29 March 2011
26 March 2011
Mrs. Hogan was a dark, thick set, giant of a woman with a Medusa face which was set in the grim aspect of distain. Her seething cauldron was ever on the verge of boiling over into rage. Mrs. Hogan - Hulk - was our fourth grade teacher, the dictator of a tiny nation who pressed her grapes of wrath. She would crouch before you to unleash her dragon breath – waves of halitosis spiced derision washed over you in a terrifying tsunami of abuse. “You are an imbecile boy – answer the question!” You knew the answer, but your mind was thrall – a rabbit in the headlights. “This boy doesn’t even know that two times two is four!” the class laughs heartily, if nervously. Your face flushed with embarrassment and shame, but the true humiliation came later in the playground – when the humour got physical.
The heavy breasted Spartan tyrant ruled over her Helot minions with a mixture of violence and sarcasm. She sat at the head of the hierarchy of bullies – if she fingered you the rest were sure to follow. The nice kids, the middle class kids, were treated with fawning respect, but the poorer kids were reviled. Mrs. Hogan could strike with sudden fury hauling children by the hair, or dragging them by the arm in a vice like grip to the front of the class to be subjected to tirades of furious abuse while she slapped them around the head.
The days were long in Mrs. Hogan’s class, long and tortuous – especially if you were one of those less favoured children singled out for her special attention. “If brains were taxed you would get a rebate boy!” the children laughed, even those who were not quite sure what she was saying. “What do you have between your ears, a vacuum?” You had discovered long ago that even if you answered her enquiries correctly she would mimic you in sneering tones, and so you had fallen into silence. This was a tactic that had singled you out as the class idiot – your silence was growing ever deeper, until there really was a vacuum at the centre of your being.
Then one day something happened to rouse you from your reverie. The class was filing though the door after recess, some of the other kids were sniggering, and Mrs. Hogan had a face like thunder. When everyone was seated she took up her Mussolini stance – hands on hips before the class. The sunlight glinted off lenses of her horn rimmed glasses obscuring her eyes and giving her an even more inhuman aspect than usual. Her face was engorged with rage, “Who is responsible for this abomination?” she was pointing behind her towards the blackboard which bore the inscription scrawled in white chalk – “The Phantom Piddler Was Here!” beneath which was a small puddle. The class suddenly erupted with mirth, which was cut short by the dragon’s glare. “There is nothing funny about this disgusting display of savagery!” she intoned. “I want the culprit to come forward right now.” Moments of silent tension passed while she stared down the whole class. No one came forward.
For the next two days Mrs. Hogan simmered in her quiet rage, exploding occasionally in a seemingly random pattern at any pupil who irritated her – even her squeaky clean favourites were not immune. The question of the phantom piddler weighed heavy on her mind and was the chief subject of debate and speculation in the playground. Who was our masked hero, when would he strike again? We had not long to wait until he did. Two days after his first attack the phantom struck again in the same spot. This time he left the epitaph “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” Mrs. Hogan could barely control her rage. She flew on her broomstick around the class accusing each of her most ‘troublesome’ boys in turn, until she came to you. “No,” she said, “You don’t have the gumption, even for this.” It was the most hurtful thing she ever said to you.
The next time the piddler struck it was a dagger to her heart. He left a puddle on her desk and scrawled “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” across it. There was the usual rage and enquiries and threats, but it was becoming apparent to everyone that Mrs. Hogan was impotent in this face of the Phantom Piddler, our very own Zorro. From then on the classroom was always locked in Mrs. Hogan’s absence, but this did not stop our intrepid piddler. He struck again in the cloak room taking the time to leave his calling card, “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” and against the classroom door, on which occasion he scrawled, “They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There, They Seek The Piddler Everywhere!.”
The Piddler was a cause célèbre in the playground; everyone celebrated his exploits and speculated on his identity. Then one day, as we settled into another afternoon of boredom laced with terror, Mrs. Hogan called Alex Harvey to the front of the class. As you turn to watch him pass you notice that Anne McKenzie has turned beetroot red, Alex glowers at her as he passes, she was our quisling – She had seen Alex in the cloakroom and felt it was her duty to squeal.
