Friday, April 27, 2012

Phoenix for Feathers

     There isn't much to be said and even less to be done other than entertain the facetiously debilitating wave of nausea that sweeps across my body, painting my muscles with strokes of predestined weakness - not for what transpires, but what the situation reminds me of, which happens to be something unfortunate I stumbled across as a much younger individual; something far less realistic yet nevertheless of great impact upon my identity, the one ultimately insouciant to what has befallen you. 
     Scream. Go ahead, it'll make you feel better, or barring that, do whatever you can to hear the screams of someone else. There are shouts, cries, and lamentations just outside a door locked tight; they sound a bit like those of a child or maybe an adult -likely both, possibly more- and they cry out for you, pleas for clemency falling upon ears deafened by decimation as well as an inability to hear anything beyond what's being whispered into half-eaten ears - and it's all a bunch of nonsense, believe me.
     You'll also have to believe that there's nothing I can do for you, even if this inconvenient truth is more difficult to swallow than your own tongue. I'm merely an impartial observer of sorts, insomuch that once you've been ensnared, your body has nothing left but to resist, however futile such opposition may be. The woman has you wrapped up in those spiderly appendages of hers, figuratively speaking, and to be honest, you're quite the bloody mess, and not in the British sense. 
     Like I said, what she's whispering to you is meaningless. They're simply lyrics to Snow Patrol's Make This Go On Forever and when she chants please just save me from this darkness you know it's bullshit because there's a smirk etched upon her blood-drenched face while a portion of your left cheek dangles from her jagged teeth as she does so, and even if her pilfered words did mean something, the meaning has been drowned out by the decidedly unpleasant sound of flesh being peeled from your exposed ribs, rendering whatever remained of your breasts null and void.
     The shouting continues unabated, alongside a concerted effort to lodge that locked door free from its sturdy frame. It's been established there's nothing I can do for you, and while this should go without saying, it's the others which concern me. She needn't feed upon you, though even that's a tad disingenuous since it isn't sustenance she craves, yet what she desires is you and thus anyone else is merely extraneous, or so she claims; but when the door stands ajar, the sight beheld, and the prey displayed, she's apt to change her tune though the rhythm remains the same. 
     Bewildering as it may seem, there is something that can be done, for I have a plan of sorts. Nor for you, unfortunately, but to you in a manner of speaking - to the both of you, actually. Awkward sensations taken shape notwithstanding, I've come prepared for the worst, and she's too preoccupied with you, her fleshly tryst to concern herself with either me or my machinations. The plot is sheer lunacy and my presupposed indifference has thus become suspect, I admit, but the difference between what has occurred and what may transpire precipitates a separate course of action, albeit one borne of desperation; if not for you, then for me and those within the vicinity even if, at the moment, they remain blissfully unaware of their predicament. 
     Simply put, she must burn, incinerated alongside your tattered remains. When in motion, she's too swift to manage and regardless of what has been done to you, rest assured that she's scarcely in motion now. Please, please accept my apologies for not acting sooner, for I can only imagine what it's like to have one's neck twisted so unnaturally as to be kissed on the lips from behind. Not that it's any consolation, but I can't help but wonder if she adores you in her own abhorrent fashion, given the delicacy of her transitory caress across your partially exposed scalp. Amidst the ever-blackening quagmire of mattress and flesh, one could be forgiven for fooling themselves into thinking the two of you have been playing some hideously mutated version of Twister replete with lopsided rules and wicked variations. 
     Not to beat a dead horse, but you mustn't listen to a word she says! She'll weave a web and keep spinning till all that is lucid and reasonable becomes nothing, supplanted by nonsense so convoluted that your only recourse is taking solace in that which offers none whatsoever. To meditate upon her lackadaisical derivations is to dive headlong into the salivating maw of oblivion; to forgo matters of genuine importance; to neglect attachments; to entertain a shadow as shallow as the lyrics she spouts without merit. Seek meaning, sink deeper; that's all there is to it. 
     Splintering wood heralds the arrival of your would-be rescuer, although the opportunity for deliverance has long since expired and the towering man's spastic demands for water, however futile, heighten the intensity of the affair, accentuated by the flames which rage across the mattress and its misshapen contents, ferociously climbing up the wall toward the ceiling as the man desperately beats what appears to be quite the gentleman's sport jacket against the blazing mass of bubbling blood and disorganized appendages. So preoccupied is the man with smothering that which should not, shall not be extinguished that he remains unaware of my presence. Crouched uncomfortably as I am within the corner of the room nearest to the door, it stands to reason that this particular gentleman has other things on his mind than what's behind him. Amid the chaos, a child wails from outside the room and I can only presume the frightened boy is yours; cry as he might, the fire must continue though, admittedly, the heat is inching toward unbearable and it's wholly unnecessary for anyone else to be consumed by the flames. Undesirable, even.

