Archive for category The Poetry of Death

Soul of 5,000,000-Year-Old Neanderthal Found To Be A Forgery

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(The Dissection of The Soul In Three Parts)

Part 1

Bethlehem, Pennsylvannia-How much would you pay for the soul of a 5 million year old man?  10 million dollars?  20 million?  100 million?  What about a billion dollars?  10 billion dollars?  100 billion dollars?  A trillion dollars???

Would you give up the pinky finger on your left hand?  What about your right pineal gland?  Would you watch every episode of the television show Manimal?   Would you become a cannibal who injects himself with Dianabol?  Would you sell your children to a band of angry Saudis?  Would you trade in your mother for three broken down Audis?  Would you endure an hour-long attack from ravenous dogs?  Would you reprise Ray Milland’s role in the movie Frogs? Would you trade dentures with Martha Raye?  Would you spend Father’s Day with Marvin Gaye?  Would you elope with an antelope?  What about a cantaloupe?

Billionaire heiress Angelina Corpsegrinder did just that.  Corpsegrinder, the granddaughter of former President John F. Corpsegrinder, purchased the soul at a nearly incalculable price at an auction on Friday outbidding thousands of lustful members of the American aristocracy. Corpsegrinder now has, within her beady little hands, possession of the one object that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that God not only exists, but also intends us to hear his outrageous and inconsistent demands.

Encased in glass in case of loss, this abandoned soul sits in a vault, collecting interest at nearly 8 percent.  Corpsegrinder has had the soul examined by thousands of religious icons and hundreds of other idle idols of the breathing class.  Their findings all point to one inescapable fact, that people, given the correct amount of compensation and fearing for the devaluation of their name and the deflation of their credibility, will say anything to remain unforgotten by strangers.  That we are conspiring against all logic and pinning our dreams and hopes upon an empty vessel is not important, what is important is that the conspiracy continues to hold true no matter how vengefully its core fiction has been used.

Thousands have filed past a replica of this soul in the Museum of Spirit, Fellowship and Other Inane Cruelties.  For years, it was thought that this replica was the only soul alive in captivity.  Many believed that, in nearly every case, when one expired, the soul passed into another realm leaving only a husk of body in some embarrassing pose.  And teeth.  Now, thanks to the generous nature of those who possess most of the world’s resources, we can rest assured that a real soul exists.

The soul originally belonged to a Neanderthal named Arnold Mulligan.  In his haste to consume the flesh of a recently slaughtered pig, Mulligan’s soul fell out of his body and fell into a tar pit somewhere south of Tupelo, Mississippi.  After being discovered some years back, the soul was passed to different collectors in high stakes poker games.  It eventually fell into the clutches of former Presidential candidate Adali Stevenson and has languished in a coffee can in his basement since 1964.  But, that is not important.  Who needs chain of evidence when there isn’t even the evidence of a chain?

Finally, a pawnbroker from Jamaica, Queens named Arthur Leo Sclerosis slumped into the vault and examined the artifact.  It was elliptical.  No bigger than a marble.  It had been poked and prodded by the finest pokers and prodders on this planet.  Its verification had been peer reviewed by peers and reviewers who had all made tenure at the finest educational slaughterhouses on the planet.   They had stood in line for hours to see it, all seeking to be part of a truth that, as keepers of truth, they were free to invent.  Some of them, the rebels, tried to destroy it, but Plato had told them long ago that it couldn’t be destroyed, so they stopped.

Sclerosis didn’t care.  He was dying and had the freedom that only the truly condemned and utterly forgotten can ever gain.  His body, ravaged by disease and disrepair, crawled towards the altar upon which the soul had been placed.  He made several silly motions with his hands to confuse the guards into thinking he was part of a group of fiction providers larger than himself, then he dove face first into the case, shattering the shatterproof glass and freeing the soul from the most recent in its series of cells.

