State of unBeing -- Issue #5 -- Apocalypse Culture Productions

Living in such a state taTestaTesTaTe etats a hcus ni gniviL of mind in which time sTATEfnordsTaTeStA emit hcihw ni dnim of does not pass, space STateSTaTeSTaTeStAtE ecaps ,ssap ton seod does not exist, and sTATeSt oFOfOfo dna ,tsixe ton seod idea is not there. STatEst ofoFOFo .ereht ton si aedi Stuck in a place staTEsT OfOFofo ecalp a ni kcutS where movements TATeSTa foFofoF stnemevom erehw are impossible fOFoFOf elbissopmi era in all forms, UsOFofO ,smrof lla ni physical and nbEifof dna lacisyhp or mental - uNBeInO - latnem ro your mind is UNbeinG si dnim rouy focusing on a unBEING a no gnisucof lone thing, or NBeINgu ro ,gniht enol a lone nothing. bEinGUn .gnihton enol a You are numb and EiNguNB dna bmun era ouY unaware to events stneve ot erawanu taking place - not -iSSuE- ton - ecalp gnikat knowing how or what 5/23/94 tahw ro woh gniwonk to think. You are in F-i-V-E ni era uoY .kniht ot a state of unbeing.... ....gniebnu fo etats a

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

Well, I lied. At least we got one of the three stories I had promised finished up. I won't make any excuses except that we're all lazy when we're about to graduate from high school (ie Phadrous, Griphon, and myself), so just be glad you got issue number five. Ha!

As you probably noticed immediately, the size of this issue increased almost two-fold. I was kinda worried after the drop from the past two issues, but apparently you kiddos out there just got a second wind and sent in an enormous amount of stuff. You might not see your stuff in this issue, and I'll tell you the most likely reason: it wasn't finished. Yes, that's right, I'm gonna try and prevent the mess we have now, so I'm not accepting anything that is incomplete. I made an exception to this with THE CONFESSiONS, but that can stand alone on its own as a full story. So please, send me full submissions or it won't get published. Otherwise people would be left hanging and hate us.

I'll keep this short since my hands hurt from typing up Griphon's stuff (get a computer, you dimwit!). As a final note, I'm said that Jackie Kennedy died. My dream in life was ruined. Now I can never go up to her and say, "Other than that, Mrs. Kennedy, how was the parade?"

Presenter:	In light of the trends in this nation that have brought our youth to the point where the majority of girls have lost their virginity by twelve and virtually everyone has tried pot, Amorphous Semiconductors Productions, in association with ansat Erotica, Unlimited and the RJR Tobacco lobby, I mean, Company believes it is time for a new kind of drama, ground-breaking, beautiful, elegant, and aimed at the mature sensibilities of the youth of America. ASP hopes to touch the sensual aspect of today's pre-teen and teenage population in a way that has been needlessly avoided by the less adventuresome film studios.
Beavis:	Yeah. And to see naked people.
Butt-Head:	Shut up, Beavis! I want to hear this.
Video Track:	Butt-Head pushes Beavis off the couch.
Soundtrack:	The sound of one Beavis bouncing.
Presenter:	With your help and support, we hope to bring to the small screen the kind of quality erotica currently available only by bribing the guy at the video rental store. We hope to raise the standards of erotica in children's television to a new level, a higher lev--
Beavis, or The Side of the Couch, with Beavis' Voice Coming Up From the Floor:	Fire! Fire! Fire!
Butt-Head:	Butt wipe, he said 'higher'.
Presenter:	Well, yeah, but fire's pretty cool, too. Heh. Heh-heh. Anyway, in association with a still to be negotiated promotion with Nickelodeon Studios and grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Institute of Health, we can make this be. We expect to take flack --
Bob:	Slack?
ansat:	Damn, this is getting real surreal, or something. I'll try to tone down the entities for a while.
Presenter:	We expect to take flack for this, as we would with any hardhitting, insightful, penetrating new level of art, but like a tree that grows beside water, we shall not, we shall not be moved. [History lesson. Ask your parents, kids.] We will capture the violent, sharp brick cutting into her back, up against the wall, desperate sexuality of our youth,
Soundtrack:	Ministry, "Flashback"
Presenter:	the apathetic laziness of our youth,
Soundtrack:	Enigma, "Sadness"
Presenter:	and the angst ridden fears of our youth.
Soundtrack:	The Cure, "Let's Go To Bed", continues for a few bars, then blends into Ministry, "Psalm 69", and into the next segment.
Presenter:	What we need from you is support. Support on the first order by voicing your appreciation for erotica by writing to your legislators for the repeal of "child porn" and alleged "child protection" laws -- on both the state and national levels -- and by sending money, and, on the second order, by aiding us in the next tier of our production, recruitment. Please direct any persons you feel appropriate for such a program, both in acting and post production, to Amorphous Semiconductors Productions, care of ansat, by way of this zine. With your help, come fall, we will see promos like this for a new show, for your show.
Video Track:	Still shot of a mark board, bearing the legend "Future Entertainment -- Nickelodeon; Juvenile Erotica, Health Educational Video; Promo Reel -- Commercial; Scene 2, Take 3".
Video Track:	Open on a haze shot of a slender young female hand, deftly holding a cigarette, stretched out off a bed. Crop the shot to include only from mid forearm down, but the angle and bed clothes seen in background should give the impression of the true location. Hold this shot for a second or so, as the smoke wafts into the haze. The camera pans as the arm slowly brings the cigarette to the lightly rouged lips, cropping the pan to follow the bare arm tightly, veering at the top of the shoulder for a slow zoom into the lips, as they sensually part, and the smoke wafts out, almost bored. Pan to reveal a full head shot depicting a bored looking girl in her pre- or early teens, draped languidly across the opulent white bed, young, but with eyes that betray a hardness of age that comes not from time alone, but from the deep scars that time in today's world can bring. The pan continues, tracking to keep center frame on her collar bone, to reveal her equally young paramour, trying desperately to rouse her, yet still seeming in slow time.
Soundtrack:	Something slow, mellow, perhaps reggae, but with a slow beat.
Voiceover, Announcer:	Nickelodeon <insert program name>, the only network for ... nudes?
Soundtrack:	Three video frames of silence, or the simple soundtrack alone.
Voiceover, Beavis:	Heh-heh, he said 'work'.
Video Track:	Two frames, Beavis laughing. Butt-Head never takes his eyes, widened, from the screen. On next few frames, he smacks Beavis in the back of the head. Beavis screams.
Voiceover, Butt-Head:	Dork-breath! Work's not cool!
Voiceover, Beavis:	Oh, yeah. Heh-heh.
Disclaimer:	A satire, this is intended to chide the continuing trend of American youth to engage in sex and drug abuse. [Or, rather, drug abuse and sex, as no implication is intended that it is possible to 'abuse' sex.] As such, it should not be taken as an actual proposal. Although I would very much enjoy working in a similar project, the implicit necessity of premarital sex, implicit child abuse, statutory rape, impairing of the morals of minors, and potential charges related to the illegal use, possession, and/or distribution of controlled substances would deter me from engaging in such an activity in reality.
Beavis:	He said 'implicit'. Heh-heh.
Butt-Head:	Yeah, you know, like when you have to go to school, and, like, implicitly differentiate stuff, and, like, set it to zero, and get, like, numbers and stuff, and that's cool.
Beavis:	Uhhh... Yeah. And he said 'implicit'.
Both:	Heh. Heh-heh. Heh.
Disclaimer:	Oh, yeah. And none of those companies really support this venture, either. They are unwitting accomplices.

Sunday. At the local coffee house. There's a chess tournament in progress. The guy from Nerobe is winning. He is black and speaks like a black man. He speaks with an accent, and his words are thick. I watch him. He is smart, probably not as smart as I make him out to be. He has a big head. It sits, very contoured, on his thin, lanky body. His arms are small but have definition.

There is a baby near me. He smiles at everyone. In fifteen years he will be prejudiced and not smile at anyone except the girl in his math class with very large breasts. He will not smile at the Nerobe. He will call him "Nigger" or something worse that his generation, in its hate, will call them. My generation took the name our fathers had used. We have taken so many of the bad ideas, but none of the good ideas because we think we can do better. Everyone today is so full of hate.

The glass next to me is dying. The ice is melting, ruining the concentration of the drink. The baby is melting inside, losing his innocence. He will melt and never be the same, unless he goes insane.

