Wednesday, May 18, 2016

THE BEAST

and the Billboard is All and the Billboard is Good; Marked intentions the words “SEX” and “BUY” airbrushed into her wholesome face. Big, grinning pie.
“Long days on the combine but the fields hadda grow an' the cattle hadda eat. Yesterday I seen Phil an' he was droppin' one of the fuckers' hands on the compost heap, but this was a weekly occurrence. They don't alla' time grind proper.”
FIGURE ONE: Anus with feces protruding, no toilet to deposit it into. Tits, ass and money. Lint wads. Landscape of staunch, quivering faces, clusters of used-up genitals.
Do you really think it matters to The Company whether you sit on the side of the fence that says, “Pro-Life” or the side that says, “Pro-Choice”? They own the subsidiaries that manufacture both the Home Pregnancy Test and the Home Abortion Kit....either way they walk home happy.
The Loudspeaker barks, “do unto others behind the yellow line!”
SURVEY OF CHANNEL ONE:
Bite your subversive sound point the targets your enemies. Sit politely. Propagate. Galvanize. High level flatulence. Message from our sponsor. Negate and Blamesay. Your boy is a racketeer and we have the numbers to prove it. Prime delicacies sauteed with marching anthems. Endemic machinery, necessity and we have the numbers to prove it. Sit politely. Applaud. Repeat after me. No one is going hungry; let me give you some numbers to prove it. Your boy is incest and sweltering daybreak behind sheds pornos in sticky, cum-wadded stacks we have propagate the numbers. Pray. Sit politely. Those are your overseers and the overseers are good. You like them. Sit politely. Protestant work ethic, work it. Put your back into it; You will be rewarded. Your boy is a cunt-licker like all hell, we have the numbers. Heed the machines, the call is good, the money is good. You are not a cunt-licker or god eg Jesus forbid...it's progress, it's normal. Our demands. We have the numbers. Speed dial our sponsors, the pockets our sponsors. The Call is Good, the money is good. Sit politely. You are power, buy, word, our sponsor. Louder than God. Work it. We have the numbers buy to force it. Brought to you by. Force Freedom. To serve. To die. Starvation hero xerox quote. Icon icon die God Freedom God Sex Buy. Sit Politely. We have the to with numbers prove machines to hell rain down upon genital machine normal majority and it IS your boy word from our sponsor you will see you will march you will numbers to numbers to expert opinion caveat quote numbers to work it.
Thank you America blahblah our sponsor light patriot machines blahblahblah axiom of truth xeno stipend lychmob thank you goodnight.
END OF SURVEY
No one ever did figure out who killed John F. Kennedy, even after the files were opened, what was left of them disseminated for public consumption, even during Sweeps Week, when three TV networks released three films featuring three nubile teenage starlets as Jackie. Othmar skulked home and masturbated bitterly.
It was 1979, I think, that last time we visited Uncle John and Aunt Mary. It was not a planned visit...my parents' divorce had just been finalized and we were out riding.
Uncle John and Aunt Mary had their little house out by the rural route and we could see it from the car nestled in a little glade of trees. We noted the peeling yellow-brown paint, the ramshackle veranda and the sagging roof, the broken-down truck in the dirt driveway and the old hammock dangling between the two trees.
They came to greet us and they both looked pretty haggard----there had been no communication with that end of the family since the divorce. Uncle John and Aunt Mary seemed discombobulated and they spoke with us in harried, vague terms. They told us they neither wrote nor phoned anybody anymore, since wiretaps were commonplace and the Mafia had their fingers in the postal service. We nodded, stayed for sandwiches and kool-aid, then continued on our way.
We happened by there again two months later. The house was gone as if it had never existed.
SURVEY OF CHANNEL TWO:
What you are about to see may shock you. Bated breath what beads of sweat may reveal may concede bite back. We might noxious buy the drug may shock you. Buy our fear. Incriminations. Now for a word from our sponsor. The heavyset woman shaking her fist. Didactic. Propagate. Not in my back yard. Slut. I would never. You go, girl. I would never. Moral outrage. Our fresh-faced mouthpiece.
Be afraid be very afraid color this we have the numbers to prove it. Your boy is a wifebeater what you say vague moral normal outrage upstanding citizen may shock you. Round two your boy is a cunt licker we have the numbers table turned moral outrage. What you see shocks you now for a word we have the numbers to prove it.
