The Japanese Beatniks Sold Out the Scene

Japan got bombed and everybody was infected by the crazy virus. Their gum drops are multiplied by randomness, candy swirls, political malfunction, diatribes of the dead. The haikus tell stories with clever conviction -- but the mask looms in every computer jacked into cyberspace, the death of the human race, boob reels and crotches on the face, Neaderthal IQ busters like the O'Reilly Factor at FOX "News" with the chilling factors of how everything sunk a long time ago, Atlantis here we come, goodbye cruel world goodbye, pun intended. When America is fat and overflowing with lard and Japan struck crazy just in time -- Barbie dolls, "diet cokeheads," Youtube, not funny jokes of wasted time and space, love and hate, everything in-between. The lovely spiral of our lives like we wanted to live them, like we really mean it, like we're in this giant mess of a K-Hole the size of Jupiter, with its colors and structure of the Kings of Saturn, pass the asteroid belt, and like it or not, you got to admit -- you're crazy too.

Japan got bombed and everybody was infected with the crazy virus. Everybody who breathes wears neckties now and Asia has a du-rag on top of its Asian head, thinking they're black, but the morning comes too soon for everyone and with one flash and twice the damage an explosion discharge, the gas of the future; sperms die and nothing sprouts, our eyes are blank, teeth rotten to the core... we shiver like its winter. But there is no winter really. Just hugs too cold like glass lips over ours, sucking the glass dick, cooking up, "fire-fire-fire!", gun addicts and bullet holes. They're selling the gas! Or hasn't anyone seen the bastard Duke eating Soilent Green? How's about a kiss, a peck on the cheek, even a tongue in the ear? Its just a language barrier, only the flavor of the week, nothing has really changed -- nothing really. Nothing. BUT the gum drops with its Wonka cookie flavors. Instantly you cope and head out with the other crazies out of town with those same pills with different colors, sizes, everything sold by retail, even human organs (especially the eyes).

The ghosts of the past are hard to escape, if only the help is at hand. But it dropped decades ago, a century, a millennia, and now we're an asylum of loonies. The bin is full, go back home to the Polar Ice Caps. The Japanese got it right, the toilet is God. Just read the script darling, along those lines you could find sweet uniforms of Japanese school girls that dance like voodoo rice to the best of their abilities, these are crazy times and crazy times need crazy characters to fill the pages, read on soldier and march to the beat of the plutonium drum, grace the land soldier with that cock filled with seed! Japan got bombed -- make love to the flames like an immigrant. The imminent second coming is over. Bikini girls vs. bikini girls are on, time to tune out.

.031207.

Lifespan

Juxtaposition

Confused, the words lingered on. It spoke and it was impatient. Mid-sentences were cut shorter with sobs and tears and a small bit of yelling. It wasn’t the best of days, no. Better ones came and went.

They spoke of times that passed and how clearly Joy Division sounded when Ian Curtis sang those lyrics:

“If routine bites hard
And ambitions are low…”

Indeed a scary thought. Indeed something nobody would want. Clearly, not them. Not ever.

There were promises wrapped in reassuring words, hugs and kisses. A conviction that trust prevails; and truth is they were just getting started.

There is more time that would come and go. “Stay longer. I’ll work you into more prose,” he whispers not so poetically as intended with subtlety. She stays every time and says she doesn’t have any plans in going anywhere anyway.

Meeting

When their eyes locked they knew. All awkwardness melted to the floor. Puddles of it where left as reminders to the audience.

The look was long. The first 54.2 seconds no nerve endings twitched, no bones rattled and not a single word was uttered. A great sensation of paralyzing calm swept the floor, and swept them both.

She comes up.
He comes up.

They were intertwined even with space. And they knew like they always knew all along. Sparks caught fire when pressed together.

It was perfect.

Waiting

The wait is crippling. It was like being in the hospital, just sitting down there with their number palmed. Every second they glance at their numbers as if that would help make things go faster like in the movies and TV shows where everything speeds up in a drugged up amphetamine phase. It’s the hardest feeling in the world.

Each had their own inquisition about the matter, but both come in the same conclusion. It was not wishful thinking. Not at all.

It was being lost at sea and finding its shore. No one truly waits forever because sooner or later that time would come. The decision of which way to look at it lies on the eye of the beholder. The main characters of the story. Your story. My story. Our story.