     Once upon a time so very long, long ago I drove a maroon Chevy Beretta adorned with vanity license plates which read HEDORAH but nary a lad or lass really got the joke. Shall I share the secret with you? You see, I can’t be as sorry as you think I should and that’s what you’ve been missing all these years, because I know fine well what I do is wrong and that’s what you’ve been unable to appreciate. Should we spend some time apart for both our sakes? I should hope not!

     This is what you wanted, after all. To be saved from all this darkness, but you don’t know where to look. You don’t know to where to look, and you don’t know where to look. Please just save me from this darkness. Please just save me from this darkness! is what everyone says when the timing is all wrong, and timing is everything, correct? I should hope so. 

     Now everybody says what everybody thinks is sad. Sad! But what’s sad is there’s nothing for you to say, let alone protest since we’re nearly alone, here on this outrageously comfortable mattress of yours, reveling in the most sacrosanct of moments, during which time you’ve been privy to the pinnacle of veracity, although you’re so very unappreciative, especially when one considers the idiosyncratic splendor of it all. 

     Your pelvis is cracking. Be still. On second thought, you’re making a mess of things, so liven up. Now you’ve gone and wet yourself. Seriously? I guess that’s okay, as most everyone does eventually, though this bed is beginning to look like a pretty fucked-up slice of lasagna partially dissected by a retarded kid's fork, and don’t get me started on the stench. Scratch that, I will get started. That vaguely aromatic, almost perfumy scent in the air, muddled by blood and urine? Ethanol, or to be precise, a compound consisting of eighty-five percent ethanol and fifteen percent gasoline. Quite the fuel, I must say, and one that burns like a motherfucker, no foolin’. The trick to E85, or so it’s called, is that in addition to its resilience to water, it has proven resistant to traditional methods of suppression. Fire extinguishers, for example; they just don’t cut it, and woe to any man, woman, or child who thinks otherwise. The Cougar recognizes this aspect of ethanol-based biofuels and thus we’ve been drenched in the stuff continually, barring the residual bout of simulated nausea, of course, for he's dreadfully peculiar that way. 

