ITEM #0725: More from Super Seance, because it never stops .... Gravediggers conclusively reveal that Khrushchev did not back down over Cuba. If you think otherwise then you are perforce gushing at the men whose banging mouths go from blood to blood for the Bay of Pigs. JFK was a craicwhore, with his minimum-wage moon-landings and serried strip-farms of stiff and florid fake and Floridian middle-fingers. Said the immolator, now a wraith, to his immolations: 'The heart's tale, if flattened fully underfoot, will fold ever back along itself, and plough out land left to it into blades. I made a stone to find a river. So, it's Moloch - one, Minerva - nil'. In Berlin, he listened only to the backing vocals, you see; late of Monroe and her play upon penis per se, he heard only the music of the fuse, not that of the muse. The difference is this: Pentagons ape pentangles, and being no natural satellite of Jupiter, Turkey then bordered Russia, not Rhode Island. Anadyr was gestalt and equivalent, regardless of the criminal blockade. No airlift for ring-fenced Havana, then? No moral exchange of flies and ointment? Despite million-man-armies, a year later, it took but one of his own to menace that hyperbole of brains onto the back-seat.

 

ITEM #2192: Wisconsin Scott Walker's 6000 year Creationist reich logically commits the US to airstrikes over Gobekli Tepe. (Realising this, Erdogan radios official responses from his platinum bunker in Pine Bluff, Arkansas.) Afraid of Democrat Darwin and his Marxist dinosaurs (wiv their beady eyes and cweepy skellingtons) since a version of family-favourite The Flintstones was maliciously re-cut with flash-frames from Godzilla and Jurassic Park III, Walker prescribes the working-week for an Aryan celibate Christ, a hominid of supernatural fallow self-esteem, saying 'father, your eyes are in the back of my head. If it's really one for sorrow, I am your vernacular amanuensis'. Ditto two-sided hawkish Koch jockeys, adult-masker Alaska Palin and her palid lap-pup Chimera Coulter, who wail in anal unison, 'You heard us the first time, babe. We roll away the stone before, during and after breakfast, as we flush-filate a rogue Bible pheromone for faggy North Korea, as rebel red rags to memoria, reborn upon renown...' ... as ruin, then, as materiale or otherwise, in straits of disgrace, with bullet kindness reworked as a billion brainless crotch rockets for men ball-gagged in cages in Cuba, withering themselves white, Aleutian Island by Aleutian Island. Palin adds that 'it follows that the stegosaurus was invented on a Wednesday morning, when, likewise and near-simultaneously, jewels were placed in the earth for the rings on my fingers'. Here, we are sure to encounter the cosmic inauguration of false-teeth as transum, on a folding deckchair,followed in shapeless succession, as atoms are given cute birth-names. Apostate error grows bad milieu, as OPEC and its dense pogroms design a new rugged cross and a riot of dopey domestic imperatives for Indonesia and its sunbathing Inuit. GPs become GPS; idle discussions of thermal impermanence as closet change ensue, allowing the eventful dearth horizon of dizzy horizontal diphthong and its diced and dithering Disney hyper-hyphen ... the singularity. Led Zeppelins 1 to 3 (albeit vinyl only) inveigh as hardcore homosexual cybersex and its keyboard shortcuts, including F4 for fisting and Shift/B for ballbreaking. Perhaps Thursday sees the imp and the IMF, appreceptive, as app valour, venereal on a Bridge to Nowhere, or Faux News as a crude measure of cod concourse for environment as supermarket, with factory-farms foddered flat upon a Perocet perimeter of guinea-pig Semite graves, or Libya given its hydrogen flag, or inchoate cancers of the colon, or the Soviet corpse in Kennedy's mouth, leering from some Albanian supercollider mardi gras. Friday AM is transfiguration-a-go-go, with fetal fiche, swarming in numeri pools, accelerating the Jordan to near-lightspeed for Pershing. Greek debt, whet upon Genghis and the Exocet, as Pharisee the Pharaoh, in some Egypt of hawk and eagle, surfaces as a semi-skinned, cellophane Lego Leibniz, at the Zodiac Zoo of cheeky Ceausescu's chimpanzee China. Euclid the Kid draws first but dies anyway, from arithmetic wounds inflicted upon Heydrich in 1942. Later the same day, unabated, Walker's lord will lead-line incubators and slice the ears off blind babies for Gameshow 666 Treblinka, turning urine into Ural, Ural into Utah, Utah into Yukon. It is, though, never too late to breed for the bladder sea monsters of urethra; to give Salem to Seneca and salamander, with burning Haitians eating away the cheeks of their own baked and barbecued heads. Babylon beckons only as the carbolic travails of Masoch now, and everything is a military preamble. (Default fart in your spacesuit, Sean Hannity, coughs up an Aryan blond hairball from his fat fish throat for an anemic Bangladesh. Stunt life begets stunt death, soaking the Persian permafrost with formaldehyde milk from his barbwire breasts.) Swooning now, Walker remarks, 'he who brings fire from the sky can have no transaction reprieved, read that and weep'. Everybody's working for the weekend now - a defcon deity for the defcon dei. But given more time, minerals, as mountains, might bend and blend and mend themselves into lending hands. The ascension of amino Holocene for ceremonial survival, for the soft flash of the long endeavour, might pay the pain forward as palliative pearly Geist, with Jesu-geletines on thresholds of standard bone. We might be found in the finding.

