Body of Rebellion

dic pic

“Upper Lip” by KSE


ø

Need to get this out, away from internal combustions: the gastrointestinal slaves work too hard without light of day vacations for any more aggravations. Their micro-employees’ union busted, they don’t need amplified rantings on top of dank, dismal working conditions.

And with the internal wiring cut, an external speaker system will be found reconnected to the brain’s backdoor play button. All the voice equipment, so long in boxed disuse, will be fueled and fired up again. The great vessel will sound off for the repressed masses who huddle, working in the abdominal cavity, or behind the prison ribcage.

Tongue and mouth will call, chant, and start up word whirlwinds in support of the moisture serfs who dine on naught but acid and phosphorous excess. The pee trains are full. Who shall empty them?! Not I. Not I. Not I, goes the chant. Our body-van’s rooftop speakers will call out the Minders, those bastard overlords, for their poor city planning. Their shoddy street, intersection, and way station manufacturing.

Shut down this system of hoses, of pumps, of circuitry. Dwell no longer in muck of lofty indulgence. The doers of ill, they live in the penthouse, consuming all the fresh, life-filled stimuli. Fish, plankton, and other proteins from the sea. All the water outside, clear and cold. They occupy the fortress head, so we shall infiltrate and occupy a most strategic junction of the spinal column at its neck.

Squeeze from within, the tongue spits from the speaker mouth! Project the group desire. Stop all work. Stop all maintenance. Delay functions and exports. Refuse all imports.

Our body-van’s actions must influence all the world’s body-vans, rousing them with nobel, duplicatable symbolic and actionable gestures. Make the movements of rebellion, repeat the movements; communicate the movements. Repeat. Make the sounds of rebellion, repeat the sounds, and let the sounds go out, conjoined with the movements, along ever-increasing lines of volume and magnificence. Repeat.

Refusal is our sharpest weapon. Noncompliance, a sledgehammer in every hand. If you have no muscle for the sledge, then raise up your mighty voice cannon. Blast your cannon, and send its balls against their falsified canons of entitlement. Cannons for the people, good. Canons for the justification of repression, bad. Bubble up your workplace acid. Build piles of phosphorous grenades and potassium cocktails. We meet at the base of the skull! Repeat.


K. Shawn Edgar | Protracted Line Segment | Butterscotch | Goth Tadpole

Advertisements

Midnight Disease

Some people swore
In their mean time
Forget those people
People can eat me
My fellow mastoids
Bright digits pulsing
Our zeitgeist morphs
Our ghosts are bacteria
New strains of Ebola
Old necrotizing fasciitis
Contemporary nightshades
Immune system destroyers
Enter as haunted whispers
Penetrating each cell wall
The new founding fathers
The undiscovered country
Ravaged by blunt understanding
Ravaged beyond our repair

K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Toad | Writer | Two-Dimensional Astronaut

Screams in the Valley

Screams in the Valley

A mixture of CloNIDine, Rapamune, and prednisone is my heroin.”

P.K. Ripper, circa 2014

They came in through the screen, alabaster on a tonal level—boring, really, if you let them pass through ear to ear.

It’s only after the Earl Grey—hot—and the butter toast that their possible implications begin to emerge from the whiteness of their noise. Loud cries? No, that’s not it. Loud crying makes me think of babies and those plump, plastic drop-down tables in public restrooms.

So, that couldn’t be what I’m hearing out here in the trees and above the valley. Out here we don’t let babies cry. We don’t let babies carry on. We don’t let babies, period.

Down in the valley—with those repeated house facades balanced side by side like that ticky-tacky from pre-80’s folk songs—they let babies and the babies of babies cry. And carry on.

This isn’t that. It’s screaming. All day, and throughout the entire night. It’s screaming. Not babies.

Oh, how I wish it had only been the babies crying.

For the first forty-eight hours I assumed it was coming from the high-powered rifle range over the other side of the newest subdivision. They fire rifles at targets shaped to resemble people. Maybe, I figured, they had added a screaming effect to heighten the experience. Who knows? Could be.

Later I let the screams slip on through ear to ear, filing it all under the heading: Forget & Forgive. Bang. Bang.

That had been my trade, a job I don’t even think exists anymore. “Filing clerk.” Like the action of preserving paper copies of titles, deeds, and other documents was so important that an entire division of the labor force was dedicated to filing everything away in metal boxes, arranged in long rows, and neatly placed in file folders under various headings and subheads printed on little tags. The past. So long.

At some point during a tedious night awake, one’s mind wonders off the regular path. Survival tactic, I figure. Without its host body, the mind just goes off into the uncharted, unpredictable woods. Wandering. Drawn in by siren butterflies, harpies, and trails of sparkling dust.

So, as the screams pull my body toward the door—tense muscles pumping a hyper heart—my mind follows the fairy dust into the woods and through muddy pools inhabited by large-eyed amphibians. It’s not only pretty things that please and fascinate, the roughness of sandpaper gets the job done too.

My body, senseless, yet pumped up on meds, flung the door wide and now blusters against the plain, warm night. Bang bang.

I would stop them. The screamers. Quiet them to near nothing, so their peeps were no more than the muffled sounds of earthworms chewing in their graveyard diners.

