1.       We have a tragedy on our hands at the moment -
    we`re out of hooch, internal bug spray - let`s call that
    High Mountain Moonshine Overproof Special Yahoo! That`s the name of this blend…but it`s almost gone. 


           I woke up this morning because I was buzzed
    by a Beaver.
            I`m not talking about a blonde in tight jeans
    about to sit on my nose - no! I`m talking about
    a Canadian bushplane/floatplane which makes quite
    a roar when it`s coming in -  buzzing your cabin, or coming
    down to land at a ridiculous speed.
            I knew who it was.  It had to be 
    Bobby Carl Wildman, who had just been sprung from a jail
    only 400 miles down river. 
          He`d be  rarin` to go.
    Problem with Bobby - he gets an idea in his head
    it stays in his head until something is done about it.
    Most of his ideas involve motion for everybody else.
    You could say that`s part of his charm, and sometimes
    you`d be right. 
            His last name is Wildman and he acts like a Wildman,
    and every time he comes by: I have a near death experience.

           We usually follow a plan, take off in some direction
    and see what the hell`s going on over there. If nothing`s happening; that changes pretty quick.

            Once I was lying on my back  relaxing in a canoe in at Trout Lake in cottage country. The waves were rocking me like a little baby in his cradle. And the sun is warm on my face.I was listening to the song of birds.
             All of a sudden there was an 
    was an explosion on the shoreline, much much louder than a firecracker. It was Robbie arriving.Robbie showed up with a couple of suspicious looking fellas in a white limousine.
               Next morning at 5:00 A.M. I wake up in New York City. With no memory whatsoever of how I got there.
                I look up and admire the plaster moulding between ceiling and wall . It`s good carved work. Then I hear the constant traffic flow… WTF?
           Then I forced myself up onto all fours - and I started
    to crawl. It seemed like a long journey across an
    endless desert.  What drug gives you tunnel vision and
    and totally fucks your depth perception, too… so that a foot
    can seem like a crab at the bottom of a cliff… What drug can make a luxurious rug at the Hotel Pierre look
    like the Gobi desert?
           What FOOL would take such a drug„,Am I that much of a fool… Oh, no! No negative script right now, revolving in my swollen brain….I don`t have time to be depressed.  Yes,
    I might be an utter shit; I might be spit on a windowpane -
    but if we don`t clear this room they`re gonna put me away forever…
             In one of those cheap government asylums,
    where all the patients are numbers walking around with their asses exposed.  Eight AM and they bring out the firehose -
    they start hosing the `residents` down with cold water… 
            No need for showers…. and when they put you in immaculate white solitary confinement, that`s when, under the bright lights they let the spiders loose on you..! You can see `em real well against the bright white floor and sheets… then you`ll scream…. yes, then…scream….  you will!
           There are certain parts of YOUR body they like to eat when you`re sleeping. 
           STOP IT. That`s all in my head.. No one`s turning the spiders loose on you - not quite yet,  anyway…. Now open your eyes and get a grip…. 

          Not acid, not cocaine, not crystal meth or MDA, not
    herb… although herb sometimes can do amazing things
    with colour… not Haldol, methadone or amitriptyline, not most of the prescription drugs… although there are
     some exceptions if taken to excess…not PCP„, not PCP….
    oh God!  Not PCP!!  What have we done?
           Why are all these bodies lying in our room.  On PCP
    you can do any monstrous thing… you might think it`s for the good of society that you`re choking the life out of your high school teacher…
           You might feel sorry for homeless people, then kill them all and drag them to your room in the Hotel Pierre 
    so they`d be warm and not feel so alone anymore.     Schostokovitch! Is that what we have done?  Are any of the people alive? Am I  a certified monster, after all? 
    Were my friends in primary school right all along about what
    I would become?  On PCP, all of the above is possible
            “THEY`RE GOING TO HUNT US DOWN LIKE DOGS! “I whisper to myself.

             “get a grip…. first of all you`ve gotta go and catch that prick over there….“   I`m crawling again, trying not to puke… He can`t hear me.  I`m too quiet.



           The bastard`s over there in the corner hunched over the telephone talking rapidly.He looked like he was 100 miles away…. I had tunnel vision. WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?
     I have a wad of money in each of my front pockets… Have we robbed these people then terminated their lives?.
            Did we chop them up? I had a horrible taste in my
    mouth just then…it tasted like last night`s  liver and 
    onions.Did we eat their LIVERS! Are we harvesting organs?



           I can`t crawl far or fast… from all fours I collapse on my stomach. In the rug I smell something sweet. My nose is in something soft… Dear God,it`s a hand! It`s perfume I smell… With my eye I follow  the hand along the arm up  to the head. The eye in the head opens.  The eye is huge
    and seems to be following me as I attempt to crawl away
    I`m about to make an exit on my knees…
         It sees me: “HEY, COOCHIE!” It shouts at me.           
           “Thank God!“  I`m thinking. It`s alive! Do I have to kill
    it again?” 
            I clutch the back of Rob`s collar and pull him 
    onto the rug with me. So he`s at my level: “YOU FOOL! WHAT HAPPENED? “ I hiss.
            “No one`s sure.  Remember those two honchos in the limo.
             "Just barely.
              "Well, we rode in the car with them for five hours.  You told all kinds of funny stories….
              "OK OK. what happened! 
    They gave five pills of that date rape drug.  They told me to try it out.
             You gave it to yourself?
              Sure, why not?
              “You give the pill to your date, not yourself You`re supposed to give that pill to the woman and SHE passes out. Then you jump on her and do your evil deeds…  And then you`re facing ten years in the slammer…
              The way you did it: “WE passed out. You can tell the guys it worked! too well…It turned us into killers, also!
             “WHAT ARE ALL THOSE BODIES DOING IN OUR ROOM?  A HEAD OPENED ITS EYES
    AND TALKED TO ME!”

              He looked at me for a long time. I was just about to pull out one of his teeth  with my bare hands if he didn`t speak up.
             He said: “That pill really got on top of you, didn`t it?“
             I say:  “What pill, you fool!  What the fuck happened?  Our room looks like Cambodea after a massacre!  WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING WITH THE BODIES!”
            Rob looks at me as if he`d never met me before,
            “Those aren`t bodies!   That`s Shula and  those are her friends! They`re all alive, I think, anyway.
    We met last night…. drank several gallons of beer.
    You must remember Shula.  She was giving you oral love under the table!“
           “I`m hallucinating are you?” I ask I`m not mentioning
    the evil grin the HEAD had given me?
           “Yeah, quite a bit actually… How about you? You took three times what I took… oh yeah, and the boys said there
    might be a little PCP mixed in it just to keep you awake… so any weird thoughts you`re having - forget `em.“
           I didn`t say a word. So he continued his explanation: 
         “You climbed up onto the stage and did a slow striptease.Shayla got up, too, and stripped with you. The whole place went wild; the bar was mayhem.  The bouncers and the bartenders were freaking. Then you got up on a table and…things settled down when you were talking..at least at first….
          “Then you made a speech about “LIBERATION” and  things got way way worse…everybody got up on the tables throwing their glasses against the wall… Cops were called. We got out quick  We have a room here…"
         “OK, I understand.  But there`s something we`ve gotta do first. Come back into the room with me and we`ll check their vital signs.“ 











              I woke up this morning full of doubt and recriminations.Guilts of all manner were trickling past my ears into my enlarged mind.  I can`t drink a bottle of whiskey straight without water and expect to survive.  I could do it when I was twenty-one but even then it was a bad idea.
              These days it`s damn nearly suicide 
            I have that clarity that means you`ve just dumped about a billion brain cells. 


                Another time we ended up in Peru.
           That another story, one for a more adult audience. Ho! Ho! Joking, of course.  You can imagine what Bobby got up to in Peru - with Peruvian flake cocaine selling for $10.  a gram.
    I`m admitting nothing, naturally.  We went up into the Andes and we were consumed with snow.
          I remember that sudden vacation a whole lot better.
    I have a very Klear memory of it.



           Another time six of  us were just arriving back at Pearson International Airport (Toronto). I was with a bunch
    of Danes (Gerd, especially). They had just introduced me
    to Aquavit. I had six glasses of it then fell asleep behind the wheel. (Wish I had a glass of it now!)
            I drove into a concrete abutment, attempting to leave the parking garage. We weren`t going fast, but even
    at 10 MPH you can have quite a collision.There were six of us in the car.
          I drove an Oldsmobile Cutlass straight  into a cement  abutment   I WAS AWAKENED BY THE SCREAMS OF MY PASSENGERS.