I watch the black guy. He is losing. He is losing to the man with his back turned to me, but he is smiling about it. Perhaps in his mind he wishes to kill everyone, but doesn't have the nerve to. He should lose. He should lose if he is afraid. The baby is only afraid of the dark. It is afraid of being left without its mother late at night. It needs security.

Am I any different? I profess my love for her, but do I love her or do I merely love having her? She is beautiful. Perhaps that is what all beautiful girls are like. They are just security to the men they love. What a pitiful thing it is to not be loved back. The woman with the two men moving a fork might not be loved. She is alone, and she might love someone but is afraid to say. She must hurt very much. If she is afraid then it is her own fault, and she deserves to hurt.

I am afraid. I am afraid and I am going to fail. It is a pity, though, because I do not deserve to fail. I deserve to fail, but I will have wasted much talent and many dreams. I hope the baby doesn't waste any dreams. The black man has lost and is now sitting somewhere not in the player's chair. He has lost one dream. The man next to me is writing in his computer. He has lost a dream of being a great writer. The baby's parents will not tell the baby of the dream they have lost. It would kill the child.

Slowly the black man leaves. He sits down, draws himself away from the tournament that has forgotten him. He is gone. Only I remember him. The baby wanders around the tables. The parents don't seem to mind. They probably shouldn't, but there is that possibility that someone will kill or hurt or destroy the baby. A Korean walks in. At least I think he is a Korean. He talks to a woman who looks tired. They discuss leaving. The destination is not important, just the movement. I wonder which one is really the most important. Is life a trek towards some unknown destination or is it merely a Trek of Unknown Purpose. Are we just Accidental? Who the hell knows? The uncertainty, while killing the weaker ones, makes everything a bit damn more interesting for the rest of us.

Outside it looks like rain. Some of the homeless people have left, probably fighting over the few covered areas. I am about to go home with little regard to the fact that I have a hell of a lot more than most people. It's their own fault, though. There is always a way to get around something if you want it bad enough. These people don't want anything bad enough. They are content to take your spare change and bum a cigarette off of you and not look at the Trip or the Destination. They are the ones who are full of fear and pain and death and hopelessness, but they do not have to be that way. Most of them still can function normally and thus have the ability, to support themselves.

I guess I'm a hypocrite. I gave a deaf guy five bucks. He "sold" me a business card with the deaf alphabet on it and some useful phrases. He was deaf, but he could still work. Of course, he couldn't answer telephones or take message, but he could do something. He relied on his weakness to support himself, and by doing so, he became weak in the process. I will never become weak. I do not have the humility to beg. If I got hungry enough, I would, but not before exhausting every other means available to me. I say this over a cup of coffee and a plate of pasta and baked chicken...

Tomorrow will be like today. Repetitious. It is much easier for men to slip into a pattern of doing rather than being. Individual though takes too much effort after the many mundane things that I have to do. I don't have time to sit down and think. I am tired of this world.

The black man stands to leave, and my companions hand me a sheet of paper. There are SCHWA characters on them. I draw two stick figures and a surfboard. I hand it back. This is something that is enjoyable. I learn better from this than I do at school. School inhibits learning. Jung says religion inhibits religious experiences. I'm not experienced enough to have any opinions on religion. I have seen it destroy the lives of many men and save the lives of many men, too. But I don't know where it fits in my life. I don't know where anything fits.

The black man is gone. He has left, and the others are playing without him, but it is not the same. There is a gap, however small, in their group now. He served no other purpose than being there, but that was useful in itself. Perhaps not to him, but to the overall feeling in the group. Society is the natural order for human beings; we are not independent creatures. And, societies are usually beneficial, except when man believes himself advanced. Then, he does not trust his fellow beings and a hierarchy forms. All the troubles of man stem from his unwillingness to just Be, his attitude of Immortality and Perfection, of Omnipotence. It doesn't matter.

I should shut up and just watch. There is so little that I know, and even less that I am right about. The black man has left. I don't know what he is doing. The baby is smiling at me and my friends. I smile back. It is sad to think that he will be like me in a few years. Maybe not. I pat him on the head and leave.

Now I ask you: What can be expected of man since he is a being endowed with such strange qualities? Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic prosperity such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly, that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself -- as though that were so necessary -- that men still are men and not the keys of a piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar. And that is not all: even if man really were nothing but a piano key, even if this were proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then he would not become reasonable, but would purposely do something perverse out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will contrive sufferings of all sorts, only to gain his point! He will launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals) it may be by his curse alone he will attain his object -- that is, convince himself that he is a man and not a piano key!

May Day is the Feast of Mater Virgo, the Virgin Mother, as well as International Workers' Solidarity Day. As International Workers' Solidarity Day it has just been declared a national holiday in Ireland, and shall be celebrated as such Monday, May 2. As the Crowning of Mary it shall be celebrated throughout the World in Catholic Churches today. As May Day it will be celebrated by Wiccans and Neo-Pagans today as well. Amongst all this celebrating, however, the true meaning of the day seems to be lost.

As I write these lines I sit in the lofty branches of a great oak, a tree which must be decades in the making. All is green, flowers are blooming, it is calm and peaceful. One would be led to assume that all is right with the World. This surmise, however, couldn't be more wrong.

Today, and in all days, people in all reaches of the World are starving and oppressed. One need only to walk out one's door to see that many are poorer than others. One can see the beggars on one's own street corner, the working poor in one's own work-place. Many of these people are not poor of their own choice, of their own laziness, but because the system makes them poor. As Jorge G. Castaneda said, in his book Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left After the Cold War, "The problems of poverty cannot be solved through money, because the problems are related to structures, not spending. It is a matter of the organization of community decision making, jobs, decent treatment by officials, restitution of lands, and so on."

I sit here and think of all that has gone on in years past. My mind is immediately drawn to the bid for Freedom made by the small group of Irish Rebels in 1916. Today marks the 78th anniversary of the last major confrontation during this Easter Rising, when troops of the Royal Irish Constabulary attacked the Kent house in Co. Cork. During this, at about four AM that morning, a force of RIC troops under the command of Head Constable Rowe attacked the house, which contained four brothers, David, William, Richard, and Thomas, and their eighty-four-year-old mother. The four brothers fought off the RIC with rifles and shotguns while their mother reloaded them. Even after the RIC received reinforcements the Kents held out for three hours until they ran out of ammunition and surrendered. In the end, Head Constable Rowe lay dead, and Richard Kent died of wounds. Thomas Kent was later executed for the murder of Head Constable Rowe. The official surrender of the rebels occurred two days previously -- this occurred during the mop-up operation, during which many people not even involved in the Rising were arrested and/or robbed by the British. Sixteen men were executed as a result of this Rising, among them the poets Padraic Henry Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, and Joseph Mary Plunkett, as well as James Connolly, who is held as one of the greatest of Irish Socialist theorists. Fourteen of these men were executed in Dublin, Thomas Kent was executed in Cork, and a sixteenth man, Sir Roger Casement, holder of the South African Medal, Commander of the Order of St. Michael and St. George, Knight of the Realm, was hung in London for high treason. Sir Casement procured arms for the Rising in Germany, and was picked up after being let off by a U-boat. Casement had been a thorn in the side of British and Belgian foreign investors since he helped stop the dismemberment of natives who did not bring in their rubber quotas in the Belgian Congo and British South America. Casement was the only one executed to receive a fair trial, though his trial had very little justice in it. The British government released his so-called "Black Diaries," which implied he was a homosexual, before his trial so he would lose public support. Despite being backed by such humanitarians as George Bernard Shaw he was publicly executed on August 3, 1916. These were people who died for their beliefs, and the World needs more like them.

My mind is also drawn to the New Year's Revolt of the Ejercito Zapatista de Liberacion Nacional (Zapatista National Liberation Army) in Chiapas, Mexico. This small group of rebels is working to end the long line of injustices done to both the peasant and Indigenous populations by the Mexican government -- injustices still going on as we see by the mass executions of alleged rebels and the indiscriminate bombings of civilian areas. The fate of the Zapatistas still hangs in the balance this Mexican election year. As for their quest for Land and Liberty, I am all for them -- ¡Nemi Zapata! ¡Nemi Zapata! Nian ca namotata; ayemo miqui. ¡Nemi Zapata! ¡Viva Zapata!

