Sobbing flesh bags, swinging strips of scar tissue suspended by hooks- studded straps- ceiling to floor and in the corner.   Crimson drapes flow heavy, snuffing light.  The room hangs dense with human musk.  Delicate stainless steel instruments, household tools and undergarments are strewn across the heavy planking: noises, street sounds and crashing cars… trash blowing in from some dawn soaked ghetto. 

This is where they are.  Moaning for deliverance, desperate measures and all.

The one with the burnished, pulled skin and lidless obsidian eyes steps forward.  You feel the piddle building inside.  But, you’ve got questions.  The concentrated scent of  tax sheltered humanity makes you sway.  He steps to you, smelling of pond scum, his pendulum swinging.  A blue spotlight hits him as he drones in a southern drawl enough to hypnotize you:


‘We came here to be

Dashed on the paling of His flesh


Everything’s possible for those who refuse to listen


Nonsense is a multibillion-dollar industry and we’re paying as we go

Our pudenda scream our vacant need


After we graduated from being puddles of uncooked meat

We sang songs of masturbation

Collecting our poisoned blood, our tender excitements

Until the night sapped our youthful brows

And we brought our fists down


Why are we here?

We’re here to get what’s coming to us

Here, where the dull ache of ruin’s never quashed

In this cosmology, where the body’s machinery is literally geared toward ruin

 In this place, where work speeds deterioration

Where airborne beings alight overhead to watch

Our labors gnaw

Our joints and sinews

until inevitable collapse


We got the Catholic mange

We got the Baptist piles

We got the Protestant polyps


Maleficent spirits walk: pale, haggard

Summoning the obvious scar tissue

From childhood’s February faces


As they have forever

Whirled without end


Drooling pseudopomps may bark their pillories

From their busy-boxes in the mountains

But, we’ll never see

Their shock wave


Until it’s on top of us


Nixon: the original Fool on the Hill

His brand is bullet proof and everlasting’


Bored with his slobbering soliloquy, you pull the leaden curtain aside and peer out the filth-caked window.  The park across the street is full of sunny, fuzztone hearts parading the bloated megacolon of another spiritual bunkum.  One quite different from yours.  You realize that all anyone’s ever doing is just swinging their stuff around, anyway.  But, those humanimals across the street, they’re dressed in the sagging costumes and heavy jewelry befitting creatures of their status.  They got their love crimes and cannibal banquets and the like.  There’s even a skinny fruit-leather in a speedo, golden-fried, fit to be tied.


Every year at this time, you can’t help but encounter these types as you troll the park and you say to yourself, ‘Look at all those funny people.  Glad I’m not them.’

World without end.


Muffin tops piled on bagel bags in layer cake stacked better than any bakery.  That woman’s syrup-logged pound cakes make you hungry.  You have to look away. 

Everywhere you turn is something worth turning your back on.

When you return to the room, you find rubber shits with lumpen pointillist faces gathered round this Yurtle in troweled-on make-up they just yanked from the hooks: they’re choking it lifeless because they don’t want to suffer its yearning presence any longer.


On the other side of the room, an American Girl Doll posed so lifeless.  And another buffed and scruffed strip of scar tissue, another upper-crusted bottomed-feeder sidles up and puts a quarter in her mouth.  Her snapper yawns wide.

This is only the beginning of a very long process.  You brace yourself and strut- like you’ve never strutted before- into the fray.


The Miscarriage, oil on panel, copyright 1999 GPD

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