     Have I mentioned that you’re beautiful? I mean, in a personal sense, correlational to physical presence as well as charisma, yet all the while, sui generis. It would be remiss of me to omit certain pertinent details but then again, I’ve never been one to labor over specifics, suffice it to say that you’re akin to music which stirs the soul of a wraith long since severed from its terrestrial mooring. Such magnificence is touching, much in the way a child’s poignant lamentations rouse the monster in her closet from slumber. The child weeps and wails, chanting I just wish there was no such thing as fighting. That the world could just be, like, perfect and everybody could just get along... but obviously, that can’t happen and it’s all so bewitching because the kid almost grasps the punchline but not quite, and before you know it the monster has missed its chance, for the child learns to embrace fallacious notions of maturity and reality, if only to banish ancient fears to the realm of enshrouded absurdity. This is not, however, our story since monsters in closets were superseded by those of another breed and before you knew it, utterances such as My philosophy in life is, don’t regret anything you do... ‘cause in the end, it makes you who are were made because the two of us had to believe in something even if, in hindsight, your vaunted suppositions of resilience were egregious misattributions. For what it’s worth, you nearly had it made with statements like Everyone is just going crazy these days. It’s like... the end of the world though for whatever imbecilic reason, you considered yourself beyond the world’s gaze, to say nothing of its grasp. But you are beautiful, and if sentimental rubbish is good enough for the likes of Jared Leto, it’s good enough for me.
     Speaking of rubbish, a guy like Jared Leto could shout, no, scream Everybody run now, everybody run now, everybody run! and yet, these days, people rarely do. Your beloved husband isn’t running. Though bereft of eyes, what you would see through mine is the man slapping his jacket against our blazing, amalgamated flesh. Filtered through a lens scorched orange and warped by searing flames abundant, you’d see a man warring with futility; if not against the inferno, then for what remains. Though devoid of ears, what you would hear through mine is the sweet, sorrowful wailing of children robbed of their mother and further, past the crackles and hisses so predominant, the sound of an unknown female yelling the house address into a cell phone. They aren’t running, either, blessed be these fools of our world. Though deprived of a nose, what you would detect through mine is the vomitous perspiration of a man encased within the recently purloined suit of a high school mascot, albeit one heavily modified, yet what you’d really, really be smelling right about now isn’t so much the sickly stench of nausea as it is the amusingly repulsive brine of gooey pre-ejaculate oozing from an erect penis being pressed against the Kennedy Cougar’s fluffy, cotton confines. For the Cougar, it’s one and the same, and doesn’t that just make your charred loins purr with the utmost vivacity? 
     If I were in a position to speak, I’d go for something meaningful like Hey hubby, I got faith in you man, I mean it, it’s gonna be alright! but in the midst of this heat, tissue is scorchingly lethargic, you know, and my body is currently incapable of anything beyond watching, simply watching as the shadows grow increasingly erratic and misshapen against walls bathed in hellfire’s light, flickering contours of man and man-shaped beast alike, the latter’s creeping reach becoming a lean shaft of darkness which penetrates that of the former. Please Mr. Husband, please Mr. Husband, please turn around! is what I’d say before as well as after the BOOM! given the opportunity, but instead your dear, dear husband tumbles forward, joining this bitchin’ party of ours sans a significant portion of brainpan. I’d ask his name, but what’s in a name, now, what’s in the name of those who let you down? Stop me if you know where this is headed. 
     Names, names, names: I know your name, yet you know nothing of mine, while the Cougar, well, he knows both; so let’s talk story and cinema because he’s clueless regarding either. Contrary to what films like, say, The Matrix teach people, a plan isn’t bound to succeed on the basis of its novelty, nor does salvation lie in embracing newfound reality. The Cougar, see, he’s convinced that combustion is the key to ridding himself of the inexorable and, subsequently, that slaughtering a family is the means by which to strip himself of you, yes you, though there’s little sense in fretting over the particulars of connections, let alone culpability, ‘cause who gives a shit about guilt these days, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, this is a story, no doubt one of severity, yet the Cougar is terribly, if not irrevocably mistaken regarding its climax, for some things don’t burn so much as they get fired up. 

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Same Title, Different Song IX

Music is business. Serious business, of course, as the thing first coming to mind in the presence of Duran Duran and Gwen Stefani is serious, possibly even dead serious. My question, however impertinent it may be, pertains to whether or not business is good, as in seriously good because, really now, are either of these songs particularly good and, furthermore, are either of them as serious as the scene depicted above? That's pretty fucking serious, if you ask me.

Duran Duran - Serious

Gwen Stefani - Serious

Friday, April 20, 2012

Same Title, Different Song VIII

Hey yooooooooooou guys!

Today's battle centers around the age-old desire for European supremacy. In one corner, we have Pink Floyd, renowned progressive rockers hailing from England, while across the narrow stands German glam rock band Tokio Hotel.