I believe that we must all search our Souls and our Hearts for what we believe to be right, and this being International Workers' Solidarity Day is as good a time as any. Is it right for anyone to try to control another? Is it right for anyone to deny another of what they need to live, whether it be food, clothing, or shelter? As Padraic Pearse so aptly put it, any peace we have now is the Devil's peace. We have a peace tainted with lies. Until the whole World is Free we must never have peace; as long as our brothers are oppressed or starving we must always be ready to fight and die for them. This is not to imply that we should support such oil ventures as the Persian Gulf Oil Wars and the Somalia Butcher Shop (see Project Censored's report for 1993). As Billy Bragg sang:

I cannot say that I have ever truly gone hungry, but too many do in this country and this World today. I cannot see how anyone can be so callous as to be able to call their city representative and request for a cardboard city to be bulldozed. I applaud the Houston mayor who, upon receiving complaints sometime last year to have such a cardboard city bulldozed, refused to listen to the businessmen who claimed such habitations were driving away business. Perhaps if these business would give some of their income to build low income housing they would not lose their business. I cannot see how anyone can walk through a city and see beggars panhandling outside mega-corps or big banks and not be a Socialist. I cannot see how a government can be so callous as to pay a farmer sitting on rich soil not to plant to keep grain or corn prices up, and then let a farmer further down that same road whose soil is so poor that he can barely make a living out of it starve -- and then charge the same amount of property taxes from both. The same reasoning that the government is now using killed the Irish during the Great Potato Famine and it is this same reasoning that is killing the World now.

I believe that May Day, being the Crowning of the Virgin Mother, is a good time to address the belief of the so-called "Religious Right" that the religion they claim to believe backs them up on their exploitation of others. Really, it shouldn't matter if you worship Yahweh, Allah, Krishna, Thor, or The Unknown, or even are an Atheist or Satanist, we should be able to work together to make Life better for all. The "Religious Right" has somewhere gotten the idea that the Bible supports their lies, that the money-sign and the Cross are really one. Any serious study of Liberation Theology shows that this is untrue. I pull out my Gideon King James Bible which Crux Ansata gave me and quote, Acts 4:32-35:

My last pieces of advice for you the reader are these: For one, think for yourself and stay informed. Two of a revolutionary's worst enemies are ignorance and misinformation. Also, talk to anyone who will listen. Give all people you can your view on the matter and let them decide for themselves. Never preach to a brother or a sister in the Revolution, but exchange information with as many people as possible. Thirdly, get yourself a gun and learn how to use it. When the time comes -- and you will know when it does -- fight for your beliefs. During the Revolution we must all fight together, whether we agree with each other completely or not. If you see a guy being clubbed by a group of cops you don't have time to ask him his political beliefs -- you act. As Lenin said, in his essay "The Irish Rebellion of 1916":

I stand watching the fires grow higher. I think how much I warned them all, but they wouldn't listen. I and my friends tried to free them but they wouldn't follow. They spurned us, feared us thinking us as the enemy. But the enemy was themselves. They slowly destroyed the world around them using hatred, greed and selfishness. They saw us as monsters trying to take their toys but all we wanted was to increase the joy. So now me and my friends gathered and watched as the cities burned and all died. We smile but not of joy but of irony. As we watch the cycle start again with the fires destructing effects. We wish to start anew.

Splattered little man, a bent crowbar -
Spinal ridge protrudes, slapping perfectitude.

Spit on the yellow clothed troll,
Cowled face, robed body hiding mark of ineptitude.
Ha - look at him now: shaking fist,
unmasked anger, loss of "holy" composure.
Ha - look at him now!

Commandments thrown on the side, rolling down the hill
in man-made gutter with man-trash, a cozy home.

Clutching his last relic with a hope of redemption,
you know what I mean - a pathetic sight.
Wire man, bent in a degraded way
Dirty knees
Dirty soul - speaking in tongues.
Tongue tied, a nervous wreck.
praise god!, the mocking mouth spits again...
muahahahahahha! Look away! "He" can't help you...

Deeply pitted eyes, devouring earthly light
Pinpoint pain, rash skin, abscessed vein
Hind limbs sway
Ash & dust meeting flesh
Flapping shroud betrays the mark.
Faith stricken shell - ridged back retracts - a spineless creation.
Previous thoughts of revenge become the frayed strands of
cobwebs which had and forever will clutter his mind.

Don't cradle the man... limbs of tweed,
darken root rotation of nature,
fallen leaf, a tarnished color.
Greet the vile rain deluge

Awaken, Janus!
O Double-Headed Guardian of the Gate,
Sleeping in the Night of Man's Ignorance!
Awaken, and see the Dawn of a New Aeon!
For we shall wipe the sleep from Your Eyes, O Janus,
And Awake You to a New Golden Dawn!
Awaken, O Janus, Awaken!

mustered lies from a pleasant mouth
a twisted hand brings a deceptive touch
who here knows the beauty of a madman?
can you feel his passion for obsession?

But no matter what the risk be, we who essay to voice the hopes and defend the cause of Labour dare not be silent. The needs of the multitude call for expression -- it shall not be said they called in vain. If fresh chains are forged for the workers it shall not be said that we by our silence allowed those who trusted us to remain ignorant of the fact that the chains were in preparation.

Darkness condenses over me like a thick unrelenting fog
I am Doomed;
Trapped
School work, books, papers
high expectations
Not yet fulfilled
Never ever achieved
impossible!!

Farther and Farther away
reality slides, it's a funny slide
Warm fuzzy and slowing
It creeps up on you like a
Wild animal stalking its prey.

Death is the answer
Not self imposed Death.
Just Murder, cold Brutal MurdeR
Some one had better kill Me soon.
So I don't have to.
Do you want to die?
Ever?
Now don't Lie
How strong is your fear of death
No feaR?
Join Me, be one of us
The unforgiven

(written to S--- near her birthday)

In these days, trapped are we,
With barest memory of when we were free,
But now, beneath this ancient tree
I can kneel, on bended knee,
And whisper to you a loving word.
For we have flung our shackles off,
And at society we may scoff,
And lay about, and talk of love,
In honor of Lady Discord.

Slowly have we come to light,
And, whilst we lie in place, may take to flight.
For our consciousness is enough to fight
The force that is of overpowering might.
Except when I here hold your hand
Here in this shadowy glade.
Night after night, the two of us have laid,
And, together, our bastion have made.
The two of us, and Pan.

But silently do we embrace,
And I watch the sunlight on your face,
And, in your arms, dream of your grace,
And love you now, in this place.
As I solemnly plant a kiss
Bands of convention we can resist
As in each other's arms we sit,
And in our caress do we persist
The glorifying of Eris.

Idyllically posturing in a glade,
Where love is given and bonds are made,
And nought exists to make afraid
Myself and my beloved maid,
And naught, I know, can block us.
And our love's made consummate
As the grip of love consumes my mate
And peacefully I resign to that fate,
In the service of Bacchus.

You stare at me like a saint
Idol worship in your eyes...
and I hate you for it.

Each time you smile at me
I feel a bitter rage
of betrayal
to myself
swell like the cold sea
in my mouth.

I fashioned wings of gold for you
because you expected them.
And when you approved of me,
I burned them into my flesh,
screaming
with rage and broken pain.

I hated lying to you.
Lying alone in my thoughts.
I did not feel worthy
of your precious emotion,
I forced upon myself
shackles
biting into me

They were useless
and meaning less
to you

as you.

The sham illusion of 'freedom' is dangled before him in the form of material comfort and narrowly-defined political choice. Thus drugged, duped and divided, he is robbed of direction and self-respect. Shambling through life in a blur of trivia, he spends his life waiting for 'something' to happen. When and if he has the courage to ask 'Is this it?' He is told that he will be alright if he keeps the faith. If he continues consuming and producing. If he feigns 'normality' on the outside and does what's expected of him by the Church, by governments, by cartels. If he remains stupid, and even proud of his stupidity, clings to his set of beliefs, whatever they may be, and keeps his mouth shut, he'll be rewarded with... Life after Death.

