackers. Later, he returned in a bread truck with his impeccable aunt...in the ocher garden. The Negro 'bin jamm'd wit de leatha'...husband praying like dice...the tape...the dust...opened to mistaken red light bulbs...their engines avoided the yellow for ransom green money. Through all this I only feel like an excess...abundance of wire hawks...surrounded by the funneled wind...tinseled vapors right into the thorn aquarium. Our ring of meteors pace back & forth. 'We won the pennant!' Park destroyed. Desire is everything...everything...everything we are dancing...even the darkest green forest. Summer is the hound's life with mannikin-shaped arms, just delivering more rectums. Abortions in the barn...12yr old pedophile foam. Breasts brick amidst the amusement & black beds. Black be the way of life. Her mouth had bodies in the middle...mechanically, an oven broiling Scope...her inner thighs have wings. Seventeen thighs & the tainted feeling of the summer night I slashed my wrists...reading from the telephone book of Death...identifying burning cars...my own flesh just numbers & names. Yes, it has been a good burning wind. The hunger King at lunch... Prepare to meet the last breath... over... & over... River of ruin. Desire is everything Desire is... over... & over... So long, dear friends... So long!

Before You Slip Into Unconsciousness

Deep beneath the scream the rush of basso profundo sub-sonics the true voice of fear heavy & cloying as a smell electrifying each gonadal hair. The hairs in secret somatic sensualism mimic a gentle gloved hand & stroke to ultimate tumescence like no human hand can do. The play of light & shadow on the slowly pooling blood paints the most intense masterpiece in strokes of black & red. Deep beneath the harvest moon knife shadows rise & fall. The head upturns toward the skies. The mighty mane blows in the wind. A hellhound howl parts crimson lips; the prey is conquered & lifeforce slakes a burning thirst, intoxicates as finest Bourbon & fires the depths of these immortal veins like no spring wine can do. The reflection from the surface of the mirror pool of blood catches the face of an angel seen in the eyes of a darker god. NØ

ÉÉN - ZEVEN - DRIE - DRIE - VINF - ZEVEN

Perceptions. Delusion indeed. Imemat hipped me to the Conet Numbers Project. I went over to Egg City Radio & downloaded the four files. I've been playing them continuously since I got them. Matt said about listening to them while falling asleep. I have them on random play all the time. After the first day & night, I duct-taped the headphones to my head. I haven't been to work or outside since I started re-programming. Except at nighttime, to do its bidding. Last Saturday I charged up my mp3 player, pocketed a back-up battery, pulled on a Jets stocking cap to cover the duct-tape, & cranked up the volume. I headed out looking for some asshole being himself at some Citizen's expense. I was packin' & I knew what to do. It was clearing my mind of everything but purpose. Coupla a bangers snatchin' a purse off some lady with three kids. Fuck. I just took'em out & walked away. The lady was, like,"Thanks Mister!" Mister. Yeah! MISTER!!! I've just been working hard in my room most of the time, decoding more & more of the code. I order delivery pizza & leave the money out front, wait 'til the delivery dude splits, & then grab the pie, 2liter soda, & a salad (I'm watchin' my health). The random play factor is actually a God-send. My next assignment this week-end is even more empowering. Then I need to begin scouring the Web for more clues & missing segments of the code. I am being re-programmed for the Final act. Hope to see you soon. Hope to see you soon. NØ

Can I Get A Hell Yeah

3 Teams of Horses

The war is dragging on, even though we brought it home. In irony of ironies I live in an apartment over the National Guard Armory. After days of mines & molotovs I'm finally alone. I need to do some hard, hard drugs. I need to feel the needle in the mainline, charley. I know that drugs are counter-revolutionary. I know that I don't care. The Jesse James Brigade will have to struggle on their own for a little while. I need to do some hard, hard drugs.

I glanced in the bathroom mirror. Catch a glimpse of Che & Lenny Bruce on the back of the bathroom door. Shoulda told me something...but nothin'.