Alex walked slowly, yet confidently, to the front of the class where Mrs. Hogan launched into a tirade of accusatory abuse, “You dirty little boy! You are the source of these disgusting incidents; it makes me sick to look at you!” Even though The Hulk was livid with righteous indignation and shouting right into Alex’s face he remained quite impassive, until The Hulk laid hands on him to shake him by the shoulders. It was then he came to life wrestling her off him, he cried out, “Leave me alone you old bag!” There was a muted murmur around the classroom. The Hulk stared at him in disbelief, “What did you say?” The shortest boy in the class Alex drew himself to his entire four feet in height and replied, “Leave me alone!” The gorgon grabbed him by the arm and attempted to drag him from the classroom into the corridor. Alex was a blur of hands and feet as he kicked and punched at the hulking woman who outweighed him ten to one, for a moment they actually traded blows, until Mrs. Hogan suddenly disengaged. She stood panting and staring her young advisory for a moment before saying, “Go back to your seat!” Some of the boys let out a cheer, Mrs. Hogan stared at the class and said, “Don’t make me deal with you too!” The unmistakable voice of Malcolm Fox, the class joker, piped up with “When you get your breath back” and the classroom sniggered openly.
The Sensational Alex Harvey, as Foxy dubbed him, was our Spartacus. He didn’t set us free, but he loosened our chains. For the remainder of the term Mrs. Hogan did not raise her hands to any of her pupils and though her sarcasm was withering, it was not as malignant as it was. There was a new attitude too in the playground - there was still bullying, but it was not vicious without the orchestration of the wicked witch. There was a new sense of unity amongst the class and for the rest of term the Sensational Alex Harvey – The Phantom Piddler ruled supreme as our king. When the class reconvened after the summer recess the new term began there was no need for The Phantom Piddler. Our new teacher toted a guitar into the classroom the first day and sang a song about Jesus; we knew we were free at last, free at last.
23 March 2011
There’s a random axis of mediocrity that drive most events into historic insignificance – and mountains of instances and circumstance taken together provide enough momentum to turn a planet. Six billion codas that reference love and hate, joy and despair, hope and despair weave a tapestry of mundane, ordinary, scenes that depict the stories of our lives. There are oceans of coincidence and chaos, ineptitude and stupidity that coalesce to form the narrative of history. There are hoards of noseless tribesmen who spited their faces for principles sake, who shot their feet when they jumped the gun, and were hoisted on petards of their own design. The annals of hysteria record a catalogue of accidental crimes inflicted on innocence that were caused by hubris and prejudice. There is no need for evil in a world of petty minded tyrants and ignorant sycophantic shit herders, where the blind lead the blind through mazes of irrelevance and idiot prophets spout the gospel of ignorance and superstition. There is no order, new or old, to the procession of events monumental and miniscule – glorious and grotesque in the march of history. There is no great architect, no grand design to explain the chaos of currents and eddies in the ebb and flow of the tides of time. Shit happens and shit stinks, shit gets thrown and shits sticks, and the whole fecund mess is as devoid of meaning as the scrapings from your shoe.
15 March 2011
There is such a place as the ghetto of the soul where the living dead dwell in tenement constriction on streets narrow of mind and crooked in logic. It’s a place where no news is good news and nothing ever happens unless it happens to you. Where reason means justification and justice means revenge, where the fist is mightier than the word and might means right – each and every night. There is a deprivation of the spirit in the slums of maggoty dilapidation were ignorance lives cheek to jowl with antipathy and jet fierce carrion crows and mangy craven sewer rats devour hearts shriveled with neglect and burdened with regret.
Shadow orphans play chicken with blades and needles in rooms too dark to read. The only words to reach them are amplified for the hard of thinking – dogs and bitches barking in the feral language of the pack. Arms streaked red with blood drawn in ritual self sacrifice are out stretching in search of the inchoate – the anything high or low that will get them out of there – if only for a moment. The desperate, voiceless, tribal dance of mutilation is no cry for help, or for unwanted attention. Those tracks and scars are the signature of self loathing – of reaching tentatively for oblivion. Better off dead than living dead, better the one final gesture of contempt for life – than live under the glare of life’s contempt for you.