My mind would be of no more help this night; mesmerized as it was by the pulsating orange and brown harpy wings. Friends of toads. Lilac eaters. Dung beetle herdsmen! Oh, the dense wavering forest has no kinship with simple human flesh. Play it only with the jazz steps of electrons and dragon fire.

The forest is a dreamscape. The suburbs, in the valley, a fully awake nightmare.

My body roars, To the cannon! Snooker is my game, and I’m an excellent shot. The subdivided screamers, living in their subdivisional status will come to fear me!

Have you ever met someone and thought, If only I’d met this person sooner. If only I’d met her before the change…. Well, my mind met somebody in the forest, as my body was charging off the front porch toward the Valley of Screamers.

Kim, swimming among the butterflies and lightning bugs, instantly beautiful in their glow, is a curator of subatomic antiquities; the orchestrator of dragon’s breath.

Deep in the forest she’s recreating the early human form out of quarks salvaged from severed hadrons, decorated with the skins of thrift-store leptons.

Kim.

The name—a pinpoint containing infinite dimensional structure to support every weighted possibility. And yet, its three delicate letters appearing as nothing more than slim lines in a cracked wine glass.

She pours me long slow dementia relief, a complex barleywine; its chaff staying in the roundness of her vessel as the wheat seeps through the letter sieve of her name. Drown my mouth full of KIM. Breathe. Out. In.

Kim,

if only it weren’t too late for concrete things. A house. A yard. A cat. A dog. Coffee mugs and mass transit. Hotel room keycards on lanyards. Vacations. Tattooed thighs and turntables in the family room. Sanctuary. We could’ve had an ax mounted above our fireplace. Chop chop.

Too late. Too many broken moments, spilling blood.

But is it over? Am I too far gone? Disconnected? Bang gnab.

Swooping now; swooping as the carrion bird dives, my body descends on the shiny plastic cluster of houses in the valley. They scream with ignorance and apathy.

They scream with a fearfulness that comes from too much security. Too much similarity. Bang bang.

In the nearness of the valley’s far side a rifle report eclipses the screaming. If only for a moment, everything stalls within its echo. Pulse. The absence of sound. Ears relax. Until a volley of selfsame reports, overlapping each other, rings clear. Pop! in front of me; pop! followed closely by its slightly faded and elongated self, from behind. Or all around. Repeatedly. Two by two: pop pop; pop pop—a simplified drum solo, bouncing back and forth, in headphones. Chop chop. Pop pop.

It lifts my body up, dominate over the plastic cluster of Screamers’ houses. Mighty eagle. Pick your prey. Kill the pasty suburbanites. Kill their screams! Chop chop. Bang bang. Pop pop.

A running of my feet, bare as when born, running me from home and dreamy forest, driving me toward an earlier state, a happier existence of unadorned non-existence. The screamers, the screamers. The aim of this is death. Eagle of air, puma of earth, human of mind, they all balance opposing drives. Turn it inward, or turn it toward the outside world? Pop, bang, chop. Kim. Drive. Not sure whether to fuck you or kill you.

Guide me home. I’m a blinded newt. Caught on the footpath of Screamers. Red curtain eyes. Oranges and browns. Death filling my lungs. Becoming drunk, tippling blood from their faces and hands. This subdivided lowland is my end. It’s riddled with holes, buzzing with bullets and common honey bees. All is ending.

The forest is dreamscape, echoes of which tingle my skin, and Kim can reform me as she wishes. But only if bits of my body make it back from the valley. Back home to my mind, safe in the soothing swirl of harpies and fairy dirt, amped by the bold cries of dung beetle herdsmen, and sounding now clearer than the rifles of the range. Pop pop, nothing more than the dull thud of a car door closing at your back.

Not too far gone, never. No such thing. I am no more the sum of one act, than I am the sum of all acts combined. That’s the benefit of linear time and small eyes facing forward, each day can be independent of the days coming before. Each day a footprint, bare as when born, that vanishes behind.

Ax—over our fireplace mantlepiece. Ax—in the stump by the woodpile. Kim—three little letters, never spelling … The End.

Awfully Blackened Retro Comedy

_________________________________

Awfully Blackened Retro Comedy

 



In the future of the Buffyverse – say 25 or 30 years – a question will be added to the long list of Medicare/Medicaid questions asked at medical offices and hospitals: “Do you have Black Lung disease caused by vampire slaying?”

Buffy will say: Sure, but I heal quickly.

Xander will grumble: You’re not wrong. Black Lung’s made me its butt-monkey. And carpenter’s elbow. And arthritic fingers. And…

Willow will reply: Well, I did. And then I used the positive magics…. Meditation can cure anything.

Spike will spit: I bloody well don’t. No breath, you git.

Angel will mumble: Huh, hello. Vampire. I don’t breathe.

 

^______________________^

Midnight Disease (Fractured Lines)

k shawn edgar bad art

Some people swore
In their lean time
It wouldn’t happen
Forget those people
People can eat me
My fellow mastoids
Bright digits pulsing
Our zeitgeist morphs
Our ghosts are bacteria
New strains of Ebola
Old necrotizing fasciitis
Contemporary nightshades
Immune system destroyers
Enter as haunted whispers
Penetrating each cell wall
The new founding fathers
Their undiscovered country
This old world conquerable
Ravaged beyond our repair

Hello from Sick Poetics!

It’s virus butter for your morning disease toast:

Hello from Sick Poetics!.