Killing Machine

We need not ever get up again. We need not wake up from dreams that hit you in the head like a shotgun.

Man, woke up to sarcasm and a cigarette. There's this plastic mask of rope and rectangles that I pull a string on and I'm looking at this landscape full of concrete and brick and metal and tremendous amusement.

Last night I listened to doors slam for hours on end and watched a documentary about the returning to earth of two organisms that used their vocal cords to make tradable ideas of product.

I became so absorbed in the door slamming that I poured myself a bathtub full of egg fu yun and sat and soaked in it's warmth.

My neighvors are degenerates and have no patience to let a door close slowly.

Slam!

And I'm awake again to the shotgun. Dreamt of big fire that explodes into us as we retreat into more wood.

I lay in bed and wonder if I should have laughed at Pauly Shore. Maybe, it was me that was wrong? I run to the kitchen and spread peanut butter all over my body and open and slam my door.

I'm back in bed and it's extremely hard to get back to sleep with all this peanut butter all over my body. I toss and roll and think about how I'm staining more and more fabric that's sewn together to make plausible patterns so that I know my bed from a hole in the ground.

I keep thinking about how I can't get to sleep and how there's no time to shower; or I might as well wake up.

I take out a small pipe and opium dreams fill my bed as the covers become a small tsunami and I'm rolling around in it, thinking about all the small packets of peanut butter protein I'm destroying.

Kill the body and the head will die. I'm chanting this as purple waves roll over me and break into brown smudges of peanut butter.

I'm on a roll.

I quickly discover the great sea ship Meteron. It's sailing over my chest and floating down my legs and once it hits the edge of the bed, it goes over a great waterfall and I'm suddenly on the ship.

The captain yells at me to get into the cabin, and I follow orders like a good pirate.

Once in the cabin I realize the captain is smuggling white slaves to work on sex farms in my bread cupboard.

"Have a go at em', my boy." He gestures to twelve beautiful 18 year old blondes who cringe at the captain, whom I slowly realize is Yosemite Sam.

The women become giddy and begin undressing, but before I can do anything about it, the captain pulls out his revolvers and begins shooting out the window at the coming rocks at the bottom of the waterfall.

Another shotgun blast and the ship explodes in splinters of wood and I'm staring up at my ceiling, smelling a lit cigarette burn my couch.

I take a drag off the cigarette and look out the glass that's being held together by brick and plaster.

Outside, the opium dream is over and I'm looking at strips of black that run up blocks of metal, concrete, brick, and timber.

They feed a large giant that is metropolis and with every black wire there is an appliance: Amana, Whirlpool, Phillips, Hitachi....we go on and on like this forever, following wires into these shiny toys that make food hot, clothes clean, and women scream in orgasm.

Oh, wires, wires everywhere to be found.

Oh, wires, wires we are forever bound.

I smell another cigarette cooking my couch and another shotgun door slam and I look up and see a shiny figure entering my studio apartment that's made of plaster and brick and glass.

It says "I am Mothra, king of the wirelands. Join me in my quest for nubile virgins and dollar bills the size of marmots."

I laugh and go back to bed and think to myself "Mothra is no machine."



Pleace,

Jonathon Robert Smith-Barney