Category: Planetary Status Reports

Here is what I believe is true:

THEY, whoever THEY are, are lying.

They are lying about the nature of space.

They are lying about the climate, on ALL SIDES, to include your favorite OIL corps.

They are not going to tell you the truth.

They don’t care if you die.

THEY want you scared of drag queens and black clad freaks and Putin and TRUMP …

They want you confused about the world …

They PIXELATED your dollar store pleasure palace, and left ALICE the hornet skid looking for woop-sauce and cranberry junk. They rubbed one out to OLD SMOOTY as your family ate sand maggots and fed on upholstery stew. Carter sent his corn cob your way, and your momma gave it love …

THEY LEAVE your heart broken and filled with trouble. Promises of vengeance and glory and GREATNESS, but what you have is the CHEETO BANDITO staring down the glassy fox strugglers, combing the beach for bits of Fukushima reactor and dockside poetry is read the feddle-fish.

They BUY THE WORLD for a pittance, and hand you the door grangler expecting pus to fulfill your meat wishes …

They sell burgers to the FANCY FLINGERS and other BOOMER FINKS out there cruising in their EASY RIDER electric scooters, looking for the VILLAGES entrance, but getting stuck and eaten by gators instead … They said they’d call …

I’m gonna start rhoiding out … taking HGH and other stale intoxicants that will reshape my midsection and lead to GREATER LIVES through science …

I’m gonna start eating vegetables, and clean fresh mountain sprites. I’ll live off of the dirt magnets and steal the spark from Chem, the gardener. I’d see my six pack abs breakout, ass a woman’s boovula bursts like a blood blister. And ain’t NOBODY gonna stop me, ain’t no one gonna care.

I’m gonna start time traveling again. I’ll go back to 1833 and make love to Duchess Shiva, as I ingroobulate her boovula and stroke her strinct. Clever forgers will make me guardian fists and glowing gauntlets, and I’ll have the eel pie after the old lady dies.

I’m gonna, dude.

I’m gonna find my kids. I got kids sprayed all over S. Korea, and Indiana, and Tennessee, and WA state.

I’ve got so many kids all over the place, stuck to walls, dried on to some bit of paper towel, or old sock.

My kids scream in the night for their papa, for their COZY LAND.

I’m gonna WIN BIG.

I’ll head to WALL STREET and open up a trading account with Block and Streakly. I’ll trade pork bellies for lemon juice, I’ll do a smoothie arbitrage as I drink my Orange Julius and marvel at my brand new suit.

Next year my underwear model wife will love me.

I’m gonna become a pirate.

My air ship dirigible will patrol the skies in search of easy prey. I’ll grab an 747 filled with fat boomers headed to VEGAS, and chop up their gold teeth, and toss the fregen-droogs from that commie altitude understood by Pinochet.

Eat their steak!

I’m gonna get abducted by ALIENS …

I’ll camp out at SKIN WALKER RANCH and summon CHARLO the REGAL SPUNK and await my reaming. They’ll come down in laser ships, armed with wharf bundles and hammer sklid.

Those aliens will anally rape me, for hours, and then wipe my memory.

I’m gonna heal the black community.

I’m gonna get on in there with my WHITE GINGER WAYS and teach them celtic love magic. I’ll caress the true hearts of African American power, and bring greater joy to Wakana and S. Chicago.

The street warriors will bow to me as HAG LORD RULER!

You walk around all special, like you own the sidewalk and the alley. You steal from the old ladies, just trying to buy their old lady underwear and hosiery items? – you gonna get it …

You seem SO COOL while catching the L-TRAIN to Camino Heights to meet Tracey, your hooker lover. She scrapes the snail wax off of your knob, and you go to town making kelt-magic in her boovula …

DAMN YOU TO SCREEGLE VILLE …

YOU TALK YOUR WALK and meet old Jester Simms on the veranda to discuss corn mash and scrizzle?

You SWELL with your nice home and indoor plumbing?

LIVE LIKE THE DOG MARTYRS!

But you eat cat scat and die among the cocaine warlords of S’compton. You don’t have a way out.

