The Shaman

The shaman

He sat on the ground and sighed. Blood was dried and there was a metallic tinge to the air, nothing stirred. No wind. Trees stood like soldiers. The wind from last night was dead.Gone. If one were watching him, one would notice he did not move for hours on end. He not stir when mosquitos lit on his skin by the hundreds. When large yellow flies bit his arms he sulked deeper into his sadness. Yet, he did not move. He was akin to the death around him.
Then,
from out of the forest, a banging, a crashing and a reindeer floated into the clearing, nostrils flaring up . Prancing. Still, the man sat . Smelling him, the stag stopped and turned , nostrils hurriedly opening and closing. He snorts. He paws the ground. A raven caws. But, not in the normal corvid manner. Lately, the Soviet ravens mimiced wailing, weeping or sobbing. And this is what moved the Chukchi to raise his eyes : a strange sniffling and crying. his eyes are puffy and red.He is tracing something into the ground. A look of infinite sadness wrenches his face as he takes in the reindeer with green moss drooping his antlers as if it were hanging from a living xmas tree. The man opens his mouth, inhales and caws. The deer jerks to the left and seems to hover above the abbattoir, disappearing into the distance, until he is but a fleck on the horizon. The man slowly moves his eyes around to the trees, searching for the raven.He calls him with raven sounds. Clouds scuddle across the sky. The wind picks up, and directly above him, he hears the hybrid caw and sob of the raven, which turns his eyes skyward to see the raven outsretch his ebony wings and propel forward into air and at the same time drop white steamy liquid in one long tendril, the wieght of the liquid, moving with gravirty, dancing, forming into another rope, into 3 different ropes of white , millimeters from each other, like stark white stalctites aimed at his forehead but instead of driving into his skull, piercing his grief wracked grey matter , the ravens gifts splatter at once on the poor mans forehead, splattering him in white. The sobbing of the crow slowly disappears as it sails over the treeline toward the beautifulKolyma region. Gone. But, there ! Do you hear that? Sobbing. On all trees are ravens, all with beaks open, their variegated plaints and dirges wafting over the air, over the tableau of death. There is work to be done. And then the more important work: waking from this nightmare. Wails rent the air...and then sobs. Corvids are known to be almost perfect imitators. They mimic toilets flushing, machine guns, motors, cats, dogs, Chinese, thunder, water running, anything and everything.
As if paying their respects some of the assembled corvids: crows and ravens began to whistle Chopins funeral march. Duh, duh, duh...while others quietly sobbed. The effect was unsettling to say the least. Our hero walked to the shovel and began digging right where the ashes of his bed used to be. While digging, halfway through, he realized burying the dead in the ground was very un-Chukchi, but very very Russian. He looked at the half burned bodies of his parents. There lay his Chukchi father, his arms gone. face a charcoal mask. And, lying next to him, on top of his disappeared arm, is his Russian mother. Amazingly her body was intact. Her skin looked fresh, her face sooted but content . Her cheeks almost shone. He bent down to gaze more at her brilliant skin. Why wasn't she burnt like his father?Perhpas she was gone when the fire started and lay with him afterwards? This is too much, he thought. The corvids flew from their perch to the ground . Hundreds of them, crows and ravens looking askance, walking jerkily among the dead reindeer without touching any of the flesh. He went to caress his dear mothers cheek, yet when his fingers made contact with her skin her entire body collapsed into ashes.
What is to be thought in such moments? he stared, of course he stared. At where his mother once lay and where his fathers corpse was. The corvids flew off, disappearing into the sky, dots on the horizon.All, except one, which lay rolling on its back in an anthill, a white mask over its face. Dizzy, vertigionous, fazed, awkward, he stood directionless. What to do?Where to go?
and the crow, it said somethig, what?did it really say this?no.Yes. Mosk-va! Mosk-Va!
And, without knowing exactly why he placed one foot in front of the other , walking towards another world, another place, towards Moscva.

Pisdets!He whispered.

