Eels on the murky beaches
Swarm ashore in the dead of night
The day opened with the Doors in my head. A reference from one of my
Appetizer quality. Doris and the doors. Pleasant Doris and the running
doors. Pleasant Paris and the frequency gnus. Gnus with guns, shooting
wildebeest one by one. have you heard the gnus?
No mind is an island
No mind is a logan island
Cammie Logan on Fantasy Island
The architectural men, the architechnological men, humming trouble to
their devices, troubling their wives with their nervous devices
These thick plastic words lining my organs, fascia, solid in my
shoulders, through which I have to struggle like a leaden swimmer in
the morning. Oh, these snakes in my fascia, and the worms in my
lymphatic system and the lead in my oatmeal and in my env(iron)ment,
the nuggets of lead in my testicles, lining my delicate engine systems
with their ethylene conundrums.
They want to fuck the golden goose.
They want to fuck her in her egghole.
Heading for the Finnish line. There's a mohole over there. Gone 12000
feet down into the earth. The Finnish are in the mantle. What in earth
are they doing there? The Icelanders chased gnomes into the mantle,
where they found an entire underground universe of not only the usual
gnomes, trolls, fairies, elves, ghosts, witches, familiars,
poltergeists, etc., but entirely new races of dwellers, undergrounders
who troubled the earlier civilizations of the world and were vanquished
by them, banished to the underworld to create new spirits to enliven
the life of man -- they cook them up in their beakers & retorts,
broadcast them via menhirs and dolmens to the scottish world above. The
old ones: the Furkies, Smog Hoomers, Ank, John Ladies, Booms, and Snik,
in their uneasy truce as they concoct new spirits of chaos to keep us
human beings from becoming too dull.