Patterns Which Connect #3

I am on a cusp, i slip into a vast confusion, fragmenting perceptions.

I drink therefore I am...I slide into a dream of schisms and their conflicting off splits...what is not compulsury is prohibited, prohibitive and ferocious...beauty is fury ,fury is beauty...I seek, anticipate, relief from unexpected searing insomnia, endless yokes of necessity, smirking facts, glib cheek, erupting in a flush and congealed cascade of toxic spew. Res congitans vs. Res extensia, what exactly is any difference…perhaps Whitehead…reduce everything to their utmost simplicity then distrust it… thus i swim in pools of distrust, in a swarm of implication in which a frenzied simplicity claims its slipshod givens as self-evident…through down the gauntlet…prepare for things unknown, brace your self for current events, for a spinning eyeball, for comatose, catechistic whim and caprice. Manichaean torment, frothing-at-the-mouth, the usual twisted suspects…the usual maladroit diabolic morons…a phalanx of scabrous twerps…all gathered in a dipsomaniacal ball of melting wax. Cheers…mud in your eye...mosel toff.

With a whip and a chair I’m semi-awakened…in a crystal midst of lucid hallucinatory panoramas …festering rivulets, brunt rage, spokes-in-the-wheels, fusillades of shit, stygian gloom, ebullient sloth, craven stupidity…a malefic , brazen Hobbesian nightmare [ illustrated by Bosh] ,en masse turmoil, groveling before wretched excess…things thicken, beginnings fade, fame melts…sycophantic fits of pique dominate while desiccating those resisting slash-and-burn, and party-till-you-puke ideologies. A lavish nihilism prevails. I twist and roll over in my sweat-soaked bed. I’m nearly awake, but the stream of images and alien vocalizations yanks me back to the sheets. A monkey finger probes its left ear, preposterous dead reckoning follows: “twist & shout” the ape croons in perfect Queen’s English with poise, precision, and audacity. He forgoes the hysterical applause and evaporates. Jump-cut to numerous Barmecidal feasts, one after another, after another, featuring the obese, those suffering from fatal gout, and bulimics. Fade to black...Tycho Brahe’s gold nose emerges from a quivering darkness...jagged supernal music slices through bleak chambers, a resurgent Demiurge suddenly takes charge, confiscates Tycho’s gold nose, then sets off to a pawn shop. Fade to black. Worms of fear grow long and fat, gimlet-eyed lip service dismisses the worms as dwelling in a Potemkin village...Xenophon, drifting down from the cloud of unknowing, proclaims: Those who cannot govern their own lives will be given other masters...the monkey returns, though a bit funky, a bit destitute, and announces his intention to assume the haywire duties of one of those masters...ham-fisted blather follows. Fade to black. The farting worms return, join the fray, the monkey is quite pissed...he assumed that Xenophon would provide exclusive access to his Nomenklatura, the worms meanwhile entertain revenge, conjure plots against the flea infested ape, while setting alight his own Potemkin abode. The monkey (whose name, by the way, is Pangloss) is trapped in a juke box with endless Sex Pistol’s rustic tunes...e.g, Mother McRhee and all that rot... ah...sweet revenge. Jim Nightshade arrives from nowhere seeking counter-revenge, since he’s a dear friend of Pangloss as well as his only brother-in-law...meanwhile back at their hardened bunker, Pangloss and Nightshhade’s lumpen proles conjure up scenarios of worms on the wrack, of boiling rancid oil, of germ-infested fruits and nuts, mostly mixed nuts. HCE, Earwicker himself, enters this puffery of a fool’s trip, of a fool’s command to decapitate the erupting flatulence of Anna Livia Plurabellum, operatic war ensues...Fade to a dark bleeding red...vile and violent conflict spills into and over apoplectic picnics , all of a swift and sudden blitz-praetorian take over...all tracer bullets...keep those nuke rods very very cool, keep the doors rigid and firmly concealed ...flounce any and all positions which expose Pangloss in the very best light...a radiant monkey beyond the quaking scope of mere fat worms. I feel an urge to take a whiz, I am now awake and cannot recall most of the above. So what, who cares, fuck you, drop dead. Fade to black?............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................PART TWO: Sleep arrives, obtuse push-back is without hope, nor is it feasible, I resist to no avail... either-or...a smoldering flick of prior calamities...self-sabotage and pink demons enter stage left with withering intent and brass balls...we are off and slipping into deep smut... shifting drug addled flatulence drifts into wobbly command...I resist this menace with wind shifts and screaming slip streams...I’m off to the artic! Inscrutable, lush, enfeebled by and with modernity’s sly tricks. Progress, in its gangster capitalism version, for blatant example, renders all things, all entities, destined for any and all markets, simply fungible stuff, granulating into cash... abruptly, I roll over, and over again, then I retreat from this gangster’s nightmare, and awake...the stink is simply awful...I slide back into delusional freezing environs, then discover that I’m not really awake, I’m floating above tectonic frozen plates ,while they slip and shift into snake venom...fanfares flow, gruesome and noxious blind elisions flow, sudden swirls of snarls arrive with cock-and-bull alibis...strip and flip, ice melts! Enter stage right, Billy the spear shaker and Willy the abject junky discussing the current value of Senica, Pico della Mirandola, the Missa Solemnis, Jack the fat cat, Jimmy the ridiculous word player, Lady Gaga’s most trusted valet, among other esoteric slop and jive. Three stooges emerge from center stage, slop and jive have met their supreme masters, indeed. “Its too good, it wont work” as the late great Gaddis was fond to remind me...With a blast of noise and hunger, and need of a stiff drink, I wake-up. Kiss my ass, the phone is wailing off its hook...a swank robo-voice is selling me life insurance, I decline while wondering how in Hell’s due dalliance...how did this rooky metallic insect acquire my number? Never mind, slack off, relax...knock back a single malt scotch, and return to the sheets. Hagiographic chutzpah awaits. Lilliputians in drag confront rabid psychotics with guns...a pellucid, limpid, crystalline probity is defeated by the armed to the teeth psychotics. Lilliputians in fish net stockings and pink and blue wigs engage the savage gang and are promptly stomped...no survers