Posted by Chukchi at 12:20 PM 0 comments Links to this post

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Jose, Can You See the Man with the Dildo

Jose , can you see the man with the dildo

You git off the Q line at Brighton Beach and walk into Little Odessa , your ocular videocamera pans everwhere, panoptic, panorama, soak it in, be the bread, this is the vodka:Cyrillic signs, women selling piroski, dubious men selling pirated dvd’s of movies still in the theatre, people here have different genes.You are not in New York any more.According to Vitali Vialiev,"Spiritually, linguistically and psychologically, Brighton Beach is not part of the USA. "We don’t go to America. We have nothing to do there," its residents like to say. An American, arriving there by accident, stands out and gets stared at - like an Eskimo in the streets of Abu Dhabi. (Brighton Beach, by Vitali Vitaliev,Travel Intelligence)

The men , for the most part, have thick lips and sad baggy eyes. Everyone seems tired and sad, but still theres a sarcastic smirk right below the surface. The women are stereotypes: huge, roly poly "babushkas", old women wobbling down the street, faces looking more like brown carved apples, bags in both hands, eyes darting from you to the street, half quizzical half nothing. Then, there are the Slavic beauties sashaying down the sidewalk, heels, high cheekbones, pursed lips. Young toughs standing, smoking, no neck, chains with Orthodox crosses, piercing you with a beating from their narrowed eyes.Kitschy Russian music wafting from restaurants, old men with grizzled faces, sitting on buckets, smoking, drinking tea with jam, playing chess in their ketchup stained Russian Navy tank tops. Trash is everywhere but noone pays it any mind. I don’t feel like I’m in America anymore. All around me is tangible evidence that I’m not. But, according to Russians, neither is this "like" Russia.
The buildings look older here, plaques are either in Rafi script or Cyrillic, Hebrew or Russian. Even the ice cream man is Russian. Nowhere else in America have I seen a non Hispanic icecream seller in a truck.
Cars slowly pass by, Russian men hanging out the windows, the Russian 50 Cent or Kelly Clarkson blaring from the speakers.
The boardwalk, though, is where it gets wierd. Its where good old American perversion meets the Old World. Hasids scurry past, holding up their skirts or pants, men with fistfulls of misplace fat wearing Speedos, their bellys swelling over, bitchtits sweating, spindly legs carrying the whole shebang down the promenade. They look impervious to my stares, my open mouth. Women, too, are wearing tiny bikinis when they should be wearing a tent. White cellulite hangs from arms, midsections,necks, derrieres,even ankles. Mullets thrive here. Lapdogs, too.Hang left at the boardwalk and you enter mostly Russians, go right and it’s mixed with African Americans, Hispanics and noise. Its dirtier, louder, drunker. Go left. Stay clear of the Americans. If you wanted Americana, you’d visit Omaha or Dallas. This is not your papas America and things will go from strange to whacked, from different to not too far from a David Lynch story.
On the beach, people are lolling, splayed. Burning themselves. Russians love to get brown.In addition to the Russians, the Ukrainians, the pasty Jews are Hispanics, Congolese, Cameroonians,Lebanese, etc. Spinsters with National Geographic physiques , conical bosoms and zip code hips, amble by, darker than a Maya. Men a million years old cruise by with walkers, nearly the hue of a walnut table or a Hottentot slattern. Young women, men, kids, even the shaved poodles have Hawaiian Tropics tanning lotion clinging to their skin like alive cellophane. There are alot of the white paper nose strips, there are sunglasses ala CHIPS on people who probably cannot see through their glaucoma. A man plays "If I were a Rich Man" on a violin, a kid races out of the ocean with a small crab cage, he measures it and throws it like a baseball back to the fourfeet of water. A man sits in a canvas white kilt, his belly gently laying on top of it, he rests on one arm, like a girl posing, only he is not a girl, nor a boy, he is close to 60, he is nondescript, except for this white kilt . He is looking around, as if he is waiting for some one, suddenly he lifts his leg to reveal a 14 inch black strap-on. It bounces and points towards me. I can’t believe it. Not 20 feet away are 2 women, early 20’s, kicking a ball with all the concentration of a couple of ADD posterchildren, theyre not so much kicking a ball as displaying their wares, they kick with outstretched legs and, as they do so they look at a group of muscled men, to see if theyre looking. Theyre not. Oh, but the man with the white kilt is. He smiles. He lifts his leg, I can see the silhouette of his faux equine cock. The girls startle and stop kicking. They whisper in each others ears and look back at freakboy. He is all smiles and opens his leg for a wider shot. This isnt just your average American exhibitionism, no, this is whacked. This is too European, too artsy, too staged. Eventually, he becomes bored flashing his faux member or he has another beach to haunt, either way he leaves, with a strange leer spread across his face.I’m reminded of the passage in Neil Simons, Brighton Beach Memoirs, where the character, Eugene Morris says:

Seems like Brighton has always been a little twisted. Yep. Twisted.

