Saturday, February 27, 2010

PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER ONE (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shoustesu)

There is a place, a house, and it sits at the edge of your dreams, and it is a bad house. It’s in the industrial part of town, and it is situated between the factories where they make the nightmares. No one works in these factories, but the factories operate all day long and all night long. You can hear them, all day long, all night long, miles outside the city in your dreams where the people live. In the industrial part of town there is no one for miles, just the endless hum of the nightmare factories. The bad house sits among them, silent. There may be people in there, but you can’t tell. No one ever goes in, and no one ever comes out.

The bad house is a house, but it doesn’t look like other houses. It has no number. It is very small, as if it only has one room. There may be a basement, but you don’t want to think about that. Several pipes come up from the ground and go into the house and they may come from the factories that surround it. There are no windows, and there is no light visible under the door. There is just one great spotlight that shines on it from above at night, isolating it in the dark. The dimly lit factories around it add nothing to the light. There is only the one door, in the front. It might be locked. You don’t know.

The bad house is painted a pale yellow, and the paint is old and flaking. No smells emanate from the nightmare factories, but the bad house has a smell. It is the smell of all the bad places in your dreams, a nauseating human smell like old sweat between folds of flesh, coppery and tangy and riddled with decay. You stand before the bad house in your dreams, as you have many times before. The smell is strong, and it makes you want to run, but you don’t run. You stare at the door, isolated by the light, listening to the drone of the surrounding factories. You are afraid in a way you haven’t been since you were eight years old, an all-encompassing afraid that makes you want to scream until you wake up. But you don’t do that. You walk towards the door of the bad house. As you are walking, you are afraid, and you tell yourself to stop, but you keep walking towards that door. There is a part of you that isn’t afraid, or if it is afraid it wants that smell more than it wants to run away. It wants to inhale that smell, to eat that smell, to get that smell all over you, to roll in it until you become it. And you are afraid of this part of you, and you are afraid of the bad house. But you keep walking towards that door.

And then you wake up. And you see people, and you do your job, and you eat your lunch, and you talk on the phone. But all day long you can still smell that smell of the bad house, lingering, at the edges of things, always there.

Go to Chapter Two

Saturday, February 20, 2010


transmission from the satellite heart received 12:1:10

-radio on-

time factor nineteen twenty-nine

crossroads not true crossroads

graveyard just down the wayside

down the road from rosedale

night midnight exterior good country dark

before electric lights + stopsigns came to town

lil robert dusty walkin middle of the road

guitar slung back shoulders head down

low flyin dustcloud in the moonlight

shufflin along

shadow in the starlight perched on a headstone

black clad points a long silver sliver finger

at poor bob if you please

-hey boy-

like a shotgun thru the silence

lil robert dusty whips round almost down

-fuck you callin boy cracker-

white voice after midnight on a deep southern road

comin straight out the graveyard

lil robert dusty eight different kinds of scared

his voice shows no trace

the graveyard man he like that

hops off the tombstone raises his black hat brim

skin shinin like a brand new tailpipe

-fuck you callin cracker boy-

lil robert dusty face falls

breath freezes inside when he finds it again says

-what are you mister-

the chromed man laughs

a dry rustly chuckle like old leaves

-so its mister now then-

lil robert dont say nothin

-where you comin from boy-

bob shrugs tries to be blasé


the silver man nods at the guitar across his back

-did you play-

bob nods silver man grins

-+ how did it go-

lil robert juts his lower lip chin up

-went alright went alright-

the shining man peers out from under his black hat brim

-didnt go alright no pussy no whiskey for poor bob

you play like you got ham hocks for fingers-

lil robert dusty screwfaces the chromeskinned creature

-fuck you know about it-

the tall silver thing tilts his silver head

-i know that guitar of yrs is out of tune

give it here ill give you a new tunin you aint never heard before-

lil robert dusty is a country born hardhead

but he knows that silverskinned men lurkin in the graveyard

by the crossroads

at midnight

who ask to tune yr guitar

may not be the most trustworthy of folk

but he hands it over anyway + the shining man begins to tune

queer things happen steel strings ring out strange

moonlight glints funny off tuning pegs

shadows pass + fall

then he smiles says

-okay then ill show you what for on a tune-

lil robert shrugs again

the silver man begins to play

chrome fingers running up + down that fretboard

plays as easy as ringin a bell

rhythms drive shuffle + stop

bottleneck slide sleazy then lonely

moans in the moonlight like a howlin wolf

or a man on his knees on a killing floor

lil robert wide-eyed listens listens

writin notes in his head

+ when he finally gets that guitar back

it burns

voice even the graveyard man asks him

-you got what you need boy-

lil robert looks up to him eyes cloudy

confused scared + grateful

-aint we got a deal to do-

the shining man peers back at the black man

-kind of deal-

robert shrugs

-dont you want my soul-

the silver man chuckles a dry rustling sound

-you don't have to sell me your soul boy

im already in you-

dry rustle chuckles one last time

-you want to be adored-

then he sighs almost sad

-just do one thing for me bob

-stop callin yrself lil robert dusty

-no man alive gettin any pussy calls himself little

-start goin by yr fathers name-

bob say -i do go by my fathers name-

the silver man gets stern voiced

-yr real father boy

-find him ask yr mother

-dont take no for an answer-

bob nods pauses looks up

-whats yr name mister-

silver man smiles again

-dont have one son

-but if anyone asks you can call me ike

-ike zinneman-

bob says -thats a funny name for a guitar man-

but the silver man is gone

+ then a bone-white cadillac pulls out of the graveyard

out through the crossroads

on down the road

bob shakes off the chill + moves

in the opposite direction

in another dimension

he pulls the guitar around plays as he walks

+ the shit just drips off his fingers like honey

after a time he sings to himself

quietly first tentatively

-i dont have to sell my soul

-hes already in me

-i dont need to sell my soul

-hes already in me-

bob smiles big + deep

already knowin what he knows

so the next week when he goes back to that roadhouse

plays that guitar

the smokestack shakes with lightnin

the men all gaze in wonder

the air is heavy with female musk

sweat + whiskey + resentment

this time when he sings

he sings like he stuck his dick in the ground

+ turned the whole world around

so no one ever calls him

lil robert dusty


Thursday, February 18, 2010


My struggle with GM continues! Please go to - scroll down for the update!

Friday, February 12, 2010


let me

let me hear you

let me hear you say YEAH



let me

hear you



(let me)


(hear you)


(say yeah)

RIGHT NOW right now

RIGHT NOW right now



(let me

say yeah)

for those about to rock we salute you

+ its one


one two three FOUR