DAMN YOU TO GRINKEN TOWN!

Take your dirty bird wife and your sour kids and your mangy cat and live under the bridge near the solid waste incinerator.

Tie up your dreams and leave them to die on the subway tracks, along with your festering questions about “aliens” or “bigfoot”.

S’KLEZZ merchants sell their wares to sleeper agents and BMW mechanics. Guarded and inward thinking, these basil kindred dwell in time’s gap and NO ONE is taking their fruit wraps.

You can master the same power of FLIGHT, and go to the MOON like BUZZ ALDRIN, but you need love.

THE MOON is the STAR PRINCESS!

She dances with herself, in her large bed, satin sheets, and boovula sauce dripping EVERYWHERE.

She makes love like the comet apes that chisel out graffiti on all the Kuiper Belt objects. Her own glistening signals the coming of LOVE MASTERY.

DAMN YOU AND YOUR FOREHEAD ALIEN!

I’ve seen you looking in windows at 3 AM, trying to find some “honey love” to smoke out your passion.

I’ve seen you driving, late at night, cruising the strip and talking the sidewalk honeys – all of whom have severe genital crabs and herpes.

DAMN YOU TO S’COMPTON!

That’s a place for YOU!

You can eat the roach paste at the mission, where OLD SARA tells you to “pull on her wet kitten”, and you refuse, so she tosses you out into somber realm.

YOUR HEART IS POLLUTED MOTHER FUCKER …

But you only hear whale-hawks.

I’d cancel your NETFLIX, you won’t be needing it – not in the mines of Torg.

You will be tossed into the great crusher, where your bones will be mashed and thrashed and your tiny heart will be nothing but a slowly drying stain upon the cave wall …

WE DON’T CARE about YOU!

I couldn’t fathom why she burned my world down, why she left me with Old Sid.

I cared for her, and her cats, and her collection of musil pipes – and NOT ONE thank you … Just her cold stare at midnight, and the pale softness of her knife’y heart.

SCREAM AT THIS UNIVERSE OF KAI …

NO ONE IS GOING TO SAVE YOUR CATS!

They are condemned for being furry and whimsical, their plight was known before the dinosaurs sold espresso, across from the TOWER RECORDS that was shut down a decade ago …

NO ONE NEEDS YOUR WHINING!

We want your whistling to stop, scumbag.

THUNDER JUGS?

ROOF POSSUM?

KYLE SLICE?

It goes by many names, colors.

I grabbed your lice quiche at the sandwich shoppe, and ate among the hoolie scabs who would frequent the hipster scene.

I savored that pulled turkey sandwich on sourdough, and made certain they knew it!

DAMN YOU FOR MAKING ME LOVE YOU!

I was your grey master, and you were my mountain bunny.

I carved sweet signs into your heart, and you stapled my junk to your dreams.

There was a time when I would have JUMPED THE SUN for you, and stolen Apollo’s sword grease – you know it.

SKATES AND RAYS!

I took a turn with my pole, on the pier, next to BIG BERTHA and her screaming kids …

I would cast that lure deep into the blue, imaging coasting monsters below, and how much of a hero I would be if could catch one.

But the sharks were dosed on ketamine wine.

KETAMINE WINE?!?

Sure … we drank that stuff in junior high, while we smoked cigarettes and listened to “rock and roll”.

Elvis was our home room advisor, and his spicy wench would squeeze her double-ds into a blouse and pant suit, and still we saw the dust ferret.

Coodies?

DAMN YOU TO COODIE VILLE!

The Devil won’t stop you …

The Devil sits near the rim of the world, where the soldiers of tomorrow prepare.

The Devil owns most of the WWW, and eats fried chicken with Old Farmer Brown.

NOTHING interrupts his private time, and the Devil sees you.

The Devil sells his postcards to wandering shit heads, bespoke of in the annals of NORDING.

The Devil shakes your intention, and offers you mist candy and rotten cheese …

BUT YOU ARE A HILL BABY!

You took the PILL before the shill court decided your fate.

BE A WINNER PAL!

I DAMN YOU TO BE A WINNER!