I Say Bah To The Blinding Light Of The Day
I Pray For The Moment when The Day Time Stops
Rave I Say! Rave All Night I Like it That Way!
I Like A Place Where Order Don't Hold Sway
Kinda Like New Year's When The Big Ball Drops
I Say Ba To The Blinding Light O The Day!
Fun I Could Have, Would Have, Yes Indeed I May!
Funny Hair, Funny Hats, Funny Looking Mops,
Rave I Say! Rave All Night I Like it That Way!
Work I won't, Behave I won't, Yes I'll Play!
I Will Dance All Night Till The Music Stops
I Say Bah To The Blinding Light O The Day!
I'll Dance To Techno Cuz Pop Music's Gay
Is it In A Club, A Field With With the Crops?
Rave I Say! Rave All Night I Like it That Way!
Been Dancing All Night, Man I'm Sore Oui Veui!
Have Lot's Of Fun If it Wasn't For The Cops
I Say Bah To The Glaring Light O The Day
Rave I say! Rave All Night I Like It That Way!

I.

i've lost the will to sleep and eat
life is nocturnal and dying
mangos in the fridge rot away
just like i do, mindfucked
/go away/ i tell them
/i have nothing more to give/
taunt me, tease my wholesomeness
where there is none
four walls and no door
a fool, trapped by my own ignorance
shades of gray assimilate the colors of restitution
dammit, i'm through with you... with them... with everything
Hitler wears a clown suit, and i--
i am his bearer of hatred
but this time, six million will not perish
only one, and he cannot escape his own self

II.

lust in her eyes, i knew what i wanted
she cornered me and told the awful truth
i did not listen, but i heard anyway
/syphilis of the mind/ she said
/a reason to live is the reason to die/
her lips moved in heat, crushing my libido
/let's take a walk, you and i
come and have your rightful salvation/
i stood as a pillar of salt for my sins

III.

the carrots stared from a distance
as we sat on the soft earth
her body immersed in gangrene and disaster
she emanated beauty
full of wonder, full of hopefulness
an idiocratic puzzle of morbidity and righteousness
the pieces fell together quickly
her face covered in black
the cross she wore melted away
into the skin around her neck
a hot, dry breath pierced my soul
/don't tell me you have nothing to give
you still have yourself/ she whispered
then who am i
who the hell am i

IV.

sheets rumpled at the foot of the bed
nakedness my last expression
i lie by the side of my savior and concubine
she won in the end--they always did
faith crumbles away in the face of reality
justice and god just a myth of man's naivity
an infection that can never be cured
the question is not who am i
but what am i, yet i cannot answer
because i am naught...

NO ONE CRiES FOR THE DEAD.... THEY CRY FOR THEMSELVES... THE LiViNG DEAD. WE WHO iN OUR OWN iNDiViDUAL PAiN REPLAY THE SAME HORRiFYiNG SCENES iN SUBWAYS & TENEMENTS & NiGHTCLUBS & BARS & BATHS iN THiS BLOOD SOAKED NECROPOLiS WHERE NiGHT FATiGUE & THE HiNT OF CATASTROPHE MAKE SEX WiTHOUT SECRETiONS SEEM ALMOST BEARABLE iN THiS THE AGE OF THE DEATH OF SEDUCTiON, WHERE PLEASURE PALACES HAVE BEEN TURNED iNTO TORTURE CHAMBERS iN THiS THE KiLLiNG ZONE OF FALSE MEMORY....

I looked into her eyes as we held each other as we danced to the music. I could smell the perfume radiating from her. I felt her heart beat as we slowly danced. We went in circles and all I saw was her eyes that held me captive. And all I could feel and hear was the beat of our hearts.

Madness is just a faze
A temporary state of mind
Not my mind
Not my time to die . . .

To die is to conquer your body
to lie is to deny your existence
Which is easier to be labeled
Dead or should be dead, liaR

Kurt Cobain Died
His brain was probably fried
who lied who Lied
to Me.
Who Said those who die of self inflicted
Wounds Never heal.
Never to heal.
Never to feel the sense of accomplishment
That I reach for long for

It flutters from a dead man's lips,
And becomes what it was.
It is born of its absence,
But to become it is oblivion.
To worry of it is enlightenment,
Such cases are rare.
Wearing it is natural,
Though some find it lewd.
Breathing it is death,
Although life arose from it.
Even though it's universal,
It means nothing at all.

What is Rhythm
What is Rhyme
What is Music
What is Time
What is Reality
What is Life
What is Spirituality
What is Strife
IT ALL SUCKS

And so they called me in to my audition. I was very excited -- it was my first. I'd never done this before. I had a short piece ready and I'd been reciting it in my head for days.

"Amanda? There you are. You look very nice in your flannels and beret. Perfect coffeehouse material," a personal relations man said.

"Oh, don't call it a cliché! It's hip! Everyone's into flannels these days. It's a harkening back to the birth of the modern coffeehouse in the nineties. No one will think 'cliché', they'll think cool. I wouldn't be surprised if people started 'head-banging' again."

I laughed politely. I wasn't all used to this kind of scene. But I decided I would get used to it, especially if they let me in. My friends, they all said I wouldn't be able to get in. I don't look rebellious or pissed-off. Just plain pretty, that's all. Babes don't read poetry, they say. Hell, I'd do practically anything in tasteful limits to get them to like me. They say there's big money here.

"All right, Amanda. We have an audience ready. They'll be conversing among themselves. When you enter, walk right up to the mike. Highly unorthodox, but this is only a tryout. Now, the industry cue that you'll start to read is a little clearing of the throat -- ahem -- like that. Try it."

"No, no, that's too strong. They'll probably disqualify you for sheer annoyance. Have you heard the rules on that? People always expect a nice, gentle introduction, even to a harsh society-sucks kind of poem. You'd have to practically whisper, 'I saw a homeless man today...' then start the crescendo with 'and he couldn't even cross the street...,' then scream, 'without a government permit!' That's the key to attracting attention. It's been noted in all the good manuals. Now try ahem again."

"Ah!... A little too weak, perhaps. You'd have to amplify the ahem gradually until they heard you... actually, that's a pretty good technique. Yes! The professionals do that, you know. Have you been listening to any of them, by chance?" he asked, looking a little gleeful.

"Only Lambert a few times... but I was very young. I really spend most of my time writing, rather than listening."

"Hey, hey, hey, Amanda! Have you been being tutored in charm lessons or what? You know all the right things to say. I'll tell the judges this, you can count on that."

"Thanks, really, thanks," I said sincerely, then added, maybe a little riskily, "fucker."

The PR guy's eyes lit up. "Wow!! Wow! I'm...s-speechless!" he said, staggering away. I smiled inside, lest anyone think I was happy. I stood in the left entrance for a few seconds, listening to the high tones of the PR guy's voice float over to me from the judges' box. The judges' box was right in the middle of the floor, in actually a pretty poor location for the best synthesis of audal nuances, but a great aesthetic view looking over other patrons' heads, and a good estimate of a typical viewer's experience.

I walked onto the stage, trying to make one of my legs look a little lame, like the best readers did. Tragedy befell their lives and made terrific subjects for poetry.

"ahem," I ahemed quietly, then repeated, louder and louder two more times. The judges practically swooned. I had to remind myself not to smile. I stood avant-gardely in front of the microphone, and mumbled into it, "It's like a great big cock." I didn't even have to look up to know their appreciation.

My poem was pretty short, and I guess that was okay. My one influence, Kerth, who I'd never seen perform except in my living room when he and I dated a few times, told me all the best subjects for poetry. The best-ranked one was certainly sex. Although overrated, it would never fail to attract immediate attention. Then came prejudice. Especially by minorities. To make non-minorities, either white or male or straight, feel a sense of inferred guilt was always a killer way to rack up points. I figured I had about fifteen already, a pretty good start. I hated the same ol' same ol'; everyone does, so I wrote something different.

"I... am a madman," I half-moaned into the mike. I jumped back and flailed my arms.

"I talk through the back of my head -- like some teachers you had once that looked at you from the eyes on the back of their head."

"This, you must be thinking, hinders somewhat, people understanding me. Fish crunch soup!" I twirled around on my heel.

Then I screamed, clutching my throat and sticking out my tongue. "MAD!!! I DID!!! MAD!!!" I gargled.

I released the hands from my throat and turned around slowly, acting as if I were looking for something up in the sky. I found my "target," pointed hastily at it, and gave it my urgent message:

"Fucking FISH shit-soggy CRUNCH piss-filled SOUP!" I yelled through cupped hands.

Then I curtsied and made a graceful exit. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the judges were stunned.

