From this Pressboard Tower

My back is hot, but the sunlight slapping my skin is sex. I’m a shirtless tower of colonial bronze. Daily, working with this beast—a machine. My orange Hitachi. Breaking old asphalt into bite-sized pieces. It’s the sun, itself, flying my kite, keeping my wind up, as the cars buzz by on a companion road of newer bake, a cousin to this parking lot. The old bake—cracked from the stronger still roots of trees—comes up if you score it, crush it, and scoop it up. I do the entire work process, from downing the trees, to chopping them up, to scoring and breaking, to loading the dump truck. The workhorse machine and I. Under the energizing gaze of the sun.

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 noble, 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 | Pointy Word Teeth | A Live Recording | Color Wheel Blind


Phone Test: Revenge of the iPhone 4s(ith)

A Followup Video to My iPhone Test Parody

Revenge of the iPhone 4sith from K. Shawn Edgar on Vimeo.

K. Shawn Edgar | Working outside the pyramid | Faulty Tower of Nugget | Repost

Hitchcock’s Lost Gravel Rider’s Bicycle Film 1953

Bear, Bike, Gunpowder

K. Shawn Edgar | 2017


Never A Checkered Flag Trailer (Video)

Here’s the teaser trailer for my short movie on Film Fights. Hope you’ll stop by their site for a quick watch and vote. Thanks.

K. Shawn Edgar | Cheeseball | Hat Rack | Total Loser | Thankful

Decapitated Pitchers’ Cinema Radio Hampire

Decapitated Pitchers Presents: Hampire, a short vampire parody

Hampire: A Vampire Neo-Noir Parody from K. Shawn Edgar on Vimeo.

A short movie about a self-indulgent vampire on an angst-filled journey of discovery and heartbreak.


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.



The. Birthing of. Donkey Kong Jr.


A brother’s love
is muscle pumping
deeply into the Sea
of a sister’s fraternal

Father’s always right,
and now
brother’s never wrong

He, a bodybuilding smile
She, a builder of mirth illusions

Like cob in the northwest,
she ages with a glimmer
of healthy sheen outside,
and a withering rot inside

He grows bolder with cheers,
travel, and island sunshine,
always forcing fraternal luv
when fate draws sis to bro

Nine months, now, are gone
The water, it flows turbulent
between reluctant thighs;
a cry is heard in 8-bit tones,
a hammer raised high

Then, with simian grace,
a fluid-slicked, furry head
pops this live-action bubble
exposing platforms and ladders

The hospital becomes level 1
as DK jr. begins to climb,
leaving sister and brother
shaking violently on the floor