Four ampules will be good...more than good. But a meat shot or a skin pop, no way. I want the heaven rush from the mainline. I squirt the 4 ml. into the spoon with the same amount of water. It looks thick & viscous, but I'll bump it slow & easy. I watch the rose blossom in the clear hub of the 25 gauge. Squeeze the grape gently, if a little over-eager. I boot it twice. Have just enough time to toss the rig. Grab the hard edge of the cold porcelain sink. Ride the rocket. Wait patiently on eternity. Drift in & out of time. My eyes focus momentarily on the tiny ribbon of scarlet running down my elbow. The too-bright white of this tiled cell. The smiling leer of Marxist Che. The leering smile of dead Lenny lying on the cold porcelain of his too-bright white tiled tomb. I know something is very wrong.

I am alone. Wrong place to be during an overdose. Jim, Jimi, & Janis should have taught me that lesson. I stumble out & down. Somehow. I ooze out into the dark of a final night. Somehow force myself to breathe & walk. Walk & breathe. Two blocks. I can go no farther. Find myself yet alone in Riverfront Park. In a sudden or eternal serenity I drop to a park bench. I gaze out across the glorious star-filled Allegheny. Clearer than the night, the thought envelops me...what a beautiful & peaceful place to die. Sitting on a park bench, eyeing riverrun with grand intent, Nepenthe Drug. Driving across the surface of the lapping placid river comes a team of black Hellhorses breathing fire. The smell of brimstone wafts like incense from the sparks their anthracite hooves somehow generate from the water's surface. I can hear a bullwhip made of human hide cracking in the night. I can hear the voice of Papa Legba calling out my name. Just as I'm about to see the judgment on his face, a Dodge Challenger RT screeches to a halt at the curb in front of me with a cloud of burning tire smoke that obliterates the horses from my view.

Petey & Jodie-boy wear diabolical grins. Grab me without a word. Throw me like a mannequin into the backseat. We depart with the alacrity of their arrival. I manage to grunt, "Pantopon OD."

I vaguely hear snippets of their gaiety from the front seat...high adventure...vanquished boredom...Crazy Nathan's Od'ing...haven't seen The Mole. Every bump down Penn Ave. jump-starts my heart. I grasp a breath. My muscles have turned to poppy jello, including my airsucking diaphragm & my blood pump. My tongue is the size of the beef one I put in my parent's 'fridge as a joke. I could die to laugh. We pull up in front of V & J Pizza, local nightspot. The jukebox can be heard wailing even from here at the curb. "Sympathy for the Devil". The Stones. Dr. Petey looks in the back with a sardonic grin & intones, "Ah, the triad of coma, pinpoint pupils, & depressed respiration strongly suggests opioid poisoning. I'll have to concur with Dr. Nathan's diagnosis." Dr Jodie-boy chimes in, "I prescribe three extra-large Cokes with plenty of ice." As they disappear, I begin to.

Now out of the still silent darkness, the Obstetrician gently ties one end of a velvet rope around my neck, the other end to the harness rig of a team of glowing angelic Arabian stallions. He cracks a bullwhip of umbilicus over the nimbus-lighted heads of the steeds. Their hooves sprout Mercurial wings. They begin to pull. I am ripped from the womb of mother night with a resounding plop into the afterbirth-scented backseat of a Dodge Challenger RT. Petey & Jodie-boy are pouring a second extra-large Coke with plenty of ice into my shirt this time instead of over my head, the third one goes down the front of my pants. The freezing cold rips gasp after gasp from my pulsating lungs. My heart is pumping like an amphetamine whore. I gulp mouthfuls of caffeine sugar syrup down my parched constricted throat. The Arabians are gone. So is my nest of womb & warm. Back into this so-called life.