          Usually within three days of Wildman`s arrival, some disaster happens  

            Bobby kicks the door open  and shouts: “I NEED SOME HEROIN!”
           I just stared at him from across the room….   ….  …  You son of a bitch? YOU MAD BASTARD! You know there`s no heroin in Rat River! For the last month
    we haven`t even had salt!“
           “Fuck that! I came to pick you up!  Time for a party… I`m just out of jail and you look out of your mind.
           “What`s wrong with you — you look like you`re dying!”
           “Isolation sickness.  Mad Po left for a booze purchase 
      three weeks ago.  At first the silence was wonderful…now, not so much.
           “Forget that! It`s time for a party I`ve got $32,000 and I want to spend it!
            Bobby waves to the pilot.  An engine starts up
    down the river.


  2. ****************

  3. WAIT-A-BIT          Part 4
    _________________NO MAPS IN WAIT-A-BIT___________________
           “My name is Frank”
           “I`m glad you remembered,“ Hank mutters to himself
            I start writing again … now not saying the words out loud as I
    write them:
                     I  woke up this morning with my head on a small desk
    right next to the wood stove. I heard a scratching noise behind me,
    and that is usually not a good thing in the Artic, when you`re living without  a door. 
           I go to bed with my gun at night and I rarely clean my
    clothes - so I am always ready. And I can leap out of bed and start firing like a Bonzai warrior 
          You can strap that tarp down pretty tight, tho, and you can hear him if he`s on his way - the Devil Beast. I read: 
       “The red eyed devil who hates us and knows out minds - the
    beast with great claws and teeth who digs  better than we can
    because he wants to return to Hell.” 
           “The beast who eats our food and who pisses on the rest
    of it, so only he can eat it later.  The beast who hides the urinated food deep in a hole of his own choosing;
    who scatters our possessions. ……..Who then rapes us
    improperly after the despoiling is done.” 
            “Would you stop TALKING LIKE THAT!”  Hank shouts: 
    “It`s giving me the creeps, this Devil Beast business…. when
    did you write that shit? I hope you`re not writing any more… 
    I don`t think I can trust you - if you`re going to keep writing stuff like that!”
          “  You sound like some evil  monk in a
    subterranean cell….reading out loud by candlelight… in a
    monk`s hood..” He looks over at me, he gets
    down almost to his knees to look. He falls to his 
    knees, presses his forehead against the cool clay 
    of the dugout wall. He  turns and looks at me again:
    "Shit! That`s what you look like, too!”
    he says….      
         “What you were reading out loud - It sounded vaguely liturgical”, Hank says 
           ” I think we have to assume it was liturgical…" I say  “that it was a prayer of sorts…. seems like  Thomasino was praying to the Devil on Four Legs….I say.
      …..He was certain there was no escape from the Beast, the beast was surely and inexorably coming to  devour him…  …" I`m having trouble with this last bit… He`s scribbling like he didn`t have much time:   Thomasino was praying to the GREAT BEAST ON FOUR LEGS:  “Please eat my brain first!, it says, “Please eat my brain first…PLEASE! Don`t start with my testicles!“ 
    I say,  “What!  Me? You think  Me?  I didn`t write this stuff… No, no this was a vet from South America - came up here to protect the animals..I” 
              “A war vet?`asks Hank.
              “No,  a doctor…from South America, a veterinarian.  Like I said, he came up here to protect the animals. 
               “THESE ANIMALS?  He came up to PROTECT….. 
    THESE ANIMALS!“ hANKS  shoulders are shaking, he`s laughing.. I gotta get this down… This is crazy… this is 
    is too crazy…. Hank is scribbling again, “A veterinarian! Ha! Ha!” 
          “Yeah!      I just found his diary. I was reading it to myself..” 
            “OUT LOUD!“ He turns to me.   “You were reading OUT LOUD!   It sounded as if you were saying a prayer… it sounded like you were praying to the Devil Beast…?”….  „„ “You weren`t, were you?” 
               ” Of course not!”“Do I LOOK as if I`d do something like that?” 
                 “In that hat with 4 screens, you look as if you might 
    do anything at all!” 
                 “When we fix that door,  I won`t have to sleep in these screens. Then I`ll look normal,  you`ll see… and Matilda will, too.” I said. 
                  I nod my head and whisper to him the name - “Matilda.” 
               Hank`s got his note pad out again, which delights me! I used to do the same thing exactly - whenever I smelt the whiff of a story. 
                 He still thinks he`ll get a story out of this.  And when 
    the story`s finished, he`ll give it to the newspaper  And,  after that?”  
               “After that you`ll hit the road, eh, Jack?”„, C-U-LATER!“ Is that what you`re thinking 
                “Yeah, I have to.. I got my story… too bad about 
     no job, no boss Henry..no newspaper building, no school, 
    no A&P… no…  ….But I never knew him….”                         
               “You got a map?” he asked.He`s standing again, almost. 
                    “Maps, we had maps galore…. But
    after the blast, there weren`t no  maps no more.”
                      Hank had started to untie the tarp;he`d walked over to the tarp hole 
                       “No maps… no more…. no maps by the door.“I said 
                     ” Do you think you have brain damage?“ Hank asks 
                       “That`s a hell of a question to ask, just as you`re 
    trying to leave!  Do you mean me?” I say 
                      “ I mean  everybody here in town, but you especially,"Hank say 
                       “We coulnd`t find anything…. except twisted up re-bar  for our  foxhole walls… without the rebar… and all those beasts in the lowlands before the River, we would have been fucked!   They can`t dig thru re-bar, you see… So now we`re better off - we`re not totally fucked.  We`re just completely screwed…"    I`m saying. 
                    “WHAT?” he shouts.  His eyes are crazed. 
                      “Soon as the ringing in our ears cleared, we remembered we were hungry” To tell the truth. we couldn`t remember our own names , let alone the name of our town… and so  WE CAN`T FIND ANYTHING ON A MAP…    EVEN IF WE HAD A MAP, which…….. we…………don`t….we don know what names to match on the map…. 
                     “WE DON`T HAVE A MAP!“ i shout back at him 
                        At least that was clear. 
                                 ***  ***  *** 
     END OF WAIT-A-BIT  - Part 4    
    30 notes
  4.  You reblogged ballantineandzappadat zappadat Source: ROVING REPORTER RANTS zappadat.blogspot.com
    zappadat:
    BALLS  NAKED IN A CHAIR, SEX WITH INSECTS ………….AGONY FLOWERS………………..NEW AGE EDITING



            I crawl up out of what the Rat Poet calls
    "the foxhole.” I`m not goint to sweat it.  I think
    my pants lost their crease when I left Toronto.
    And I`ve gone about ten thousand miles since then,
    if you count bushplane,  cattle-car and canoe.
    And there are moments of beauty… some of that
    little prick`s lines are showing promise…
    But anything we have worked on in the past two
    weeks has disappeared.
            Instead I find this: 


    VERSE
    “I know this isn`t normal:
    It doesn`t matter much to me
     `Bout normal or abnormal, deviant or deranged.
    I`ve got ingrown toenails and moral turpetude, (sp)
    And I can`t reach my toenails anymore”

             It`s brain-numbingly bad.  Before there was
    a lot of shit, but at least we were working on
    “literature"…  One thing  for sure about this: its not 
    literature…. It`s doggeril for sure. Like shit from a
    dog… I was about to make a note in the verse and
    ask,  “IS THIS THE PLACE FOR A COLON?”
    But it was!  It was most definitely the place for a colon…
    with  that dogshit dogeril! (sp?)
             I`ve heard the rhythm before….
     I`m trying to identify the source…

             Fuck it… I need a coffee. And I better
    pour a little shine into it… “The Mad Poet of Rat River.“
    I know how he got that name —- if I stay here
    much longer, I`m going to be nuts myself.  I wonder
    how many braincells I lose every time I take a drink of
    this stuff.   Look, it`s effervescing as I pour it…
    And I`m damned if i CAN SPELL effevessing!
    Ten years at the University and I can`t spell!
           That fucking mayor, or janitor, or whatever
    he was… He looks like I feel… He looks like a mad
    idiot…. A moron and on the low end of the intelligence
    scale for morons.
           I`m starting to understand those screens tho.
    I`ve been bitten 30 times since I sat down to
    read whatever horse`s ass dogeril this is.
           And I`m sitting inside the house!

