Thor Garcia Is ON

DEATH SEX WAR GOD

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Pretty soon, Hank’s daughter Viveca and her daughter Coco came out in their pajamas. Things hadn’t much worked out, they had been shacking with Hank and ...

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'Dirty Shame' by rock band Face Tigers, recorded at Golden Digital Studio in Prague, Czech Republic.

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FACE TIGERS, Rock N Roll Band in Prague, Czech Republic, USA

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POET PUBLICIZES: The Arch-Twattery of a World in Wank!

    PRAGUE (CNS) - NEW WORLD ORDER IS GOING DOWN IN FLAMES AS WE SPEAK. No Joke period period Robert Wednesday typed Seymour hit Irving who died After Irving told Seymour’s wife to “shut up” Irving head smacked pavement Just stop: Seymour is a decent nonviolent man Attorney said

http://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/4352674-poet-publicizes-the-arch-twattery-of-a-world-in-wank Oh remember the days picking you up to take you to Your job butchering hog calves in outer Davis Millipedes and woodlice have about 100 times more calcium Than my testicles Which can be transplanted or Used for soup Saith the auctioneer who added that Some believe proof of the UN takeover of America was found on the back of a 1993 Kix box But not to worry: War has always been the only solution Permanent hot war everywhere at all times Blood, punctured intestines and flies around the silent faces Let’s take snapshots Like Alan Funt would Darn, my intestine’s leaking That’s against the law Fret not, watch your profits gain: disseminated primatemaia is driving our plane Is so kind of you to give 65 cents an hour For the building of Audis For he lived only 6,000 years without it & it can’t always be cwazy Saturday afternoon At the wine shop on Polk Street It’s not for everybody A lot of Polk people are missing teeth As required by law I want my bacon crispy And my people to be nice They say they piss on french fries in Indiana and Kentucky I’ll show you tough This shit don’t happen down here on Anaheim Way Oh no, I feel like being sad The withering, the rusting The corny play of almost everyone Crumpling up Double-barreled bitter balls of self-righteous Sanctimonious, smug mundanity Fumes are multiplying on the inside The skins burn and burst Leaving only the gas The utter gaseousness The great religions of our time – communism, fascism global democratic free-market capitalism they’re on the same page logically and deliciously they want the same exact things for their dear, dear people only symmetry they are only & always trying to thwart generation to generation the enemies of a democratic Iraq, Iran & Afghanistan Survey says: The men with the answers have all the answers Tee hee, even the birds miss Kim Il-sung The white herons said, as they overflew sadly screaming in America, you’re a product of the environment So let’s hang that dirty rat Open him up and watch him bleed But it must be secret so no one will know Everything about the self molders Dries & blows away covering a bent tulip gagging in the corner lot Mocked by the hanging shrouds of the laughing ghosts Of what once was hysterically suggested How about I’ll take a shower and pass out while reading a Fresh copy of Moby Dick Vagina! Vagina! VAGIN-AH! Don't worry, it'll all be over soon That’ll show ‘em what real Really means Oh, I don’t know People change faces from minute to minute Can’t say whether its red or blue Or yellow or a bathroom tile with a sad little Fish on it Gimme a sec No, I’ll tolerate none of your puerile rationalizations And pretty-boy explanations You’ve got a lot to account for I’d like it on my desk by tomorrow morning and a beer with my muffin Honey brandy before dinner Red wine with that snack Champagne & cake before bed Some pork, chicken, a plate of peas A fernet, a becherovka, another glass of pilsner Some dancing with the band? I can’t stop laughing I’m the only one who gets drunk, Harry It’s O.K., Hitler was a teetotaler Said my aunt, the Czech janitor Referring to Important clothes unfound Personal economies of scale out of whack Germans on holiday Globules of fat in the gravy Air too dry Socks unclean Dogs licking feet Spider on wall Cheeses in foils Too many articles for Hong Kong-based Business magazines not written For the American law firm of Dumpy, Squirt, Johnson & Fudge A joint venture with the Chinese was on tap WHY WOULDN’T IT BE? Nude blonds are naked on my screens all day And what’s his face’s wife, Jiang Qing had six toes on her right foot Of course the Italians are in on it Fold the burrito Sample Black Uhuru for your set Stream the second-rate porn Mourn the death of narrative Embrace the unforgiving grace of military neoliberalism That’s more money than Spain What else ya got? Dig the hot cotton in the brain The redhead dancing under apple trees Oh yes, by the Savior’s fuck You shall be spanked my Little rascal by Macro Studies in Global Market Dynamics and Interdynamic Macro Studies of Market Forces in Global Marketing Vol. 3 Message from the captain's deck: Free-market capitalism (minimal state interference, just to guarantee property rights) kills extremism dead Of course it does & the best places to be are the worst ones So saith my beagle While up in the skyscraper I gaze over the city Under silk robe In the other room, There is a small cry a drunk woman babbles in Dutch And flushes the toilet

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FACE TIGERS -- Cocaine Christians

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=661859307173471

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PRISONERS OF PRAGUE: Skinhead Skullduggery at Chicken Shack!

