Frottage Fever and a Date with the Reaver

Dog Poet Transmitting.......

May your noses always be cold and wet.

It becomes increasingly harder to know what to say; to find that there is anything to say. Obviously it has already been said and the same people not paying attention then are not paying attention now. It's not my alarm clock and it's not my world, that so many are attached to living in. I want the straightest route out of Dodge, too many people want a condo in the center of town. The town expands, intent on drowning the outskirts with its unbearable presence. Implosion looms. Empty rockers rock, in empty rooms.

The density of the spider's web, is conversely equivalent to the density of the web inside the victims heads. Shelob's and she hurls, inky darkness, to swallow the world in night and they're all curled up in their beds of doom, sleep tight. Sleep tight. Tight is the word, tightly wrapped and strapped down by the web. These are the things we dream about. These are the things we dread. It all seemed so nice in the Formica life, till the bombs went off in our heads.

So, it's like that, chattering on in unfortunate rhyme. It seems it amounts to no more than passing the time, while passing through. The same people keep assaulting their associates, like they think there's some light at the end of that tunnel, on that losing proposition. Where they think that is going to take them and what their payoff is, I can't guess. Seek and ye shall find it is the operative consideration but it appears simply finding what is already there, or fabricated to suit them will do. Diminishing returns doesn't seem to factor in. They just keep diminishing, until even the one they are returning to is gone. Maybe that's fitting in any case.

It just makes me tired to see it. Picayune wars, devoid of the conscience that would restrain them, seems to be the order of the day. If you can't come to terms with it or move past it, then you might as well kill it and off yourself in the bargain. I can't see the payoff, I really can't and my words fall on deaf ears, when seeking to reach the aggressive principals, no doubt making myself a target in the bargain. Any time I try to make the peacemaker I get a peacemaker stuck in my ribs, making anything but peace and accompanied by the sentiment that I rest in pieces.

I don't know what it is with people. All I can think is Kali Yuga, Kali Yuga. Words tumble like concrete blocks. Walls get built, hard separating walls. Words you can't take back. Words that stand there, set in stone, like the now meaningless words about truth, justice and the American way. It went this way and it went that way and it rode itself out of town on a rail. They did nothing. They knew nothing and it was all to no avail. It makes you sad but you know it's got to come to something, closely equated with nothing but empty words, trailing off into blasted landscapes, brought about by men and women worth less than the words they used to justify, the nothing and worse than nothing, that they accomplished. They tumble and turn and rest in the sad gutters of the culture they washed down the drain, like the dead leaves of their useless words and despicable acts.

What do you do when there is nothing you can do, when the purpose of demonstration is only to show this? It's cosmic laundry day. Suits and ties are marching from room to room. They look out of the floor to ceiling windows of their corner offices, that look down on the ravages and destruction of their telephone calls, their conferences and fountain pens, moving across documents, that authorize the horrors on the streets below. These horrors that they must believe will never reach these upper floors, that they must come down from to go anywhere and that will one day come up the elevators and stairways to get them and none to soon for the rest of us. The age of unreason sputters and flames. Madame la Guillotine cries out for their heads. It whispers in their dreams. It moans underneath their comfy beds. The day approaches. The days advances, boom, boom boom! Here come the footstep like the drums of Khazad-Dum. Boom, boom, boom! Flaming Balrogs are on the march.

Endless, endless Game of Thrones. There are nothing but bodies draped over couches, strewn about the floors, lying on cobblestoned streets, torn apart by angry mobs. The Bank of Karma is in a bull market with The Age of Torus, so many thousand years in the departed distance, looking through the two way mirror at Scorpio, stinging itself into terrible silence and no eagles seeing or seen, except in some Himalayan cave where the smart money got out of town; “where there is no vision the people perish”.

