I find the idea of describing a record album archaic and pointless. Suffice it to say, these are not noise recordings. Below, I have posted the original fiction pieces as they appear on this recording. Best regards.
An Ed Gein Movie
–I wonder who the hell thought this shit up?
–Movie is straight stupid.
He turns, flips the dial. It is one of those old-fashioned TV sets, back when dinosaurs walked the streets.
Man is standing there in an old detective outfit. Could be Philip Marlowe. The scene is, apparently, some sort of top floor bedroom in an old house. Could be the Bates Motel. Possibly.
Ed Gein is standing there with the shriveled cadaver of an old woman. Maybe it is Augusta Gein. Maybe it is someone he dug up from Plainfield Cemetery.
Maybe it is just someone who kind of REMINDS him of his mother. (Ed was peculiar that-a-way.
–Maybe this is his cadaver paramour.
(He once saw an old movie with Roberts Blossoms called “Deranged.” It was the Ed Gein story for sure. Several grotesque scenes included Blossoms feeding gruel to his dying mother, and opening a grave with a hideously rendered actress playing a cadaver come back to life. But the movie is, ultimately, forgettable.)
He dances with his dead lover, caressing and kissing the rotten flesh, trailing the white, moth-eaten funeral dress behind them as they go, in the heated confines of his psychotic brain, to a place beyond hope and pain and fear.
–You’re so beautiful my darling, so…beautiful. You’ve been gone a long time, but now, you’ve come back to me. I want to kiss you. Will you let me kiss you?
His withered lips quiver as he places them upon the grinning, rotten teeth. Empty, black pits stare into his own; unseeing, unfeeling, except in his tortured imaginings, where this scene is something from a romantic feature, a love story born in the bone yard. Right now he is a man a hundred feet tall; now, he has mastered the two great mysteries of creation: LOVE and DEATH.
The detective is unsure of what to do. Every instinct in his body tells him to shoot, to end it all quickly. Such an individual does not deserve to live. Nothing good could be born of this outrage to nature. His finger freezes, though, upon the trigger. The little ghoul is lost in his fantasy, overcome with his sad, mystifying emotion; a prisoner of the necrophile’s heartache.
From somewhere, the old, warped record warbles a forgotten tune, cutting through the ticking stillness of the house; the ghost of a forgotten song.
–I know that you love me, damn you. Say it! Tell me! I want to hear it from your own lips. Please, I’ll be sweet. I’ll be good. Mother always said I was an angel at heart.
Bare minutes tick by, but, to the detective, they seem like hours. He suddenly hears a pounding at the door below, feels a great weight lifted off his shoulders. He can hear the police call out below; soon the decision will be taken from his hands.
He knew he might forever regret not shooting this deviant.
For the sake of his own soul.
–He would have been doing the world a favor.
–Police! Open up!
It seemed like only a click later that the door was busted in. He could hear footsteps upon the stairs. He knew it was all over. The Ghoul was still cradling his sepulchral sweetheart in his mad, hopeless embrace. Drool was sliding down his chin, hanging in a glimmering streamer from his liver lips to the wide, psychotic grin of the rotted husk he imagined he had, somehow, reanimated.
He whispered to himself. He put his gun back in the waistcoat of his pants. What sounded like a herd of shod elephants was pounding up the stairs.
The bedroom door blew in with a simple kick. Wood splintered and cracked. Candles tipped over. Baumgartner bent forward to stamp them out. The old place would go up pretty quick, like a tinderbox.
The electricity came on.
An army of cops swarmed in.
Loverman responded in slow motion, suddenly coming to the realization that there was even anyone else in the room. He had long ago forgotten about Baumgartner, who he had only viewed as an annoyance. But the legion of policemen wound NOT let him be.
There was almost a brief pause before he was wrestled to the floor, with a solid thump on the creaking old boards, and his corpse bride flew out of his arms and crawled into a darkened corner. But no one saw this but himself.
–Darling! Don’t leave me.
He put out a thrusting arm. It was quickly grabbed and pulled behind him, locked and subdued.
He could see her cower in terror, ee the warm flesh melt away in the darkness, until she sucked up and shriveled and lost all semblance of life. Now, what lay sprawled in hideous mockery in the darkened corner was nothing more than the death shell of some departed beauty, withered and worm eaten and decayed.
–Like they’d bring that many cops, he thought. He twisted in his seat. It was getting late. But he didn’t want to miss the ending.
Two cops, one a plainclothesman, so tough, the other a rookie uniform cop. Both are bent over at one of those miniature refrigerators. He knew what must be inside. Jeffrey Dahmer stuff.
The plainclothesman opens the refrigerator with a sort of knowing smirk. Maybe he’s been through this routine before?
Whatever was inside, maybe it was human heads. Maybe it was a jar full of human vulvas. A heart in a sauce pan. He didn’t know. But the uniform cop recoiled in horror. He put his hand over his convulsing mouth.
