4 April C. 152 Cocoa-Butter Cupcake
Seia Seia-Lagoontongue sits amid the floating heads, jotting notes at her desk, making small talk with the carnivorous pantherettes in their pyramidical crystal cages on the dresser at the room’s corner. This: a spacious studio in the twelve-story complex that is Gloland Towers, downtown Tremscen, CO.: wood-paneled floors which creak on occasion, littered with spheroids of crumpled paper, drafts of the manuscript she is re-editing for one Yaj Remaditz of Cyclone Format. The heads have reconvened here for Seia’s sake is what she has been told. As they float and perspire from the PM humidity and drip onto the wood-paneled floor and trade minimal anecdotes in discursive exodus from Seia’s Topical “Thing,” she sighs, throws wadded spheroid to floor, continues jotting. ¶ Wooly lap from which all things distend: this is how the moon sits in the sky at night behind the silhouettes of trees going dry and coiling up through ringlets of kindling brush; this is how the pen feels against calloused fingers; this is how your lungs deflate and refill with the nauseous gas of ganja prima and tobacco smoke riddled with Death; this is how the amethysts bloom; this is how the blooms retain shape in the heat and moisture of a beating human heart; this is all light coming in at once from every direction; thistles glinting warmly in the mind of the head named Gordo. ¶ A breech is occurring at the Palace’s rear entrance, you can tell: the Head of Staff is dangling a joint in your direction and the stiffening foxtails within you can hardly keep from heating up a candent quazisick red so you’re driven toward the stuff like mad bats, as they say. Yu Reefer and Cyst and Keylime Endulzado lean below the drunken starlit sick of alleyway toxins, fluttering wings arising from their backs, as Mother Beauty plays her harp in the clouds above moving faster now than you have ever seen. There in the cave of brick behind them some Juvenile will be pitted against an oscified peach with whom his own childish fantasies had first arisen like worms from the silt of damp ravine slopes. And once-over the mountainous ridge that is expunged from the CO Council’s Territorial Recognition clause (which is to say: the city of Tremscen, CO’s zoning offices and official topographical researchers are not to acknowledge the existence of Flat-Flamingo Ridge, even though it was there; and in fact, Tremscenians are on the whole almost positively ignorant of the ridge, which sometimes surprises certain newcomer[s] endemic to OutThere.), and through the abandoned home which stands resolute through all seasonal conditions which was said to have once been owned by a famous operatic vocalist (Merie DeClem Sautur? Deborah Hehof?), and through dense thorny copses surrounding bright forestry, I will be speaking with the goat subsubmerged in quicksand and but with a silver flute, playing the tune which makes him sway his emergent head back and forth back and forth and there we will start a fire that does not go out because the angels blessed this Bohemian blonde and the medical owl’s an envoy. ¶ The Restructuring Committee uses the system the same way anyone else would use the system, only better: more discreetly, with lissome laser-dodging dexterity, and while mixing a hardy cocktail. ¶ “I’ll just have a Rum and Coke, Donni.” Cheesus Crust sort of handles his cigarette like a magic wand whenever he speaks, waving it about in idle expression, overblown facial topography elevated to the MAX. Donni (with the Dark Hair) mixes drinks at The MidnightGrille on weeknights, most of which draw in the greatest influx of alcoholic patrons, e.g. Cheesus. He begins imbibing with an ear-scathing anecdote about his days in the Galapagos: an undercover Federal Mission for two years on behalf of the Pentagon (pausing to note that the mission itself was a failed success if you will, that they uncovered much data and deliberated mercilessly against the Moondragons of the Galápagos’ spiritual plane and established a subempire among the spiritual sentients before finally falling prey to a pack of naiads pulling a long con that would result in the deaths of half their crew, which included: [a moment of silence, if you will.] … Buster “Rabbit” Sheeply; Hannibal “Cannabis” Zentuga; George “Jungle” S’jera; Tyrone Bodbi “Pariah” Helena; Jerry “Ace” Svensesven; Marshal “Midnight” Moddiker; Wendy “Hex” Udise; Daniel “Shadow” Lentelolaswa, all of whom were dedicated to the Cause. The Cause being TOP SECRET of course: not to be fully disclosed.) Cheesus wears a long brown mop of hair that falls to his shoulders in partitioned strands, woggling cigarette there trailing smoke which dissipates into the pungent upperbar air—The Midnight Grille features a second floor on which dining tables and a supplementary bar are purposed for guests having a reservation; this area is where the more-refined guests laugh and snark and blast attention beams down onto the less-refined guests below. Sentinel of moonlight shines through the glass ceiling above, baroque and stormcloud-scenic singing the mute song, waiting for Wriggly Loincloth to walk slowly in and sit down beside one utterly slammed Cheesus such that everyone is aware there is an ugly spirit in the room and conversations’ vocal volumes can be muted. There is the green mist that trails Wriggly as he floats in, the fragrance of smoke, some poor bastard walking through said trail, and the look Donni (with the Dark Hair) gives Wriggly a begrudging look when he asks tersely for a Manhattan: zygomatic stiffness, semi-flared nostrils, the whole deal. ¶ Wriggly puts a translucent arm around Cheesus, who then looks up from his fourth Rum and Coke to see the thing before him: … ¶ XX December C. 0 Tasteless Donut ¶ Speaker heard