The alarms sounded.  Everyone on earth froze and locked their eyes upon him.  Were it destroyed, they’d have to go back to having faith in something implausibly stupid.  Were it destroyed, the whole edifice would plunge headlong into a nothingness of materials careening off one another and going nowhere in particular for an undetermined period of meaningless time.  Were it destroyed, they’d have to accept the possibility that God or whatever creative force begat us from Its stomach was cruel enough to simply leave us in the middle of an endless wilderness of despair with no map to get home.   Were it destroyed, they might look in the mirror and come face to face with a walking pile of animated flesh killing time between now and when its life functions had ceased.

“Please…we beg you!  Leave us at least the illusion of stability in this demented nightmare of an existence!!!!” they cried in unison.

He held it aloft for all to see.  “This,” declared Sclerosis “is nothing more than an M & M!!!!!”

He popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.  He died at that moment, for no other reason than his heart stopped beating.

People were aghast!  So little truth had flashed before their eyes since religion adopted the game show format in the 1950s that this mockery of their very existence flung them into an orgiastic fit of rage.  Still…there was something to this.  After all, this was an experience they had just experienced.   An event.  A happening.  A thing.  They were all a part of it.  Suddenly and without warning, the guards draped an American flag over the former man’s lifeless body and hoisted him on their shoulders as if he had just scored the game-winning touchdown in a championship football game.

“HE………IS………..RISEN!!!!!”  they shouted in unison.

Everyone went back to work.

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Public Amused By Anything; Dies In A Fire

concert crowd

In the future, people will only communicate with each other using Top 10 lists.  Progress in the name of progress for the sake of progress will render all other forms of communication meaningless.  We will engage in the illusion of order until our planet is completely overrun by humans that are well armed, in peek physical condition and filled with a snarling, vengeful hatred towards one another. Then, some shocking and terrible catastrophe will take place and lots of people will write Top 10 lists about how awful it was and how sorry they are.  And they will be forgiven in order to do the same thing again.  Here’s my list…

1. You’d kill anything with a heartbeat.  You just like having other people do it for you.  No blood on your hands.  Very clean.  If you can put ketchup on it, chances are, you don’t care.  Tell me again about how you love the unborn, but you want to own a weapon that could flay the skin off of a buffalo from the distance of ten football fields.  Tell me about how people in far away places matter, but the idiot who just cut you off in traffic should burst into flames.  A fetus, presented neatly on a plate with a neatly arranged side of rice pilaf and a sprig of parsley, would present you with a nearly impossible ethical dilemma.

2. Everything is terrible.  Acting like this world is anything but a madhouse should be a  criminal offense.  Those who send greeting cards should be put in front of a firing squad.  Those who pretend to find meaning in life should be hanged.  If you are not disgusted by the basic perimeters of life, you are wildly disengaged from the events going on around you.  You are a product of a planet gone completely insane.

3. You are the problem.  If you look at all of the problems in your life, you are the common factor.  There are no outside factors or extenuating circumstances. You are both victim and victimizer in all cases.  You created God in your image in order to cause your own suffering and give meaning to your world.  There is nothing outside of you except for more you.   If you ever noticed the depth of it, you’d drown.

4. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  People who don’t eat breakfast are demented and spiritually compromised.  They all should be punished.  They are the problem.  If you speak to them, they will infect you.  If they are not dealt with, the human race will sink into a spiritual vacuum and mankind will slowly die a moral death.

5. 9 out of 10 dentists are simply trying to feed their kids.  Experts are unreliable shills who offer nothing but reaffirmation of a world bereft of anything that could even remotely be considered human.  They have been compromised by a system that rewards blind allegiance, conformity and drooling stupidity.  They are afraid to be the one dentist who thinks the other dentists are morons.  They are compensated well for their crimes and their children grow up to be happy and healthy robots only slightly more disgraceful than their parents.