There’s a kind of poverty that afflicts rich and poor, it starts in your head, but before long it reaches your soul. Helplessness is acquired at knock down rates in the family market; you don’t have to be wealthy to afford disillusionment - mom and dad will gladly subsidize you, your peers will invest in your dereliction – it’s their duty. Don’t believe that the suffering volunteer, they are conscripted, press ganged into that army of grieving souls who abide in the destitution of precincts internal. Their predicament is neither fashionable nor interesting, they are not benighted and bored goths affecting an indolent pose - they are the afflicted, beaten and abased orphans of obscene asylums. No-one was ever born in this ghetto – they are exiles. No one was ever made this way – they were broken.
10 March 2011
And behold, a pale horse, and he who sat on it, his name was Death and Hell followed with him. Authority over one fourth of the earth, to kill with the sword, with famine, with death, and by the wild animals of the earth was given to him.
There’s bloody ragged asymmetry in the venomous staccato klack klack klack of death. A numbing repulsive shock in life made meat, of carrion children staring blank and lifeless into the sun. Fat flies beelzebuzz in the fetid stench of bloated, rotted corpses – maggot food festering in graveyards of uncounted dead, the scattered tokens of war – assault trifles.
The sky is ripped open with the rolling thunder of afterburn; these warbirds screech havoc and let loose the heavy collateral. Those mutha’s down there are gonna get char grilled when them puppies come home – KABOOM – crispy fried – lets cook some gook. Laser guided mayhem, pin point accurate J-godDAM! – They leave a big fuckin' hole! Million dollar smart bombs to take out piss poor ignorant villagers - Star Wars vs. Stone Age - who’s your money on?
It’s the same old story of death or glory for every gung ho member of every mean green killing machine lost in the fog of war - our might is right - its freedom we’re fighting for. The clamour and chaos in the heartless darkness means kill or be killed, there’s no morality in war. So cry Geronimo and here we go – shoot first and ask questions later, kill all infidels and agitators, consider every one you see as a potential enemy.
The scorched earth is a charnel house – the dead are a monument to carnal ignorance and the cold calculus of mechanized warfare – there are no innocents, only the unlucky. There are plenty more where they came from – there’s never a shortage of theatres for the rabid dogs of war to act out their drama of death. In the pyrotechnic splendor and the horrific bloody carnage of organized aggression – in the stories of heroic sacrifice and villainous atrocity – there is a histrionic artistry – a profane glamour of hellish dimensions. This war will make a great movie man; ‘Apocalypse Now And Then.’
Skull graphic by Steppenwolf
9 March 2011
8 March 2011
6 March 2011
I’d like to fist your face – ram my heat into that gaping maw to stifle the spewing of verminous edicts and poisonous articulation that echoes through that empty brain pan of yours. I want to grab each dirty matted syllable by its worm tongued tail and stuff it back down your throat into the black vascular vacancy of your seething bitter heart. Your banal stream of unconsciousness is a parody of thought – clown words with big grotesque fuck off feet that trip and stumble ugly into my tired ears. That acerbic acid rhetoric burns my inner skin and parches my mind. Your bitter taste permeates the organs and vessels of my fleshy empire, scorching my earth and pillaging my population. Every time you open that repulsive mouth of yours I feel like I’m being held ransom by an amoeba. You drain my strength – you suck me dry like a bath of leeches.
You gobble up facts like an omnivorous vacuum cleaner, which is why your head is full of dust and shit. That gluttonous, acquisitive thirst for knowledge you lay claim to is really an overwhelming need to be acknowledged. You can’t lay claim to thoughts, because all your thoughts are borrowed and overdue, like your books. The edifice of your knowledge towers like a pygmy lurking in the shadow of cognition. You have a talent for engineering mountains into molehills, reducing the inspirational into the inconsequential in the paltry cauldron of your hubris. You stand astride this world a like Lilliputian god, a colossus of the molluscs – all the knowledge in you brims over, like an ocean poured into a thimble.