The more you look at it, the more clear that things are worth it. The harshness and bleakness of the world has a silver lining.

We’re all waiting for something.

.112107.

Green

He was green. Sifting through the letters he got greener every second. Peek 824545201 was pulsating in the airwaves setting a mood. A long list of stagnancy protrudes through the static of the screen, could almost hear the crackle and the pop. He caught himself staring at binary. 1’s and 0’s flooded his sockets; it was like staring at the machine’s soul.

On the outside (or did you ever stop to think it might be in the outside?) torrential downpour gathered puddles and small children – laughing, hooting, hollering, pointing accusing fingers merely in jest. All joyous occasions come during December – the rain, Christmas, the birth of your savior Jesus Christ.

He was green. Green as if he was glowing with radioactive waste. In the darkness of his territorial bubble, he was his own night light. A green glow that could enter glass tubes and could transport itself through different places – a whole time zone worth, GMT, EST, DST… time, time that is slowly but surely running out. Hourglass syndrome. His head swims into the puddles outside. Detachment. Cold shoulders from ice queens dripping wet as they slowly melt into another puddle, where he will jump into and swim like a shark.

I would like some milk from the milk man’s wife’s tits…

Spinning into a web of who’s talking to who and thoughts of where is this conversation going anyway, sharp pains from blows of a metaphorical hammer to the side of the head pangs his wits. A cigarette isn’t far off to make him puke his heart and place it on his sleeve so everyone could see how much of an asshole he really was in thinking something is amiss.

He crawls into bed with electronic candlelit beeps as a blanket. A name scratching his tongue to the roof of his mouth causes his pupils to dilate. Mechanical puffing.

Green. Green was always his favorite color, even though he always says it’s red or black or mother of pearl. But not this kind of green, the kind of green where a printer loses all its ink. It feels like a coma.

He drinks soda to refresh memories. Or to drown it out. Either or.

Dutifully the shaking eyes close for slumber of approximately 5.32 minutes. The screen glows like an obsidian, the last visions of grandeur and of touch and of intimacy. He crawls back, 5 minutes is up. Time to dance silly little dances of swimming snakes writhing in the salt of the ocean. All it takes to force him to wake up was a paragraph. He was making all this up inside his head.

But isn’t that the fun part of it all?

He was green. But not as green as before. He started to think that maybe he wasn’t even green in the first place. Maybe it was optical illusions with Christmas lights and hanging ornaments outside the window – the constant bane of the season.

Standing next to me
He’s only my enemy
I’ll crush him with everything I own

A sugar was twirling into a cube as he gazed more and more into the constant tangent of specters that plague the new religion of hyperspace. Skin crawling with moss and uncertain periscopes, being born again and swelling to the hilt of unwanted pregnancies. He was green. He was green indeed. Words made him so. That was his assumption, no longer optics.

Certain amount of dream qualities hang on him that it bleeds through his own realities. Can it be a choir that can be acquired as you sleep like the boy who laughed as he wrapped himself in wet sheets to keep from being in heat? In his dreams someone else plays the different villain. In his reality, the same bastard has that eminence of lying to his teeth. A bitter aftertaste perhaps.

He swims and cascades to the depths of the floorboards. The rain has stopped but only for the shortest forever. Those eyes tell stories, but the tangles of the words don’t hold it up for any merit.

He was green. A jade green pendant, as he tortures himself with more baffling sentences versus his sack of self importance versus manic tendencies. It’s turning into a cycle. A redundant quip to postulate an excuse carved in his headboard and embedded in RSS and CSS codes. No wonder he was green. He brought it to himself. A masochist that wants milk delivered to him… in the morning.

The wires obtruded through his speakers and onto his ears. Melancholy prism cut into a shape of a blizzard, amputated senses of blurred out emoticon kisses and hugs, cleverly disguised as xoxo. And these guises are hollow point shells shot into a barrel filled with baby powder and care. The appliances talk and he can’t keep up.

He sits back and watches as he glows into a more neon color. Or odor. Whichever is appropriate enough to describe the meandering senses? A voice so oblique to get caught on any tape reel or vinyl scratch.

Qwerty keyboard. Headphones. Microphone. Cellular phones. Smooth voices and accents. Snake charmers. Inside stories of sordid affairs that never worked out but still, the meeting place and timeline is there. Forked tongues.

He was green. He has so many reasons.

He was green.

.121007.