How can hope and promise find any purchase on such a slippery slope, drunk on cheap wine and ever cheaper dope? Yeah well, yeah well. The witch ain't dead and all ain't well. Heading in the wrong direction, does not lead to the road of good intentions. Jeremiah is howling in the wilderness, as usual, he's not drawing a crowd. Nothing has changed in the hearts of men, since the last time we were here again, boom, boom, boom and one of these days Alice, right to the moon. I remember that story about Jackie Gleason, sitting in a lawn chair, out on a golf course (I think). He had a shot glass of whiskey in his hand, when he tumbled backwards, down a slope and didn't spill any of it. What do you think about that? You can't swing a hat in that small crowded room inside your head, without hitting something that's dead.

It gets like this for me and I can only speak in rhyme. It just happens and probably will happen again soon enough. Turn your head and cough. You feel better now? Lord make these things go viral. Lord give me some boom, boom boom!

Fukushima, Iwo Jima, Louis Prima, come blow your horn, the cats in the cradle, with the children of the corn. The Boogie Man is going up and down the road in his brown panel van. His bat wings are sprouting. The closet door is opening and you're only eight years old. The curtains are rustling and the room is cold, cold as the breath of a vampire on an offered neck. We got plenty of those. Just take a walk down Hollywood Boulevard, or Constitution Avenue any night of the week, werewolves and vampires out on the street.

They say one of the signs you see at the end is rampant cannibalism, literal and figurative, if you count the amount of people, eating each other alive and themselves as a chaser. Drop an extra shot in your boilermaker. You're going to need it and I got to get out of here on a positive note. I'm sorry for all and every person I hurt, in my impatience to get here and not be slowed down, ripping away from the attachment and unable to explain. You can't explain not being attached to the people that are. You can't explain anything, to anyone, whose mind is already occupied by the subject under discussion. They got frottage fever and a date with the reaver, while Steve McQueen still thinks that laetrile is going to do him some good. I kind of miss the guy. No doubt he's already back and so are a lot of other people. John Travolta went into Scientology, to take care of his problem in the first place, as did Tom Cruise, It's a risky business, when you don't take care of business, cause there ain't no business like show business for the purpose of demonstration. Scientology and Satanism, part of the tripod that keeps the action going and why you can hardly find a decent film sometimes; world unchanging, beneath the coverslip of fear, magnificent metropolitan ruins, always in decay. I decry most the loss of generosity to strangers and after that, the bad intentions of strangers upon their hosts. It seems the greatest of loves must suffer the most. Somehow we reach our dreams, whatever they may be, world unchanging, wave upon the sea.

Somehow I got through this and you will too. You find yourself right here where the words are appearing, before your eyes and going by, as the times go by, while all of the already old but seemingly new things, keep appearing and what was over the mountain and in the town on the other side, will soon be in your town and on
your doorstep. The doorbell will ring and you'll have to sign for it. It's like clockwork, it is, till the clocks turn orange and Beethoven is listening, while he still can. Now he's gone and rolled over and Chuck Berry's still got that roll in his jeans. He used to insist on being paid in cash before he would go up on stage. I don't blame him but I still don't get his lying down under a glass table, while some lady squats on the top of it; Kali Yuga, Kali Yuga. You got warned and your train still got lost.

Alright my friends. Let's be good boys and girls. Santa is coming and he's got a list and that other guy is coming too and he's got a list. Yes, he's got a Mikado style little list and there's cold rage and there's outrage and there's what there is of what there is. We got new and improved underwear bombers and the people
responsible, are so filled up with hubris that they now admit it was all their operation. I want Janet Napolitano stripped naked and groped to the bending end on national TV. I want John Pistole's pistole jammed where the sun don't shine, which in his case could be anywhere. I want Hilarious Clinton to shut the fuck up.
Good luck with that one, Visible, good luck.

Time for these boot-heels to be rambling, while the bad guys are scrambling, to Patagonia and wherever they think it will be better for them to hide out, while they finally get those numbers they been missing and locking people up for mentioning, what no one can say and what that is I wouldn't know neither. Adiós, vaya con dios, away and away!


End Transmission.......

Patrick Willis narrates:

Frottage Fever and a Date with The Reaver

Visible sings:

♫ Beautiful Little Oriental Girls ♫

This Sunday's radio show is available for download and so is the Jeff Rense interview.