Expert opinion vice grip advice lost in the din, cavalcade. What you are about to see. Our sponsor. Stand in outrage. You are not a cunt licker or heaven eg Jesus forbid a sissy it's normal, it's moral. Thou shalt not. See outrage may lick you. Moral upstanding. We have the numbers. Our sponsor likes you. Slut. Don't go there, girl. We have moral outrage. The heavyset woman shaking her fist. She likes you. What she is about to see may shock you. I just don't feel safe anymore. What. You. See. Might. Makes right. Will like you. Our sponsor. Propagate. What it's all about. Your moral outrage. Indignation. Will like. Buy. Will like.
What you are about to blahblahblah transcripts blahblahblah moral outrage xeno stipend lynch mob thank you goodnight.
END OF SURVEY
The Principal tells Your Reporter that the children walking home could not have been raped by the inhabitants of the halfway house that was built between the two schools. “Children lie,” he drools, thirsting for a taste of Amy's torn labia.
Like a telegraph wire the officials dry hump together upstanding mofos pillars of the community and goddammit they all watch each other's backs anyway.
“Respect your Elders and spread 'em!” Commands the loudspeaker.
Shane said Carlos grew a long, brown tail after he hung himself. “You couldn't see it because it was in his pants. You could smell it, though....”
FIGURE TWO: Finacial section of the newspaper. Flash Image of the House Speaker screwing an anemic waif on a billiards table covered with tens and twenties. Underpriviledged babies drooling milky white pablum. Fat stacks of dollars being processed by machines. Austere men with impotent hands folded, talking at long tables....
Jane and Midge smile with resignation and hail to the cushy myth. They assume the position dutifully turn their well-douched pussies inward toward words like fireplace, L.L. Bean, futon and quilt. Words like mother and massive coronary. Words like mollified and jelly clusters. Parched silence as not a breeze passes through once-foamy folds. Puffy, cozy complacency and pink babyfingers, moving up and up in fernlike configurations. “Because you've been so honest with me. So very honest. But the timing is bad. Very bad. Very bad. Very bad. “ Their gobbing boys emerge from hearty tool sheds with cross country ski packages, charming hypotheses, hammers, nails and plywood to put the final touches on genital osmosis...
Fallen out through air. Hope, grasping, incantations and other blundering pug folly. Tiles become sky. And clouds, cumulus wolfpacks, are bloated, pink and damaged.
The schmuck in free-fall. Michaelangelo gave us six bishops in Hell for an appetizer. In a hundred years, what will it matter?
FIGURE THREE: A long spurt of semen running down a silken black slip.
Ambulance glare lights she watched her one-month-old asphyxiated by fast food french fries hauled off on stretcher sheet over head. “Well, fuck,” she muttered, “I don't know what the damn things eat.....”
The trained monkey at the podium postures in front of the jacked-up crowd of Amway Sales Reps. “Bringing up our kids is OUR business,” he proclaims. Much applause.
“Teaching our kids right from wrong.....” here he pauses and you can hear the hamster wheel in his head squealing, “is OUR business!” The throng jerk off en masse and wave little cellophane flags.
Our good working stiff straps his five-year-old down and snuffs out some twelve cigarettes on her skin for talking out of turn. Then he deals her the lethal, concussive blow to the head over a metal railing. At the arraignment he pleads guilty to “good, old-fashioned discipline”.
“I'm for some good, old-fashioned hypocrisy,” declares the First Lady on nationwide cartoons. The audience, six angst-ridden wart hogs, joyously attempt to finger their clits and get lost.
The Minister's wife, a cuntless middle-aged waif with bad skin, reminisces, “I remember the looks on our childrens' faces when my husband and I gave them their regular beatings. They looked so cute the way they used to cry and beg us to stop...” she grins like a sick hyena and stinks of curdled milk.
“Alla yew decent folks will have to find a new way,” barks the rabblerouser in khaki. “Bleeding heart humanists, teachers an' government snoops can't stop yew if yew choose to move out to the back woods an' resort to home schoolin'. That may be the route to go if yew want to raise a child by the Christian Standard---even if that means raisin' a few welts, an' friend, yew an' I both know it does....”
