WOBBLES AND THRUMPS

Meeting a small town woman in an undisclosed location, severing my ties with all personal obligations. Wordiness ensues, so I distrust myself to let go of it all. Blue lines across her face, should have expected that. A magnitude of fifteen knots, thirty degrees centigrade my instruments tell me. Battling weakness, gloomy effulgence draws her closer to me. It's thirty two degrees now.

Suddenly, eighteen wheeler comes crashing through the screen, knocks me on my ass. At last, my death mask casting is ready for another dress rehearsal. Mabel will be pleased. Crawling through a ventilator shaft to get through my own security team, secret-spy style, just so the cheques can write themselves. Save all receipts and hand them to Mabelline. The finest menu since Don Parenyetti's. Gather stones, lace them with dynamite, sit on them and let the explosion of the chemical reaction warm your dried up keister.

To keep on keeping on, Buddy looms in the grass waiting for a chance to pounce while Baby is a cake eating wino born in the thirteenth century.

Swampy says, "Seriously, fuck the grass and all its chemical banditry. It'll take your foot casing like a wannabe shoe salesman grown in an effervescent bleach tube. I know because that's how my aunt got here. Up on the kind of noxious omnivorous winterous lascivious pageantry any sensible person without the internet would trade a dozen different worlds for. Cosmic worlds, not just planetary ones.

So then I asked, "Grow'd it like a winter worm, eh Swamp?". No reply.

Turns out I was right. 

This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.

- Glen Davis

RATHOUSE INDULGENCE

Rathouse indulgence, lining the basement with wet foam served on a platter. The forest keeper is alone in his nightmare. Conjuring the sacred alligator man whose favourite catchphrase is "I'm with stupid". Yesterday's born again in the fragrance of midnight. Choirs wailing absent in the demigogic line dance. Dirge tail uplifted by vast abyss crying the freedom warp waste unknown jealous category brought to light by mirage of dandruff, crying for pity in the mercy of our children and heaven's invention of certain wisdom to likeness of a dancer on the surface of a dream. By the fall of weeping monster cries agent of Faron like satellite vulture in magic loom wheel spinning on the clouds tomorrow's dungeon will be our bed of crime to sweep away in the dust of eternity pattern like diamond encrusted ruby topaz silkworm spun cotton dirt flower orchard burning in the sea like dragon fire shaped by the stars of capricorn silent frozen uplifting heart my sudden turn of creation and magic spinning wagon wheel. Imagine the end. Imagine the stars turning into a wonderpattern that explains itself over and over with the very gesture of light cascading into circles like poem of celestial invocation tireless and exquisite. 

-GD

THE OLD SEX DUNGEON

Blessed freedom. Sweet indulgence. Matter of factly, I've paraded my body around town like a nun for almost seventeen years. Imagine that, wrapped in a shower curtain like a fairy godmother. I've owned this shop since I was forty four years old, the old sex dungeon. A special place to be after dark, if you've heard em tell. Make magic out of molasses. Plenty of asses to go around, too. Sign em up, suck em off, but don't forget to take their money. It's all part of the trade. For the sake of the song, she cried to me when I wouldn't pay up. That was the worst night of my life. I was left alone in the apartment for the next eight days. Imagine that. Crazed by the silence, into the nightmare fog worsening each day by the savior's lack of grace when he fell at the bottom of the ocean like a battered corpse of whale bone drifting slowly in silence. Dread essence of the void, pounding at the flesh made light of letters and marriage to moon and
parroting sparrows in savory essence of matriarchal paradise. Matter of factly revealed to the worst offenders is the automatic pistol whip wanted for murder in the tri-county mega corps chasing hunger by moonlight like wolf man in vogue shame of laying alone by the river but it's actually a movie set and you're always alone there anyways. I hope you like what you see. I await your review.

-GD

MAJOR LEE CARBUNCLE

Major Lee Carbuncle ascended into a dome pollutant formula causing rupture in the central nervous solar system of the cosmic body again. Suffer war criminal like valiant demon parading virtue of incest like crying woman in machine cog wheel laced with dynamite and legacy of inservitude. Major Lee Carbuncle reports to Captain William C. always and forever. Nevermind the cloak behind the cellar window looking into the fire lake like a vision of excrement soaked in special bleach concoction twisted into the veins of children and a circus rat show on world tour number ninety nine. Special ops training and a knack for poodle balloons does C. sport, never too hesitant to show them off either. A lousy bloke. Turn of the century broke itself on the frame of modernity like a sabotage terror cell engulfed by intrigue and taper claw whip sewn into blanket but left in the mud like a forgotten old testament someone heard me speak of this in my own house in the comfort of my own home. I've spoken with him many times. I'm following his footsteps through the dark forest at midnight waiting for his curse to lift. And then came an old cat who spoke French to me. What a surprise. Someone gave me a line and then I rubbed my eyes and wished for freedom.

-GD

PICTURES OF WAR

Since late '18 my wife Helen and I have been hard at work converting DG's Various Primavera into an image factory. Got to keep up with the market, I tell him, cause nobody wants your damned cassette tapes except the sub-libidinal reprobates living on the outskirts of the GTA. But he doesn't listen. Fortunately for his investors we've managed to stockpile an entire vault of visual psychopomp. Here's a glimmer of what's in store for the final day of judgement.

 

This one's called "Manson Men" because it's a picture of Charles Manson and two men. 

I call this one "Dick's Incinerator". The number four must stand for "foreigner".

 

This one's called "My Idol" and it's sad to look at (not unlike DG himself). 

 

This one's called "Drew-a-Face". It might be an ironic title or maybe the guy's name is Drew.