PRISONERS OF PRAGUE: Skinhead Skullduggery at Chicken Shack!

PRAGUE (CNS) – Went as scheduled to the I.P. Pavlova Chicken Real Shack for the weekly Czech class with Lada, the smiling Czech hippy scholar. Usually we do an hour – half-hour for Czech, half-hour for English, a smoke break in between. Usually we don’t – can’t – do a thing. It’s hard to see the sense of it. It’s a game we play for our special Czech ladies. It’s a hoot – the price we pay for Freedom.

http://www.goodreads.com/author_blog_posts/4269275-prisoners-of-prague-skinhead-skullduggery-at-chicken-shack

If asked to choose, Lada would probably say he prefers peace, salads, Italy, astrology, Peral Jam. . . . He’s 6-2 tall, skinny like a flower stem, eyes of clear blue. Lightly brown-bearded. Hair to the shoulders. Has been spotted with headband. Drinks only on New Year’s and his father’s birthday – only. This claim endured for a few of the early, tidy sessions – then, I don’t know, hell. When I don’t have to work, sometimes we’ll take it around the corner and plop down the books at U Malého Mozku. Yes, of course – the best lessons – everything retrieved, parlayed, and subsequently purveyed with, ultimately, the utmost enthusiasm. Full Disclosure: He always said it was only – only because he really, really, really wanted to learn the English. I’m not sure he thought more than three seconds about it. Girfriend Inga – I mean, Lada’s girl – it was she who insisted. She didn’t want no slobby Slav. I know, I know! Opening achieved, we did not lapse. Whatever, whatever happened – obviously, her fault. That’s how we ran it. But not tonight. I had another shift waiting at the pork farm, where we served it pink, cheap and mean. Exactly – unconscious balance in all things is the secret. We were sitting at the plastic table and this scowling, shaved-head guy walks in. Late 20s look. Black-frame glasses, white short-sleeve t-shirt, big-toed boots of some kind. Appearing very angry. He is short but thick and walking stiffly, like somebody shoved a 9-wood up his ass. He slides into the booth directly across from us – which is already occupied by one of the Chicken Real guys. I have observed this Chicken Real guy at previous classes. Dyed black hair, half-grown out. Zits around the mouth and on the neck. A sort of perpetual stunned look. Never been sure what he does there. He wears one of the red Chicken Real shirts and stands around like a semi-security guard. Sometimes he seems to clear away trays. Many times he is standing with slumped shoulders next to the trash, staring off. Skin-boy sits down and starts screaming. Phenomenal Czech razmatazz. It doesn’t last longer than a half-minute. Skin-boy stands and swings. POP! is the sound heard all around the joint. Chicken Real-boy in the nose. Skin-boy – very much scowling now – steps out of the booth. He waddles off, not looking back. He’s out the glass door. Chicken Real-boy sits, tears streaming down his face. Well, darn. What could be said anymore about 'skinheads'? The word, the sight, the crap just destroyed thought. Even Charles Manson rejected Scientology. Skinheads, Manson probably would enjoy. That was the clinker – flip forward 100 years: Manson, Scientology, both forgotten. Skinheads – and Elton John songs – still around. Humans were live-wires, there was no predicting – no think, no win, no lose, why can’t we talk it over? “What the hell,” I said. “What the &%@#$ was that all about?” “Money,” said Lada. He shrugged, blinked. “Sure it was.” Chicken Real-boy wipes the tears, looks around fearfully. He’s breathing heavily, but there’s no blood. Maybe he’d live another five minutes. “I think but that,” said Lada, “there is no thing such as money problem in this world. It not is right. . .” “No, not at all.” “There are only people problems.” Lada shrugged. “Yes, of course.” Couple real philosophers down at the Chicken Real Shack. “How you feel these days about Jesus, Lada?” “Ježíš Kristus?