    VERSE 
    "Suffering from no vitamins, no vegetables too -
    spend too long in the toilet seeing
     What I have consumed ;          (OUCH!  NO!  HELP ME!)
    I`ve never seen an apple
    I`m malnourished at the root
    And I don`t go out the front door anymore.
                                                           (WHEW! NO MORE!)

     VERSE
    "I avoid the whole world; 
    The world is strange to me:
    The rug  is a jungle that the cops
          can`t even see!                             (NO!)
    And the ceiling keeps on waving
    Like breakers in the sea;
    And we can see Arcturus
    But there isn`t any “we”                      (!!!!!!!)                   
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore.“

    I sit in perfect balance
    Getting lighter all the time;
    Swell up like a blowfish
    Float past the maidens on the Rhine.
    And I know I`m getting somewhere
    Because I`m going blind;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore

    Angels in the kitchen want money
    From me, too;
    And Frankie blows the tuba
    To the cat between his shoes.
    And Artie`s watching Daisy`s ass,
    She lifts the  washing on the line
    The mice jump to the tuba sounds.
    Go running cross the boards;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore. 

    The smoke  keeps pouring out
    Of the foxhole and the door;
    I don`t have no fire alarm
    There`re no firemen anymore;
    And the giant river
    Flows as sweet and smooth as silk
     As silent church bells
    Ring inside my mind;

    I`d go to the wedding
    But there`s no women here to wed
    I saw my blankets moving
    There`s a weasel in my bed;
    I let the insects bite me
    It`s the only sex I get 
    I don`t go out my
    Front door
    Anymore. 



                           Oh God! Lord. HELP ME!   And I really mean it
    this time:
                I LET THE INSECTS BITE ME
                IT`S THE ONLY SEX I GET!

               Help me!  What the FUCK have I gotten
      myself into!

    I`m 3000 miles from anywhere
    And  I haven`t seen a ship.  
    The planes won`t even land here
     we`re not  a radar blip.
    And the wolverines are laughing
    And Matilda`s laughing, too
    If I don`t find some conveyance
    I`l drink all this overproof
     And next I`ll put my heard right 
    Through this board…               

                NOW I`M DOING IT………!          
                           I`M GOING TO SHOOT MYSELF!

              Where`s the fucking gun?  For that matter,
    where`s the stupid fucking poet… He`s not here.
    He`s not in the foxhole!
               Has he gone to town without me?
                Town?
                Ha! Ha"  Oh yeah, I forgot. There IS NO TOWN!

                 Editor666…. looks out the scruffy
    pane of glasses that passes for a window
    looking out over the scruffy yard…. It`s quite quaint
    actually…  YEAH, RIGHT!  There are some old wooden
    kitchen chairs standing at all angles in the yard….
    Is that a man  sitting in that chair?
           There he is! He`s got a toque on and his 
    boots… HOLY SHIT!  His pants are down!
    And… oh fuck!  He`s not moving!
                The editor runs outside (me, I run outside) I find the
    mad poet is unconscious. He`s passed out with his pants
    down. His groin is crawling with flies… Everything looks
    unnaturally red and swollen… I guess so!
               If you can`t leave your horse outside for an hour - you sure as hell shouldn`t be sitting outside bare-assed! You gotta know that`s a bad idea. And MadPo of Rat River has been living here for years!

             There are about ten mosquitoes on the guy`s dick! At least five actively sucking blood from the  head.  Now that`s a fetish! INSECT LOVE!
               I run inside and grab a towel  and start swatting the 
    flies away…. His balls are protruding in an unnatural
    way… They`re teed up, literally, like a golf ball on a T. How
    the hell did that happen? I`m whacking at him with a towel.  Even this doesn`t wake him up.
              I didn`t sign on for this!

             He`s got a rope looped around his balls about
    ten times. No wonder they`re sticking out.  I
    pick him up and throw him over my shoulder. I kick open
    the double-screened door. I walk past the wood stove
    carrying the guy. He`s not light. He`s got big
    shoulders… probably from all the paddling he does
    each time he tries to escape this place.
             I toss him on his bed, which looks like a big
    stack of clothes and pillows and furs.  I make sure
    he`s not face down so he can breathe.
             I make sure there`s no large insects crawling on
    him.  I check for 100 pound weasels. Anything could
    be in that bed. I give the furs a kick. And that`s
    as good a friend as I intend to be.
             He can take the ropes off his testicles
    himself!

              I go past the wood stove to the food table.
    I make sure the sceen doors are latched tight.
    I pour myself a long tall drink -moonshine and water
    and berries squeezed in. (I almost said. “buries”!)
              Another few hours out there and there wouldn`t
    have been much left of him. And I`m just talking
    about the insects.
              If a wolverine had ever shown up…goodbye
    Martha!  That would have been a real weasel picnic
    right there!
              The big weasels have a certain fondness
    for  testicles.  That`s why the bears run away from
    them!  They go right for the balls, and they don`t
    miss often. They`re low to the ground and
    they run hunched over and they have those 
    long pointy noses and, I suspect,  
    really vicious sharp teeth.
             A big weasel will chase a 2000 pound bear right away from a carcass.  And the bear`ll right like mad for
    the hills, the wolverine running right  after
    him for about fifty feet, trying to nab his danglers
    from behind.
            You don`t believe me?  Ask the experts.
    Who are the experts?  I`m half an expert… I`ve
    only been here a month, but I`ve seen this
    already.
            I guess if you want a real expert you`d
    have to ask that mad fool idiot janitor-mayor
    of Wait-A-Bit
              And that`s about as much about weasels
    as I want to know.  You probably feel
    the same way, too. 

            I take a drink. It`s too weak… too much water.
    I set it aside.  I`m sure I can find a use for it.
            I grab a second tin cup, fill it about a third
    full of the pure stuff…watch it effervesce  (sp?)
    Take a straight shot…. Jesus! I`m seeing stars!
    I feel it burning like turpentine all the way doen into
    my stomache.
           A shot glass of this stuff will burn on fire
     for half an hour. O.K. No straight shots… My ears are burning and my eyes are burning, 
    but I`m feeling better.
           What the hell am I doing here?   People pay me to
    edit their work.  At least they did in New York City,
    Toronto and London.
          And I get talked into “a two month paid vacation"
     (He offered me cash - five grand down, five
    at the end of my contract.. and god knows I needed
    a vacation!).   Talked into this…
    by that mentally-challenged moron janitor-mayor
    80 miles to the West on the Mackenzie… the big river!
    Ha!  I`m not even on the Big River.. I`m on the small
    river… Rat River… swatting the flies off the genitals
    of Ratty here…. That`s not exactly editing now, is it?
    Although there are certain parallels…

           With the shit that this guy`s writing now! Swatting
    the flies off something is kind of a cute metaphor.

           Better look at another verse.
           In a minute.