I stood outside the exit for what seemed like hours, agonizing over my performance. I had hit the major checkpoints -- wild mood swings, wild animation, wild, fleeting imagery, attention-grabbing cursing, and plenty of irony -- but I wasn't sure I had remembered everything.

The PR guy ran over to me. "Oh! Oh! Wow! Super performance, Man. Can I call you Man? Like A-Man-Da?"

"You are a stupid boy," he said. The noise dimmed out of my ears. I was dying and I didn't want to hear my killer gloat. He went on.

"You have succeeded in delaying me for a while, but nothing that shall hinder me in any way important. Your life was worth about two days of mine. How does that feel?"

I didn't answer. I was slipping out of consciousness. Emile threw champagne in my face. I gasped and jerked. My side exploded with pain.

"No wonder you had delusions of grandeur, you were drinking some awful shit. Well, I suppose you should die as you have lived. Open wide."

Emile threw the last contents of the ORANGE drink onto my face and chest. I swallowed as much as I could. The rest trickled down to my bullet wound. It began to cauterize. I breathed slowly, slumping into my chair.

"Good-bye you little prick." Emile called two guards into the room. They lifted me up and carried me out. "Make sure they never find his body anywhere."

I waited until I was put on some kind of metal platform before I began to breathe again. The guards had put me into a bag of some sort, probably intending to throw me into the river.

"Hell, I don't know. If he doesn't we can chop him up a bit before we chunk him."

I guess I wasn't going into the river. Slowly I grabbed my Swiss Army knife, and made a large tear along the bottom of the bag. Twenty or thirty minutes passed and before the guards lifted the bag. I fell out of the hole.

"Better cover him up, we're in public." A guard reached down to grab me only to slump over, his neck opened up like some silly grin. The other guard jumped back.

I grabbed him and sank my saw into his belly. He burped and a bubble of blood welled up.

"I was outside the building, amid a dozen or so people. They looked at me, realized what happened, and began to scream. A large black man, thinking he could subdue me, punched me in the face. I stepped back and then tore off his arm. He began to scream. I gave it back to him. He screamed more.

I ran towards the building again. Two guards got in my way. I punched through their heads. It was almost like punching through a hard melon.

The lady that operated the elevators began to freak out and scream. I pulled her voice box out. She died.

"Guess again, you dick." I jumped over his desk and landed right in front of him.

"I'm going to seriously fuck you up." I grabbed Emile and castrated him. He nearly passed out from the pain, but I hit him over the head with a cold bottle of champagne, so he came to. I then bit all of his fingers off and used his middle fingers to gauge out his eyes. He screamed, so I pulled out some of his teeth and his tongue. Then, I threw him out of the window.

Ah, well. She had brought it upon herself. She had had the audacity to enter into his territory. That was an amazing mistake, but it also showed courage. He would have to claim her or destroy her, as she no doubt knew.

At least she had not fallen into the hands of one of the more arbitrary gang leaders of the city. At least he would be honest. Another would rape her, and allow his men and women to do the same, then send her, alive or dead, back to her family. He always defended his own -- if he chose to accept her. If not, well, the rules had to be enforced.

That did not mean, however, that he could not enjoy the trepidation of this young waif while it lasted, however. His decision was made, but he need not reveal it yet. He gestured vaguely to the guards beside her and mumbled something about her arms, but that was all that was needed. Each seized a wrist and elbow, bending the limbs slightly behind her, exposing her full body to his whim.

He genuflected before her, in a sardonic act he never lost the joyful irony of performing, and pulled out the boot dagger from his left boot. Tested against his thumb, it proved to be as sharp as he always kept it.

He pulled open the old leather jacket she wore, perennial favorite of the street urchin, male or female, baring a plain white t-shirt, too formless to really term a blouse, tucked in at the waist of her leather skirt. Mindful of the possibility of flailing legs, he had already placed his right leg between her two little ones, pressing the skirt hard upwards and pressing up his leg so far he was sure he would have been able to feel the tattered panties of a poor street child, but for his own black pants. Plenty of time later to investigate -- and correct -- that. This indignity well used for a threefold advantage: angling her body to remove her balance, lifting her slightly off the ground to prevent a sudden break, and placing him well out of, or rather within, vulnerable range. The demoralization didn't hurt, either. Not him, at least.

He drank in her anticipation, her discomfort, and, as he flashed the knife in a flash upwards at her exposed underside, her shock and fear. The slight forms of her developing breasts gave the shirt just the give he needed, and his knife rent a short, three or four inch slit in the valley between where her breasts soon would be. They heaved luxuriantly as she realized she still lived.

Deftly, he flipped the knife in his palm so that the blade pointed back at himself, and he ripped the torn t-shirt from neck to navel, and pulled it back to expose her whole torso. She blushed seemingly down the whole of the newly exposed territory, a red color nicely accentuated by the rash of goose bumps awash across her body from this unanticipated exposure to the chill night air.

With a half smile of reluctance, he realized most of the drama of the ceremony was past, and it seemed that she mistook his melancholy grin for one of reassurance, for she visually relaxed. There was left but one pleasure to drink up here in public: the brand. With the same knife, still in his right hand, but now held more as a writing implement than as a weapon, he prepared to etch his mark in her flesh. His left hand cruelly pressed her small right breast brusquely to an even more right position, and he took a guilty pleasure at her gasp of pain, which from the increased flush he knew to be more than slightly tempered with pleasure. On her further tabled flesh he etched the one and a half inch triangle, with a pinprick to complete it in the upper quadrant, an eye symbolic of something that would have meant something to his acquaintances of his younger days, before he sacrificed intellectual company for gang related power. Unlike some of the gang lords, he didn't brand the face or the arms. He wished to preserve the visage of any woman he chose to claim, and didn't really care if opponents had forewarning that they had attacked one of his own. He liked the thought that fear of him gave them pause at killing even the slightest urchin.

As the blood poured down the cleft where a woman's breasts would too soon intrude, a second virginal river of blood -- no girl to be found on the streets still possessed her first, he sadly noted, his tongue worked in the other direction, catching all the crimson fluid before it was lost, and he cupped her wounded breast in his mouth, freed now from his cruel grip. He felt her hardened nipple beneath his idly playing tongue, a feature attributable to the chill air were it not for the warmth emanating from this little knot and the upswelling of her youthful bosom. In the last stage of the ceremony, he would staunch the blood flow by pressing his tongue firmly against the wound. That could wait, though, until he had taken his fill. In the meantime, he felt her trembling body release a sigh under the sweet pain of his rough tongue against her painfully awakened breast, blood flowing unchecked, and her entire frame feeling the pleasure of his ministrations, even as the pain of his roughly probing tongue awakened new pains by stabbing her wound.

it lingered in the air. there was this ever-present smell of incense when i was around Ash, especially here under the library. it got stronger as we ducked into a secret passageway.

The way began to get dark, and i felt Ash grab my hand and place it on his shoulder. at this he took off down the dark corridor with me behind him. we made several turns and were moving at a brisk pace through absolute darkness. It was so dark, it felt like all the light in the world had gone away, but i struggled to keep up. after a while of sensory depravation,the darkness took on a green tint. we entered a medium size cave lit by 3 torched burning a eerie shade of green. the cave went up for what seemed forever, and presumably to the outside, but who could tell.

"now that we're here, i should explain a thing or two. as you may have noticed, i am fluent in the supernatural arts. magic isn't free though. the magic i shape i paid for in blood"

as he said this he pulled up his sleeve, showing off the sea of scars and burns going up and down it. If he ever looked evil before, he looked decidedly surreal in the all green light present here.

"the problem is i practice a thief's magic, volestus mondamus. i see in your eyes you want to know my secrets, but i disagree. you must find your own secrets in your own art. i will help you do this, but, like me, it will cost you in blood."

as he stared at me down his nose, i feared for my life as i had never done before. neither had i wanted to know something so much ever before. the choice was inevitable.

from one of the shaded outcroppings of rock, he drew a wooden bowl and a paintbrush. with it he sat drawing intricate symbols on my forehead. i couldn't tell for sure, but it felt like they ended up in some kind of circle. he then a circle i can only assume was similar on the palm of my hand. each symbol was drawn with an artists touch, and seemed to dance with life and beauty.

i drew back, but he held me firm and stabbed the knife directly through the a line in the center of the circle. i initially winced in pain, but it didn't hurt after a few seconds.

it all seemed so unreal. the blood took on an unreal black tint in the green light, and i felt like i had become something evil, just by sitting there.

with the point of the now bloody knife, he began drawing on his hand a figure similar to mine. although they were similar, i could tell they were different. at the end, it even looked like he cut himself even. after he was finished, he pulled out the knife and the wound began to hurt.

he handed me a piece of cloth to bandage myself with, and brought out another bowl. after bandaging myself, he sat me down and i watched as he drew a circle on the ground with powder out of the bowl. he set the still bloody knife inside the circle and set up a bunch of incense and candles. after all the preparations had been made, he pulled out another, wavy, sacrificial knife, and stabbed it into the ground just outside the circle.

with this, he handed me a sheet of paper and told me to read it over and over again until he told me to stop. I began reading, and he began chanting something i couldn't understand, but it's very sound was evil. evil filled the room and choked me more than the incense, but i had to go on. something inside me wouldn't let me stop. something deep inside wanted to be let free.