Notes on the Austro-Hungarian Empire, or dessert in a cupboard

scrambled thoughts on dessert in a cupboard

Johann Straus number 2 was the most famous musician of his time; he was, in a sense, the Michael Jackson of his era, no, thats not right, he wasnt black, fucking whacked out, a pedophile, melanin confused, the definition of batshit crazy, no , ok, Strauss numero deuce was like, well, he was like noone today, celebrity was different then.Examples are aplenty if ye need them.The cult of celebrity that we are all members of, to some extent, didnt exist then.... in a time of European intellectuals and artists delving into their pauper, peasant roots, Strauss was no different, taking the folk songs of the Austrian and Hungarian peasants and re-tooling them into classical music; though,his music proved to be immensely popular . Very popular. His waltzes and marches had the world humming. The music of a dying epoch, a diseased empire. Vienna at this time was abuzz, indeed all of Austria-Hungary swooned and reeled with artistic eruption. But, at the edges of empire, disparate groups sought independence and/or a new society.
Serbian nationalists, Croat patriots, Magyar neo-Huns, communists,socialists,anarchists,pan -Teutons, jihadists, Czech nationalists,Italian supremacists,Pan -Slavists, Zionists,etc,et al.....out of this ethnic and political goulash came great ideas(Jung,Freud,...) foul aberrations(Hitler,Anton Pavic, the Ustasha, the Hungarian Iron Guard) music(Strauss' all, Brahms, )writers galore---Felix Salten(he, of Bambi and soft porn fame, Joseph Roth, Musil, Karl Kraus, Geza Csath, Jan Neruda, Strindberg, Krleza, and art: Klimt, Kokoshka, and others, Egon Schiele, Adler, Martin Buber, Schnitzler, Ferdinand Porsche, PEZ(Haule , I think he was who invented PEZ), KAFKA!!!, Max Brod, Hrabal, Herzl, the list is exhaustive...coffee, the best absinthe, dances, pomp and more pomp and circumstances beyond ones wildest imaginations---well, perhaps not Freuds or Jungs.
And, before the attentat by Gavrilo Princip on the fateful day in Sarajevo was a decision by the deranged archduke(no capitals,please)to commit suicide by disregarding the advice of his closest aides and military advisers. Instead of hundreds of bodyguards in a place where most of the citizens wanted you dead,for one reason or another, the good archduke brought under a dozen men and his wife.. To a region newly captured,that had just thrown off the Ottoman Empire after 500 years,a region teeming with revolutionary groups, with nationalistic groups, with every kind of violent person swarming with other violent persons the gaudy archduke paraded in an open motorcade before pissed off Muslims, wrathful Serbs,mad anarchists, zealous communists, Slovene patriots under the influence of one too many cappucinos; nine assasins lost their nerve when the first assassin, regaining it , attacked...firing five shots, hitting Franz Ferdinand in the jugular and Duchess Sophie in the tum-tum.The surprise is that everyone was surprised.I think, more than anything, Europe was saddened that its best dressed, youngest, most melodic Empire was now dead. Kaput. The song was over. The end . The ornate, gilded dancehall was silent as a tomb.As Eddie Izzard says, it all ended with the flair of a sunken flan in a cupboard. Only this flan, turned into World War 1. The brocaded, mustached Empire of Austria- Hungary had disintegrated and it took Europe down with it.