          This booze is pretty good… when you get past
    the initial burn and the Varsol taste.
            I have another slug… Now I`m laughing about
    nothing in particular… Better watch it.  Pretty soon
    I`ll be out there trying to fuck the flies myself…
    Didn`t someone`s uncle die that way recently?
            Yeah, I know I didn`t make that one up myself.
    And I sure as fuck hope I didn`t dream it!
            He was related to the mayor with the beekeeper`s
    hat…which he never takes off.  His uncle… Running off
    into the woods with a hard-on - wearing nothing
    but a Sony Walkman listening to “I believe in miracles!….
    Where you been, you sexy thing?“
             And he was never seen again.  All they
    found was his Walkman… That`s how they know
    which song…
              Maybe this sex with the insects thing is catching.
    And if it`s catching, maybe I can get workman`s
    compensation…

              Ho! Ho!  That`s “one toke over the line” thinking. It`s important to stop yourself when you start thinking in a truly abberant fashion.
             INSECT SEX, indeed! That`s why they call me Editor 666. I spot stuff like this. That`s why they pay me the big
    bucks… I spot aberrant thinking, Damn right!
    And I`m, seeing plenty of it around here!
             I`m ruthless, that`s what they say. They`re right
    I`m going to ruthlessly pour a drink 
          I pour a half cup of straight  white lightning. … I pour some ketchup into the overproof and mix it… just to cut the
    edge a little.  Don`t want to lose that `burn` completely. Add a few ounces of water - not nearly as much as before…


           (((   Aw, fuck! It`s been about an hour! I can`t leave
    him in there much longer. That rope around his ballocks
    looked like bungie cord! And his testicles were an unhealthy coulour of purple even back then.))
             I walk back past the wood stove, stagger a few
    steps to the right. I have that first drink in my hand. It`s
    about one quarter alcohol. A strong drink, a brisk drink. Nothing too heavy… you can`t quite light it on fire, but
    you almost can.  
            His  testicles are deep purple now. I throw my drinkl
    right on his balls.  What a surprise. Not a sound.
     At least this should disinfect the situation. I`m doing
    him a favour,
            I go back into the kitchen

             I hit the empty tin cup with a pencil. it makes
    a pleasing sound. I fetch three more tin cups and pour
    a different amount of moonshine in each one. I hit all of
    the cups, playing different percussive notes and chanting
    playfully along


                   I hear gasping sounds from the back of the
    room… Like a large animal stumbling around
    in the woodshed having discovered something horrific
    in the corner.
            The gasps turn to low surprised grunts
    and fast howls of astonishment. Then the bellowing
    begins.
             The mad poet of Rat River is understanding
    the dark side of Insect Love.
             People are in pain all the time. But rarely in a person`s
    life does he experience the full flowering of agony.
    The Mad Poet is experiencing that rare moment now
    and I have to think he`l be a better poet for knowing
    this profound truth  buried deep in the nature of
    Reality.
            Life is pain, otherwise we`d all fall asleep. 
            He will be fully awake to the twenty-first century
    and he will understand the meaning of New Age Editing.
             In about forty minutes his screaming will stop and
     I`m sure he`ll feel the whole experience has been worthwhile. 


           And what it means to be rescued by Editor 666 


                 It`s a howl that would bring cops cars from three
    precincts, if we were in the cities.   But we`re not in the
    cities.Howling and screaming and, in fact, torture of all kinds are perfectly legal up here in the Territories. 
            This is like the Old West.  No, this is better than the
    Old West. In the Old West, you howl and scream like this,
    someone would likely hear you and run to your aid.
            Up here, you can scream like this all day and howl
    like an agonized wild dog under a fat full moon - no one will do a thing. No one will even notice.
            I`d help but, as you know, I`ve already helped him.
    I`ve done all I feel I can in good conscience do. I imagine when he gets that bungie cord untied, and blood starts rushing back to the situation and the nerve endings in his scrotum truly awaken, he`ll know what it means to be fully
    alive and sentient in the twenty-first century.
    3 notes





  5. Tumblelog Menu ballantineandzappadat reblogged you ROVING REPORTER RANTS zappadat.blogspot.comzappadat:
    BALLS  NAKED IN A CHAIR, SEX WITH INSECTS ………….AGONY FLOWERS………………..NEW AGE EDITING



            I crawl up out of what the Rat Poet calls
    “the foxhole.” I`m not goint to sweat it.  I think
    my pants lost their crease when I left Toronto.
    And I`ve gone about ten thousand miles since then,
    if you count bushplane,  cattle-car and canoe.
    And there are moments of beauty… some of that
    little prick`s lines are showing promise…
    But anything we have worked on in the past two
    weeks has disappeared.
            Instead I find this: 


    VERSE
    “I know this isn`t normal:
    It doesn`t matter much to me
     `Bout normal or abnormal, deviant or deranged.
    I`ve got ingrown toenails and moral turpetude, (sp)
    And I can`t reach my toenails anymore”

             It`s brain-numbingly bad.  Before there was
    a lot of shit, but at least we were working on
    “literature"…  One thing  for sure about this: its not 
    literature…. It`s doggeril for sure. Like shit from a
    dog… I was about to make a note in the verse and
    ask,  “IS THIS THE PLACE FOR A COLON?”
    But it was!  It was most definitely the place for a colon…
    with  that dogshit dogeril! (sp?)
             I`ve heard the rhythm before….
     I`m trying to identify the source…

             Fuck it… I need a coffee. And I better
    pour a little shine into it… “The Mad Poet of Rat River.“
    I know how he got that name —- if I stay here
    much longer, I`m going to be nuts myself.  I wonder
    how many braincells I lose every time I take a drink of
    this stuff.   Look, it`s effervescing as I pour it…
    And I`m damned if i CAN SPELL effevessing!
    Ten years at the University and I can`t spell!
           That fucking mayor, or janitor, or whatever
    he was… He looks like I feel… He looks like a mad
    idiot…. A moron and on the low end of the intelligence
    scale for morons.
           I`m starting to understand those screens tho.
    I`ve been bitten 30 times since I sat down to
    read whatever horse`s ass dogeril this is.
           And I`m sitting inside the house!

    VERSE 
    "Suffering from no vitamins, no vegetables too -
    spend too long in the toilet seeing
     What I have consumed ;          (OUCH!  NO!  HELP ME!)
    I`ve never seen an apple
    I`m malnourished at the root
    And I don`t go out the front door anymore.
                                                           (WHEW! NO MORE!)

     VERSE
    "I avoid the whole world; 
    The world is strange to me:
    The rug  is a jungle that the cops
          can`t even see!                             (NO!)
    And the ceiling keeps on waving
    Like breakers in the sea;
    And we can see Arcturus
    But there isn`t any “we”                      (!!!!!!!)                   
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore.“

    I sit in perfect balance
    Getting lighter all the time;
    Swell up like a blowfish
    Float past the maidens on the Rhine.
    And I know I`m getting somewhere
    Because I`m going blind;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore

    Angels in the kitchen want money
    From me, too;
    And Frankie blows the tuba
    To the cat between his shoes.
    And Artie`s watching Daisy`s ass,
    She lifts the  washing on the line
    The mice jump to the tuba sounds.
    Go running cross the boards;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore. 

    The smoke  keeps pouring out
    Of the foxhole and the door;
    I don`t have no fire alarm
    There`re no firemen anymore;
    And the giant river
    Flows as sweet and smooth as silk
     As silent church bells
    Ring inside my mind;

    I`d go to the wedding
    But there`s no women here to wed
    I saw my blankets moving
    There`s a weasel in my bed;
    I let the insects bite me
    It`s the only sex I get 
    I don`t go out my
    Front door
    Anymore. 



                           Oh God! Lord. HELP ME!   And I really mean it
    this time:
                I LET THE INSECTS BITE ME
                IT`S THE ONLY SEX I GET!

               Help me!  What the FUCK have I gotten
      myself into!

    I`m 3000 miles from anywhere
    And  I haven`t seen a ship.  
    The planes won`t even land here
     we`re not  a radar blip.
    And the wolverines are laughing
    And Matilda`s laughing, too
    If I don`t find some conveyance
    I`l drink all this overproof
     And next I`ll put my heard right 
    Through this board…               

                NOW I`M DOING IT………!          
                           I`M GOING TO SHOOT MYSELF!

              Where`s the fucking gun?  For that matter,
    where`s the stupid fucking poet… He`s not here.
    He`s not in the foxhole!
               Has he gone to town without me?
                Town?
                Ha! Ha"  Oh yeah, I forgot. There IS NO TOWN!

                 Editor666…. looks out the scruffy
    pane of glasses that passes for a window
    looking out over the scruffy yard…. It`s quite quaint
    actually…  YEAH, RIGHT!  There are some old wooden
    kitchen chairs standing at all angles in the yard….
    Is that a man  sitting in that chair?
           There he is! He`s got a toque on and his 
    boots… HOLY SHIT!  His pants are down!
    And… oh fuck!  He`s not moving!
                The editor runs outside (me, I run outside) I find the
    mad poet is unconscious. He`s passed out with his pants
    down. His groin is crawling with flies… Everything looks
    unnaturally red and swollen… I guess so!
               If you can`t leave your horse outside for an hour - you sure as hell shouldn`t be sitting outside bare-assed! You gotta know that`s a bad idea. And MadPo of Rat River has been living here for years!