“ “Yeah, him. Is he still on?” Lada shrugged. “He, I think very, he fine. Yeah, he O.K., good guy, probably. What is . . . ?” “Nothing. He was a real sweetheart, wasn’t he? Guy would do anything for ya, if and when he could. Nothing could stop him. . . .” Lada still lives with my sister-in-law and two of her girlfriends. All four them cooped up in one of those long row paneláky in Pankrác. Been going on for nearly a year. And right, yes - he gets to bang them all apparently, from time to time – hell, maybe every day – or at least he used to. One by one it happened. He mowed them right down, one after the other. So saith my sister-in-law. With a few one-offs here and there and a couple in-betweens, when the girls got drunk – which they tended to. I’ve met them and we all had tea: Gorgeously large-breasted brunette Katka, who works in auto-leasing. . . . My švagrová, athletic little Barbora, who allegedly does something briskly at the Austrian Embassy. . . . The miraculously wide-hipped, mysteriously involved, curly dirty blond Štěpánka, who is possibly studying for a master’s in Horticulture? Now, though, of course, they’re all with different people – “real” boyfriends – people who don’t live there. Jesus, Lada – shit, he’s already engaged, he claims. He insists – he’s ready for babies. Can’t believe Inga wants still wants to wait! Lada just turned 24. We talk about it a lot. "Because when have married you,” he said, “you can sex you have all the time. All nights and the days." “Well. . . . Not so fast there, buddy. First thing, you – you, Lada – already have it – sex all the time.” “I love Ingo.” He grinned, looking like a total dumb-cluck patsy. “Only sex I want with her now. Nekonečný.” “Don’t be crazy, man. Her?” “I loving her so much. You can meet some time maybe. . . .” “Great, but. . . . It's never enough, Lada. In marriage, especially, it’s never enough. You can have it eight times a day, but you want the ninth. She will tell you, ‘No.’ See? It’s never enough. It’ll drive you to the ass or to &%@#$ brilliance. No, I don’t know. ” “So when you will to America be going?” "America? No. I’ve got no plans to. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing – we’re doing – but America is not it. It’s dull there. Nobody does shit. Everybody lives in some horrible hell, which they do everything to deny. Personal hell, financial hell, political hell, food hell. . . . I’m in hell, too, but Jesus, man, Jesus." "But why?" "I’m not sure why. It’s complicated. Everyone's angry in America. Men, women, children. Constantly angry about Bullshit A, Fantasy B, Delusion C . . .the list goes on and on. And they are always talking about politics. I mean, it’s worse than Czechs – really. Except Americans are unique in that they truly, truly do not have any idea what they’re talking about or what's going on in the country. They have no idea why they’re going batty. None. It’s totally insane. I mean, America has got more people in prisons and in psychotherapy than any other country, by far. . . ." We walked out about fifteen minutes later. Skin-boy and a buddy were standing outside, right by the door. I’d had enough – really, this time. I felt like taking them out then and there, but damn it, I had to get in to work. Through the window I saw the Chicken Real-guy standing by the drinks machine, talking on a mobile. Looked like he had a pound of fresh shit in his pants. “I so wish we had a rumpus room,” confessed Alec, “so Lord Clare could finally, delectifully, rump us.” - Tess of the d'Urbervilles, p. 351 Never trust a guy selling a Jesus movie, Attorney. Never trust anybody who says Jesus was anything other than a funky-fly cat with cool sideburns and pockets full of breath mints. Never trust anybody. I know you feel you’re through. I feel it, too. Skip it – it’s a revolution of non-meaning. I saw it on the TV – pretty young blond girl with a hot dog. CUT. An old man frying bacon. They are intent on teaching us – despite everyone’s obvious disinterest. That’s it, I’m calling it a draw so far, everything – life, books, philosophy, video. They all bore, they all entrance. A draw on points with another ten rounds to go. A knockout possible on either side – frighteningly, frighteningly possible. But the momentum, yes, it seems to be building. No one can quite believe it but yes, it can’t be denied. . . . I wish I had the solid data, gold-star information. I can only say at this moment that I’d like to go into your office with you, perhaps around dusk, with a light rain falling, and drink whiskey – just for an hour or two – then hit the boulevards until the sun comes up . . . around which time we should be in good position to again pass out on the grave of Gertrude Stein. . . . perhaps rising briefly to vomit upon the mud that will no doubt be slumbering upon the final resting place of Willa Catheter.