FIGURE FOUR: Cigarette burns on flesh, interpolating feces on white tissue. Compare and contrast. Oncoming truck, ten-ton threatening wheels. A rump inside a cage, shoving to free itself.
Unit 731, Occupied Manchuria...the victims were subject to horrid abuse: Given shrapnel-induced gangrene, injected with germs, poisoned with chemicals or operated on----sometimes without the benefit of anesthesia....all in the name of medical research.
Historians say U.S. Officials agreed not to bring war crimes charges against Unit 731 Leaders in exchange for information about their findings.
“Sometimes dissections were carried out without any anesthesia while the subjects were still fully conscious. They would let out a horrible shriek but then fall silent right away.”
“Why bloodshed?” Pokes the Pilgrim. “Why excuses? Why strongarm?” (Enquiring minds want to know...)
The Man-God reaches into his bag of tricks and performs benedictions with golden dildos. “Because LEFTIST REBELS,” he proclaims. Upon carefully-inserted buzz-phrase, applause track is cued. Mom and Dad head out to the store, shell out for a twelve pack of Coors Light, the Silver Bullet. Meanwhile, south of the border, industrious, fresh-faced knights of might take turns fist, broom and bottle-fucking a twelve year old enemy of the people....they shit, come and vomit all over her and leave her in the tall grass, hog-tied, ruptured, hemmorrhaging and dying, because Leftist Rebels, because Apple Pie. Praise Jeezus, hordes go home and watch TV. Mothers watch windows.
And the loudspeaker says, “truth is dead. Truth is dead and the ground was ploughed over a long time ago. Facts, whatever facts are, have been replaced by factoids, tidbits, erroneous data and carefully-orchestrated pie charts. Educators are being outmoded by ass-kissers and line-towers; Soothsayers are being rubbed out by statisticians and poll-takers, and all around the sound you hear is, 'whose side you on? Whose side you on?' So choose a side! Truth is dead and exhumed as neon cartoon character---truth is a subjective whore up for grabs to the highest bidder and reality and one's perception thereof can be altered by independent studies that will prove conclusively that black is white, given the right payoff. We have the numbers to prove it. The numbers can prove or disprove anything when required. Reality is now completely subjective and frequently subsidized by conglomerates, sponsored by manufacturers and all information is canned and processed. But why take my word? After all, what am I but another liar?”
Icicles of seven fingers clutching. In the scope, apocalyptic ruin...a powerful rectum straining. Fear and hate. “Sorry I bathe---guess that's a minus in your book.” Manifestations of the scarecrow, the death paradox, the Great Castrator. Severed fingertips, end of nose, nipples. Scabs are your stock-in-trade; they tell no tales.
“Bringing up our children,” lawnmower blades, father with knife cowering in the cistern, “is OUR business!” Brown bananas, shit dropping from an exposed ass, blood on gauze. Canned applause, anxious crying fits. Thought you knew, knew not what to think.
The harpy yakks her window-breaking aria: “And perhaps we ought to redefine your harassing laws so we might more accurately discipline problem cases rather than have yet another generation grow up difficult and unruly....?”
Stick a coin in the slot and wait for your mail-order dog to assume the ready position. Insipid smile and curdled goat cheese breath.
“You police their secretions,” squawks the loudspeaker, “all orifices must pass daily muster. And you tell them if they don't like it, that is the Law.”
Daddy throws daughter onto the bed and yanks off duck pattern cotton panties. In pokes a probing finger and he thinks, the wife's been dry and cracked for years.
Boot connects a fifth time into soft belly. “Remember,” booms the big silhouette, “your Mother and I are doing this because we love you. And so does Jesus.”
Our reports read that it took the babysitter ten minutes to pry the second-oldest's penis from the knothole. “Daddy sez we gotta let him keep it in for a long time,” he answers, clear-eyed, with a hint of wisdom in his voice. “At least 'til he pees. Else we get cockroaches for supper.”
“They're not too bad fried,” he muses, “it's just they suck when they's cooked in water.”
CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED, YOU INSOLENT LITTLE FUCK
(the rats, the rats, their teeth)
“Of course, they have only two things in mind when they come to these gatherings---one is sex and the other, of course, is, uh, recruiting.”