I believe this one is called "Nuclear Warmth", which is a rather uninspired title for something that looks like it took more than a few episodes of the Gilmore Girls to make. 

This one came from the steady hands of Helen Davis. We called it "Miss Mess". I like to think it has something to do with serial killers.  

-Glen

CRYOGEN AGAIN

Readers, listeners, scammers. If you heard in the news or on the street or read in your electric tea leaves that I've been missing or have gone missing or have dispatched myself into a state of being missed... don't buy any of it. These, and mostly everything else at this point, are illusionary divergences planted by the deranged sub-mind of DG Burns. He has the crawling power of a succubus in a solar eclipse, so look away - but maintain vigilance! The man has no shame, after all. In fact he has nothing, that's how he likes it. He wants me - and everyone else for that matter - to be exactly the same. Never mind my civic duties, my cultural integrity, my incredible untapped potential for near-divine leadership. I sensed his fear from the get-go. This, I believe, is why he chose to revoke my publishing rights only a series of fortnights before the global pandemic erupted. Should I have been so surprised? The man is sick. Sick in the mind, sick in the body, but most of all, sick in the soul. Maybe that's why he's been so damned relatable to the few hundred people that traffic this corner of the internet. I feel embarrassed for each and every one of you.

With that being said I'm happy to announce my return to reins of Various. The Burns Blockade is over once again, and until he can muster up a sufficient counter-punch, I think we're in the clear for the time being. Let the content flow like the wine of Dionysus. 

But let's get the tawdry stuff out of the way first and foremost. DG and I have not been completely out of touch during these plague days. He's still issuing his "dispatches" in the form of telegrams, pigeon letters, semi-pornographic fax transmissions, and various other forms of antiquated information exchange. He mostly boasts of his "dark" journal entries, tailored specifically for the covid crisis, as if he's invented some new form of tracking the unconsciousness. He's getting cocky, I can assure you of that. Here's one he sent off early plague:

Glen, I've reached Cryogen again. For the nineteen thousandth time. It's eleven thirty AM and my back is weak from the previous night’s activities. Whips, scales, and brands. These are my minutia. Castigation and floundering wickedness. No penetration whatsoever. Like a child and an electrical socket, I let 120 volts root mean square zip right through my finger tips. Think of me as Prometheus in bondage. (Did you know that I’ve web searched my name so many times at this point that I’ve decided to change it, alter it slightly, to see what else I can find? Like you, I love to plow through the depths of the internet and scheme up my wickedness, watch it float to the surface. It’s not unlike mother and newborn, I would imagine. Crayons melted on a stove top. No fumes, non toxic, no high. Wooden spoon does the trick, just stir on repeat for an earth cycle and add your weapon of choice. Narcotic injunction 283 details the risk.) Pound for pound, you’re likely to last a decade at most, so do your best for body and Christ will take care of the rest. I spoke with Mohammad and Bacchus and they're ready for you. Cop Wilson said the dust will settle and we’ll be out of here in no time. He's the Law, after all. He calls the shots. Guaranteed piss in a jar. I’ve sold my monkey to a blind man for a vile of covid, in case you didn't know. Oh, and create a dune buggy battalion out of a dozen lawn mower engines for me, will you? I have a reason. -DG 

I have no problem admitting that I have no idea what most of this means, nor do I care. I'll leave him be, in fact, and I wholly suggest anyone reading this do the same. He's a sad, little man, some might say. But he can charm when he wants to and that's what makes him so damned lethal. 

Actually, all this DG talk has left a sour taste in my mouth. Makes me want to stick my head in a bucket of bleach. Let's reconvene in a few twists of the tide. In the mean time, carefully observe this artistic rendering of a microscopic mytho-creature I spotted crawling across my peyote plant just a fortnight past. I named it: pony cat, for obvious reasons. I'll be submitting this to the local cryptozooligical association before the week's out for possible inclusion in their upcoming "Critters of Nova Scotia" compendium. 

-Glen Davis

1974

Mercy card clutch pocket in a doomsday parade. In the back of one of those old caddies, topless brassiere warrior with her million dollar voice up to the megaphone screeching, "I'm alive! I'm alive!" as she screams at the crowd, shocked by her electric state of being. Shocked awake into lucidity. Lucy was her name, and she's my goddamn grandmother.

Went pro in '69, rode the heat wave all the way to the 40 cent bus stop. That's where she got her wings, they say. Mother didn't like it one bit. Raised me to think it was wrong for a woman to act like that, especially a multigen matriarch on a melting planet. Couldn't stand the twinkle in her eye neither, wanted to rip it out. "Ain't no particular way I gotta act, and since you've been shit talking me ever since I pushed you outta my immaculate body, how about you stand up and fight me like a goddamn man?" Granny always knew how to pick a fight, knew how to end them too. I once saw her drop some biker chick and her 300 lbs bodyguard like she was swatting flies off a dead llama. Some say she had super strength, but she was just clever. Knew how to use her mind more than most. That's how she created all those illusions, tricked you into seeing things you didn't see, into thinking thoughts you never had. It's how she made my father stop beating my mom. Sometimes she'd push him so hard that I'd see sweat dripping down his face, blood vessels popping in his eye sockets, spit foaming at the side of his mouth until he'd start howling right at the top of his lungs. Sometimes he'd be screaming like a war child, shaking all about, beating his head against the living room mantle trying to make it stop, but of course he never could.

I remember asking once, "What does he see grandma?" to which she replied, "Just himself as he truly is." I didn't quite understand it at the time but I think I do now.

This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.

- Glen Davis