New York is next to Sierra Leone

new york is another country Fellini said NYC was like a huge spacecraft with reps from all social strata, color,creed...then shook up and its denizens released:, dazed and mad.this is New York sayeth Frederico Fellini. Another artiste, this one a Spanish wordsmith , Lorca, says this: New York is something awful,something monstrous.I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie.New York is Senegal with machines. It is a different country.Bored and angry, bored with being angry ,angry at being bored...this is the common facial expression, the attitude of all and sundry.If somebody does show emotion, one has to assume their cheese has slipped off their cracker or they're new, like me.New Yorkers are devoid of human qualities. They don't react.They seem "tough" to some naive Americans and Euros but, in reality, it is all fluff. They seem brash, brazen, bulls in a china shop who never quite break anything. Its this action that is stillborn in a facade that is New York. Yet, I love the fact that I could be killed by a car driven by a person who cannot utter an understandable sentence in any form of English---not even a pidgin, a creole a patois a slang riddled syllabic sewer ...no, they speak in Pashtoon, Manx Gaelic, a Siberian neolithic Turkic language spoken by humans with four tongues . They stand on subway platforms and no one, not one person will notice say, a Linda Blair spazzin out, a rape, an alien invasion or a stampede of butterflies with diaphanous wings laced with turqouise veins...but, theyd notice money. growing from the cracked sidewalk...so strange how all the Diasporas here meld into the attitude I've just described.A cab driver from Amman, Jordan, nonchalantly missing a semi by a nano-inch, casually describes Bedouin relations with Circassians; the Galway bartender with eyes lacking life, muttering about his wifes recent heart attack, his eyes looking aquatic, slightly filmy,milky. The barber f. Cote d'Voire who smokes like an ebony Jack Nicholson constantly contemplating suicide in his slow monotone French accent. It's the ones who exhibit life, who smile , who nod, who jump...these are the recent arrivals, the ones not"cool" not New York yet....New York hasnt levelled their zest, their inner Zorba and/or Dionysius...these are the barbarians,still all beating heart and elan..... Brendan Behan said he loved New York because its the place hed least likely get bit by a goat. He loved this joint for what it didnt have.Likewise, I like the fact I will never get poison oak or ivy,leprosy perhaps ,ok, but never attacked by a puma...just a man in Pumas. Some Columbian academians the other day strolled thru the park pointing and causing a brouhaha over what they deemed a peacock(a female turkey).Cute. Funny, that a hundred years ago and theyd probably all know the diff. twixt a cow and sheep, hay bales and a pile of worthless grass.Ah, but then history and industrialization happened with a mechanical thud and they migrated to the urban areas., to the Bostons, the Philadelphias, the one and only New York...abandoning the pastoral, the bucolic, the natural for the manmade, the pandemonium, the thyroidal bee hive called Gotham. Am I bitter?No. Frazzled? A tad. Fate has thrown me into this spaceship and I'm only now beginning to acclimate myself to the frenzy. Give me a week and I'll be bored and angry with it all. Or, more likely buying a ticket to Senegal.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:40 AM 0 comments

Possessed by Lenin

Possessed by Lenin

So, she tells me she just returned from an Orthodox monastery in Ukraine where she and her sister looked for some kind of help with a lil' problem.Nothing major, nothing out of the ordinary, just her sister is possessed by V.I. Lenins spirit.Maybe it is a job related injury---she is a medium.Things like this happen to mediums. Lenin is not a good spirit to be possessed by. Let me diminish his smarts: He was not intelligient, reading, university doesnt make one smart, on the contrary, its an expensive conformity. I know of nary a plumber , logger or farmer who have started wars.No, its always, the college educated. Germany, prior to Hitlers rise to power, although mired in penury and inflation, occassional bouts of cannibalism, rampant prostitution to make ends meet, suicide en masse etc..., Germany had one of the most educated populations in Europe and the world.Yet, Bach,Beethoven, Goethe and Rilke and Franz Kafka , Kant and Schopenhauer meant as much as one of Adolphs butt cheeks. Their education meant nada.Some of the most astute, sagacious people I have met were uneducated at university.Nietzche was right: we do need to destroy all the books, all the profs, all the schools and start over.Decorum, protocol are offal from the educated. I'm all for civility but not for the sake of human lives.Being civil in the face of gross inhumanity is akin to co-authoring said inhumanity, right?Right. Example:Sudan.All the so called pacifists make excuses to not get involved.Governments make hollow declarations, threats defanged.The U.N. is all smoke and mirrors and handshakes and kowtowing to fascist Islamic heads of state.Bottom line. And, still people die.As they have since '83, '99, fill in the blank, maybe nobody really wants to get involved to save Negroes.Look at Rwanda.South Africa was able to exist for decades.Whats needed is a goddamned united front against bullshit.Someone needs to get possessed by Churchhill and whip some Muslim ass.Invade Sudan right now.The worlds leaders need an exorcism. Seems as though theyve been possessed by the spirit of the middle class, the "safe" caste, the cadre of "dont' upset people, don't get involved"
A shame. Goddamn, let the spirits of Crazy Horse, Michael Collins and Richard-the-lion-hearted possess me!!!Pizdets.I'd bomb Khartoum in nanoseconds.And Paris, for shits and giggles.
Back to the Ukraine: So, she and her sister were blessed by Orthodox monks after a rough nights sleep on concrete with dish cloths for blankets.And Lenin. Apparently, he is rude. He just interrupts.No hour is safe, no place is holy. I asked if the voice showed any sign of feebleness, retardation,illnesss. "Oh, Bozhoi moi, God no, very bright and quick", she said. Strange. Because a year before he croaked, Lenin had suffered a couple strokes and was rendered a second grader..a lil better than a mo-mo, a tard..Which would make her sisters possession more strange.I'm wondering how did Vlad get better. And, why this middle aged woman from Russia?Why not talk to a peasant?Zuganov?A hedgehog?a Berkely hippy with a stuttering problem who carries a rotten leek for good luck?
Baffling. No exorcisms occurred there in the monastery. The women left and paid for their visit in a most proletarian manner: with a Visa.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:43 AM 0 comments