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POET ON A PRECIPICE: Night of the Rope Pusher

POET ON A PRECIPICE: Night of the Rope Pusher

BAY CITY (CNS) - Shinebox Follies was the poetry reading held every other Thursday in the basement of the St. Ebenezer Lampshade Unitarian Baptist Church. He'd read a feature about it in The Weekly. A month or two later, he finally raised the courage to attend. It had been wild, bewildering. A number of hyperactive fellows in festive, furry hats. The older women with their gray hair in ponytails. The older, unkempt men with eye-watering body odor and gray hair rushing out of their nostrils. A large number of bearded males generally, along with a good quantity of obvious lesbians. A few folks whose gender was not easily determined. . . . along with a significant population of plump young women wearing cargo pants and Latin American-style jewelry. The aroma was of body odor, coffee, and the stench of homemade asparagus cookies that had been set out on styrofoam plates. One thin, young fellow stood up and screamed: “Death is with you! Death is with you!” The speakers and their words flew by in a chaos – rants about clones and peacocks, cavemen and walking hats. Rhapsodies about lunch, cancer, blindness and a girl named Lana. Riffs on a “newspaper from hell,” “a thick darkness,” “a wind you can see,” as well as somebody’s rather self-serving reminiscence of a meeting with Creeley – whoever that was – and a sentimental fantasy of eating pizza with Charles Manson and Marilyn Monroe. “I command God to cock-fuck me in the ass right now!” screamed a bearded fellow of about 60, who was wearing a yellow silk robe and a military dog tag.

