Absurdia Productions

To: The faithful and impressionable customers of Absurdia Inc.
RE: Stock Renovations

The associates of Absurdia Productions regret to inform our faithful patrons, that during our stock reductions coinciding with the supply and demand of the new mental market, we will be discontinuing a few of our products.

Our "religions" section will be eliminated in our new catalog, as it has been the decisions of our staff that the numerous recalls and general inconsistencies have rendered this category all but obsolete. We will be carrying scarce little in the "spirituality" department too, as it seems to be compatible only with the "intolerance" or cheap "elitism" available from other outlets.

It has never been our practice to offer the lower line of products, yet it still has surprised us to note that some of these memes such as "misogyny" have built quite the name for themselves. We will not carry it nonetheless for the simple lack of any complimentary products such as "narcissism", "xenophobia", "perversion" or the generic "redneck".

One might now ask us what we will be carrying and the list will be none to sparse. e have managed to secure a non-imported "social conscience" a "sense of place" and a "common sense". These memes are guaranteed to make wonderful replacements to the old feckless positions and attitudes. The newer models of "tolerance" and "personal responsibility" work with any other positive reinforced schema.

On the other hand, while "religiousness" and "spirituality" are more easily controlled through a hub module (Cardinal, Rabbi, Yogi or Mastermind), they have the obnoxious tendency to be noisy and totally incompatible with everything else in the category. For instance, take a perfectly good synaptic network and introduce a dose of "catholicism". Under further study, you are prone to exhibit symptoms of "patriarchy", "nature was created for human men" and "the woman is a vessel", which are completely separate items available for purchase, and it is our wish to provide only products that have been requested.

As a footnote, we would like to preface any further inquiry into "morality". No! We do not carry it, nor will we ever. It's an absurd notion that one can purchase this trait or that it is independently found in other products. It is well known in the neural profession that morality is beyond any code, religion or creed.

We would like to extend our thanks for you continued participation in our company and in our goals to bring a wider model of ideas to the global community.

small talk

At 1:11 in the morning, nothing feels much like morning at all.

Its a sad excuse for late february. Ice coats my outside world, my last escape from my inside world. Winter still not gone and shriveled away, receding like milky starlight when the sun hits it dead on. Piss off cold wind and hellish flurries.

Aint that the truth Marty.. Tell it like it is Bruce.. When the country was run by _______ , there werent these problems with the _______.

For whom the bell tolls, drop the bomb, agents in orange - eating orange oranges...

God can take away the pain, fatness, abuse.. God uses your love, sounds nice.

You can't get there from here.. The world is a vampire.. tick tock, bang!

Spam me my friend

I get an e-mail that reminds me that horny housewives from all over the country are seeking my attention. It tells me in descriptor phrases, what they are looking for me to do to them, and at what angle. It gives me descriptors like deep, hard, wet. It sometimes flashes me a picture of what I'm missing out on.

It gives me the impression that there are lines and lines of women, shelved liked produce, stocked up in some stuffy suburbanite home, waiting for the ephemeral escape to sexual enlightenment. It defiles my senses with qualities of arousal coupled with regret and imposition; a sense of intimacy battled with a feeling of violating.

It's stretched out on some arid Ohio wasteland block of community, several acres of modern saltbox homes. In these prefabricated cardboard houses, welded together with starch and finish nails, doled out one per home, sit the actors that play your lonely housewife. Acting on instinctual predation urges, the site due paying male stalks the front. No jealous husband... Sneak a paw into the trousers and prepare to wow a member of womankind with the beast of harmonious love.

Check this out; I'm awed again by the intuitive knowledge forthcoming in my e-mail box. Not only can I shag someone's wife, I can with certain guarantee lengthen my member by about 3 inches. I have never been happier. I can have it all...

Mail be a beautiful letter, babe

I got a letter today... It talked about my insurance rates, and how my seeming ability to avoid accidents, combined with my propensity towards paying the insurance company on time, all came together to give me a lowest of low premium charge. Much to my chagrin, I gracefully accepted their offer to charge me less and walked with proud steps to the mailbox with my check in hand. Never have I been so happy to pay a bill, because I feel like I just got a damn good break, that for once in my life I was being rewarded for my impish behavior.

Out of the blue comes this huge fucking truck, smashing the front off my car and blowing the hood recklessly down the road, clipping cars and onlookers on the way. I just sit and watch, knowing full well that premiums are inverting this experience for me and that they are probably going to come shooting through my ass.

that's what I will think as the glass shatters my face and the airbag ruptures my spleen. I will think, too bad this mighty rig didn't have crumple zones, cause that write off would have saved me another 10 a month. And when my body lies in pieces in a hospital bed or even a casket, if even it sits in a bucket while kind words are recited, ill always have on my mind that the liability/fault of accident card can be played at anytime, cause that's how I'm ending this battle, with the same damned recognition I started with...