Hammering anvils disseminating the rumblings of war. “Word One: Agenda. Your boy is a direct threat, our sponsors, your colors, erase history. Absolve. For you. What you are about. To see. Judge. Lest ye. Our sponsors.”
“There was a loud explosion---then, nothing.”
The salesman smiles down on humanity and doles out big, glittering, ostentatious xmas parcel dribbles a trifle out his chin with fixated, paternal glee orchestrates a singalong. The salesman is good at what he does, bargain basement snake oil circus cosmo quiz riding ten inches candles on your cake. He shuffles back and forth with grace, re-sizes his wedding ring your boy is a cunt licker we have the numbers smooth salesman jizzing a light peppermint flavor. Word from our sponsor is you'll all sing along in tight, organized strafing rounds choirs of angels booming, impassioned. I am sure. I am sure.
Tore out chirping pawn's spaghetti guts in placid glory. “He's doing a good job; Earning his keep.” Tiny eyes glaze over to ebony plastic.
“Yer lean into the shovel or yer lean ON the shovel, yer move or yer stays in place, 'at were t'old way,” grieves the rube. “T'aint 'at way now....damn lazy pieces o'shit.” Pastoral, bitter eyes. Who has heart to break it to his blue balls that t'wasn't then, t'isn't now? The greatest revisionist is nostalgia and the corncob pipe-chawing dreamer gone to seed pumps scum and boyshit into his ugly old dickies. Wall-eyed he tries to sing an old song proferred off a bastard he's rightly railroad but chillun we got the bare bones of history and mystery and nostalgia the great eraser is at work....”dis land ain't your land....dis land am my land...I gotta shotgun...an' you ain't got one...if'n you don't get off, Ise blow yer ass off....dis land am mine an' it ain't your'n....”
His spade am rusty. Leaning. Fuck it; He's earned his rust.
“This shirt has a meaning,” screams Mickey the spazz, pulling his pud. He'll go to brawl, to war, to his eternal reward, for the glory of his shirt. “An' I wear it outta RESPECT! For the rube on whose BACK! Alla this was BUILT! Outta RESPECT! For him that was LIED to! Dicked up the hole! You communist faggot nigger motherfucker!”
Bones stink in gratitude. Chortling, crisp bills change hands up above. Pledge allegiance. Weep sentimentally. Piss your drawers. 
 
IS HE UP THERE AGAIN?
Probably where else would he be?
I'LL BET HE'S BEING IDLE
he's doing what a boy his age does
LIKES HIS “PRIVACY”
he's quiet
WELL THERE'S GOING TO BE AN END TO THAT BOY YOU'D BETTER BELIEVE UNPRODUCTIVE UNSANITARY AND GODDAMMIT LACKING IN DISCIPLINE
it could be worse he's thoughtful he's
BULLSHIT IT'S TIME TO GET THAT KID IN LINE NOTHING WRONG WITH HIM EXCEPT A PERMISSIVE GODDAMN LANDSCAPE YOU STUPID COW YOU'RE CODDLING THAT BOY WHAT HE NEEDS IS A GOOD BEATING
he's done his homework what do you mean?
HE NEEDS DISCIPLINE AND GODDAMMIT MAYBE A LITTLE HEALTHY EXPOSURE WE'RE GOING TO TOSS HIM OUT FRONT FOR A DAY OR TWO AND LOCK THE GOD DAMN DOORS
you know the doctor says it hurts his nerves the outside noises drive him into hysterics sometimes even with the windows closed he
BULLSHIT THOSE DOCTORS DON'T KNOW ANYTHING YOU KNOW THAT ALL THAT BOY NEEDS IS TO HAVE SOME MANHOOD BEATEN INTO HIM AND YOU'D BETTER FUCKIN' BELIEVE I WILL ENJOY DOING IT NO MORE OF THIS SHELTERED LIFE THIS SISSY CRAP BASKING IN WINDOWPANES FUCK THAT FUCK THAT HE HAS NO GODDAMN BACKBONE AND IT ISN'T CHEMICAL HE HAS HIS HANDS DOWN HIS PANTS ALL THE TIME YOU KNOW WHAT HABITS LIKE THAT BREED GODDAMMIT BY GOD AND BY JESUS I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANYMORE THIS IS THE END
I wish you'd listen to reason i'm trying to tell you
VERRRRRRRRYYYYYY CAAAAAAAAAALLLM..........................