it from the innerskull, he says. And he does not lie. And I heard him weeping in his throne last night, with the gold medallion around his neck. Speaker says, I am trying to communicate, and I want to have a conversation. Speaker says, I am drowning in a vortex of my own thoughts made textual and I cannot tread water. Speaker says, lash back at the Terrible Master: lash back at the mind. It was first in the late starless night that night came to visit me in her black wardrobe a silk dress I could not detect the coolness of, which when the first engagement hung between us I asked her if her life was pleasant, she kissed me and made me hers through corneal hypnosis I soared through that rush of cold air to the snowflakes sleet hail falling at the despondent default-setting humans below. You will never make friends with the Rodential Scum unless you submit to this overlit sightline collision: the main floor. I set out to make the kitchenware sentient, to subdue the Bohemian blonde in the forest with the flute writing all of this down in his head. I hear you and I hear you and I hear you. Not to go down this path, yes? Death lingers behind a wall for everyone, at the corner just behind the large green dumpster, and its face is hell incarnate, (so why shouldn’t it be a significant moment for the bird learning to tweet [pu-tweet, pu-tweet] when Egshell Dominus begins digging a hole into Freshli Leacher’s gravesite, who wrested from his grasp one of his own beloved for the sake of a stringless marionette he has created and allowed to act freely.) and watching from the window as a fly as Egshell (one of many Rodential Scum in the area) reanimates Freshli’s body for his own purposes: that he speaks with the halfconscious corpse and learns that its new official name is Bonaparte; that he makes it lentilsoup and a glass of water so it can get rid of the cotton-mouth it’s complaining about having; that he buys it a fresh toupee silky and sable like his own hair and places it like a crown on the corpse’s head. I am thus far only aware of what goes on in the Cabinets at night, at the witching hour: that some demonic orgy of pots and pans and silver cutlery is afoot under everyone’s senseless noses. H. G. von Rompu, head combatant of the Sleezeforce Tactics Unit, has been called from his gladiatorial cage to attack the corpse and ravish Egshell’s daughter, Kimi Dominus. Rompu is happy to participate in the Higher Ups’ plan, and he loves the great bustle of blood inside his heart beating rapidly at the capitulation of these bouts. Bonaparte the corpse and Egshell and Kimi have convened in a sealed bunker insulated from the coming Nuclear Attack outside—here’s the trick: Rompu doesn’t know about the attack. Nevertheless, upon finding the toppled barn beside their bunker’s hatch, after having smashed its striated glass with an iron mace and entered the bunker through a complex system of breathing apparatuses, Egshell will blow a hole into the skull of Bonaparte the corpse by accident, who was for whatever reason tagging along somehow, while aiming for Rompu, who is at that point mauling Egshell with his mace and ravishing Kimi beside the two corpses, one of which is now a two-time corpse, for which he receives congratulations at the upcoming Deadpersons Gala. Rompu will lay waste to the warped desertscape of the outside world after eighty years of chryofrozen sleep, during which time Kimi has birthed a son whose fetal exposure to gamma rays and radiation has produced him as a mongoloid super-defined muscle baby, who could by three-years-of-age lift the large metallic canvas cot on which its mother slept, prefiguring his eating his mother by the age of 16, after they’d nearly run out of rations, and so but which would explain all the debris of empty food-boxes/-bags on the bunker floor. This is the state of things, as they exist in the wastes, Speaker says. You can’t go a mile in any direction without meeting a hungry little vermin who’s deformed in some way by nuclear fallout. The city is a desolate playground left vacant in the throbbing sunlight, which now has a green tint. Sleezeforce has retreated into an underground sect of arms dealers and thieves, all of whom do not take very kindly to strangers. That is how this iteration goes. I’d like to show you why this glass of water isn’t really here, Speaker says. But that wouldn’t do you any good anyways. The blue girl in white jumpsuit will sit across from me with tears in her eyes as I tell her of all the beauteous expanses her mind resists fathoming: of the shade of deeplight there behind ochre palisades dancing as waterlight dances a scintillating fractal. I will tell her I have written her to be the way she is, and she will not understand. I will tell her I have come from very very very far. I will convince her of my innocence: the creator as child in a sandbox. I will tell her, you go and be the monstrous mess of the world, and I will tell about it. Oh holy words, I struck you down and felled the fatal embers of damnation. I am here to atone for the pain I caused the Void: vacuous white space littered with black symbols. They asked about the Extant Prince and in returned gained no information or save data. WEBs kept their minds clouded in murk, kept them sedated for the Routine Dream in their trashed livingspaces so they might awaken not to question their existence. And furthermore, every action told, firebolt cast, is a kind of lie and truth all its own. So yet dear reader as you are being sung to sleep at the sound of jolting back, light wind and waking up suddenly, rest your eyes and let it take you over like an angels’ wing spread to cover to keep you safe; this is the Experiment. Let us go: dust loosed out on the wind.
 Read as: “mind’s.”
 “White Emission Bulbs.”