Jack nug

The Nuts magazine roosts in my cabinet chambers like a boisterous hen kept silent by shame. Looking up from my office I point my head in the direction of that reviled altar’s contents and belch madly into the crease of my arm, nearly begging for absolution from a savior I’ve taken years of soulful mediation with my inner-demons to vanquish. Ensconced tri-petal roses with bloated stems twist and jerk through the air to flutter endlessly at my eye-level, admonished from judgement by a twitch of my left eye perceived as a youthful wink. And the sun’s gone dim from lack of use.

I shuttle a smudged screen between the palms of my hands and susurrate trifle, celtic whistling tunes with a twee smirk trickling from under a fountainhead of perpetually fraudulent frowns. The mountaintop gives me a look of bliss before it passes into eternal rest and shirks dividends of ore into my savings account; god bless. Twinkling before the crystallization of my automobile's exoskeleton I hold the hose of hopeful condensation as the scepter of a babbling king with addled brains and a heart for entreaties of necessitated bloodshed. There can be nothing but the fiefdom bond of elders to youth and the madness that dilates pupils in the night as I cower in the cobweb corner with pulsation in hand and florid cheeks of nauseatingly potent enigma.

Here’s to wishing the allegories of truth within musky volumes of entombed tragedy will make themselves clear as a chintz mattress for the deceased. A singularity of paroxysms gesticulating from the innate insanity flooding the oak skulls of tearful puppets shrieking. Let’s stop drop and roll into blistering fields and acres of burr-stained grass to gain freckles for the ends of our aging noses and to (by chance) make amends to that Molochian inching towards sanctity that we’ve been ignoring for eons of teenage years.

Visions of Nixonite anathemas spew from my pineal gland as the reaches of night swath over my bed and cradle my stunted sense of development with a tattered breast. Phenomenon-somnolence jabs at the back of my skull with an iron-knuckle, beheading my ego as a spoon incises scoops of vanilla phantasmagoria. Lingering ochre bursts of sulfurous mutiny are dashed on the plateau of destiny maiming security. We lounge together on the grape-leaf couch in a black lotus stupor and call out for servitude, only to receive recessive replies from motes of rebellious dust.

Sun grows dim as this very earth speculates its existence in a grouping of clusters and cosmic consonances. I sit up in an amalgamation of laundered sheets avoiding sleep and pondering the futility of apathy and the usefulness of generality, too vacuous to reach satisfaction but too narrow in my efforts to achieve finality.

It’s like an adage to tearful androids bellowing metaphysical poetry into stark expanses of cordless myopia, “The sky was blue,” they shriek in perfectly pitched tonalities, “The daybreak of aphasia and anhedonia draws a blurred version of a dualistic existence,” they dial into morse-codexes containing subterranean messages clicked across wire-transfers directly into the pseudo-biological chemical transiences that compose their craniums.

We lose what it means to be children in adulthood, and we lose what it means to be humans as we shed flesh for slick chromium and drain blood funneling into sickeningly large, looming factories that excrete rivers of oil to be lapped up by homicidal workmen.

Country folk dawdle with useless spectacles dripping from their noses like forgotten sticks of butter on scorching pavement. Hipsters spread their lips in screams of consummation, desiring vittles and prattling nonsense to pool at their feet to advance the effort of slip-n-sliding into Nirvana. Woozy, I wonder if they’ll ascribe significance to the fact that every minute or so I squirm with uncontrollable pelvic thrusting and genital genuflection.

What’s bad if nothing can be good and axioms are abandoned like torn-up contraceptives? I am number 420, ribcage filling up with a delicately brewed mixture of vapor and wary air, pummeling my hippocampus with memories that either never occurred or only fashioned themselves in materialistic dreamscapes.