July 29, 2019

When I was a kid,
there was always someone old
living with my friends,
a small, gray person
from another century
who stayed in a back room
with a Bible and a bed with silver rails.

They were from a time before the time
the world just plain went haywire,

and even though nothing
made sense to them anymore,
they’d gotten used to it,
and walked around smiling vaguely
at the aliens ruining the galaxy
on the colour console television,

or the British invasion
growing from the sides of our heads
in little transistorized boxes.

In the front room, by the light of tv,
we were just starting to get stoned,
and the girls were helping us
help them out of their jeans,

while in the back room
someone very tired
closed her eyes and watched
a wheat field where a boy
whose name she can’t remember
is walking down a dusty road.

No sound
but the sound of crickets.
No satellites,
Or even headlights in the distance yet.

George Bilgere

My father could give me over to the comparative wholesomeness of American life, leaving himself free to sit in his darkened bedroom and drink whisky until his long sensitive nose floated hazily in front of his face…

Poppy Z. Brite
Calcutta, Lord of Nerves

Send in the Clowns

July 29, 2019

A girl of ten years is standing with her father’s gun in her hand. It is her birthday. The living room is in a fine house with views over the Hudson river. Her father, an architect, has arranged for a pair of clowns this afternoon to entertain his daughter on her birthday. But she hates clowns. The voices in her head tell her they’re just dirty old men in makeup who want to touch her and her two sisters in a nasty way. So she takes her father’s gun from a drawer and shoots both of them dead after feeling the half-tumescent penis of one of them in his baggy clown trousers.