Soaring with Shattered Spectacles


Soaring with Shattered Spectacles: the exquisite corpse musings of Mitch Cohen and his rebellious constituents Chapter 1

Spasms of quietude, a contradictory paradox, unearthed, sheltered within my visceral hollows.....it is only with considerable uneasiness that I can begin to describe the condition of cyclic beleaguerment and peace that has plagued my being. Epileptic eruptions of ineptitude, yes..., coupled with manic revelations of invincibility, oh YES... eventually yielding to an oppressive fantasy of chronic nonexistence ...... pouf. I am a picayune insect of trifling value.
	"Jonah... hey Jonah why do you allow cranberries to ripen in your ear?" "Because the green metallic bands beneath the soft pink eraser on my number two pencil bespeaketh it so !” And so life went, moments of treason, followed by moments of reason. The ever growing realization that my clutching little fingers and stubby little fists, reaching out to the cosmos like an infant in it's crib, were masters of supreme inefficiency. I will stare up at the dangling mobile of plastic goo-goo ga-ga creatures, they will tantalize me and remain out of reach. I will say, “Jambalaya jamboree.”
The splendor of my squalor seduces me, it affects me like an aphrodisiac. Yet on the same hand I am ripe with an incensed rage that churns and spits and laughs. The bipolar bi-partisans wave their treasonous mocking flags at me as they await ambush from within my zombie drug. I can only respond like a bloodshot rat that, with a fetid odor, protests blindly in the face of an elusive enemy. I am transformed into the lowliest of creatures, and can only follow the avenues of a yet unsurveyed map by eliciting the "logic" of a nether-world. How I do enjoy the word cacophony!

Dare I dilute the original feeling by continuing? Isn't that the crime I commit everyday! Enter the harmonica players to save my soul, coupled with a hard edged bass backbeat and disintegrating into a cacophonous mayhem, hah hah hah hah hah I love it! Fuck me some more on the way to San Bernadino, yeah.
Pseudo-subversive masturbationists and self gyrating fools residing in the gutter "just for show" can blow me. It's the hypocritical skit-skat invented to balance the score that are perhaps the biggest "eggshell pawns" "Ditch the 'White- out' and don't repair the brake pads", Milton," This is a flagellating ever undulating pile of shit supreme, and I'll be damned if I don't beat my critics to that proclamation. Hah hah hah, again and again. Who can hear the god damned sparrow farts from atop the freeway overpass? The sanctimonious hiss and sweet perfume emitted from the tiniest of avian anuses is poetry lost amongst the noxious fumes of the demonic diesels. Indeed.

And now a long forgotten occult recipe thought to promote longevity and add strength to the knees:
	INGREDIENTS 1. one medium acorn cap 2. enough spots carefully removed from the carapace of the ladybug to fill the acorn cap. 3. and one "Fractonart of a Snat and half a Grimbel"
May the renewed strength in your knees provide surprising hours of dancing pleasure logged into the myriad of your non-days
Granules of confidential collective knowledge, emblazoned on the whistling pine, blindly encrusted in human wax. Remove me , remove me, remove me... WINCE and release; grimace and release; hup-to 'O sublime wrinkled one and awaken to the call of the supplicant. Crumpled mackradges shirmrocked in the crevice resist the river's erosive powers and lay testimony to the staying, the staying , and the final non-releasing. The WINCE and the grimace take their turns as spectators.
	The euphoric void, the un-named phantasmagoric other one. Who? Which other one? We know him only as.... Leon. Leon of the Borscht-belt. Let's have a warm welcome for ..... Leon! "What a send up, fellow fucking fuck turds and sphincter bastards. I embark on this evening's journey to the Hootenanny textile convention! A self-assessment of crassness would be of course a non-too obvious proclamation in my fuzz-busting freak-show. Not to dance, to refrain from twirling frenetically is the death of a dervish.

I will now gratefully dissolve, taking my leave and ending this brief but endless pollination of the atmosphere with my hemlock halitosis. Oh happy firmament.... signing off...... good bye.

Undercover wench, protectionist lobotomist, friendly arachnid, viceroy of vile, remove your panties and raise thy flag. Discern left from bottom and the sharp and shiny protractor will reveal simple sprinkles of gout. The plaid garment drizzled with sap from the evergreen spoke, but essentially said nothing. The meaningless words spoken created a levitating affect and the loving cup was passed around in ceremonial joy.
Historical hypocrisy, revisionist pandering - rational thoughts repel. Smoky seductions of the teacher distract my intentions from the ghostly over erased chalkboard. Primitive eroticism, pleasure uninterrupted. She's gone, she's not gone.
Between a smoking gun and a piping hot cup of tongue wart tea, is there nothing mutant in saying "I'll be happy to join you in a taste if your planning to have me?" No the thought never occurred to you or the configuration of my handsomely retarded frosted prune. Can we get a decent hamburger at the Casbah or have all the pretty young millipedes murdered the moist sea creatures? Murder, murder bloody murder. Murder the junkie, murder the monkey. And now for an incomplete sentence of trite absurdity .... The nefarious nibbling niggled away at the neon nematode's negligee at the decrepit debutante’s breakfast party..... Tally Ho!

