<$BlogRSDUrl$> spinemaster

Wednesday, April 21, 2004


I don’t do drugs because of what it does to my friends.
It makes them look really weird.

Friday, April 16, 2004


I don’t just point my finger; I stick it in and swirl it around.
I do the math so I know when things don’t add up.
I’m not just in bed with the enemy; we go to out to dinner, too.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004


My meat stirs.
I turn off the alarm clock before it buzzes.
I step out onto the balcony, take a big gulp of fresh air, and stand ithyphallicly in the sunshine.
I’m close. I have my finger on the button. The boulder has been rolled away.
I have gathered up all my failures and lost chances, unrequited loves, should-have-could-have’s, and missed opportunities and soaked them in wasted irrational hope.
I am going to release the Beast at last.
In the bathroom is a cupboard; in the cupboard is wine rack; the rack is filled with jars, some full, some empty. I take out an empty jar and pee into it.
After writing the date on it with a Sharpee, I carefully select a full jar and carry it into the next room. A measured amount is poured into one end of a Rube Goldbergian labyrinth of glass tubes and flickering flames. Secret stuff is punched into a keypad, some Enochian phrases muttered under my breath, and the room begins to hum, or buzz, like a swarm of bees.
I can barely contain myself! Everything is ready!
Now all I have to do is wait three years.

Friday, April 09, 2004


Feeling unusually anthropological last night, I decided to go observe humans in one of their natural gathering spots, preferably one with a happy hour.
I ended up next to a ancient woman preserving herself with gin martinis. A three-foot beehive of tarnished gold hair tipped dangerously over her left temple. Mounds of make-up covered her skull—bugs stuck to her face like a fly strip. Every bone, tendon, and vein bulged forth from beneath her tanned skin, her thin frail body barely enough meat to live in. A cigarette was plugged into her pouty red lips, I guess to stop her from deflating any further.
Soon we were talking about the striking parallels between modern UFO phenomena and ancient Vedic and Sumerian scriptures when my ears began to buzz like the bell-ringer you get from some quality crack Things like don’t bother me. I like being dizzy, too. So I rode it until it began to dawn on me that I wasn’t where I was anymore. I mean, I was where I was (I had to be) but not where I’d been (I couldn’t and still be where I am, which is here. Or there. Then. At that bar.) Like on old TV shows when a person is supposed to be on drugs, the bar was wiggling and undulating, and the old lady wavered before me, a wisp of human smoke that gradually took form of the head of Baphomet, the one that Elpihas Levi paid some guy to draw, not the real one.
She reared her ugly head and towered menacingly above me, then suddenly swooped down at the speed of electricity straight toward my pulsing jugular---and stopped.
Dry breath snuck into my ear, her inhuman worm whisper burrowing deep into my brain:
“This is the year my feet hurt.”

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