Venus febriculusa

006

I love the smell of Venus febriculosa in the morning My mind is again caffeinated and racing, a hooligan mob darting from a burned out car to the police, from one thought to another and, yet, in my mind these thoughts all have an umbilical cord tethering them to the same mater/pater: theyre all familial...siblings..Yes, born of my grey matter(which, by the way, does look like a horrific nest of grey vulvae), my thoughts now seek independance and run off on their own or together sewing mayhem and sowing oats to produce tada! more thoughts.here, let me capture some of the buggers and tell you what I see:Oh, ho,ho!Surprise, surprise:They all have the same look,carbon copys of one another,the same wickedly gleeful look,and these thoughts convince me that I' am thinking of Venus febriculosa,aka, cunnilingus.Now sex.Sex in general.Am I a sex fiend?A maniac?A satyrnalian?I do not know.All of my life I have been captured by the thought of women(did i steal this line from Pasternaks poem?)I have been a devotee of their winsomeness, their foreignness,curves,smells.I tried the gay thing and it didn't work.I felt too much like Narcissus.At the tender age of six I did things with a girl my own age that most six year olds do not do.I'll only say this involved tongues, insertions and a peculiar frisson at the whole affair.From fifteen to I -do- not- recall I had many lovers, more lovers than people that live in some Icelandic villages.Over 100,over 200. And, we may stop here.We will.I have always had this lust for more and more sex.Insatiable.never satisfied.In the past this lust was characterized by the desire for all women.Since my first marriage(25-30)it is a lust for more sex with the same woman.Only, I had never had a woman who could keep up, alas I became a serial monogamist.Until now.You'd think that after 35-40 times in five days I'd be satisfied.Oh, but no, I want more.Just her.Yet,my body feels cartoonish: this fiendishly prolonged horniness won't go away.Do i need a goddamned hobby?More exercise?A shrink?I have read everything on the net about sexual addiction.I'am not a sex addict.(I can hear the hackneyed slogan,"Denial is not a river in Egypt.")I'am not denying anything.I just think I was born with too much, a surplus if you will, of testosterone.An average day masturbating: 5-10, once I onanized myself 12 times.I love sex.And, trust me, it is not about the end result, the liberation of France, the explosion, the bellowing like an Angus steer followed by copius amounts of silvery D.N.A strewn onto a pale stomach to resemble a very shiny archipelago.No, it is the work before that interests me.The cessation of time and space outside of the lovemaking, the fucking, the whatever you want to call it, has never been lost to me.It baffles me.This act, on one hand so beautiful, on the other, so ridiculous.I will admit that a huge part of my fascination with the Ol' In -Out In- Out is watching the other squirm and shriek like a victim in Butryki Prison.I love watching them cum.I really enjoy this.Much more than listening to Chopin, eating cajun food, playing rugby, boxing, reading, writing. And the taste of women!Jesus !The closed fist of her sex.You teasing it to open.Its becoming swollen and wet,a moving orchid.The lubricity, tightness,tartness and musk.So animal.So mammal.So godlike.Human.I think philosophers would not have been philosophers had they shagged more often than ,oh, once every lifetime.Nietzche looked beyond horny.Kierkegaard was virtually a monk.And, not just the existentialists.The whole lot of them, especially the venerable Professor from Tubingen:Kant Herr Kant needed her cunt..you get the picture---although the picture of Kant bumping uglies with anyone is nauseating--- This thought is haunting me like a bipolar poltergeist with seperation anxiety.Egads.The lot of them:Spinoza, Hegel,Hume,Berkeley,...oh, Richard stop.Marx in a threeway with Engels and Kant and perhaps some Bavarian slatterns,some opium,Munchen lager,apertifs of moans in that oh so romantic German tongue. No, it didnt happen, thus we now have Das Kapital.And, London has the Teutonic hippys bones.Of course they had sex.Maybe not enough.Maybe just the generic kind:where you just go at sex like you go at a pizza:laborious,mechanical,boring.Of course I've never had sex like this,i have been with women and men who prefered sex like this but a good roughing up usually dredged them out of the doldrums, recued them from their malaise,oh, God!Why do i compare and contrast women?Am i grading cattle?No, it is human to do so, right?i mean everyones been with a person who wasnt a virgin, yet lay there like a mummified Aztec behind glass,everyones been with that special someone who, honestly, if they left your horny ass, you could have had more fun with a hatchet, 17 dead snakes, a worn copy of anything by any Bronte sister and a jug of lukewarm water in a graveyard .Right?Right.Then, you have those doozies.They fuck .As if they were bred to fuck.Later, you are with someone better and you realize , no, you were just horny.This new person is actually good, then you meet the best.The one .Her.Or him.Time goes by, youre with more Aztecs, more pizzas, another wow!, then, you meet the deity, the demigod of sex.everything she does is holy.Her resilience is otherworldly.Her stamina frightens; yet, is matched thrust for thrust,moan for moan.You've found each other and you get married. I think this blog is a warm up exercise for my ACTUAL writing Sex.The joyous, galloping union of phallus and lacuna, cock and cunt, saliva and sweat, pan-optic eyes and verbiage being sexy or even bizarre(Once, a Palestinian woman ,while in the act, she on all fours, smoking a joint, in between puffs decides to tell me that ,"...last week I spoke to Satan in an alleyway behind my club."--what?I asked.She then repeats this inanity.needless to say I lost my appetite...which is in marked contrast with my early years when women said even more bizarre things and it seemed as though these outrageous asides brought on orgasm quicker,why the change I do not know) Sex.I'm sorta going in and out of subject.So, yes, finally i have found someone to keep up with me.At the expense of sleep, victuals,entertainment,the outside world,cinema,etc.. we do it constantly.24/7, or 24/5 rather.24/6.And, as I age I find that intelligant conversation stimulates me, that fetid piffle , dismal drivel always makes me flaccid.Lately, the conversation has been at 11.The best.Ergo, the sex is also at ...11.and, they feed on each other, dual parasitism.Like us.She tells of her experiences I become aroused, she talks and gets misty eyed and again: arousal.Ad infinitum.Talk, talk, talk....that old aphrodisiac, the salacious quality of gab.I'm in need of a cold shower now.