             There are about ten mosquitoes on the guy`s dick! At least five actively sucking blood from the  head.  Now that`s a fetish! INSECT LOVE!
               I run inside and grab a towel  and start swatting the 
    flies away…. His balls are protruding in an unnatural
    way… They`re teed up, literally, like a golf ball on a T. How
    the hell did that happen? I`m whacking at him with a towel.  Even this doesn`t wake him up.
              I didn`t sign on for this!

             He`s got a rope looped around his balls about
    ten times. No wonder they`re sticking out.  I
    pick him up and throw him over my shoulder. I kick open
    the double-screened door. I walk past the wood stove
    carrying the guy. He`s not light. He`s got big
    shoulders… probably from all the paddling he does
    each time he tries to escape this place.
             I toss him on his bed, which looks like a big
    stack of clothes and pillows and furs.  I make sure
    he`s not face down so he can breathe.
             I make sure there`s no large insects crawling on
    him.  I check for 100 pound weasels. Anything could
    be in that bed. I give the furs a kick. And that`s
    as good a friend as I intend to be.
             He can take the ropes off his testicles
    himself!

              I go past the wood stove to the food table.
    I make sure the sceen doors are latched tight.
    I pour myself a long tall drink -moonshine and water
    and berries squeezed in. (I almost said. “buries”!)
              Another few hours out there and there wouldn`t
    have been much left of him. And I`m just talking
    about the insects.
              If a wolverine had ever shown up…goodbye
    Martha!  That would have been a real weasel picnic
    right there!
              The big weasels have a certain fondness
    for  testicles.  That`s why the bears run away from
    them!  They go right for the balls, and they don`t
    miss often. They`re low to the ground and
    they run hunched over and they have those 
    long pointy noses and, I suspect,  
    really vicious sharp teeth.
             A big weasel will chase a 2000 pound bear right away from a carcass.  And the bear`ll right like mad for
    the hills, the wolverine running right  after
    him for about fifty feet, trying to nab his danglers
    from behind.
            You don`t believe me?  Ask the experts.
    Who are the experts?  I`m half an expert… I`ve
    only been here a month, but I`ve seen this
    already.
            I guess if you want a real expert you`d
    have to ask that mad fool idiot janitor-mayor
    of Wait-A-Bit
              And that`s about as much about weasels
    as I want to know.  You probably feel
    the same way, too. 

            I take a drink. It`s too weak… too much water.
    I set it aside.  I`m sure I can find a use for it.
            I grab a second tin cup, fill it about a third
    full of the pure stuff…watch it effervesce  (sp?)
    Take a straight shot…. Jesus! I`m seeing stars!
    I feel it burning like turpentine all the way doen into
    my stomache.
           A shot glass of this stuff will burn on fire
     for half an hour. O.K. No straight shots… My ears are burning and my eyes are burning, 
    but I`m feeling better.
           What the hell am I doing here?   People pay me to
    edit their work.  At least they did in New York City,
    Toronto and London.
          And I get talked into “a two month paid vacation"
     (He offered me cash - five grand down, five
    at the end of my contract.. and god knows I needed
    a vacation!).   Talked into this…
    by that mentally-challenged moron janitor-mayor
    80 miles to the West on the Mackenzie… the big river!
    Ha!  I`m not even on the Big River.. I`m on the small
    river… Rat River… swatting the flies off the genitals
    of Ratty here…. That`s not exactly editing now, is it?
    Although there are certain parallels…

           With the shit that this guy`s writing now! Swatting
    the flies off something is kind of a cute metaphor.

           Better look at another verse.
           In a minute.

          This booze is pretty good… when you get past
    the initial burn and the Varsol taste.
            I have another slug… Now I`m laughing about
    nothing in particular… Better watch it.  Pretty soon
    I`ll be out there trying to fuck the flies myself…
    Didn`t someone`s uncle die that way recently?
            Yeah, I know I didn`t make that one up myself.
    And I sure as fuck hope I didn`t dream it!
            He was related to the mayor with the beekeeper`s
    hat…which he never takes off.  His uncle… Running off
    into the woods with a hard-on - wearing nothing
    but a Sony Walkman listening to “I believe in miracles!….
    Where you been, you sexy thing?“
             And he was never seen again.  All they
    found was his Walkman… That`s how they know
    which song…
              Maybe this sex with the insects thing is catching.
    And if it`s catching, maybe I can get workman`s
    compensation…

              Ho! Ho!  That`s “one toke over the line” thinking. It`s important to stop yourself when you start thinking in a truly abberant fashion.
             INSECT SEX, indeed! That`s why they call me Editor 666. I spot stuff like this. That`s why they pay me the big
    bucks… I spot aberrant thinking, Damn right!
    And I`m, seeing plenty of it around here!
             I`m ruthless, that`s what they say. They`re right
    I`m going to ruthlessly pour a drink 
          I pour a half cup of straight  white lightning. … I pour some ketchup into the overproof and mix it… just to cut the
    edge a little.  Don`t want to lose that `burn` completely. Add a few ounces of water - not nearly as much as before…


           (((   Aw, fuck! It`s been about an hour! I can`t leave
    him in there much longer. That rope around his ballocks
    looked like bungie cord! And his testicles were an unhealthy coulour of purple even back then.))
             I walk back past the wood stove, stagger a few
    steps to the right. I have that first drink in my hand. It`s
    about one quarter alcohol. A strong drink, a brisk drink. Nothing too heavy… you can`t quite light it on fire, but
    you almost can.  
            His  testicles are deep purple now. I throw my drinkl
    right on his balls.  What a surprise. Not a sound.
     At least this should disinfect the situation. I`m doing
    him a favour,
            I go back into the kitchen

             I hit the empty tin cup with a pencil. it makes
    a pleasing sound. I fetch three more tin cups and pour
    a different amount of moonshine in each one. I hit all of
    the cups, playing different percussive notes and chanting
    playfully along


                   I hear gasping sounds from the back of the
    room… Like a large animal stumbling around
    in the woodshed having discovered something horrific
    in the corner.
            The gasps turn to low surprised grunts
    and fast howls of astonishment. Then the bellowing
    begins.
             The mad poet of Rat River is understanding
    the dark side of Insect Love.
             People are in pain all the time. But rarely in a person`s
    life does he experience the full flowering of agony.
    The Mad Poet is experiencing that rare moment now
    and I have to think he`l be a better poet for knowing
    this profound truth  buried deep in the nature of
    Reality.
            Life is pain, otherwise we`d all fall asleep. 
            He will be fully awake to the twenty-first century
    and he will understand the meaning of New Age Editing.
             In about forty minutes his screaming will stop and
     I`m sure he`ll feel the whole experience has been worthwhile. 


           And what it means to be rescued by Editor 666 


                 It`s a howl that would bring cops cars from three
    precincts, if we were in the cities.   But we`re not in the
    cities.Howling and screaming and, in fact, torture of all kinds are perfectly legal up here in the Territories. 
            This is like the Old West.  No, this is better than the
    Old West. In the Old West, you howl and scream like this,
    someone would likely hear you and run to your aid.
            Up here, you can scream like this all day and howl
    like an agonized wild dog under a fat full moon - no one will do a thing. No one will even notice.
            I`d help but, as you know, I`ve already helped him.
    I`ve done all I feel I can in good conscience do. I imagine when he gets that bungie cord untied, and blood starts rushing back to the situation and the nerve endings in his scrotum truly awaken, he`ll know what it means to be fully
    alive and sentient in the twenty-first century.
    3 notes
  6. Tumblelog Menu ballantineandzappadat reblogged you SEX WITH INSECTS LEASHED BALLS IN THE BUSHzappadat:
    ROVING REPORTER RANTS
    BALLS  NAKED IN A CHAIR, SEX WITH INSECTS ………….AGONY FLOWERS………………..NEW AGE EDITING



            I crawl up out of what the Rat Poet calls
    “the foxhole.” I`m not goint to sweat it.  I think
    my pants lost their crease when I left Toronto.
    And I`ve gone about ten thousand miles since then,
    if you count bushplane,  cattle-car and canoe.
    And there are moments of beauty… some of that
    little prick`s lines are showing promise…
    But anything we have worked on in the past two
    weeks has disappeared.
            Instead I find this: 


    VERSE
    “I know this isn`t normal:
    It doesn`t matter much to me
     `Bout normal or abnormal, deviant or deranged.
    I`ve got ingrown toenails and moral turpetude, (sp)
    And I can`t reach my toenails anymore”