Once again we are flying through the night.Yet now I hear Morpheus singing on the FM coming from the JBLs in the back. Petey farts in the front seat. I feel safe leagues away. Up & up we climb to the peak of the summit overlooking it all. They carry me out. Lean me against an oak tree. "To survive or remain," Jodie-boy says. My arms are leaden. I can not move. But I am at peace. They sit on the right side & the left side. They stick the pipe stem in my mouth at intervals. The sweet hashish demands I inhale. The expansion expects exhalation. I hear the drums & songs of the long ago Senecas. I watch a pair of ruby roans drag a chariot across the sky. The war, as I had wished it, is far, far behind me. My awakening erection makes me think of yesterday's girl, remembering her name, Lost Lenore.

3 teams of horses with 3 different reasons: birthing, dying, loving this spin of the wheel. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear, for friends are with me. It is not yet my time to slough off this mortal coil. I have much to do. Many wonders to show. & yet many meaningless tales to tell.

Wave good bye to my mother
& hello to Old Nick...
Bile flavored vomit
as I double over sick.
3 teams of horses
riding out of the skies:
1 team pulls the casket
when another soul dies;
1 team pulls me out of the womb
into the world;
but that other team is glory,
spins my life in a whirl
dreaming about tomorrow
& yesterday's girl.

Enjoy,
NØ

Now For Something Completely Different

Last month I posted some 45s from Scratch Bongowax & after I did, I looked through some old issues of EAT POOP! 'zine (a punk 'zine I put out in the late 80s & early 90s in inSane Jose with a lotta help from my friends).

We did shows & revu'd musick so I rely on the printed gospel to bridge the gaps in my brain-cell deficient, well, ...brain.

I found one from late '89, EP! ish. #11 that had relevance, then I found the following article, which I decided to reprint here, for your dining pleasure...a screed by none other than yours truly.

So, as usual, enjoy (& I posted up the playlist I'm listening to as I retype this to go along with the read),
NØ



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Juliana Says 'Punk is Dead!' (then it bit her)

Atlantic Records calls. Angelica, B.G.'s personal secretary. (B.G. is Atlantic's West Coast rep. for "alternative" musick - Matador, Disappearing Vinyl, & other small labels). Wants my fax #.

"Are you familiar with our 'zine?", I query, trying to be diplomatic while sensing imminent language failure.

"We've seen #9. We know all about you. S.J. Metro called you ' integral cogs' of the local musick scene. How about a friend with a fax # ?"

Holding back impolite laughter & an almost overpowering strangle reflex, still no sign of verbal awareness.

"What is this about?", obviously.

"Press conference Monday September 13 5pm San Francisco Above Paradise & tickets for that night's show for you & a guest at Slim's...Juliana Hatfield."

Now I draw a blank so I quickly check the next memory blur cylinder for a live round...a drunken night in a stolen car with a stolen keg (yo, fratdudes, thanx). It flashes through the haze...college radio...Taang thang...PoP (Aaargh!)...words like sincere & personal sting like the lashes of an electric whip...bad memories of a badder time, yet the fact I do remember might be a sign.

"Don't fax me, don't fax my friends. I'll be there. Two", thinking of free drinks & grub, "yeah."

We have an all-ages show the day before at Cactus Club. The owner, Calvin, doesn't even bother to mention the show in their Metro ad. "Not enough room." Has to get that Monday Night Football reminder in there in case some dumb jock forgets what night the game is. So the crowd, basically all the bands that are playing, plus their friends & our friends show up for a small but great funfest. What can be better than getting in to a show free, hanging out with some dear friends, getting free drinks, & listening to a line-up of bands of your own choosing? I'm working on a great frame of mind. The line-up is: Slip; Tina Age 13; Big Sissy Brigade; Route 69; Johnny Peebucks & the Swing Udders; & Scratch Bongowax. The show is incredible, & by the end, the stage is completely engulfed in discarded shirts, spewwed food, broken instruments, & dead drinks. The soundguy Wedge showed us after the show where's a broom to clean up & we laughed in his face as we beat a hasty retreat. The planned chaos had unfolded by its own design. Excellence!!!