Pedro walked with much heaviness to the cantina by the church. Much in the way of celebration had waned into the night and now the day waxed on and the sun shone brilliantly only to have Pedro swear brilliantly back at it in a vain attempt embarrass it behind a few clouds until he could get inside the cantina and have a drink to rest his bloody eyes.

Maria sat patiently behind the bar, swatting at her own thoughts absently in the air as if they were gnats or flies or other such things and lazily breathed in smoke from a hand rolled cigarette, watching the smoke rise into the air and dancing before it fell apart from being old and weak. Maria sighed the sigh that she was like the smoke and thought she would break apart from being old and tired but rapped her knuckles on the bar to remind herself that she was not like the smoke but perhaps trapped inside a glass bottle that was ugly and should be broken and given to children to cut their hands on and scream and play while they dripped blood on the hot, dry earth.

Pedro stepped into the darkness of the cantina and took off his hat. Sweat beaded and ran down the tired brow of the old man and his old bones fell heavily into a wooden chair away from the bar and near the stage where Flora had danced for s heart beat heavily in his hollow chest and the affliction came back to haunt his side and tears welled to the corner of his eyes and he remembered when they had run the bulls together and had a damn fine time and drank and made love under the Barb a Hotel and drank and ate and drank and ran the bulls and drank and how she, being drunk, had fallen and the mighty bull, Abuelo de Muerte, had gored her through the breasts that Pedro has sworn his soul to and the blood had dotted her lips and she ad cried once before collapsing like a picked and wilting flower. His wilting Flora. He had carried her to the bank of the river and tossed her body into the nurturing waters and had screamed and tore his hair out and cursed God and fell to the ground nd weeping and died that day only to become what he was now, a tamale vendor that had no soul.

Maria brought Pedro a drink and asked him to touch her and Pedro touched her but she was not soft to him like Flora was. She was hard and abrasive and he cut his hands on her breasts and did not feel the joy or the earth moved when they made love instead felt the wound in his side and the sickened affliction in his chest and he stopped touching her. She left him to his beer and vermouth and stood upon the stage like Flora did but did not look like Flora did for she was ugly and rigid and d d not have the grace, but Flora had the grace and she danced and turned and the light made love to her while Anjo played his mandolin and the men cheered and sobbed for they all wanted something so beautiful but never felt God within so they got drunk k and cheered Flora and patted Pedro on the back for he had God and had something beautiful and he was not a tamale vendor but was an artiste and had respect and had beauty and was a man with a beautiful soul. Now, he was soulless and he could not watch Maria dance because it showed him how ugly he was.

Maria slumped to the stage and began to weep. She pulled a rag about her matted black hair and went behind the bar. She pulled out the .45 that Eduardo had kept in case the madness swept through the patrons after they had drank the devil's nd she pulled the machine to her heart and fired two bullets into her breasts and fell to the ground and cried once and bled among the cigarette ashes and dirt and beer-soaked planks and Pedro took her head and whispered to her how beautiful she was and how the funeral for her would be pretty and there would be pink roses like the ones she loved, and he told her how she was no longer trapped in the bottle but was free to dissipate into the world as a star or a wish or as the feather of a dove. And as he said these things to her, he could not help but notice that the bullet wounds looked much like the wounds that are made by the horns of a bull.

I stood there as the man pointed his gun at my chest. I begged please but he didn't hear. A loud crack filled the air and the smell of sulfur and gunpowder filled my nose. Suddenly my chest caved in with such force it knocked me back and to the ground. I could taste the blood on my lips and feel blood flowing onto the ground. It started to get colder and I began to get sleepy as the man searched through my clothes to find my wallet empty except for my license and a dollar. The man shrugged threw my wallet onto my chest and walked away with my dollar. I laid there what seemed hours, feeling my heart slow down with each beat. Begging the forces in charge not to let me die. I tried to move but my limbs wouldn't respond. I slowly closed my eyes waiting for the light to come as so many people say it does, but it didn't. I stood staring at my dead body, knowing it was dead. My spirit was free but at what cost, but I was now free to journey to places I've read and dreamed. Until the men came. Huge men who I couldn't see their faces, in suits resembling police suits. They stopped in front of me somehow I know they could see me and I started to turn and run. But they said without speaking "come with us" and I followed but not by my free will. We walked down the street and came to a shimmer or a curtain in space. They went through but I tried to stay, but some force kept me from staying and it dragged me through the curtain. The next thing I saw was a hellish sight. Men and women, children and teens all sitting and standing in limbo. A guard turned to me and said "stay." But I built up enough will power to ask "Is this hell?"

And the next thing I saw was a glint at where I think his eye was. And he said "No, there is no heaven or hell just limbo. We wait till Judgment Day or the end of a species then we ship all of you back into new and different bodies."

"No, to hopefully improve." he said and walked through the curtain. I tried to follow but couldn't. So I sit here talking to myself slowly going mad as I wait for the beginning of the end.

'Well then, they still sleep, these higher men, while I am awake: these are not my proper companions. It is not for them that I wait here in my mountains. I want to go to my work, to my day: but they do not understand the signs of my morning; my stride is for them no summons to awaken. They still sleep in my cave, their dream still drinks of my drunken songs. The ear that listens for me, the heedful ear is lacking in their limbs.'

In Western Eire, known to most as Ireland, along the seashore in the County of Kerry, in the Region known as Munster, an old fisherman lived. He was a queer old man, and he shunned the townsfolk, and they him. No one knew how old his sun-tanned visage was, but the villagers often recalled the stories their grandfathers had told them of him, stories which were so terrifying and wonderful in turn that, were they true, they would take the sanity of any man, stories in which he was old, despite the fact that these stories themselves were told throughout an unknown number of generations. Some of these townsfolk believed that he was as old as Time himself, some held that he was in fact one of the Sidhe-Folk himself, those who never age. Others simply believed it was not one old man, but many who had lived in the same dwelling, and that the elder villagers, in their fading memories, had merged them into one and changed their simple deeds into strange tales of That Which Man Was Not Meant To Know out of fear and awe of he about whom so many rumours were told in the relative safety of a warm kitchen during Winter, when the howling of the wind seems to take on an all too human or Daemonic voice, wailing through the night. None knew the name of the lonely old man, and men speaking in hushed tones as they passed his abode at twilight joked in the uneasiness of the moment that perhaps the old man had forgotten himself, as none spoke it to remind him.

This old man did not Worship the God of the villagers, and he was not known to bend his knee in any respected Church, but he was known to frequent a strange ancient grove of oak, a dark place full of gnarled trees, where none but he visited, a place where, it is said, strange creatures could be seen at certain times, Creatures which should not be, for when should a Beast walk like a man, and such a Beast!, for when should a Beast look like such as has been described? Men have gone mad passing the place at night, for reasons which the skeptics believe are simply the strangeness of the place and the local legends, but for a reason which those more given to superstition consider all too terrible and too real. However, on the New Moon, when Things scurry which are not seen, and on the Full of the Moon, when people see That which they would much rather have not, even the skeptics find a reason to avoid the spot.

The old fisherman was known to fish only by Night, leaving at dusk, though none ever saw him leave, and none sane wished to, for those who set out to solve the mystery of the man (if that is indeed what he be) have met unknown fates. Some say his nocturnal habits were to avoid strangers, some that he Practiced Demonic Ceremonies upon the strange seas to still stranger Gods Gods Feared as Demons by the Church-Going Catholics of the Region, strange Gods such as the prophets of old cursed and warned others lest they meet strange fates at the whims of the Things. These were the Things to which the heathens prayed, and whose temples the ancient priests tore down, Things were Worshipped by strange Cults in Secret Ceremonies older than Man.

