Being hungry …
I was hungry, and the cop fed me mustard mead and dimbo-fat and the smashed animals the county workers found along the road; dried and grizzly, meager portions for wolf men.
I was in the hole and the cop tossed in two rats and an old cat and a man that had no hands. I was hungry. He smiled and laughed and took his cigarette and put it out in my belly button and said “see there BUM … I can burn you!”.
We are the struggle’rs that scrape by on donkey-grease and pickled feet and hornet droppings. We gather the yellow paste that is left behind after the late city summer rains. We congregate near 67th Street, where Krazy Klif makes blunket-tea and harvests the scorn eggs and baboon scat.
By the curb? – the wizard freak would sell sand-storm horses that were used as munkis. We BBQ’d those horses slowly, on spits, and savored their flesh in the summer light. But the hunger was deep and the french fry tempest could not be soothed by suckling on winter grapes, OK?
AND THEN THE VOICE IS HEARD …
A voice coming from gentle field X-Y and containing golden smatterings of crispy delight. I could hear it clearly as the hookers were being chased down the street by pimps with dogs on chains …
A broken voice of contempt, something from the shadows.
My demon speaker, my spirit voice uttered “GOORD” and showed me this sign …
“The meat in the larder is rotten”, and then GOORD was shown over the columns of the Lost City … the city of scavengers and night people and the scrumbly folk that cover their bodies in dirt. GOORD was FOOD and FOOD was GOORD … this is what I was told in the darkness of night.
“You will eat the feast of the city, as the sky turns red and yellow and the rain burns …”, the demon emissary stated – and in his voice was the crackling of white hot terror. You could see the smoke, in the air, in the sky. The swamp mist of devils dropping poison. The clouds of brown and black and poison and death. All the vitamins and minerals, floating down.
I was hungry. I stared into the obelisk of contradiction and found a hotdog labeled “truth”. And the mustard was spent sexwax and the lettuce was just old dead leaves. We could go for days chasing hamsters, but instead we drank from the well of tomorrow land fortunes and harlots.
Colorado Harvey showed me the hieroglyphs …
He showed me the old cave in Oak Park, not far from where they buried the uncle of Al Capone. He said there were people there, ancient people, who’d been on the run for 37,000 years. They called themselves “Odah”, but their license said other names … human names. They were the last, so they found a place.
Harvey said “see these SYMBOLS! … this indicates a great bounty to the west …”
“DAK MO YUUL”, screamed Harvey.
It means “Clear Water Minerals”, and this points to protein seas.
CLEAR THE MIND of toxic injunction, leaving the threadbare maidens waiting on drunk carousers as they hunt boar in the forest of wondering. The WATER is PURE mind-splash, and we can walk into those waters. MINERALS fill our insides with power-puss to make merry while the stale evening turns ripe and the monsters seek crow serum.
In the time of belly-back honey smoked gimlets? – we would spend our nights drinking the pus-whiskey of ghosts and shaman-lords and the lost frog people of Phoenix. In those days the Queen of Hospitality ran a cheap hotel, a place filled with bedbugs and mold and dying flesh looking for the fastest way out.
Harvey was the Gurn-Lord, he oversaw the great gates and allowed only those disreputable manifestations that had the mind-blindness of too much reading and too little fucking. The sands blew north that year and General Vrook took his armies to Montreal for a little fun …
“TRAGAK” … Harvey yelled again …
With a tight fist and piercing/angry gazes … he leads his sklunken-folk to the rail-race, as horses lose their legs to pale missionaries wearing old leather pants. If he could walk that trail to the waterfall and view into the pool he’d see where the fish were … and the bones.
Dragons chase me through the swamps, as I look for fruits and vegetables and dead toads and old bones. Dragons leave their residue, and I gather it up and make a stew – I take old hog placentas and squirrel livers and the beaks from dead pigeons. All of this is gathered and all of this is the fruity pebbles …
Food in the FIELDS awaiting harvest. The fruit of ages standing against the dusty forgotten times of dead winds and burning homes. The protein wench will have sausages and beef steaks and burgers and ribs and potato salad – but nowhere in this can we find salsa? NO! The spice will be left for others, and the currant will be thrown into the mix.
“CHANGE YOUR FLUIDS!” cried TOOBLAX, as demon sorcerers made their way to my prison cell and sold me a vision of bacon and eggs and forbidden toast.
These other voices of FOOD will tell you of zesty and savory, but not the honest perspective of a man chasing down another man …
A man, in the night, covered in grindo-sweat … fists caked with dried blood … A MAN seeking flesh to gnaw on and marrow to suckle? This creature is a hunter … a finder … a careless knave … too uninterested in survival to find it.
The flesh is found clearly by the roadside, not far from the travelers. It is found in the meadow, off the road, where that old woman was killed. It’s hiding monkey-pie and Alabama sausage gators and old worn out cotton candy killers using snake-knives and rope covered in broken glass … The flesh is filled with desire and desire for FOOD and WHAT IS FOOD?
Food is WHAT you stick in your mouth man …
(it’s what you eat)