             It`s brain-numbingly bad.  Before there was
    a lot of shit, but at least we were working on
    “literature"…  One thing  for sure about this: its not 
    literature…. It`s doggeril for sure. Like shit from a
    dog… I was about to make a note in the verse and
    ask,  “IS THIS THE PLACE FOR A COLON?”
    But it was!  It was most definitely the place for a colon…
    with  that dogshit dogeril! (sp?)
             I`ve heard the rhythm before….
     I`m trying to identify the source…

             Fuck it… I need a coffee. And I better
    pour a little shine into it… “The Mad Poet of Rat River.“
    I know how he got that name —- if I stay here
    much longer, I`m going to be nuts myself.  I wonder
    how many braincells I lose every time I take a drink of
    this stuff.   Look, it`s effervescing as I pour it…
    And I`m damned if i CAN SPELL effevessing!
    Ten years at the University and I can`t spell!
           That fucking mayor, or janitor, or whatever
    he was… He looks like I feel… He looks like a mad
    idiot…. A moron and on the low end of the intelligence
    scale for morons.
           I`m starting to understand those screens tho.
    I`ve been bitten 30 times since I sat down to
    read whatever horse`s ass dogeril this is.
           And I`m sitting inside the house!

    VERSE 
    "Suffering from no vitamins, no vegetables too -
    spend too long in the toilet seeing
     What I have consumed ;          (OUCH!  NO!  HELP ME!)
    I`ve never seen an apple
    I`m malnourished at the root
    And I don`t go out the front door anymore.
                                                           (WHEW! NO MORE!)

     VERSE
    "I avoid the whole world; 
    The world is strange to me:
    The rug  is a jungle that the cops
          can`t even see!                             (NO!)
    And the ceiling keeps on waving
    Like breakers in the sea;
    And we can see Arcturus
    But there isn`t any “we”                      (!!!!!!!)                   
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore.“

    I sit in perfect balance
    Getting lighter all the time;
    Swell up like a blowfish
    Float past the maidens on the Rhine.
    And I know I`m getting somewhere
    Because I`m going blind;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore

    Angels in the kitchen want money
    From me, too;
    And Frankie blows the tuba
    To the cat between his shoes.
    And Artie`s watching Daisy`s ass,
    She lifts the  washing on the line
    The mice jump to the tuba sounds.
    Go running cross the boards;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore. 

    The smoke  keeps pouring out
    Of the foxhole and the door;
    I don`t have no fire alarm
    There`re no firemen anymore;
    And the giant river
    Flows as sweet and smooth as silk
     As silent church bells
    Ring inside my mind;

    I`d go to the wedding
    But there`s no women here to wed
    I saw my blankets moving
    There`s a weasel in my bed;
    I let the insects bite me
    It`s the only sex I get 
    I don`t go out my
    Front door
    Anymore. 



                           Oh God! Lord. HELP ME!   And I really mean it
    this time:
                I LET THE INSECTS BITE ME
                IT`S THE ONLY SEX I GET!

               Help me!  What the FUCK have I gotten
      myself into!

    I`m 3000 miles from anywhere
    And  I haven`t seen a ship.  
    The planes won`t even land here
     we`re not  a radar blip.
    And the wolverines are laughing
    And Matilda`s laughing, too
    If I don`t find some conveyance
    I`l drink all this overproof
     And next I`ll put my heard right 
    Through this board…               

                NOW I`M DOING IT………!          
                           I`M GOING TO SHOOT MYSELF!

              Where`s the fucking gun?  For that matter,
    where`s the stupid fucking poet… He`s not here.
    He`s not in the foxhole!
               Has he gone to town without me?
                Town?
                Ha! Ha"  Oh yeah, I forgot. There IS NO TOWN!

                 Editor666…. looks out the scruffy
    pane of glasses that passes for a window
    looking out over the scruffy yard…. It`s quite quaint
    actually…  YEAH, RIGHT!  There are some old wooden
    kitchen chairs standing at all angles in the yard….
    Is that a man  sitting in that chair?
           There he is! He`s got a toque on and his 
    boots… HOLY SHIT!  His pants are down!
    And… oh fuck!  He`s not moving!
                The editor runs outside (me, I run outside) I find the
    mad poet is unconscious. He`s passed out with his pants
    down. His groin is crawling with flies… Everything looks
    unnaturally red and swollen… I guess so!
               If you can`t leave your horse outside for an hour - you sure as hell shouldn`t be sitting outside bare-assed! You gotta know that`s a bad idea. And MadPo of Rat River has been living here for years!

             There are about ten mosquitoes on the guy`s dick! At least five actively sucking blood from the  head.  Now that`s a fetish! INSECT LOVE!
               I run inside and grab a towel  and start swatting the 
    flies away…. His balls are protruding in an unnatural
    way… They`re teed up, literally, like a golf ball on a T. How
    the hell did that happen? I`m whacking at him with a towel.  Even this doesn`t wake him up.
              I didn`t sign on for this!

             He`s got a rope looped around his balls about
    ten times. No wonder they`re sticking out.  I
    pick him up and throw him over my shoulder. I kick open
    the double-screened door. I walk past the wood stove
    carrying the guy. He`s not light. He`s got big
    shoulders… probably from all the paddling he does
    each time he tries to escape this place.
             I toss him on his bed, which looks like a big
    stack of clothes and pillows and furs.  I make sure
    he`s not face down so he can breathe.
             I make sure there`s no large insects crawling on
    him.  I check for 100 pound weasels. Anything could
    be in that bed. I give the furs a kick. And that`s
    as good a friend as I intend to be.
             He can take the ropes off his testicles
    himself!

              I go past the wood stove to the food table.
    I make sure the sceen doors are latched tight.
    I pour myself a long tall drink -moonshine and water
    and berries squeezed in. (I almost said. “buries”!)
              Another few hours out there and there wouldn`t
    have been much left of him. And I`m just talking
    about the insects.
              If a wolverine had ever shown up…goodbye
    Martha!  That would have been a real weasel picnic
    right there!
              The big weasels have a certain fondness
    for  testicles.  That`s why the bears run away from
    them!  They go right for the balls, and they don`t
    miss often. They`re low to the ground and
    they run hunched over and they have those 
    long pointy noses and, I suspect,  
    really vicious sharp teeth.
             A big weasel will chase a 2000 pound bear right away from a carcass.  And the bear`ll right like mad for
    the hills, the wolverine running right  after
    him for about fifty feet, trying to nab his danglers
    from behind.
            You don`t believe me?  Ask the experts.
    Who are the experts?  I`m half an expert… I`ve
    only been here a month, but I`ve seen this
    already.
            I guess if you want a real expert you`d
    have to ask that mad fool idiot janitor-mayor
    of Wait-A-Bit
              And that`s about as much about weasels
    as I want to know.  You probably feel
    the same way, too. 

            I take a drink. It`s too weak… too much water.
    I set it aside.  I`m sure I can find a use for it.
            I grab a second tin cup, fill it about a third
    full of the pure stuff…watch it effervesce  (sp?)
    Take a straight shot…. Jesus! I`m seeing stars!
    I feel it burning like turpentine all the way doen into
    my stomache.
           A shot glass of this stuff will burn on fire
     for half an hour. O.K. No straight shots… My ears are burning and my eyes are burning, 
    but I`m feeling better.
           What the hell am I doing here?   People pay me to
    edit their work.  At least they did in New York City,
    Toronto and London.
          And I get talked into “a two month paid vacation"
     (He offered me cash - five grand down, five
    at the end of my contract.. and god knows I needed
    a vacation!).   Talked into this…
    by that mentally-challenged moron janitor-mayor
    80 miles to the West on the Mackenzie… the big river!
    Ha!  I`m not even on the Big River.. I`m on the small
    river… Rat River… swatting the flies off the genitals
    of Ratty here…. That`s not exactly editing now, is it?
    Although there are certain parallels…

           With the shit that this guy`s writing now! Swatting
    the flies off something is kind of a cute metaphor.

           Better look at another verse.
           In a minute.