After his ages of life in this plane, he finally tired of this Limited Universe and longed for Another, weary of the isolation from his own in this place. One Full Moon, he slipped out of his abode as was his custom, and took his small yew boat and rowed off into the Gulf. He passed by the grounds where he normally fished, and went into deeper, stranger waters, into the area known to, and feared by, the fishermen of the Region as The Cauldron of Aon Namyr. This Place had been abhorred by the fishermen for centuries for some reason lost in time and the memories of old men, but their grandfathers told them, as their grandfathers told them, that the Place was strange, and that unusual consequences came upon those who entered into it, and that it was a Place best avoided, lest they place themselves into a strange peril.

When he reached this place, instead of the lines he and the other fishermen usually used to fish in the area around their Harbour of Dorrian, he threw a thick handmade hemp rope into the deep, murky waters, a rope fragrant with an Oil unknown to this Earth for Milleniae, and chanted a strange chant, such as was never heard by the ears of men, a chant which captured within it all the wonders and terrors of an unknown Realm, a Realm beyond that which men see. As he chanted this, a strange look came upon his face as he seemed to slip into another level of consciousness and, as the Moon came to her highest point in the sky, the rope suddenly became taunt, and the boat was dragged through the water to the West. As this happened his chant grew in intensity, and the boat moved still faster. The rope, pulled across the opaque black waters of the strange sea never slackened, and kept a tautness just enough to keep the boat moving steadily through the murky waters without upsetting its occupant. As the man was pulled through the water in this way, the Moon never changed her place in the Cloudless Sky, remaining at its zenith throughout that strange irreversible Journey and, though it seemed as though the time passing was both seconds and hours both at the same time, the old man knew that it was neither, for in the Beyond time as we know it is different than here.

As he moved forward in this manner his boat left no wake in the depths; indeed, it seemed as though his boat were not even there, as the waters remained as still as if they were glass. His bizarre travel seemed as though it was infinite and instantaneous at the same time, though nothing seemed to change outside the boat until, as his chant reached its climax, and as the occupant seemed to undergo a strange change in body and face, in the Western Horizon was seen an intense Iridescent Light, a Light which seemed to contain colours not of our spectrum, a Light which seemed to be like that of a million Suns exploding, and yet was viewed like the waxing Moon through a slight haze of fog, and he smelt a fragrance not unlike the fragrance of the Oil he had rubbed into the rope, although there was no wind from any direction to bring the smell to his nose. He then heard ancient melodies performed by a Celestial, Divine Troupe, now heard only in the Dreams of men, Exiled and Locked Away in the Farthest Nether-Regions of the Mind, canticles that revealed both unknown beauties and unknown terrors seen in strange vistas beyond man's reach. He approached ever closer to blinding iridescent light, and as his boat approached it, he chanted another Chant, even stranger than the first, a chant which embodied in it both great terrors and great marvels, and there was a sound as though the Heavens were rent and the Earth torn in twain, and he came suddenly upon the land known to his ancestors as Tír na n'Óg, a land of great horrors and yet beautiful mysteries, such as are only seen on Earth through fogs in men's minds and in deepest slumber, and then only for a moment before all trace of wonder vanishes and he is left dumbfounded among the bland wonders of the world of man.

Suddenly the old man found himself on shore, and, though he heard wood smashing on stone behind him, he did not turn, for he had found both the wonders and the terrors of this strange new World, a World which, though he had never seen it, was completely familiar to him.

When the old man did not return that morning, nor the morning after that, the townsfolk planned a search-party, but this was soon abandoned since none wished to near the old man's dwelling, and learn what Secrets it contained.

The man, if man may he still be called, for upon entering the new Universe he took on the form of those there, is still among the Fair-Folk and Nymphs, and still stranger, darker Things known of by those who lived in the area where the old man had his domicile, before the cities were built up around it, and before the Christians came and cast out the old Gods and destroyed Their shrines, though these strange Things are still Worshipped in dark places by Dwellers in Twilight where modern man fears to tread, and he is known among them as he was in ancient times before men came to Ireland. And his abode sinks into disrepair because of the fear of the townsfolk of that which they knew it contained.

The constant wind ripping through the trees hypnotizes and whispers pieces of terrible knowledge lost to man for aeons. So I sit in this hollow place in the rocks, staring out across the stagnant, age-old lake. The colour of everything is of such chromatic grotesqueness as man has never laid eyes on. The chill from the surrounding rocks seeps into my bones as I stare out at the lake. What horrible events has its surface mirrored? Strange, wavering lights dance to and fro 'neath its morbid, pallid surface. Witch-fire gleams from its shore as I await for whatever the lake might reveal. Many rumours I have heard from half-delirious wayfarers as they sit in a hypnotic stupor around the fire on such nights as this, when the wind hits a haunting pitch as it tears through the mountains. At times when the clamour of the wind reaches a terrible volume, certain of these men fall away from the fire screaming, and tearing at their faces with their hands. They scream and wail about such things as "the creeping horrors of the lake" or "the terrible men from below".

And so I sit, in my hollow place in the rocks, as the wind works its dark spell on my mind. What evil magick this place holds I hope to discover. At last I doze into a half-sleep, and what events took place next, I know not if they were real, or dreams brought on by the maddening wind. It was all too horrible to put into words, but I kept most of my sanity, which surprises me greatly. Out of the depths came a wailing which nearly caused me to pass from consciousness.

There was an untimely chill today. As I stepped outside into that brisk chilled wind, I was immediately taken by it. I could smell the freshly cut grass of yesteryear. Actually it was the only smell I could smell, except that untimely chill that had settled so early in the morning. That chill. It wasn't that it was really cold or anything, at least not the temperature. I mean that cold was evil. The sky was evil too. It was helping feed the orifice, which I knew would get me. The icy cold late February wind rushed around me in little intricate circles and then they fought their way up the rest of my already half frozen stiff body. I could feel the blood start to chill and coagulate inside my veins. Again I looked to the heavens but to no avail. The sky was glaring at me -- screaming -- horrible threats -- of terror and agony -- I couldn't understand why. But I could understand that my journey was just starting. This was late winter; the coldest most unforgiving span of time ever. In my youth and behavior I tried, feebly, to laugh at it. But that harsh unnatural cold just allowed me on my way, knowing sooner or later it would be the orifice. I could hear machines roaring everywhere around me, but I couldn't smell smoke or diesel -- and I longed for a cigarette. I probably wouldn't have been able to smell that either, because the only smell that was to be on that day was fresh cut grass -- that reminder of good. I tried to fight it but I couldn't. And then when suddenly I looked up I saw it. Spinning with dark and dreary colors and a dark murky fog came rolling, pouring out of it. I looked into it or past it or through it or somewhere and I saw a white steeple silhouetted against that dark sky. That sky was one color all the way around. Foggy blue. That's the only way I can describe it. Foggy blue. I started to look around and on both sides of me there was blinding whiteness. Just walls all the way up to the heavens for eons of time -- blinding white walls. And underneath me was shattering glass. Exploding in frenzies of terror. Screaming horses shrieking in pain and rage. I spun. Behind me was a never ending hallway. I heard the machines getting closer, the evil ripping at my flesh trying to get in, glass tearing me apart, blinding lights, and my nose, my body, my being, my soul, my being filled with the smell of grass, this screaming and pounding in my brain sending tremendous shockwaves down my spine. I could feel my body ready to blow up from the inside out and from the outside in. Then I looked -- stared into the orifice. I let a small high pitched shriek as I felt life being sucked out of my veins and all I remember was the white steeple orifice.

It was after he left Tommy -- still dazed from the music and pyrotechnics, of course, but more so due to the soft, beautiful, erotic young voice of the girl who played the young Tommy, and with the indelible image of the young girl in the row ahead and to the left. Of course, it wasn't "indelible." He knew, with that piercing agony that always marks the real Truth -- the Truth you know is true right down to the viscera, even if your mind denies it -- that her image was doomed to merge, morph, melt away as have uncountable beautiful girls in the past, each with that special something that got his notice, each with that special moment that meant so much to him, yet doomed to flit from his grasp, as the slyphs he knew he sought.