The waste

Pollution is not really like what you seen on the big screen. All rivers are not an ugly mess with green sandy shores and endless tires. You generally cannot catch car parts with a fishing pole, or anything recognizable for that matter. Its not as though the unnatural things are stacked on top of the natural things in a way that makes them separable. This place is not an even mix between clean places and polluted spots, sanitized and empty between the litter.

The mess is more ground in than that. Broken glass could most certainly permeate the river shores, little crystals of beer bottles, pounded by boots, snaking miles into the granites below. Its like the filth is more particles than anything, pieces of dirtiness blown into everything. Pay attention, you never know what you are touching. It could have been parts of a space shuttle, or Thomas Jefferson’s condom. No UPC codes left to split them and ordain their importance, just functionless and depressed if an object could be such...

Shui

Molly was a sweet girl, that I never denied.
But she had a certain knack for being deceived,
A propensity for believing a lie.

And everywhere that Molly went,
a fleecer was sure to go.

So one fine day, in harbor square,
Underneath sodium lights,
she got a taste of eastern flow,
it opened wide her eyes.

And everywhere that Molly went,
that fleecer was sure to go.

Sufi, yogi, profess to me,
Prophet I beg you to sing to me,
Where to move my furniture,
to bring the best of luck to me.

And everywhere that Molly went,
that fleecer was sure to know.

My sofa blue, in the end of the room,
or trade it for the double spare bed,
should Chi flow up or down my Ficus,
can you remember what Confucius said?

And everywhere that Molly went,
her pocketbook was sure to go.

Love on the back side of town

Love called me up; damn bright and early. She usually doesn't open her eyes until noon drags its ass over her. But here she was, sad and lonely on the telephone; as I’ve heard it said.

Get up at 5 in the morning to drag a comb over my head and brush teeth with a cheek full of mouthwash, it’s called a quickie. Some dirty payphone awaits me, some drunk and passed out love, still clutching the receiver, talking to her dead relatives through the beeping end of it. Ill get there as I have countless times, and carry her home to her messy apartment with her strange little bed, with her unflattering blousy clothes shot all up and down the carpets. Not the type of dress you would expect from this metaphor.

Today is different. Love meets me in the park, under a thin and rain glistening tree, under a sky that is just breaking to accept the sun. She doesn’t reek of cheep absinthe or even tobacco; she just meets me fairly and surely under the tiny branches above.

In her sonorous voice, she begins and ends most defiantly with three catastrophic words, made and aimed for my sensitive ear.

"I am sorry"...

From the mouth of love came this dramatic verse, so much so that my own mouth opened as if to finish "sorry" for her. It was said with such conviction, so that my eyes became wet and my head sank almost to meet the top of her tiny head. I knew it was not her that needed to apologize, but that she was saying a collective sorry for what it all together had made the world into.

I could only look at the back of her head as she led me out of the park and into a street crowded with blank looks and empty faces. Her sharp little claws pinched the skin of my palm, but I was so content to be walking with an old friend that I barely noticed. It seemed that hours had passed as mere moments, and our fleet footed pace had carried us to a different part of the world entirely. Here there were quiet lawns with only a few red fall leaves to dust them, and only a shrub or two, green and opulent to crest the sharp edges of a manicured yard.

Her feet pattered quicker and she let go my hand, to jut and hide under the sill of some fine suburban home. It had brass cherubim over the garage, a gilded mailbox and the crackling of children leaking carefully out of half open morning windows. A glance gifted to the back yard showed an older daughter perhaps, swinging with her back to us, and under some vine covered and latticed bench swing.

Love pointed into the window, but I was scared to look, to be caught, and to be judged. She pointed harder and made her lips tight and pursed. I peered over my hands and saw the living room interposed through pink fingertips. Mom and Dad sat on each end of the couch, hands flat on laps and eyes dumb and wide towards a flickering screen. Blue and white image backlashes lighting up their sagging cheekbones and drooped lips. Kids fit neatly into individual rooms; I could see them through the window, them near the edges of the doors to their respective environments, caught up in doing something to distract them from interacting. I looked at love and saw her eye glisten and close.