The horrible truth is that the one dentist who disagrees doesn’t even really exist.  He is a creation of some marketing executive who understands that 9 out of 10 is more believable than 10 out of 10. If he actually does exist, his views have been streamlined in order to create bigger and more inclusive slaughterhouse of a world.  Any dentist fit to look at the teeth of a human being wouldn’t even take part in this sort of a carnival.  And what kind of fool would trust a dentist anyway?

chicken wings and homicide

6. You are waiting for me to talk about you specifically.  Sure, all this railing against the world is entertaining, but when is this weird fellow going to say something that applies to me.  Or separates me from the rest of the fools he’s talking about.  Or takes me into his arms and offers me forgiveness.  I’m not that awful.  I belong to a neighborhood association and I fought hard to make sure that no retaining wall obstructs the view of trees from the highway.  I laugh at all the jokes I’m supposed to get and cry when I receive the appropriate cues.  I am in conspiracy with this jerk and he’s not going to offer me absolution.  The hell with him.  I’ll never read him again and unsubscribe from his blog.

7. Who are you to tell me I’m a fraud?  You are just as pointless as me, Cowboy.  Being a guy with an Internet site doesn’t make you interesting.  How dare you point out my faults without accepting your own?  This is self-indulgent drivel.  You are a pretentious fraud who couldn’t think of a dumb metal parody for this week, so now you are picking on strangers.  This isn’t funny anymore.

Most of the others have stopped reading and gone on to find more cute pictures of cats or something to prove once and for all that Obama is a Marxist or that Rush Limbaugh is a pill-popping degenerate. (Here’s the part where you insert the cliché about “wanting your two minutes back” in order to remind your audience that you know all the things that smart people are supposed to say in these circumstances.  Go ahead.  Someone will nod approvingly and laugh).

8.  This article is a complete waste of time.  Jesus, haven’t you outgrown the “meta-” stuff already?  Most writers go through this phase then move on to writing something worth reading.  It’s something that people tend to outgrow in their early 20’s.  Like cartoons.  Nobody really likes this style of writing; they just act like they get it when you are around so you don’t get your feelings hurt.  Time is running short.  Your coming up on a thousand words now, Tough Guy.  Better find something worth saying

9.  Pro-Pain is a vastly underrated band.  They have 13 or so albums and almost every one has a great song or ten.  I’ve listened to Foul Taste of Freedom almost 50 times in the past week alone.  I would love to live in a society where the only form of currency were Pro-Pain albums.  Two “Shreds of Dignity(s)” could buy you a goat.  Five “Fistful of Hate(s)” would get you a horse.  15 acres of arable farmland?  That’ll be 12 “Straight To The Dome(s)”.  And on and on.

10.  Spleens are not food.  I think this one is pretty self-explanatory.  I’m going to go look in on my fantasy football team now.

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Metalheads Mourn As Some Guy From A Reasonably Well-Known Band Dies

grim-reaper-1Some guy, who was in a band that influenced a lot of other bands, passed away at 3 o’clock this morning from a disease that some other band was named after.  In a mass, spontaneous outpouring of sadness, thousands of anguished metalheads today posted R.I.P. on their Facebook pages along with pictures and videos mourning the death of a moderately talented, long-haired stranger.

“I can’t believe what’s-his-name is really dead. This is the saddest day since the other guy died a while back,” said some highly emotive gloom-monger who downloaded most of the band’s material off of Limewire.

“This is a great loss for the world of music.  Metal will never be the same,” said some dude who claims his band once opened for a band who opened for Metallica.

The dead guy’s band, which had recently traveled around the country and played a series of uninspiring concerts in front of people waiting for someone else to play, will try to soldier on without him.  In spite of their sadness about his death they have been somewhat consoled by a 15 percent spike in Youtube traffic, not to mention the exciting marketing opportunities that only the sudden, horrific death of an artist can provide.  Several tribute albums featuring obscure musicians looking to rip the remaining flesh off of his corpse should be available soon as people race to cash in on the public’s fetishization of grief.