He knew what they had, of course. Innocence. Not that he would ever admit it. Only those particularly close to him had a chance of knowing that this was his one real fetish; the aphrodisiac that always had the real appeal to him. He hated to believe that it was something as bestial as the power trip coming from destroying some young girl's innocence, taking the one thing he could never give back, despite all the heart-rending pain and guilt that always accompanied these thoughts and deeds, although he could deny that was a part of it.

Rather, he liked to think -- when he wasn't so miserable or doped he couldn't -- that he was communing with the innocence. By some means reconnecting with the virginity he had failed to appreciate while it was his, and that he now regretted losing in so meaningless a manner. He hoped that in the overwhelming light of climax he could be bathed in the light of the inner child that he could only communicate with while the girl was clutched with the death throes of this, her most undervalued gift. "The little death." There are those that say Shakespeare meant sex, not sleep. Ansat knew better. He knew it was the death of innocence.

After the curtain calls, even while the lights were rising from their dimmed state, he rose from his seat, maneuvering into the crowd, following the beautiful girl. He guessed her to be, maybe, twelve. Girls always aged slower than boys. That is why they can replace young boys on stage.

He studied her from behind, augmenting what he had glimpsed in the few times he had seen her from the front. He gazed at her shining, shoulderlength, light brown hair. A bit shorter than he preferred, but, on her, it helped frame her pretty head and face, rather than attracting disgust in and of itself. As she bobbed her head around, he caught glimpses of her neck. "Ivory Tower"? Or was Solomon talking about breasts? His bible knowledge was unfortunately lax, where not heretical. Continuing downward, he saw that which had first gained his attention: her loose, red dress. Cut in a style he would call Byzantine, it seemed to float and flow around her form, lithe, judging from the exposed parts and the fall of the cloth, just concealing enough to cause the imagination to burn with the fever of a thousand zealots, yet exposing a measure of skin unchecked by childlike ignorance of the cultural enemies of lust she was as yet too young -- or inexperienced -- to fear. Once again, the thought drifted through his mind whether one could fear without ever being hurt. Probably, he answered with a subconscious speed borne of frequent agonizing over the concept, but only if one is capable of such acts. He had never thought of himself as a victim, therefore he must be a predator, guiltily acting out desires that would not burn in his psyche had he been still innocent, but without having his innocence taken. His had been given with childlike enthusiasm. Her legs were bare below the knee, and, as she bounced up the stairs, uninhibited, the unweighted hem conspired with the angle of the steep, balcony steps to give him a greater appreciation of her form, yet still only within "decent" standards. He watched, amused, as her black patent leather clad feet danced up the stairs.

She frolicked around two other girls, who ansat had already labeled "mother" and "big sister." Oh, well. They would have to be dealt with. He could never escape that, the people to be "dealt with." As so frequently happened, he was struck by a pang of agony that our society had left him to target young girls. Today, women want to be just like men, and the younger the better, as far as they were concerned. Ansat questioned the validity of this goal. He knew men. Some of his best friends were guys. Men were soiled, predatory, power-mad. There was no innocence in a man, once he reached his adolescence. Sadly, this was precisely what women seemed to envy most. Once you get rid of your innocence, you could feel free to act as you will. No naivete, no closed options.

Regrettably, in the lower strata of the capitalist hierarchy, the age of naivete loss wafted down to younger and younger girls. Even ansat was not pedophilic enough to lust after children too young, no matter how innocent they may be. Because of this, he only had recourse to the children of middle class, well brought up families. To feed his lusts, he had to despoil those with the most promise. At least beasts in the wild killed off the old, the weak, the sick. He fed off those in their prime, or with their prime yet to come, yet to blossom into the full flower of their adulthood.

"Excuse me." He had this routine well worked out, worn with frequent use. First, approach the girl, eye contact being valuable for trust. Glance at the authority figure; the figure his subconscious called her "mother."

This next part was the most volatile. Long hair hanging around his glasses, dressed all in black, he never could tell if the parent would think him a hippy or a punk. Either way, he never fit their expectations of what should be emerging from a Broadway theatre in the early nineties. Before she could speak, but after she had had time to digest his presence, he delivered his next line, always impromptu, but from a strict concept of what he believed least likely to scare away the parent, leaving him in solitary agony for yet another night. At least, with a girl, he was not alone. The agony was deeper, but it was not alone.

"I'm sorry, it's your daughter, I mean, I'm sorry, this probably sounds stupid, just, I mean, I haven't seen my family in seven weeks, and your daughter, she reminded me of my sister. I'm sorry. You're busy. I'll stop bothering you. Just... I've been homesick lately, this being my first time away from home, I could... I'm sorry. I just wanted to, like, talk to her. You know, kind of my sister by proxy."

Keep it stacatto, so you sound nervous. Keep it honest, so you can remember it later. The fewer the lies, the better. Like there, aside from his motives, he only really lied about his sister. The girl was at least five or ten years older than his sister.

He was looking down, sheepishly, at his shoes, yet, somehow, keeping caring eye contact with the younger girl. The mother's face, when he looked back up, was a mask of suspicious confusion.

Afraid that, if she spoke, it would be negative, ansat started again. "I'm sorry. I just thought, you know, I could buy ice cream for you all," he gestured towards an ice cream parlor. It was a vague gesture. He couldn't even remember if there was still one there or not. Oh, well. She only had to believe it was there, just out of her sight. "I've been up in the city. Working. Summer job. I'm sorry, I just thought she might like ice cream after the play." He half turned away.

"Can we, mommy? We don't have school for another week. We can stay up just a little longer." Elated just when his hope had been running down, ansat turned back to the child.

He knelt down, lowering his head to a level just below the girl's, and smiled up at her. It was a simple gesture, movement of one knee downwards, but always seemed to please the girls. She traipsed over to him, sharing his smile. Her enthusiasm cut him deep, and he bled where he hoped none of them could see.

Resignedly, the mother agreed, muttering something about calling "their father." Ansat pointed out a payphone on the nearby street corner. This was working out better than he thought. She walked off. He picked up the girl and began to walk slowly after the mother.

He slid his left hand under her skirt, subtly maneuvering so that the bare skin of her thighs radiated warm over the inside of his left arm. Her skirt dropped in front of his pants, concealing any betrayal of his intentions. With his right arm, he reached around her waist, pulling her close to him, and her light legs split around his waist. His left arm flowed with her until she was seated upon his arm.

She was heavy to lift like this, not young, but it pleased her, and would make it easier for him. He noticed her mother was now close to phone, about to enter into line. She would make three waiting. He allowed himself a minute to enjoy his position.

He smiled into her face, although, with her arms around his neck, it brought them painfully close to the caress of lips he so craved. He thought of the press of her body on his own. His suspicions in the body were correct. She was lithe. Her body was trim, and just the starts of breasts pressed out at him from beneath her bodice. The cloth was too thick to feel for the presence or absence of a bra over her breasts, but he acted as if he was shifting her weight and slid his right hand upwards, confirming its presence. Her arms were warm around his neck, and her face pressed against his. Warmest, though, was where her legs ended on his arm. He could feel the silky feel to her panties. They felt like those pastel panties that relatives give girls when they are "grown up." Bracing her in his right arm, he slid his left up and down idly, wondering whether they were purple or green.

The mother was now next in line. Ansat turned to the sister. He suggested that she go reserve a table. "Just around the corner....can't miss it....picture of a big ice cream cone in the window....be there in a minute...." The minute she turned a corner, ansat hailed a cab.

"You, little lady, are going for a cab ride. We'll circle the block until your mother is done. Then we can take her there. Ok?"

She mumbled assent through lips dulled into the sleepy wakefulness of a child up too late yet too excited to sleep. Her nodding head rubbed erotically against his cheek and ear.

When the taxi stopped, he slid her in first, and walked to the front to give the driver directions to his house in Brooklyn Heights.

--SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-- State of unBeing is copyrighted (c) 1994 by Kilgore Trout and Apocalypse Culture Publications. All rights are reserved to cover, format, editorials, and all incidental material. All individual items are copyrighted (c) 1994 by the individual author, unless otherwise stated. This file may be disseminated without restriction for nonprofit purposes so long as it is preserved complete and unmodified. Quotes and ideas not already in the public domain may be freely used so long as due recognition is provided. The editor may be reached at The Lions' Den [(512)259-9546] or at kilgore@bga.com. Thank you. --SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB-SoB--

CONTENTS OF THiS iSSUE

STAFF LiSTiNG