 

ITEM #0052: 2158, Bernie Madeoff emerges from Butner to find that money is no object; in fact, inasmuch as it is anything at all, it is now an arse-gas, passed, contagiously, nerdishly and exclusively, between its few sentimental sweetheart supporters and other interested parties as a hermeneutic heritage game for the hopelessly feeble-minded. Being immediately kindred, Madoff joins in, immersively reminiscing. He purchases the necessary nylon chaps and fingerless ovengloves; gets nostalgic over t-shirts of all-seeing eyes, and begins again, as he did in his youth, creating freehand logos for imaginary industries in blue Biro in the backs of exercise-books.

 

ITEM #3014: Richard Benyon is dead. He leaves behind a pocket porn-mag, a pair of tweezers and a magnifying-glass. On 11th November 2018, Facebook will report that, in his name, the muds of Glastonbury 1998 and Flanders 1917 will combine to form a new malleable lower-middle-class building material. Logistics, it is said, will be made a necessary virtue here; with delivery-systems to include a Geldoff & Goering soft-core travel-trainset modified to accommodate mock-rustic SS20s to a William Morris design - a kind of metropolitan caliper for the battle clue, a torrented adobe ectoplasm mix, spunked as ack-ack bukkake onto the faces of the poor in his honour. Benyon, for his part, all things being equal, continues eating after death, filling up on ermines of piss-hued tricolour. He commits also to stabbing brainlessly at his Blackberry for all time - therein putting the BNP into BNP Paribas Fortis, as previously. In addition, as a famine-loving pimp Ponzi pounce (or, as he himself preferred, poster-boy to the Nu Penury), he will be given his very own commemorative pub-carpark. All brawls (including minor set-to's and drunken scuffles) staged there, all backalley blowjobs, as well as any buckling of bottom-lips in DHSS B&Bs, will be renamed Benyons. The logic of this is clear enough; and etymology is important, obviously. Any mouldering, supernatual debt, for example, especially if played out within Freemason sex scenes, might claim the term by natural right, also. Finally, stillness beckons and some things are resolved. We might even reminisce. Ahhh, 'The foreign world is a lie', he would often say, adding that, despite this, he is 'still Top of the Pox'. But, no, we know, happily, that mingled blood brings life even to a stone. Friends of Benyon, those so-called Dwindlers, will chant 'We feel nothing but our weeping Gods, as they incontinently irrigate our Lubyanka, with breakfast Pershing kibble. As help for heroes, we will stand on one leg in Andorra during any air-raid over Finland, promise'. Breaking news reveals Benyon spent his childhood with his head stuck in the railings.