Sure, his family will probably miss him and the two or three people who actually liked him and thought of him as more than a connection to the rockstar lifestyle are filled with sorrow.  But, at the end of the day, his death was probably a good thing.  After all, it provided thousands of individuals with the opportunity to share in yet another in a never-ending series of public events meant to distract people from issues that actually affect them.  Plus, many will now be able to participate in the fantasy that by exhibiting sorrow on a Facebook status, they can fool people into thinking that they are creatures still capable of experiencing human emotion.

Of course, it is quite possible that his death is actually just some sick prank to gather attention to websites like this one, which traffic in confusion as some bizarre postmodern form of currency.  Or, it could be part of an elaborate hoax used to allow the artist to escape from the rigors of a life of in the spotlight.  Like Elvis.  Or Kennedy.

One thing is certain, death is a valuable and coveted commodity.  If scientists could find a way to allow humans to die multiple times, it would be a marketing bonanza.  To misquote a great line from Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales, “Dying might be a heck of a way to make a living.”

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41 Comments

The Tyranny of Attrition

“Now in these dread latter days of the old violent beloved U.S.A. and of the Christ-forgetting Christ-hanuted death-dealing Western world I came to myself in a grove of young pines and the question came to me:  has it happened at last?”

-Walker Percy from Love in the Ruins

October is the cruelest month
(Or was it September?)
(Or is it all of them?)
I don’t know anymore
I’ve stopped counting

You don’t need a compass to know which way is up
Despair, Guided by the torpor of stale air
The last thought that went through Junior’s mind
Was how much the horizon looked like the ocean

Because this is The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Wi-tch

Oh Dr. More
We’ve become so much less
Your you-topian dreams
Transmogrified
Into an I-topia of silent screams
And ponzi schemes

Because this IS the wasteland
And WE are doomed
As the milk of human kindness
Reaches its much anticipated expiration date
Evaporating, The Armageddon of the Spirit
Echoes of Narcissus
Gazing
Lifelessly
We know that we are dying
(Be it one at a time)
(Or all of us at once)

Because this is The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Wi-tch

The Absence howls
To be filled by nothingness
The Presence mocks us
With its promises of illusion
You don’t need a stethoscope
To hear a heart that’s not beating

Our differences are not nearly as terrifying as our similarities
The weight
Too great
The universe has forgotten how to protect us
(Or never wanted to know)
So far, from our-Selves
In the wasteland, there is no Up

Because this IS The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Witch
Must be The Season of the Wi-tch

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7 Comments

Why Do We Mock The Mock Meats?

(Editors note:  This is inane poetry that I wrote about 5 years ago during my conversion to vegetarianism.  It reflects my general unease about the idea of fake meat.  I have since grown to love the stuff.  Mock meat, I mean, not unease)

Why do we mock the mock meats?
Is it our feverish fear of fakes?
That make us avoid eating mock snakes
Do we fear down deep that we are eating
Something that never was bleating
Some hybrid of bean sprouts and shark
That looks like a deformed snark

Do we feel people will see us as quirky?
If we down a box of Tofurky
Should we eat what does not cluck?
Like a steaming plate of mock duck
Or avoid things that do not moo
And happen to taste like Elmer’s glue
What is a new vegan to do?
Settle down to a plate of mock kangaroo!

When will the mock meat madness stop?
Will they open a mock meat butcher shop?
Will mock meat mania destroy our nation?
Will we become a mock civilization?
A mock culture in neverending retreat
Who cannot tell the difference between real and mock meat

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12 Comments

Telepathic Review of The New Trivium Album “In Waves”

Remove all tight fitting clothing. Find a cool and comfortable place to sit down where you will not be disturbed.  Relax.  Try to block out all thoughts that are running through your mind.  Breathe.  Make yourself an entirely empty vessel, like a glass that has not been filled.  Relax.  Breathe.   I am going to count backwards from 10 and when I reach 1 you will begin to hear my review of the new Trivium album.