She asked me if that was what "I" wanted. I saw her point. I told her that I didn’t think so anymore. She smiled a quick smile as she often does when she is happy with you. We both walked away with a little something that day. For me it was the remote control that they left on the coffee table when they zipped off to a soccer game without locking their door. For love it was the satisfaction of being a gloating parable, and of course their gilded fucking mailbox.

Surviving

It’s more than being about the knobs on the television you hit every morning, as your round the daily exercise of waking up into your world.

It is more than the bread you toast, and more even than the new polymer teeth you use to chew it; so much more.

It is more than depression, or grim contemplations on ordinary things, or mear reflection on painful sentiment.

In fact, its probably more than just being alive, as it is being not dead. More than daily hum-drum and the intoxication of busy-ness, and profit and engineering, and screwing and blood pumping, and music, arts, racism, and loving and leaving, and walking and burying.

Its not literature that is keeping your brain pounding, its the relation of it to you life, to love, and the waning of each. Its a prediction of your life, and an organized chart of suspected morals and mortality.

Death is the strongest word in your vocabulary, assumably because you can not use it as a toy like "love", or as a weapon like "love", or like a pillow talk screw word like "love". It has some concrete value. Its an absolution and a truth.

So survival is more than the channels you choose to drag you kicking and screaming through the day. Its not the company you keep or the lover you undress each night until it becomes apparent that nakedness is only politics. Survival is not waiting for that phone call to make your day happy, or counting on that piece of ass to make your work day disappear.

Its not a fat secretary or a warm breast. Its not chocolate almond soufflé or super sized chicken nuggets. Its not optimism or a sad vicious duty to living. Its not kiddie pool full of Raisinett's. Its not god, nor God.

From the cradle to the grave, from seed to soil, from placenta to rigor mortis, from fuck to fucked. Amen.

Sad Places

The airport. It must be close to the saddest place. Sad faces queue up at terminals, kissing wives, daughters, siblings away. Standing with rigid posture, gripping rolling luggage, wheeling themselves onto planes and world apart. A strange half generation of traveling people, born to the skies and birthed onto wings.

Every smile manages to shoot out as though to mean "I'm smiling stronger than normal, in hopes you fly back to us...". And the band played on, strong brass section beating out little metal heartbeats for our somber travelers who have lost their breath to anxiety. Loved ones behind the gates, your fit only to wave, and when you all look like ants then I might see a little ant leader with a hand looking flag, waving it like a surrender...

Fly my giant metal beasts! Grasp onto the nature of flight, winged and sad.

bend bend bend

Like shadows in the afternoon,
bent lazily like the breeze and wilted by a days harsh sun.
Shadows that are more like tired light than the blocking of it.
It is this that insinuates the slouching posture of the distant palms,
those that arch and leak ripe fruit on a sandy patch,
those that bow so gracefully as to lend a coconut only a short "pat" fall into soft moist sand. Dig down for an inch or two and feel the water table leak right back in, the inners tides of moisture rippling out of white sand.

All that ironically fits on a beer bottle label? Am I missing some frightening realization? *sip* ..... *sip*

Waits

I can hear it outside, in the wind or the dripping wet of night. I hear it breathing, scratching padded feet on thick wood doors and bearing its head and squinted eyes towards lighted windows. I can hear it cry! It cries for vengeance, to drive us each to terror, to make me fail my wit and better judgment. A cold hand reaches for the door, but I won’t be mistaken, and the beast will not feed here again. I will be stronger than to submit to its dark whim, I will not feed the beast, nor make the transformation into beast myself. I must remit from even touching the knob, the beast would hear it with its keen ears and surely be upon me by the time a questioned look outside could prove fruitful. It was my fate to be pressed against a door, begging for a sound to prove he has left or stayed.

An hour had passed, and the terror has slowly worked its way out of me. I listened; I watch and waited, as it became clear that this beast meant to chose our home to feed. It passed by in a slow pace, keeping a watchful eye on any exit. Such waiting is an effort in...

*"Alfred, let the fucking dog in the house, he's freezing and hungry".

To what do I owe this nonsensical exchange? I’ve made it very clear that I hate dogs!

Angel Arms - Take two

Your in the arms of your angel,
I doubt he will fly you back to me,
or that he would let you stay in heaven,
or break to bring you home.

So in the arms of your angel,
who's eyes and lips partake,
of your own living beauty,
while I sit and think,

That the wings of your angel,
are made of grass and clay,
beating only to astound you,
and to keep us cold and alone.

When the eyes of your angel,
fall from grace and look away,
will you see your own intentions,
and perhaps go astray.

To wonder aloud of living,
in a world under the clouds,
where angels only live in bibles,
and our minds still resound,

From the thoughts of your angel,
who knows your body and nothing else,
who drinks your soul and essence,
through a willfull open mouth.