Rainbow sprinkles, on 7 out of 10 occasions I would select rainbow sprinkles over chocolate sprinkles, preferably atop a sugar cone. Of course this leads me to the root of all things essential; for the sprinkle whose good fortune it is to escape my cone enters the kingdom of his own making provided it evades the pigeon’s ever ravenous non-discriminating peck. Not so petty a victory for the maverick sprinkle… brazenly risking peril and loneliness detached from the familiar swirl of frozen domesticated bovine milk-cream. Indeed.
A tapestry made from broken shards of beer bottle glass would encapsulate yet another fleeting moment unlived. Time will play me for a fool I fear, unless brave decisions are made yet I declare absurdly, in the face of all life's prospects and dreams, Dirt, Dirt, Dirt and more Dirt, a dirge in the face of love, a bitter lament ad nauseam for my inaction and immobility. A Magician sans his wand.
Unjolly be me today with twisted knots in my guts, tomorrow I will gamely pretend, I will say I have decided and surely I will make the best of it without having made a brave decision, and I will remain a fool blind in the illusion of the moment with sleep to rescue me at the end of each day. Oh I will find no fresh solace this day, so as is my custom I will search around some to find it in more lived in places; and it is more than solace that I will find in my memories and in the warmth of those who, despite suffering my foolishness, have chosen to love me.		$fractured$

The lost wormwood soliloquy flounders, catapulted in a slow-motion slingshot, lost in the atmosphere, enshrined in it’s own orbit, be-knownst only to itself , the lost wormwood soliloquy will transform, morph, and be again, or not. Moth balls, news radio and plaid designs come to mind right now, and the need to say the word polyp. Somehow the logic that gurgles and seeps through my mind like ooze from a tar pit, gasping for air in a world hard to breath, offers promise of respite from the streams of suppressed terror I so loathe.
	“Insanity suffocates” I offer casually, .. “if it is served with cheese and sauerkraut. It is a piercing acid knowledge detached from the distant emotional decay dwelling deeply within the chasm charred by an awareness of some bitter comic worthlessness. If served with a plump Cornish game hen, insanity will of course assume a far more benign and palatable entity.”
Brandished brainiacs and childish bookends creep forth your bounty unto the murk, declare your dominance and make gleeful rhymes with infirmed elders. Tra-la-la boom-see-yea! Did you get yours today? I got mine yesterday, from the girl across the way!
	With a flatulent wink in the epicenter of my bum, I bounced upon the mantis poised for the kill and offered it all the pent up fury of my stifled stuffed cabbage epicurean delights. Senseless slapstick offerings such as these hardly serve as diversions from the pervasive promise of suffering so omnipresent to the hominoid. I sat back down to quietly place my face upon the tuft of moist dark green moss on the forest floor. It felt cool on my cheek and nose, the smell was reminiscent of some lost childhood experience, I was comforted. I no longer wished to disturb the stalking mantis with some silly fart fantasy.

The Fugue gurgling to the surface within my spirit confirmed sounds I could not hear, tantalizing me with a burst of ecstasy that may never have existed. The silent doubts and unspoken truths were rendered meaningless by the autumnal leaves that fell each season.
Embryonic histrionic thumb sucking lesion encrusted excuse for a crumpet, ascend! I do command you to ascend despite your obvious and profuse shortcomings.
The heavens darkly beckon and invite the veil to be shed, and doth summon the ears to be uncorked of wax. Yet captivity cascades and swirls through my pubic hairs like caramel upon a candied apple. Who are the captives? Could they be descendants of speculation and fear, barefoot amongst the thorns? Where is my sweet weak-kneed release going to land me without the conspiratorial surrender of those unwilling to loosen their clutches on the river’s bank? The guerrilla tactics of grapes fermented will cast yet another veil on those who would surmise inebriation and cast verdict. If you surmise inebriation to be the compost pile and host for such unqualified balderdash...right you are, yet this veil is a cerebral invention it would appear, better a word man than a bird man, and vise-versa. Let us be so reminded, beauty does lie legitimately within the realms of rot and decay.

Beleaguered, yet interested, I held union with the ether, gathering tangible evidence of what I suspected lay just beyond my grasp. Great goobly-gops, Nagasaki corpses and cheese curds, touch my eyelashes now please or face an unpleasant scalding of your vulnerable regions.
Baroque balderdash, self important soot, There is much to negate, much excess to unshackle. Simpler wisdoms lay unveiled, seemingly unimportant..., of benefit to the blind. Provocative notions shredded in time, squeezed and distilled, becomes music of knowledge, resplendent in it’s flora, easy and true. I am relaxed in the peat. “Now that’s a lemon cake with pickle relish undertones!” the food critic bellowed with more than just a hint of sly mischief from high atop the sponge podium.
“Spinal Meningitis!!” was the chorus of response recited with such a haunting beauty by the obedient congregation of drooling constituents. “Loosen your fixations and surrender to the sacred knock-kneed knick-knack in khaki-shorts!” Amen. Sacred dreamings...we shared them in the morning; deciphering the long night, touching sign-posts of the communal magic theater that connected us. We knew that dastardly deception, both casual and cunning await us. The illusion was as efficient as a nuclear suppository and as close to the truth as a Fluffer-Nutter Goobers and Raisenette sandwich. Ad nauseum.

	Chapter 2

yes, do contact Mitch Cohen

Soaring with Shattered Spectacles: the exquisite corpse musings of Mitch Cohen and his rebellious constituents