          This booze is pretty good… when you get past
    the initial burn and the Varsol taste.
            I have another slug… Now I`m laughing about
    nothing in particular… Better watch it.  Pretty soon
    I`ll be out there trying to fuck the flies myself…
    Didn`t someone`s uncle die that way recently?
            Yeah, I know I didn`t make that one up myself.
    And I sure as fuck hope I didn`t dream it!
            He was related to the mayor with the beekeeper`s
    hat…which he never takes off.  His uncle… Running off
    into the woods with a hard-on - wearing nothing
    but a Sony Walkman listening to “I believe in miracles!….
    Where you been, you sexy thing?“
             And he was never seen again.  All they
    found was his Walkman… That`s how they know
    which song…
              Maybe this sex with the insects thing is catching.
    And if it`s catching, maybe I can get workman`s
    compensation…

              Ho! Ho!  That`s “one toke over the line” thinking. It`s important to stop yourself when you start thinking in a truly abberant fashion.
             INSECT SEX, indeed! That`s why they call me Editor 666. I spot stuff like this. That`s why they pay me the big
    bucks… I spot aberrant thinking, Damn right!
    And I`m, seeing plenty of it around here!
             I`m ruthless, that`s what they say. They`re right
    I`m going to ruthlessly pour a drink 
          I pour a half cup of straight  white lightning. … I pour some ketchup into the overproof and mix it… just to cut the
    edge a little.  Don`t want to lose that `burn` completely. Add a few ounces of water - not nearly as much as before…


           (((   Aw, fuck! It`s been about an hour! I can`t leave
    him in there much longer. That rope around his ballocks
    looked like bungie cord! And his testicles were an unhealthy coulour of purple even back then.))
             I walk back past the wood stove, stagger a few
    steps to the right. I have that first drink in my hand. It`s
    about one quarter alcohol. A strong drink, a brisk drink. Nothing too heavy… you can`t quite light it on fire, but
    you almost can.  
            His  testicles are deep purple now. I throw my drinkl
    right on his balls.  What a surprise. Not a sound.
     At least this should disinfect the situation. I`m doing
    him a favour,
            I go back into the kitchen

             I hit the empty tin cup with a pencil. it makes
    a pleasing sound. I fetch three more tin cups and pour
    a different amount of moonshine in each one. I hit all of
    the cups, playing different percussive notes and chanting
    playfully along


                   I hear gasping sounds from the back of the
    room… Like a large animal stumbling around
    in the woodshed having discovered something horrific
    in the corner.
            The gasps turn to low surprised grunts
    and fast howls of astonishment. Then the bellowing
    begins.
             The mad poet of Rat River is understanding
    the dark side of Insect Love.
             People are in pain all the time. But rarely in a person`s
    life does he experience the full flowering of agony.
    The Mad Poet is experiencing that rare moment now
    and I have to think he`l be a better poet for knowing
    this profound truth  buried deep in the nature of
    Reality.
            Life is pain, otherwise we`d all fall asleep. 
            He will be fully awake to the twenty-first century
    and he will understand the meaning of New Age Editing.
             In about forty minutes his screaming will stop and
     I`m sure he`ll feel the whole experience has been worthwhile. 


           And what it means to be rescued by Editor 666 


                 It`s a howl that would bring cops cars from three
    precincts, if we were in the cities.   But we`re not in the
    cities.Howling and screaming and, in fact, torture of all kinds are perfectly legal up here in the Territories. 
            This is like the Old West.  No, this is better than the
    Old West. In the Old West, you howl and scream like this,
    someone would likely hear you and run to your aid.
            Up here, you can scream like this all day and howl
    like an agonized wild dog under a fat full moon - no one will do a thing. No one will even notice.
            I`d help but, as you know, I`ve already helped him.
    I`ve done all I feel I can in good conscience do. I imagine when he gets that bungie cord untied, and blood starts rushing back to the situation and the nerve endings in his scrotum truly awaken, he`ll know what it means to be fully
    alive and sentient in the twenty-first century.
    image
    3 notes
  7.  zappadat ROVING REPORTER RANTS zappadat.blogspot.com BALLS  NAKED IN A CHAIR, SEX WITH INSECTS ………….AGONY FLOWERS………………..NEW AGE EDITING



            I crawl up out of what the Rat Poet calls
    “the foxhole.” I`m not goint to sweat it.  I think
    my pants lost their crease when I left Toronto.
    And I`ve gone about ten thousand miles since then,
    if you count bushplane,  cattle-car and canoe.
    And there are moments of beauty… some of that
    little prick`s lines are showing promise…
    But anything we have worked on in the past two
    weeks has disappeared.
            Instead I find this: 


    VERSE
    “I know this isn`t normal:
    It doesn`t matter much to me
     `Bout normal or abnormal, deviant or deranged.
    I`ve got ingrown toenails and moral turpetude, (sp)
    And I can`t reach my toenails anymore”

             It`s brain-numbingly bad.  Before there was
    a lot of shit, but at least we were working on
    “literature"…  One thing  for sure about this: its not 
    literature…. It`s doggeril for sure. Like shit from a
    dog… I was about to make a note in the verse and
    ask,  “IS THIS THE PLACE FOR A COLON?”
    But it was!  It was most definitely the place for a colon…
    with  that dogshit dogeril! (sp?)
             I`ve heard the rhythm before….
     I`m trying to identify the source…

             Fuck it… I need a coffee. And I better
    pour a little shine into it… “The Mad Poet of Rat River.“
    I know how he got that name —- if I stay here
    much longer, I`m going to be nuts myself.  I wonder
    how many braincells I lose every time I take a drink of
    this stuff.   Look, it`s effervescing as I pour it…
    And I`m damned if i CAN SPELL effevessing!
    Ten years at the University and I can`t spell!
           That fucking mayor, or janitor, or whatever
    he was… He looks like I feel… He looks like a mad
    idiot…. A moron and on the low end of the intelligence
    scale for morons.
           I`m starting to understand those screens tho.
    I`ve been bitten 30 times since I sat down to
    read whatever horse`s ass dogeril this is.
           And I`m sitting inside the house!

    VERSE 
    "Suffering from no vitamins, no vegetables too -
    spend too long in the toilet seeing
     What I have consumed ;          (OUCH!  NO!  HELP ME!)
    I`ve never seen an apple
    I`m malnourished at the root
    And I don`t go out the front door anymore.
                                                           (WHEW! NO MORE!)

     VERSE
    "I avoid the whole world; 
    The world is strange to me:
    The rug  is a jungle that the cops
          can`t even see!                             (NO!)
    And the ceiling keeps on waving
    Like breakers in the sea;
    And we can see Arcturus
    But there isn`t any “we”                      (!!!!!!!)                   
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore.“

    I sit in perfect balance
    Getting lighter all the time;
    Swell up like a blowfish
    Float past the maidens on the Rhine.
    And I know I`m getting somewhere
    Because I`m going blind;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore

    Angels in the kitchen want money
    From me, too;
    And Frankie blows the tuba
    To the cat between his shoes.
    And Artie`s watching Daisy`s ass,
    She lifts the  washing on the line
    The mice jump to the tuba sounds.
    Go running cross the boards;
    And I don`t go out the front door
    Anymore. 

    The smoke  keeps pouring out
    Of the foxhole and the door;
    I don`t have no fire alarm
    There`re no firemen anymore;
    And the giant river
    Flows as sweet and smooth as silk
     As silent church bells
    Ring inside my mind;

    I`d go to the wedding
    But there`s no women here to wed
    I saw my blankets moving
    There`s a weasel in my bed;
    I let the insects bite me
    It`s the only sex I get 
    I don`t go out my
    Front door
    Anymore. 



                           Oh God! Lord. HELP ME!   And I really mean it
    this time:
                I LET THE INSECTS BITE ME
                IT`S THE ONLY SEX I GET!

               Help me!  What the FUCK have I gotten
      myself into!

    I`m 3000 miles from anywhere
    And  I haven`t seen a ship.  
    The planes won`t even land here
     we`re not  a radar blip.
    And the wolverines are laughing
    And Matilda`s laughing, too
    If I don`t find some conveyance
    I`l drink all this overproof
     And next I`ll put my heard right 
    Through this board…               

                NOW I`M DOING IT………!          
                           I`M GOING TO SHOOT MYSELF!

              Where`s the fucking gun?  For that matter,
    where`s the stupid fucking poet… He`s not here.
    He`s not in the foxhole!
               Has he gone to town without me?
                Town?
                Ha! Ha"  Oh yeah, I forgot. There IS NO TOWN!