On why cannibalizing hippys sounds good

On Why I Suddenly Feel Like eating human flesh

On why I suddenly feel like cannibalizing dirty hippys....

My first day in Dantes seventh layer of Hell. I've decided to quit smoking, yet cannot remember the reason why.My neurons are exploding each nanosecond,every pore is agape and shrieking.My body chemsitry is experiencing a physiological Bolshevik Revolution.Dopamine levels have plummetted.Insulin is not being suppressed.Adrenalin levels are seeking balance.No, its much worse than that.This first day without nicotine is like 400,000 Mongols are running amok inside me,it is the entire Wehrmacht in my veins,a million cellular Mansons --- I'am your own personal Chernobyl.I'am confused and spacy.I feel like I have Downs Syndrome, Alzheimers,Parkinsons,A.D.D. and the severest case of Tourettes .Fuckingoddamnhalfwitmotherfucker has become my favorite word.I want strangers to know what I want....ten minutes ago.I want friends to leave---only, after theyre gone I want them to come back.Then, leave again.I've cleaned the house and messed it up again.I'am a 200 pound hamster created by Phillip Morris and my choices.23 years of gagging,hacking,coughing,sputtering,spewing up all manner of dead creatures,of being fatigued,winded,smelling like a Third World toilet.

I want to kill something large.Ants wont do.Birds dont have enough blood.I want to annhilate a herd of wildebeest.I want Arma-fucken-geddon.

I want a cave.I want T.N.T .I want planes loaded with bombs.I want eject,rewind,pause.Fuckin Spice Girls....yeah, I tell ya what I really really want:

I want a goddamned cigarette.A Gaulloises,perhaps?Sure,times 20.A Marlboro,Camel,Kamel,Winston,Woodbine,Sherman,Raleigh et al

generic Arapaho reservation -made fags...I dont care.A cigarette butt.Anything.A nice cigarette and cigar boullaibaise.Distilled Turkish Specials clam sauce over tobacco fettucine; A Winston Light pizza.A fresh pack of smokes,unopened,you stare at it like its your lover and its been many moons since youve done this,you start by kissing the object of your desire,oh yes, then undo ,unwrap make naked,then part,opening the insides and unlike coitus,your first motion is to pull out(do not "pierce"the cigarette,I tell you it will not work),then fire,then that initial inhalation:Nicotine like the angel of Life to every famished cell.Nicotine: a cross between the philanthropy of Mother Teresa and a bucket full of orgasms.