Streamers of vomit rushed out from between his fingers. We imagine the color was deep red; bloody.
Close-up: something on the floor that could be vomit, could be a clot of gore.
Walking the grounds in a world of prayer,
Past icons and crucifixes planted in the grass,
While the murmur of meditation hums out
Across a rolling landscape of pools and ice.
We’ve invited these people here
(But God knows who they all are)
And they’ve let their excrement flow,
To fling about
And leave in soft curls of stench like brown pythons
Of dung creeping boot heel in the boiling cold.
I’m here for the music,
To loll in bed with bic lighter and a trollop
And reminisce about the good old days
I never experienced.
The stage is set for the Second Coming
Man in cloak and robe is black like Jesus
Weeping from the well.
Arms outstretched, the sinister demagogue pounds the pavement,
Informing us that maleficent magic will not be tolerated.
Big man in a soft foam Stetson cowboy hat looks like he
Has come to be my comic relief.
I crest the edge of a snow drift and look down
Into the still, untroubled waters of an icy lake
As the sermon reaches a fever pitch and I feel my ass sliding
Down the drift of slush
To death plop into the freezing water
And I drown.
Later I am walking pavement in slices of green lawn
And lazy hill and shallow dip
As I move past the fountain into a nook
And the kid to my left says
“The sound system looks like it will work” and I try the microphone but the stage was left somewhere back in the beginning of last night’s journey.
Someone hits me with a finger full of shit.
Now I stink as my throat closes up.
“Don’t go back there. It’s what’s reeking,” says the kid,
And I bend over to wash my throat from a drinking fountain
That is just a little too conveniently placed.
And Ah! I think to myself
This really is just a dream!
Running down my t-shirt I wonder…
Tongue (Several Large Dogs)
So here I am crawling through the weeds, watching this pulchritudinous beauty spread eagle across the yellow line of a two-lane blacktop, out in the middle of BFE. On top of her, some skinny pervert is pounding away, and in the distance I hear the faint rumble of a truck, so I make out this is some sort of suicide gig. Like, maybe they find the prospect of being smashed beneath eighteen massive wheels and dragged like squashed bugs in a slimy trail of their own blood…erotic? I don’t know. What do I know? I was a lousy voyeur.
It is bright and dusty, and suddenly I realize I’ve missed something because both of them are walking across the field, hand in hand, naked as the day God made them, and they are both long, pale specimens, and I follow, but at a discrete distance. The wind is hot and smells like rotten eggs, and the dust gets into your nostrils and down your throat, and gravel creeps into my shoes and I feel dirty.
I come to an old weather beaten house. A shack, really, but it looks like some prefab domicile full of roaches and bedbugs and whatnot. The door looks like it is gonna fall off the hinges it is leaning so crazy, and the exterior has been so blasted by dust that the very structure of the house looks as if it has been engulfed by time. It is dull and fleshless and like dinosaur bones picked clean by the ages. But enough with that.
I go inside and discover a choking darkness. It is hot and stale with bodies, and I see a small living room that could hardly be called that. In there was a rumpled bed. People are having sex on the bed. I can barely make out their wasted images in the gloom.
I notice, for the first time, several large dogs. They look like they have been drugged. Otherwise, I would guess one of them would take a huge bite out of my ass. Curiously, they are dressed in doggie tuxedos. Some of them are asleep against the peeling walls.
A video camera rests on a tripod with no one to man it. I fancy I can hear water running in another room, so I creep past the dogs into the darkness until I come to the door at the far end of the room. I swing it open, and am amazed and revolted at my discovery.
Inside, a man that is the identical twin of the singer Tiny Tim is taking a shower in a large room that looks as if it belongs at the local YMCA. He is rubbing soap across his fat, dripping body, and is singing in a deep baritone but I can’t make out the words. I think it was something about it being a long way to Tipperary.
I quickly shut the door on that. No matter how dirty I felt, it was gonna be a cold day in Hell before I ever got into a shower with that guy. I walk back through the living room, but the bed is now empty.
Dogs are wandering around out the door, and through the crabby, weed-choked yard, shitting and pissing and picking at stray scraps and old tin cans, snouts buried in yawning trash bags, and the road outside is still rumbling with those trucks, and it is then that I see someone at the edge of the yard, making triangles with the toes of an old shoe.
It is a young woman, I see, and her hair is one spider web mess, and her body is rail-thin, and her dress looks as old and worn and dusty and tattered as I feel. She turns, looks startled, eyes me warily, and puts her hands to her mouth. She could almost be blowing me kisses. Her eyes are twin moons of suffering and want.
I hear her begin to gabble. It is unintelligible. She pats her skinny little fingers against her mouth. All of a sudden, I realize what was wrong here.
Hopefully, my various musics are ultimately like magic bullets that enter and impact at the base of the skull, ricochet
around the brain chamber, and then leave a gaping exit wound in the forehead. You may hate them
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