                 Editor666…. looks out the scruffy
    pane of glasses that passes for a window
    looking out over the scruffy yard…. It`s quite quaint
    actually…  YEAH, RIGHT!  There are some old wooden
    kitchen chairs standing at all angles in the yard….
    Is that a man  sitting in that chair?
           There he is! He`s got a toque on and his 
    boots… HOLY SHIT!  His pants are down!
    And… oh fuck!  He`s not moving!
                The editor runs outside (me, I run outside) I find the
    mad poet is unconscious. He`s passed out with his pants
    down. His groin is crawling with flies… Everything looks
    unnaturally red and swollen… I guess so!
               If you can`t leave your horse outside for an hour - you sure as hell shouldn`t be sitting outside bare-assed! You gotta know that`s a bad idea. And MadPo of Rat River has been living here for years!

             There are about ten mosquitoes on the guy`s dick! At least five actively sucking blood from the  head.  Now that`s a fetish! INSECT LOVE!
               I run inside and grab a towel  and start swatting the 
    flies away…. His balls are protruding in an unnatural
    way… They`re teed up, literally, like a golf ball on a T. How
    the hell did that happen? I`m whacking at him with a towel.  Even this doesn`t wake him up.
              I didn`t sign on for this!

             He`s got a rope looped around his balls about
    ten times. No wonder they`re sticking out.  I
    pick him up and throw him over my shoulder. I kick open
    the double-screened door. I walk past the wood stove
    carrying the guy. He`s not light. He`s got big
    shoulders… probably from all the paddling he does
    each time he tries to escape this place.
             I toss him on his bed, which looks like a big
    stack of clothes and pillows and furs.  I make sure
    he`s not face down so he can breathe.
             I make sure there`s no large insects crawling on
    him.  I check for 100 pound weasels. Anything could
    be in that bed. I give the furs a kick. And that`s
    as good a friend as I intend to be.
             He can take the ropes off his testicles
    himself!

              I go past the wood stove to the food table.
    I make sure the sceen doors are latched tight.
    I pour myself a long tall drink -moonshine and water
    and berries squeezed in. (I almost said. “buries”!)
              Another few hours out there and there wouldn`t
    have been much left of him. And I`m just talking
    about the insects.
              If a wolverine had ever shown up…goodbye
    Martha!  That would have been a real weasel picnic
    right there!
              The big weasels have a certain fondness
    for  testicles.  That`s why the bears run away from
    them!  They go right for the balls, and they don`t
    miss often. They`re low to the ground and
    they run hunched over and they have those 
    long pointy noses and, I suspect,  
    really vicious sharp teeth.
             A big weasel will chase a 2000 pound bear right away from a carcass.  And the bear`ll right like mad for
    the hills, the wolverine running right  after
    him for about fifty feet, trying to nab his danglers
    from behind.
            You don`t believe me?  Ask the experts.
    Who are the experts?  I`m half an expert… I`ve
    only been here a month, but I`ve seen this
    already.
            I guess if you want a real expert you`d
    have to ask that mad fool idiot janitor-mayor
    of Wait-A-Bit
              And that`s about as much about weasels
    as I want to know.  You probably feel
    the same way, too. 

            I take a drink. It`s too weak… too much water.
    I set it aside.  I`m sure I can find a use for it.
            I grab a second tin cup, fill it about a third
    full of the pure stuff…watch it effervesce  (sp?)
    Take a straight shot…. Jesus! I`m seeing stars!
    I feel it burning like turpentine all the way doen into
    my stomache.
           A shot glass of this stuff will burn on fire
     for half an hour. O.K. No straight shots… My ears are burning and my eyes are burning, 
    but I`m feeling better.
           What the hell am I doing here?   People pay me to
    edit their work.  At least they did in New York City,
    Toronto and London.
          And I get talked into “a two month paid vacation"
     (He offered me cash - five grand down, five
    at the end of my contract.. and god knows I needed
    a vacation!).   Talked into this…
    by that mentally-challenged moron janitor-mayor
    80 miles to the West on the Mackenzie… the big river!
    Ha!  I`m not even on the Big River.. I`m on the small
    river… Rat River… swatting the flies off the genitals
    of Ratty here…. That`s not exactly editing now, is it?
    Although there are certain parallels…

           With the shit that this guy`s writing now! Swatting
    the flies off something is kind of a cute metaphor.

           Better look at another verse.
           In a minute.

          This booze is pretty good… when you get past
    the initial burn and the Varsol taste.
            I have another slug… Now I`m laughing about
    nothing in particular… Better watch it.  Pretty soon
    I`ll be out there trying to fuck the flies myself…
    Didn`t someone`s uncle die that way recently?
            Yeah, I know I didn`t make that one up myself.
    And I sure as fuck hope I didn`t dream it!
            He was related to the mayor with the beekeeper`s
    hat…which he never takes off.  His uncle… Running off
    into the woods with a hard-on - wearing nothing
    but a Sony Walkman listening to “I believe in miracles!….
    Where you been, you sexy thing?“
             And he was never seen again.  All they
    found was his Walkman… That`s how they know
    which song…
              Maybe this sex with the insects thing is catching.
    And if it`s catching, maybe I can get workman`s
    compensation…

              Ho! Ho!  That`s “one toke over the line” thinking. It`s important to stop yourself when you start thinking in a truly abberant fashion.
             INSECT SEX, indeed! That`s why they call me Editor 666. I spot stuff like this. That`s why they pay me the big
    bucks… I spot aberrant thinking, Damn right!
    And I`m, seeing plenty of it around here!
             I`m ruthless, that`s what they say. They`re right
    I`m going to ruthlessly pour a drink 
          I pour a half cup of straight  white lightning. … I pour some ketchup into the overproof and mix it… just to cut the
    edge a little.  Don`t want to lose that `burn` completely. Add a few ounces of water - not nearly as much as before…


           (((   Aw, fuck! It`s been about an hour! I can`t leave
    him in there much longer. That rope around his ballocks
    looked like bungie cord! And his testicles were an unhealthy coulour of purple even back then.))
             I walk back past the wood stove, stagger a few
    steps to the right. I have that first drink in my hand. It`s
    about one quarter alcohol. A strong drink, a brisk drink. Nothing too heavy… you can`t quite light it on fire, but
    you almost can.  
            His  testicles are deep purple now. I throw my drinkl
    right on his balls.  What a surprise. Not a sound.
     At least this should disinfect the situation. I`m doing
    him a favour,
            I go back into the kitchen

             I hit the empty tin cup with a pencil. it makes
    a pleasing sound. I fetch three more tin cups and pour
    a different amount of moonshine in each one. I hit all of
    the cups, playing different percussive notes and chanting
    playfully along


                   I hear gasping sounds from the back of the
    room… Like a large animal stumbling around
    in the woodshed having discovered something horrific
    in the corner.
            The gasps turn to low surprised grunts
    and fast howls of astonishment. Then the bellowing
    begins.
             The mad poet of Rat River is understanding
    the dark side of Insect Love.
             People are in pain all the time. But rarely in a person`s
    life does he experience the full flowering of agony.
    The Mad Poet is experiencing that rare moment now
    and I have to think he`l be a better poet for knowing
    this profound truth  buried deep in the nature of
    Reality.
            Life is pain, otherwise we`d all fall asleep. 
            He will be fully awake to the twenty-first century
    and he will understand the meaning of New Age Editing.
             In about forty minutes his screaming will stop and
     I`m sure he`ll feel the whole experience has been worthwhile. 


           And what it means to be rescued by Editor 666 


                 It`s a howl that would bring cops cars from three
    precincts, if we were in the cities.   But we`re not in the
    cities.Howling and screaming and, in fact, torture of all kinds are perfectly legal up here in the Territories. 
            This is like the Old West.  No, this is better than the
    Old West. In the Old West, you howl and scream like this,
    someone would likely hear you and run to your aid.
            Up here, you can scream like this all day and howl
    like an agonized wild dog under a fat full moon - no one will do a thing. No one will even notice.
            I`d help but, as you know, I`ve already helped him.
    I`ve done all I feel I can in good conscience do. I imagine when he gets that bungie cord untied, and blood starts rushing back to the situation and the nerve endings in his scrotum truly awaken, he`ll know what it means to be fully
    alive and sentient in the twenty-first century.