And if you fall from heaven,
and feel alone without his face,
without wings of wax and straw,
and try to put me in his place.

Just pretend my eyes aren't alone,
belive I could carry you away,
to take you just like he could,
all great empassioned ways.

In the arms of your angel,
your twisted towering angel,
though he withers now like stone statue,
leaving you alone in an empty world.

Buddha-da-da

Tehram- I've spent years upon this mat, looking for a simple answer of how to live my life.

Voice- Perhaps you have decided that the answer is that you will live your life according to this mat, this thin weave of straw.

Tehram- Without selflessness I have journeyed and discoursed on the best of ways and nature so that I may live fulfilled.

Voice- A life lived is as good as any.

Tehram- Then why should I not be a beggar or a thief?

Voice- One must occupy the nature of their hearts; in what they live and trade for and in their occupation.

*we interrupt this broadcast of "Gandhi Goes to the Betty Ford Clinic", for a broadcast about smoking, overeating and cancer... Smarten the fuck up people...

Arms are made for graspin' and that they might just do...

When I needed you the most;

You were in the arms of your angel...
Needed him to set you free...
Landing soft at the break of dusk...
He catches you, when your down...
Your in the tender arms of your angel...
His warm body instead of me...

When I needed you the most, you were just feeding.
When I needed a kind word I could do little but wonder.

But your in the arms of your angel!
His grace to set you free!
Let him neatly adore you.
Then wake up... and think of me...

drinky drink

If everyone had just a few drinks, the world might be a better place. Sure, it’s a depressant, but so is life, fact of the matter is that sometimes you need something to push it out of you for just a few minutes. I mean really, without that a person could go awfully crazy, running off into the fields with a chainsaw and a face mask. He needs a drink more than I do, kudos!

oh, the academy

I would like to thank all the little people that made this moment in time a possibility for me. To the gentle Buddha who sleeps away eternity knowing the key to enlightenment is thus to stop looking and to stop pretending its an item or a lockable construct. Also to Wang Chung, thank you, I have been dancing to you all night...

story time with grampa

Now, February is a very interesting time of the year, gather around kiddies. First there is the bitter cold that drives even the neatest semblance of life and survival from the already cold and oppressive city. Then there is the short month, which in my knowledge is not noticed by the bitches you pay bills, rent and car payments to.

"Tell us a story!" you scream?

Well, I once knew this lass named Polly. One day when we were taking a long walk through the park; it nearing a magical time of twilight and us being in romantic form, we decided to make a stop under a close by Oak tree. I had not had much experience with the lady folk, but I very well understood that there were certain locations on a woman that were prime for a young man's touch. You see though, I had only gotten my hand under the elastic waistband of Polly's white underwear when hearing a snap and feeling a bit of a pinch I pull back quickly. I had just the time to see a drop of blood on my ring finger, when in piecing the moment together I realized that a pal of Polly's tried to take my finger once and for all.

So that is the truest lesson to learn today... Never fondle a woman with a toothed vagina, and that's the goddamn end of my story.. Good night you little shits!

mary's garden delights

Mary... Mary... In quite arbitrary,
tone one might ask of you.
How flows the fountain,
How pruned the shrub,
How does your wee garden grow?

Tousled hair,
brown,ginger, fair?
floral like a daisy?
Like a fruit or condiment?
Whatever meets your fancy.

To you and your plot,
I dare ask not,
in raised beds or in rows?
How you might keep your stuff,
so it can surely grow.

A little here,
some off the top,
smooth and quite refreshing.
Take the time to break the knot,
fingers in the garden caressing.

And with a hush,
Mary tends her bush,
and not with lackadaisy,
but with fair and certain touch,
to be trimmed neatly like a lady...

mhhh

and apparently its february... yup

peoplings

It seems as though I can never get enough of people. In that, I dont mean to say that I desire people in my daily life, or am fixated or dependant on any of them. I mean only to intone that certain people catch me in being interested, and once you find a certain being worth watching and waiting for, its probably setting itself up for a mess, but even the most educated mind keeps their eyes open when disaster strikes. Perhaps its unhealthy to wonder about the going ons of people and try to decipher their structure of friends and attempt to comprehend their sexualities and manners of being. It might even be wrong to take their pictures out of frames to study, to feel coarse paper between fingertips and to smell the dust off every old damp page of their family books and treasures. This all could be frighteningly immoral, but again its hard not to wonder, to try to see their ways of making life meaningfull and changing that just enough to know if they really grasp the point of it just yet.