Like thunder on ten frequencies feet roaring up staircase stumbling over each other in search of ultimate sex.
“Because forced entry,” stammers the victim, holding up a bloody stub of a wrist defensively.
“Because National Security,” lisps the man at the cocktail party. The metal firewall slams down on five million silent, questing fingers.
“Do as I say, not as I do.”
As a kid I skulked swampy, cesspool-laden back yards with stray dogs and I hid from the sanitation department.
“Supplication word from our sponsor what you are about to see, we'll still have free speech, we'll just have to be careful about using it,” farts the President.
“Decency and values your boy on our blacklist our sponsors I say we string the heathens up in the name of all that's normal,” screeches his two-fisted opponent.
Spin doctors assure Your Reporter that there are actually telling differences between the two.
“One would like to shove Jews in ovens,” sneers one wag, “ the other would prefer to reorganize their numbers into convection heating units.”
“They should fly the flag at half-mast,” gripes the Elder Statesman.
“We should burn the flag at half-mast,” says Othmar. “It's cost-effective---honest, too.”
Jimmy Romeo and A Man Called Five are set up full-time on van detail, disposing of bodies along the beltway. Today's theme: Loose Lips Sink Ships.
“You're for or against,” splutters the Stumphead, “line on up, muthah, an' if you're against your lily-livered faggot ass is gonna answer for it!”
“For tolerance,” peeps the inmate from the cornhole bowels of a maximum security shithole six stories deep.
“Because responsibility,” frumps the well-dressed demagogue at the celebration. He graces the highlands with napalm and converts it all to factories and shopping centers. Danky old widows weep with patriotic abandon. “There's the solution,” he gloats.
YOU FUCKERS STAND UP AND BE COUNTED, spiels the salesman, crushing a crawling refugee under his orthopedic claw. His eyes are wild and he is foaming at the mouth. BECAUSE SECURITY BECAUSE RESPONSIBILITY AGAINST PERVERSION AND LICENSE! BECAUSE INTERNATIONAL BANKING CARTELS BECAUSE LUMP SUM BECAUSE FUTURE LIFE EARNING STREAM! YOUR BOY IS A BUTTFUCKER WE HAVE THE NUMBERS ALL THAT BOY NEEDS IS DISCIPLINE! WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS A MIGHTY RECTUM WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE WILL PLEASE US! BE THE FIRST ON YOUR BLOCK RICE PATTIES DO NOT DRINK THE WATER LOBBY CANING TODAY'S FRESH FEAR REDEFINE WORD FROM OUR THAT BOY CUNT LICKER SISSY NOT IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE THIS TIME OF NIGHT THE TOUGHEST CHALLENGES I HADDA KNOCK HER TEETH OUT IN ORDER TO GET A BLOWJOB WE HAVE THE NUMBERS LINE UP FOR OR AGAINST NO MORE CODDLING YOUR SORRY ASSES THAT BOY NEEDS DISCIPLINE
Forty foot walls of flame, no waiting.
Spindly cornstalk people crammed into shiny sardine cans. Day in, day out, baby. “They would defecate and urinate themselves and eventually vomit out their insides. Cleaning detail could be a bitch.”
The screams went on forever until finally they were sealed in a pretty urn in ornate and curious silence and placed on the mantlepiece for posterity.

Copyright 1995 C.F. Roberts/copyright 2016 Molotov Editions




 
The Beast” was part of this non-linear “novel” I wrote in the mid-to-late '90s called RED, WHITE, BLACK AND BLUE. I'm fairly certain it was the last chapter. I confuse it a lot with something I wrote called “Coda” that was also loosely a part of that project, and that was released as a chapbook by Hyacinth House Publications. They may have been the same piece, or if not they had a lot of interchangeable parts, which was a fairly prominent motif in that book, and in my writing in general at that time. I'm pretty sure I've got the full RWB&B manuscript around here somewhere. I read over this wondering if it would be fresh and relevant in today's world compared to the '90's when I wrote it...yep. Makes as much sense now if not more.

THIS WEEK'S PLAYLIST:
FAITH NO MORE-”Sol Invictus”
Angel Dust”
BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE-”My Bloody Underground”
ALICE COOPER-”Killer”
SISTERS OF MERCY-”Slight Case of Overbombing”

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