10…9…8….7…6…….5……….4……….3………..2………..1

I will now transmit my review directly into your mind…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Howling Man

 

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The following is an account of what took place on the evening of Sunday March 14th, 1996 in New Paltz, New York.  It was the most frightening night of my life…

“AAAAAAAAAAARGGHRRHRHHHRRHAHGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I looked at the alarm clock.  3:14 AM.  What on earth was that horrible noise?

BANG!!!!! BANG!!!!! BANG!!!!

Loud thumping from the front door.  What on earth?!?!?

“AAAAARRRGHRGRHHRRAAAA!!!!!  HELP ME!!!!  AAAAAAAAARGHTHHTERGG!!”

BANG!  BANG!  BANG!

What could it be?  I stared at cracked wood paneled ceiling above me.  Eyes pinned open.  Was someone banging on my door?  Why would someone be banging on the door at 3:14 in the morning?

BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!!!!!

“HEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!”

The bleariness of sleep quickly disappeared from my mind.  Cobwebs melted away and were quickly replaced with horror.  What on earth?  ‘I should go downstairs’, I mumbled to myself.

BANG!!!! BANG!!!!! BANG!!!!!!! BANG!!!!!!!!!

I shot out of bed and grabbed the 36-ounce aluminum Easton bat from my closet.  I threw a shirt on, took a deep breath and started to walk to the hallway that connected our living room to the front door.  I lived in an apartment with two other people who were both out of town.  It was just me.  The hallway led to a creaky wooden door that probably couldn’t handle much more of the pounding that whatever was on the other side was inflicting on it.

“ADAARGREHEREHERHREHR!!!!!  HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLPPPPPP!!!!”

It didn’t even sound human, whatever it was.  Some filthy, snarling beast on my front porch.  Why?  Maybe it would go away if I…..

“HHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!”

BANG! BANG!!!! BANG!!!!!!!

Pounding with two fists!  Screeching!  What was on the other side of the door?

“ARGGRHRRRHRHT!!!!! HHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

BANG!!!!!

BANG!!!!!

BANG!!!!!

Only feet away from the door handle.  Now, the door handle in my hand.  NOW!

I flung the door open and I’ll never forget what I saw.

No shirt, covered in some red substance that was either blood or strawberry syrup, dark bruises on his body, a deranged, confused expression on his face.  Only feet away from me.  I knew him right away from the moment my eyes met his.  It was Bill Clinton.

He began looking at the sky and howling a sick, miserable shriek.

“AAAARRRRRRGGGGGHBSHFBSHMHGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

“Mr. President, are you alright?” I asked filled with astonishment and terror.

“I know…..I know……I know……I know…….FEAR!!!!!”

“Are you hurt?”

He stared blankly into my face.  His body was no longer filled with electric, crazed energy.  An empty vessel.  Eyes filled with nothing as if he was listening to a song that only he could hear.  He was covered in blood and chicken feathers.

“I know pain,” he whispered to me in a voice that projected complete sadness and desolation.

“I KNOW PAIN!!!!  ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAGHRGRHRGRGGG!!!!!!!!!” he screamed.

The next thing I knew he began running away…..howling.  The way his body moved was not even human.  Like some combination of an eel, a toad and a man.  He disappeared into the woods on the side of the house.  What had just happened?  The howling faded into the distance and I was left alone in the oppressive darkness.

I tried to call the police.  They told me I was crazy.  I told my friends.  They didn’t believe me.  I tried to find news reports about the whereabouts of the President on that evening.  The newspapers claimed he was in France on an official visit.  I knew better.

I never have figured out what happened that night.  I will probably never know.  For a few moments, Clinton became a vulgar, demented beast.  Maybe it was who he was all along or maybe he strayed from the light for just one evening.  That night he was a monstrosity.

It’s not the screaming or the banging or the look in his eyes that I remember most.   I remember his howl he let out as he disappeared as if I heard it yesterday.   It was the noise an animal made when it sensed its own demise.  It was the repugnant terror of existential emptiness and complete alienation all pressed together in one terrible, resonant sound.  In that moment, he spoke from a horrific place that I hope I do not ever see.  I never looked at him the same way again.

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