“To know the past, you must know the future,” assured an older white-haired man. “If you want to say something, listen. The whole world is telling me these corporate skull-fuckers want to turn us into slaves. . . .” He was far too fearful to go up and read his poem, “The Rope Pusher." It was folded and crammed into his back pocket. what is this time? go faster, you fly like witches ‘round the moon gulp like fishes this slow water drown with wine these druggy ugly flowers these seconds each turning into boulders sinking me down hideous weights on my shoulders He stood in the back. The yellow-walled basement room was hot and humid. He had begun to sweat, drops of perspiration rolling down his cheeks and forehead. Three or four times he darted upstairs to the bathroom to have a suck from his bottle of King Saiga and stick another piece of gum in his mouth. A ghostly girl wearing a floppy black hat and body suit made of seashells got up. She began talking about a mosaic on a garden wall. “I dreamed I was pouring my mother out of the sky,” she read, “but the fountain will not be restored before the spring." A little while later, she added: “What kind of a world is it where our leaders say we must use the atom bomb to destroy the atom bomb?" “I’ve got four more,” said one fellow who had nine earrings in his left ear, eight in his left. The crowd groaned. "BOO! BOO!" “Don’t worry, they’re short!” Another fellow jumped up to read a story about how he had gone to “Wank-Mart” to return something. "My arms were empty, but I was limping and in pain," he read. He was taken into the back office, where he was interrogated by staffers who had “breath reeking of sardines and hot chocolate." The punch line: He had gone to the Wank-Mart several days earlier and, when no one was around, had decided to urinate in one of the fish tanks, in an apparent act of rebellion. While doing so, a horrifying marine animal clamped itself upon the end of his penis. Now, the animal was getting bigger, each time he urinated. It was drinking his urine! The store manager grabbed a pair of bolt cutters. He removed both the animal and the penis. But boy, it felt a lot better now. “And yes,” said the fellow, “that’s about my ex-fiancé.” Everyone cheered. Afterwards, he took up a general invitation to join a pack of them at the Fester Lounge. He trailed behind the pack, no sure what to do or say. On the way, the group stopped in a park to smoke a few joints. It was there that he met her, Wendy. She noticed him standing off to the side. “Are you new? I’ve never seen you before. Have I?” “Um, I guess. . . .” He had noticed Wendy at the reading – a stocky girl with large breasts and dreadlocked hair. Some of the dreads were dyed red, some yellow. She was wearing a pair of weather-beaten construction boots, pink-and-gray striped tights. A silver stud was poked in her lower lip. Yes, he had admired, just a bit, her red mouth, the rosy freckled glow of her cheeks. . . . “You’re not gay are you?” she asked. “Oh, no. . . .” She laughed. “Are you married? There’s a lot of married guys who come to these things to try to get girls. I mean, the married ones who aren’t gay. . . .” “Oh, no,” he said, offering her a drink from his bottle of King Saiga. They staggered along to Fester Grill. He ended up spending about $30 on drinks for himself and Wendy. He finished the Saiga alone in the bathroom. Wendy wasn't from the city, but from one of the logging towns up north. She was still hoping to re-enroll at one of the city colleges. She explained that her first loves were punk rock and the Beat Poets, Kurtwood Terence and Sylvia Plath – because of their visions, she had decided to come to the city. “Even though they’re all clichés. But they’re great – that’s why they’re clichés.” "I know,” he had said. "Yes, yes." They caught the late bus to her apartment in the Winchester district. She lived on the fourth floor. The place was filthy. Wendy lived with two roommates - one was out somewhere, the other was asleep. Several cats scampered about. Cat hair floated in the air. The floor was covered in cat food and paper. The countertops were covered with spilled pasta, half-eaten bagels, mugs half-filled with tea and coffee. They went into her bedroom. Wendy went around the room, lighting a dozen candles. He met her cat, Mitchum. Wendy showed him her collection of vintage ash trays, twenty or thirty of them, lined up along the windowsill. She showed him her collection of framed photographs and family albums. Everything was faded, dating anywhere from the 50s to the 80s. They were all strangers. She didn't know any of the people - she'd been buying them for years at the Salvation Army and thrift stores. "I like to make up stories about them - like this guy, he was probably a serial killer in his spare time. Or this guy, he raped his aunt. . . . Everybody's hate their family. That's why his picture's in the Salvation Army. Nobody wants it." She laughed. "I should write it down. But I never have time. There's always something. . . . "I know, exactly. . . ." "How come you didn't read something tonight? Do you write? Sometimes I read, but not tonight. I haven't had time to write anything new. But I got a lot of ideas. . . ." Eventually, Wendy had taken out a turquoise pipe. They had several inhales. Eventually, he felt good enough. He took out his poem and handed it to her. “Oh, you’re really good,” she had said, reading the work aloud in the candlelight. “'The Rope Pusher.' That's heavy, man, nice. . . . You really should have gone up and read this. Be brave next time! It’s so hard to write. People who can write are gods. I can’t do it, not really. I just pretend. . . .” He untied her boots and yanked them off, then slid down her tights and panties. She was ready and waiting. She was unshaven and smelled of some kind of herb. She sat on his face, and he sat on hers . . . when that was done, he slipped right in. Wendy was sloshingly wet. She had been the aggressive one, moving him about as she pleased – directing him from here to there, guiding him by the testicles, pushing his head down between her legs. When that hadn’t done the trick, she moved him on to his back and sat on top, grinding against him. She smashed herself against him, grinding and humming to herself. The cat jumped off the table and looked at him. He felt himself beginning to be short of air. He rolled her off and climbed back on top. She pulled him down and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He sucked on it. Drool rolled down the sides of her face. He kissed her ears, her cheeks, finally getting her silver ring between his lips and sucking on that. It went on for a couple more minutes. He felt tired, somewhat dizzy. He couldn't feel himself inside her any more. He pulled out and spurted with little fanfare on to the carpet next to the futon. He lay damply in her arms, his temple throbbing. Wendy rolled over and threw off the blanket. She spread open her legs and began to service herself. He lay there, wondering what to do. “Can I . . . I mean, help?” he whispered. “No, don’t, don’t. . . ." He lay there, listening to her. Everything seemed backwards. He felt something in his chest, a sensation of panic slowly enveloping him. It would have been much worse, if he hadn't been so tired. He’d deal with it later. He closed his eyes and began to drift away. Wendy trembled, exhaled. She turned and hugged his shoulder, kissed him on the ear and neck. Wendy shook him as the sun rose, about two hours later. An alarm had gone off. It was 6:30. His head thundered. It felt like the tops of his eyeballs were being poked by burning spears. Wendy had to get to work at the Zed’s Organic Cookies. He supposed he had to get work as well. Get home and shower? Or just go in? Maybe he would just go in. Wendy made them tea. They sat at the ashtray-covered table, sharing a smoke. He watched as she pulled on her boots. “Hey,” she said, smiling and punching him in the shoulder. “I had so much fun. Call me the next time you feel like having some mindless sex." “Yes, O.K. Absolutely, no doubt. . . ." He did call her, several times, over the next ten or twelve days. But she never picked up. He went back to Shinebox Follies three or four weeks later. He saw Wendy sitting next to a tall, thickset guy who was wearing a ski cap. The guy had little beard dangling from his lower lip. Wendy saw him, he was sure of it – but he didn't bother to go up to her. She left early, without a word, her arm around the tall, hefty guy. “I command God to cock-fuck me in the ass right now!” screamed a bearded fellow of about 60, who was wearing a cloth diaper and a military dog tag. Yes – he supposed it was the last time he ever saw Wendy.