The Minimus 7 Letters, Part 4

By Minimus 7 / M7

dadblastit,

Guitar-picking, sandal wearing hippie gets run over by tractor-trailer rig driven by reverse Okie (parents moved to CA during the dust bowl, he brought the family back to OK during the oil boom).

Gather the cadres, Che’ has escaped.

An unshaven Big Dick McGillicutty enters the disco.

Perspectives shift rapidly as Stacy pulls the first lever.

The audience went nuts.  No one had ever seen a head come apart like that before.

Just think, the same scene repeated millions of times all over the world.  Smoker takes first puff of the morning.  Immediately must run to the bathroom due to explosive diarrhea.  From then on, every slight inhalation of smoke causes severe runs.

Somehow, overnight, without anyone noticing, an unassailable 400-foot-tall obsidian phallus is installed on the North Oval.  No one knows how it got there, and despite all efforts, no one can remove it.

Even the prudishly Victorian attempt to place a canvas fig leaf over it with helicopters ended in disaster when the canvas fig leaf and the helicopters were mysteriously transformed into 60 tons of bologna salad.  Fertility religions begin popping up all over Norman.

Every new charismatic fertility religion leader claims to understand the true meaning of “the big black dick” as it is known.

nerdlinger wept,

 

consarnit.

> I believe we wrote “Wh**l*ck–what a hack.  -Karl Marx.”

> >What DID we put in that darned cat?

As always, your memory has proved superior.

I’m definitely off on Monday.

We’ll have to go over to Wh**l*ck’s and desecrate his cat again.

Possibilities:

I am not a cougar.

Cook me.  Eat half of me tonight and take the rest of me home for lunch tomorrow.

Fill me with arm pus.

Intentionally left blank because Wh**l*ck is a pussy.

“Swallow my face, please.”–Jaques Derrida

what a fag,

d.

possible titles for my first book:

  • The Cruciflex Home Exerciser:  A Manual.
  • Big ‘n Gay
  • The Jethrine Integument
  • Belch:  The Throat Fart
  • Enhugement of the Fisticons!!
  • Crabby Old Bastard Mock Fuck
  • The Future:  When Monsters Roam the Earth
  • My Ass Hurts

d.

MACHINE HURT MAKES GIRL CAT NO FUCK OTHER BOY

by DM

barb-ward rearing faces

fear our workaday integuments

and the great hoax mainlines the now

shoot him down!

he is but a clearer of weeds

he does not reveal

why I am me and not

someone else

head preserved for all to see,

Uncle Dreck became ossified

and he crumbled

in his pool of coffin

peeling ourselves away

from the

hot

vinyl

bucket seat of the real

Is this a failure?
Is this a failure?

no cage is strong enough

to hold our bliss

indulging in friendly clever extremes

my writhing cinnamon girl

displays her threat

to the farty old man

too loudly making

farty old man

point

we are surrounded by

the sound of cicadas cruising for chicks

and the banality of penile fakery

adding merit to madness

as we wreck the cherries

and dysfunct the projectiles

while my writhing cinnamon girl

takes my hand and Uncle Dreck

leads the way into our

unending wheel of joy

sane?  yes, please?!

my exclamation points wobble and

shimmer in the fractal heat

   each nodule glows fast

   to the floor of an arid

   brain pan

    suddenly, the smell of

     microwave puttered

     bop corn.

the hole of corn, erupting,

   the spiders pouring out,

   a furry horde.

     spilling over each other

       maize wave

           after wave

     spreading the seeds

       into the pan

         ppopping…

     the heat….

       muffled….

   stench of rancid oil.

d

 

1-

washed along my rancid distaste

   and flicked until numb

I sported my tendencies and

   waited for her to smile

feeling her ice, I opened

   my flagon

   and poured it into the sea

2-

words hurt me

just like that

  wasp that buried himself

   ass-deep in my arm

    when I was at a

     scornful picnic

but what the sane man does is to recreate the same old universe every time.  for what could we do without our embedded challenges and our worthy enemies?  why–there would be nothing left to get upset about. how could we be righteous or hostile or submissive or human if we could really re-make the universe every moment?