.I'm chewing gum.Trident. I hate gum and people who chew it.Even if gum tasted like Sapphire gin or Glenfiddich it'd still look moronic. Each chew brings up visions of cattle masticulating their cuds:Looking vapid,retarded,so uncool,so anti-James Dean.Its how I feel at this moment:Half momo, half psychotic.I sit here shaking my knees ,chewing ferociously,dreaming of sexy paleskinned cigarettes.Oh, but theyre sirens.They mean harm.This is where I'm supposed to ask to be tied to the mast,right?

This goddamned gum tastes like Barbie hair.My house smells like a bar.A gaggle of hippies trudge down the street:smoking .I will mug them for a cigarette.It all makes sense now.I will eat their nicotine laden veins ,I will scrape the tar from their frazzled lungs with a clam shell,boil it down and shoot it into my spasming circulatory system.Theyre going down, every Medusa headed ,bongo beating organatron will perish;afterwards,basking in post-nicotine ingestion bliss I will wash their vegan and patchoili blood from my hands,dry it,cook it and snort it in lines resembling a topographic rendition of the Andes. Oh, yeah.But, first...first I have to remember how to tie my shoes.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:46 AM 0 comments Links to this post

the wait

the wait

She lay there on our bed panting, her tattooed white skin, sweat- sheened and mottled by weak sunlight coming through the windows of the bedroom. My cum is spread across her taut stomach like a silvery archipelago. Im still hard as I get up to go look at the purple and white Chugach Mountains to the east. Fireweed is spread all over below the snowline. The purpling of the abundant flower forecasts the first snowfall of winter. All the mountains turned over a week ago and still nothing. Still the wait for the end of green, of color, of light, youth and frenzy Still the wait.Each day preens itself slowly,achingly.

The effects of the heroin are subsiding and I can feel my erection more keenly. I stroke my cock and tell her Ill be back with fresh drinks. As I pour the gin into our glasses I realize were out of tonic water so I look in the bottom cupboard for more. We seem to be out of everything lately.Shell just have to drink it straight.Like I do now ,from the bottle.There we go, come into me, I say to the turquoise bottle. "Come , come, come."She is yelling for me to hurry. "Theres something in the yard,hunny, a bear I think,hurry,its gonna get me!" Iwalk back to the room and peer outside to see a bull moose.

Do you have a gun, I ask

Dude, you cant shoot the bear

Its a moose, I tell her

Stillin that case, come back to bed

Nah, I want to look at him for a little more

But, Im horny,she tells me

My cock hangs flaccid as I turn to see her rubbing herself,inserting two fingers deep inside her pussy.

Looking back at the moose I see him eat the Red tulips I planted months ago.

Hey, hes eating the tulipscan I shoot the bastard now?

I feel her hands around me, shes kissing my neck, two fingers enter my mouth and I taste her sex. "Come fuck me again, she whispers."

The moose is now eating the begonias,the strawberries and red cabbage. He moves to the ferns,leaving one lonely head of cabbage, its petals or leaves ,whatever theyre called are pulled back from the head, so that it resembles an orchid painted by Georgia Okeefe or even dozens of swollen labias. She gives up and returns to bed.

Fuck it,she tells me. Fuck you, then.

I sip the gin slowly and stare at the purple cabbage. I instantly want to save it from the moose. And, as if reading my mind, he lugubriously walks over to the cabbage and swallows it whole, leaving a hole in the cold cold ground the size of a toddlers fist.

I point my finger at him, as if its the barrel of a gun . "Bang." I want the moose to fall, to die for his sin. Instead he lifts his heavy head and walks away from the window and back into the Chugach.

The last of the gin goes down my throat; my cigarette is down to the end and I crush it out in a broken ashtray that says ,"Welcome to Alaska."

Shadows have come into the room and I turn to see her in the fetal position in the last patch of light

You awake?Nothing. I look outside for the last time and see snowflakes drift down,covering the earth in a mantle of white.