So I'm primed for Monday afternoon's train ride to S.F. accompanied by fellow Poopster Fudgie D. Klown, awake for once in the evil sunlight, stewing in Fudge-only-knows-what juices. I'm even primed for the walk from 4th & Townsend to Above Paradise (11th & Folsom). I'm really primed, upon arriving, for free drinks...WHICH WE NEVER GET!!!...although everyone else does (like BAM can't write theirs off to business expenses, but EAT POOP! can buy their own...we've been here before). Atlantic might say they "know all about us", but now were here, & it all sinks in to their feeble minds...we're for real...HOW GAUCHE!

I spot Juliana, recognizing her habitual up-the-nose pose from her press kit, & loudly everything clicks into place, the hammer falls, my euphoric primer ignites the loaded explosive that is my remaining brain cells & in a flash it all pours over me like a spilled load of fresh manure... Blake Babies...PRETENTIOUS!!! A parasite of temporal truth crawls slowly but instinctively up my spine, as usual for my more cerebral stumbles...right time, wrong universe. However, in a parallel universe that this NOW calls HOME, Juliana Hatfield Trio...what a bunch of wankers. You can read in other sources represented that night about the first albums they all bought (one was Sat. Night Fever) or the first show they attended, their signs or mood ring colors. Juliana doesn't even have the class to take off her tres cool sunglasses in the 6pm evening club-denizen deep dark (the mainshit correspondents are im-pressed) & I want to suck the eyetruth from her orbs as she lipshits.

Q. - EAT POOP! : "So, like you know, like there are, like, lots of dudes, you know, who like, you know, love jock rock & like, a lot of womyn, like, you know, like, who like these dudes. Then, you know, there are lots of, like grrrls who, like, you know, like, love GRRRL rock, like, you know & like, a lot of guys are hoping, you know. But many EAT POOP! readers are disenfranchised young males & lost young womyn living in a serially dysfunctional world...what exactly do you say to them that will help them relate more easily to one another?"

A. - J.H. : "Duh, huh?"

Q. - EAT POOP! : "Okay, how about an easy one? I have a daughter, 11 years on this marble...she wanted me to ask you...do you really hate your sister & is she really the B-word?"

Before Juliana has a chance to be stumped again, an asshole of unusually large ego from some max rock rag who's ask about 85% of the previous questions asks another...

Q. - Max Rock Rag : "Are you really still a virgin?" (that question is right up there, or at least close, to my top-ten pertinent questions of the Century)

A. - J.H. : (who's in her mid-20s) "Well, I desire & deserve the 'perfect' man & so far I haven't met him, so, yes, technically actually I am a cherry. I masturbate but don't insert."

As if this were our post-hypnotic keyphrase, Fudgie D. & I rush to the front of the Blue Room, bludgeon the Trio boys, & quickly tie Juliana spread-eagled to the interview table. Like a crowd bitten by rabid mob-frenzy, everyone present gathers 'round, chanting "deflower...deflower". They proddingly rupture her poison hymen with appetizer breadsticks as we stand back & watch the mayhem we have spawned. When the howling throng begin dipping the sticks & slurping up the mucal dip with mirth & wit, we head for the exit. Above the ever increasing wail of approaching police sirens, we hear Juliana lamenting the loss of her hymen, her long-time friend that she lovingly dubbed 'Punk'. "Punk is dead, Punk is dead." We pass on Slim's & slither back to the pit.

"Punk is dead, Punk is dead." I wake up & bolt upright in my for-a-fleeting-moment-where-am-I? bed, cold sweating from the nightmare I had just dreamt & have just told. There is a Dark Bros. porno (Green Chicks Need Alien Dicks or something like that) on infinite replay on my leering wall-to-wall. For that lost first instant of non-remembering between sleep & waking, I had believed it...Punk was dead. But life is so much more fun than reality. Punk can never die, for punk means "life" in all its rawest wonderment. Punk is the zombie rebirth of Paul Krassner's hippie duck, but the sign around its neck now reads ANARCHY, as it runs around the Tonight Show stage until it's so dizzy it pukes on Jay Lame-o's shoe.

NØ