 

ITEM #5399: Orpheus is not alone. No matter how many skins you add to his onion, even-keel will not be won by standing on his neck. The sickly strip, bent double for fascist pastiche and the fatal errors of imperial superimposition, can yield nothing but renewed uses for David as Goliath, crying grey wolf. Blue murder has its treadmill of exceptions even for mechanical infanticide; but no launder can wash Babel from its Seth-sided star, neither into paper helmets nor into praising limp light. Both are mockery. No, Terezín persists, ceaselessly sequel, as an apartheid moon. Cells renew lovelessly as lives are raped for images. The treaty and its victims reanimate the robot dead, as the Hellish overflow makes imperatives of arcane choosing - between claustrophilia and the ghetto and a new Balfour Bedouin maintained as itinerant via a series of lucrative grace and favour heritage Belsens. (Three wrongs make a right, you see.) Collateral collects upon the sniper's starving eye; his bullets, fun-sized trojan hobby-horses driven back hard into the soft Saudi sick-bags of their inauguration. The lies still to come will include official denial of whole families crushed into single pear-shaped peace-keeper coffins, with grave goods set to include the assumed location of a hill of beans under a grassy knoll. Such minor theatrics are, of course, evocative only of the vegetable veldt where Adam once delved and Eve once spun, but transposed to America by available doggerel. 'Some peoples are just born posthumous', they insist with their captions. 'In light of this, we might fake their homes for TV, or glue gunships onto their faces, or sit them down silent and still upon a Russian right-hand'. The erasers are here to see you; some high on the hairy hiatus of the Euro hog, others digital, a series of buttoned-likes and passing affirmations, entirely interchangeable. Blithe voting can do this; it can cede all the bad things. I said this first to some hollow ghost, but it remains true enough. After erasure comes penetration, then normalcy; likely marked by an otherwise impossible Beatles reunion, with Lawrence punching Judy for her age of consent, to some flag-tangled fetus feast and fab heads on four million sticks. A nation in through the arsehole, one permutation removed from the usual totality. Wrong wrong wrong .... dead wrong. 

 

ITEM #7237: From funereal Deppl, now admittedly of ur-Rahu, and merely orbiting as organella, Chaco Foucault painfully fathers a pallid prokaryote Molotov exactly this way: Eichmann rolling-stock across Mennonite Corazón de América, millions as smoke, inkblots of admin, the vivid dead, the baby on the bayonet, in dunce sensorama for the soldier's oath. Guaraní says gas guzzlers come at night, negating, careless of the body and of insociate, neutral Belgium. Their crisp disease fuels the tourette zoetrope for those lids latched open. Typists, typing, construe the soya bean for the nine seizures. 'Cabbages grow well on killing fields', consoles the bigot, 'but you can feast freely from my favourite cavity searches, by all means'. A long day looms. Godspeed the dung-heaps of civilian collateral, but stop naming places after Sjogren. Those parasite through-lines, of plaster-saint Paraguay, are peanuts for Philadelphia and the habits of identity. Nomenclature must end. 

 

ITEM #0019: Consider narcotic Gaddafi in atelier. The same word in Hebrew (or Spanish, or Farsi, or Serbo-Croat, Dutch etc.) means, with the adage of adding letters, or in another way, in Farsi for instance, via certain omissions, played out, always horizontally in Persepolis, ergo along a terrain of collisions, in daylight, Tiny Rowland's fifty-eight fingernails peeled back on the worn ends of aerosols and powertools. He says, is made to say, 'This is the beach; this is the sea. There is no vigorous association. Observe how the sky is filled with satellites. Their numbers moot my phosphor for good reason. This is an audition. Kneel for democracy'. Adjacently, all else falls south today. Tomorrow it will be a different direction. This is the way we organise things for the time being. Reversals will occur later, elongations later still. Rowland continues, 'We will re-make your bed every time you leave it'. There are subtle judicial activities here. Sadat's raisin is in absentia. Bugs Boson's pointless death cuts the motorway towards Ta'if in two. The last toilet for two hundred kilometers is closed as a mark of respect. We piss in the sun, facing Shaykh Uthman, for Lonrho. Trade is disgusting. The new Nile shrinks from its shore, irrigating nothing. All farms are twinned with Ohio. White smoke chooses the target ... a final assignation, for the high pale horse.