  The upshot–and the dirty secret of modern life is that it is ALL MY FAULT.  I caused the Vietnam War.  I thought it up and did it.

I killed all of my dead relatives.

I refuse to bring them back to life because in every moment I remake

myself into yet another identical uncaring bastard.

I could fix all of the broken hearts.

I just choose not to.

All my fault.

  But everyone else can’t blame me because it’s all their fault.

There are no accidents.  There is no fate.  We do it to ourselves

every day.

r,

The Plaid Café is not cuisine, the Plaid Café is the annihilation of culture. The middle class bourgeoisie can do naught but rejoice as they eat their americo/euro post-haute cuisine swill.  They celebrate that death of culture which must occur because of the assimilation of the EDGE’s most vital and salient nodes.  They celebrate because they cannot create.  If the bourgeoisie cannot create, then they will kill that which they can never understand.  The Plaid Cafe symbolically encloses the rapture felt at the moment of this culture murder. essense of mint,

d.

r,

whore.

Big, big, big as the foul sky and putrefaction drips onto the plain.

bison graze.

multiple guts rumble out a message in methane and the Pope makes his faggoty little curtsy before he slurps up the juices and such.

runes written in semen on a white bison’s back avatar of native hope

used like a Shake ‘n Bake bag about america,

ringed and tinged with fuckn pop

popn fuck

fun pop

I see a seamless now

where we all think the same

over here

and to get untogether with the crowd

means death

the very means to our greatness

(the one person)

covered in a mass of common thought

but first,

we flaunt our glimmer of god

glimmer god

flim flam

until every

iota is

main

streamed

not main

lined

not main

tained

simply sold

for pennies on the cheap

and we will finally understand

what Sam meant when he screamed

“Life fucks you even after you’re dead!”

every

one

of

us

will

be

=

to

dead

and life will still be fucking us.

a scar is upon you and everything you stand for,

d.

 

Prove to me that any positive action can be taken.  The mere attempt traps one within the sticky invisible web of “faith.”

yaya,

The visual feast that scrolled up and down I-35 last weekend left me beflubbered. Starting slightly north of the Dallas metroplexus, there were an astonishing variety and amount of gorgeous wildflowers.  Bluebonnets and NDN paintbrushes were most prominent.  Of course, cruising along the interstate through the communities of Norman, Ardmore, Gainesville, and the d/fw extra-urban sprawl left me hearing the clear, deep, slow death knell for humanity…..

This was mostly because of the architecture.  Everyplace now looks the same.  It’s all SLASH AND BURN ARCHITECTURE.  Denny’s are the same everywhere.  The ugly over-arches all.  The only interesting man- made sites visible from the hi-way was an old courthouse in Gainesville and some quirky man-made domes south of Dallas on I-35E.

I found many of the old grain elevators and factories more interesting than the McArchitecture that makes up our commercial existence in this age.

On our way back, we took I-35W and we were slapped in the face with two gargantuan consolidations of asphalt and concrete–both devoted to our bloody-kneed worship of speedy transport (the god Mercury grows fat and happy with adulation in this age)– The Texas Motor Speedway and a starkly horrible commercial airport that I had never seen before.  The upper capsule of the airport’s control tower seemed to be suspended in mid-air by a neutral protuberance of concrete.

The architectural impossibility of this CONTROL tower echoed the utter impossibility of our continued survival within this slash and burn sprawl.

Again and again I had to remind myself to “look at the pretty flowers”  and “see the gathering clouds”…..

Perhaps we Texhomans are simply too backwards and trashy to deserve any edifices that beg to be savored. In an age such as this, has artistic endeavour ever been so important?

Christ, Bitch, don’t you ever wash that thing?!

smallberries.

 

“Give yourself the permission to be unconcerned, rather than let a lack of imagination leave you behaving like a small-minded self-defeating loser.” –Ralph Pettman

Lack of imagination. Perhaps our societies biggest challenge? We do not have to be actors on the stage. We could be the directors, or, best of all, the playwrights.

d.

FLOGGING THE PSYCHLONS

-by DM

–nut–

truth

has a big

smelly

crotch

–sack–

lies

are the innard

juices

upon which society

is greased

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