I think your knowledge is a burden; it brings you no joy, because everything you’ve learned has only fuelled your delusions. You are the Napoleon of conceit, an emperor of denial, living in the fractious quarter between grandiosity and desolation. Every situation calls for anxious new equations – can you make a bid for the centre of attention? Will you play it safe on the central reservation? You get your ya ya’s trampling on the feelings of anyone you perceive as weak – brow beating them with the ten cent words and ideas you borrowed from readers digest. You’re a passive – aggressive pick pocket with a treasure chest of minimal triumphs gained in awkward instances. You celebrate your skirmishes in the isolation of your fantastic dramatic reconstructions; you told them good – they sure know now, you are exceptional, lord of the whole shit pile. You stand stand out amongst the masses, the perturbations of the mediocre, the machinations and hatred of the herd, the true individual who, like Christ, has the courage to embrace the inner worth and convictions of the elite being.
Yes, you’re one in a million, a prince among paupers. You’ve turned egotism into an art form and all your vices into virtues. You steal candy from babies and you’ve learned to suck your grannies eggs, but in the heaving concealment of your narcissus slumber your pool reflects the empty image of a vacant soul. The tarnish of your armour shines brittle and stained from the mire in which those victories were won, with deeds less valiant than they are petty minded. Your mind is crowded with recollections of cringing servile retreats in the face of forces cognizant of your minor league status. Your house of cards folds its hand within your chest with a laxative slump when your bluff is called and moments of embarrassment last an eternity in the dark hallways of your memory. It’s then, in the concealment of your empty bed, that the snagging doubts tug your Achilles heels and drag you down into the depths of the sullen certainty that you are merely a tin god, a broken idol, a hollow man and that you are not a winner – because you never ran.
4 March 2011
Now I am sent out as a sheep amongst wolves…. my ravening pride, my lists of fools - to bleat in complaint and quote the rules, to bitch in ardent misery about my fellow man and reminisce about the good old days before the rot began. To cast myself again in bronze and build a glittering alter to my ego and sing my praises before its mirrored surfaces. Sing hosanna to the king of ding-a-lings! Give me smugness of the heart, give me praise, Grant me this day; moral authority, infallibility and wisdom omniscient. For I am the big dong, the power and the glory forever and ever - and ever and ever.
As harmless as a serpent and courageous as a dove.; the hawk that’s first to squawk - the Prophet Chicken Little – the sky’s about to fall, if you don’t listen to me it’s gonna crush you all. I’m the keeper of the wisdom gleaned from several books, I know all we need to know – I’m the one who knows the truth. The truth is you are all sinners – at least compared to me, except of course for Jesus and the preachers on TV. I know right from wrong and I tell you everything is wrong, but I am right, you know I’m right - I’ve been right all along!
And I shall know the truth, and the truth shall set me free. I won’t hide my lamp under a bushel, I’m gonna shine this little light of mine - I’m gonna spread the gospel of me, me, me. I can see you all you know, and I know what you do. I know that you’re no good because I’m keeping tabs on you. The Lord he sits in judgement and he can plainly see that you’re swimming in a cesspool of your immorality. You have no moral fibre, no sense of decency; you say you’re human beings, but your animals to me.
You queer, kyke, bead mumbling, clam brain, holy roller, raghead, redneck, nigger, spick, chink, wap, dago, commie, liberal, abortionist, junky, slacker, whores and third world beggar bastard monkeys are the immoral majority. You were fruitful then and multiplied, but for Chrissakes show some restraint. I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have no love for you. For you are beasts of the earth and I despise the things you do. Although you walk and talk like men – the children of God you ain’t. I am by no means perfect, admit that I may have sinned, but next to you people – I’m a goddamned saint!
You disgust me with you vanity, your foul mouthed profanity and your sexual obsession – I hope AIDs teaches you a lesson. I hope you’ll be reformed when your children are deformed. A prayer from a righteous man's mouth reacheth to the ears of God, and his judgment comes swiftly. When it comes to you, I hope it comes quickly. I am not a bit like you, and of that fact I’m proud. For I am one day heaven bound, where no queer, kyke, bead mumbling, clam brain, holy roller, raghead, redneck, nigger, spick, chink, wap, dago, commie, liberal, abortionist, junky, slacker, whores and third world beggar bastard monkeys are allowed.