At first glance, this contest would appear the biggest of no-brainers. I mean, it's Pink Floyd, right? Riiiiight? Yeah, I suppose, but then again, hasn't the song in question been played to death at this point? I'm not saying it's a bad song by any means, but after hearing it on the radio in excess of 62,347 times it has lost some of its appeal. Granted, if you're anything like my brother and believe that rock music ceased to exist sometime in the mid-Eighties (with the proliferation of Poison, Motley Crue, Twisted Sister, Ratt, etc.) then by definition, Pink Floyd is the only choice.

Then again, Tokio Hotel isn't exactly the greatest band in the history of the universe (and neither is the song) so...

Pink Floyd - Hey You

Tokio Hotel - Hey You

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Scrape Gently (and Be Satisfied?)

Sleep is neither a luxury nor intermittent pleasure, but it is a hot commodity around these parts, if only for the purpose of entertaining dreams; mostly of the Martin Luther King, Jr. variety but also, upon occasion, those of a structural nature. These dreams restore order to a mind addled by the absurdity of our world or, even better, to restore it. I had one such dream the other morning.

There was a vast field of shiny, emerald grass imported from god knows where (because everything's imported there) on the sunniest of sunny days (because it's always sunny there) surrounded on three sides by the walls of a swanky private school funded by those funded by salaries unwarranted. Beyond the final side of the field was an endless desert half-populated by half-abandoned skyscrapers, the green separated from the gold by nothing more than a narrow strip of concrete and chain-link fence. It was beautiful in the way individuals with no taste declare things beautiful, ideal for those with no discernible ideals or genuine ideas, for that matter.

It was upon this lush field I stood, raking insanely healthy grass with one of those bow rakes better utilized to loosen dirt or perhaps maintain a zen garden. Despite it being an inappropriate tool for an absurdly superfluous task, I kept working while all around me, elementary aged students and way-too-old-for-this-shit teachers alike engaged in some dumbass rendition of everyone's favorite academic pursuit, Sports Day, replete with such classic activities as tug-of-war, long jump, plastic javelin toss, bean bag toss, and a veritable cornucopia of races. Sack, egg and spoon, wheelbarrow, three-legged, dash, relay: you name it, they did it, all designed to allow everyone to be a winner or sorts because to do otherwise would have shattered the illusion that each and every child is something less than a winner at everything. The teachers, still dressed, albeit clownishly in their normal, formal attire gleefully participated in the festivities, the nearest in proximity being a pasty faced, doe-eyed galoot frog hopping toward the designated finish line by which I stood.

It was an amusing sight, this full-grown man clumsily leaping in my direction, his tie jumping in tandem. Equally laughable was in how not only the children, but the adults cheered him on so readily and with such frenzied passion. I should mention that these individuals were detailed simulacra of actual, known people but that's beside the point, so I kept on raking till the gentleman crossed the finish line and amidst the roar of the crowd, I slammed the rake into the man's face and neck. I should have mentioned that the teeth of the rake had been filed to the extent of being jagged and exceptionally, if not impossibly sharp but that's merely academic at this point, given that the teeth had become lodged in the buffoon's eye socket, jaw, and throat; though not for long, as I forcibly removed the rake (alongside a good portion of the man's decimated face) shortly thereafter - much to the chagrin of his audience, of course. From off in the distance, Jared Leto shouted everybody run now, everybody run now, everybody run! but when the time comes, people rarely do.

On second thought, this really was a dream of the MLK variety.

Same Title, Different Song VII

When times get tough, you have to fight fire with fire! Dolemite Dyno-MITE! Dynamite, napalm, flamethrower - whatever it takes to get the job done. In this case, it's a Midwestern state of the U.S.A. (pop. 2, 871, 238) against an aging, hollowed-out metal band which takes itself way too seriously.

Kansas - Fight Fire with Fire
Metallica - Fight Fire with Fire

Today's guest referee is none other than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, and to the winner goes...

...The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man! Either way, everyone's a winner!*

* Unless you hate marshmallows; in which case, you were probably abused a child.**

** That's rich, coming from someone having both Kansas and Metallica in their music library. ***

*** Touché, sir or madam.