This is it, I say,Kaput. Finis. I feel sick from all the white; it is so clinical,so funerary. I have to look away.There she lay,in half darkness now,in the fetal position,her perfect ass beckoning me.I crawl onto the bed and move my face to her pussy which looks like a closed bud of a delicate flower. I bend to it and inhale through my nostrils.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:47 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Incessant(why is rain always incessant or driving?) rain and wind.Strong,lusty ,gusty gales;electricity dead, thee walls tremble. Looks like Spielberg is directing.Wind so strong it pushes water on the street likea huge invisible broom. Telephone cables dance and sway; in the distance police lights,overhead a dark grey and black mass of cloud resembling funerery shrouds; it's chaos,albeit a light version,wheres the fuckin candles?The alder trees across the street bend at 70 degrees. On the drama scale: 2

1979,Northern Ilinois, in the warpath of a tornado: in the basement watching trees fly by;drama scale : 10

I grew up with warnings of the apocalypse and warnings from pulpit and podium of Communist invasion, the end of the world,Ragingorak as the Icelandic sagas call it, but what I saw that day was hellish,the aftermath was sure sign that the Furies traipsed by with vitriol and vim,Paul Bunyan had a bad pcp trip, a v.w. bug lay upside down on a roof,a brick schoolhouse looked like a Dresden factory,the ravens sounding like Germans.

A flood in Redding,1987: another bug,floating down the river called Interstate 5. A week of sirens,helicopters,evacuations,canned food and quik candlelit romps and bacchanals lasting 24/7. Drama scale ? 4. A measly 4. Siskel and Ebert(now Roper--who the hell is this guy,eh?) would be mixed on my drama of the Northern California flood amongst white trash drug addicts...prolly cause Keanu would play me, in that monoemotion of his, like he just ate Opium cake for breakfast and downed it with Valium punch:What, ok,like I will rescue you..like can we fuck then?)

This week: poison oak.Drama scale ? A million. It is off the goddamned charts. Do not laugh or call me histrionic,melodramatic. Yes,do. Call me that. This is natures way of saying to me"Youre petty life is now dictated by diet leprosy,leprosy-lite...good day!

Shazam!Your skin is covered in welps,lesions,macabre red raises,blisters and a model of the surface of Mars. You are a red crocodile. And now the burning itch:On your lovely gnarled cock,your eyes,arms,legs,belly,chest,neck. Diet leprosy. Ive always had an on again off again relationship with Mother Earth,but now I want to commit matricide. My umpteenth time with this dermatological savaging. Done. We are kaput,momma. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Fuck the redwoods,the dirt,the ocean,pretty flowers,rivers,sunrise,sunset,Ayers Rock,The Nile,the Gobi,the taiga,all of it. Concrete, cement. This is love. This is holy now .Cover up the old hag. My way of casually saying "Pthwt!"

I want to bap hippys on the head with a tractor tire,drive a semi thru Manhatten bitchslapping babyseals,drinking pure Chernobyl nuclear waste,injecting rare civet pancreas blood into my neck,wear Saudi crude for cologne----my way of saying Hiroshima, mon amour.

Yes, terra madre, you give me this and more you have given me: sleepless nights on the Pacific chasing tuna,puking and delirious,watching whales rise up with famished eyes as if I were a knish with legs;sharks and gills and scales and a desert of wawa rising and falling ....for what?The grizzly in Alaska who kept me locked in my truck for two hours as he growled and stood trying to eat his beloved knish with legs;all the near death experiences with rattlesnakes, black widows,horses falling on me, bulls chasing me, rabid bats,wilddogs chasing me into the boughs of an oak,fleas, ticks,rats,bird shit,heat,cold, rain,sleet,snow,flood,drought.Flora and fauna are no funna.We are done , you and I. And, when I rule the planet I will pay you back a million fold. Oh, yes! Paybacks are a motherfuckin bitch. Highrises in the Grand canyon, a parking lot in the Amazon, nuke the Galapogos,poison the wells, stripmall the Yukon. In a thousand years when you recover you will shake us off. I know. I do.You always come back .The human race will be paying for my sin.In this sense I 'am the anti-christ.But, I'm okay with this:my body will be dead:Buried in a steel box,in a vault deep inside a nuclear bunker made out of polyurethane and plastic dildos. Poison oak free:a smiling bag of cfc's,msg,gmo's,nicotine,alcohol,exhaust,pollution,formaldehyde. I will look down from a heaven sponsored by multinational corporations and send you my love.