[Title, Introductory:]

[Poems, Introductory:]

Organ-elle: Lady Organ?

As you can see, sir,
These are the organs we're looking for.
More of the long, distinctly muscled variety.
a These look like dog organs.

Are they dog organs?
See, that's what I thought.
You can tell because of the veins along the sides.,
We're just not interested, I'm sorry.

[Quote, Introductory:]

"The egocentric deference to superior power or prestige"
-Lawrence Kohlberg's First and Lowest form of Moral Reasoning

[Story, Introduced:]

    "Eat your fries." My Grandmother was older and meaner than any of the other Grandmothers in this restaurant. Her hanging sacks of jowl-meat made me want to fucking vomit. That, and the wrinkling smell of pickled must. I hated her.
    "Why? These fries are disgusting, I hate them." Her smile broke my spine; it stretched impossibly wide and false. The thin wax of her cheap lipstick mixed with spittle, pooled at the corners of her mouth but the smile drew those pools to cling, dewy, to the black post-menopausal pubis cluttering her lip.
    "Because Jesus Said So."
    My face pulverized with restraint. I wanted to make my eyes melt into an oily pool of poison that would give off a murderous gas when they hit the plastic wood of the tabletop. I tried to contort my face in rage, but a tendon threatened to snap. My fists were supposed to be around her fucking neck, wringing and twisting, but her smile sat untouched because I am weak and afraid of the police and the prison system.
    "I don't eat vegetables anymore. I only eat things that were murdered. Or bread surrounding things that were murdered."
    "They're just fries, Edward, eat your fries. I don't have time for this. If you didn't want them, you shouldn't have ordered them."
    The bitch was taunting me. The whole fry fight was just the tail-end of the first fight, after she ordered me to get out of bed, then get dressed and bathe, then go to this corporate shit food-palace, then she ordered me the goddamn number six, which had the fries that I didn't want.

[Interlude, Review of Art:]

    "I have a project due tomorrow!" I shout, "And these goddamn animals are not represented in quality stock art!"
    "Sir, I know this is going to sound extreme...but I know a guy."
    "A guy? That's vague enough that the earlier mention of extremity scares me. Is he himself extreme? Is his anonymity extreme? Is he at the end of an extreme street, or on an extreme block of a residentially zoned neighborhood, extremely close to a school? Stop gesturing and speak!"
    "Sir, the large grid I was making with my body? That was the internet. The online internet."
    "The Online Internet...the realm of perverts and time-wasting squibblers, their degenerate opium-filled lungs just waiting for a cheap score off a upright fellow with a business degree, a degree they spied with fear and jealousy from long-range, with their single beady black eye. But is it good? Will there be gorillas? And tigers?"
    "Indeed, sir, and so much more."

[Leave Your Beds, We're Heading Inland:]

    There is a deep ache in our nation. There is a violence been done to our people and we must fight it. To sit is to acquiesce, to assent. We will do neither. We will fight, we will kill, we will do heavy maddening damage to their bodies and their souls, to their resources and reserves. Their crops are not for wheat or for corn, but for the raging of our fires. Their children are not for aging and becoming proficient with weapons to further injure us, they are for rapings and enslavement. Mercy is for the satisfied and satisfaction is for the safe. We are neither safe nor satisfied and our mercy will be equally lacking. So, my brothers, raise your arms and let us declare, once and for all, our eternal allegiance to-"

Here, as you can see on the transcript, the line has been cut and we're not allowed to look at anymore things that were said. If you are interested, you can look at the newest book by the famous directors of photography from the former Democratic Republic of the United States, because it's chock- *choke, gag, gasp, gnarl, wring, grab, gnash, flail* -I'm sorry, there was a curled hair in my throat. To continue with the lesson, we should remember that the more he spoke, the angrier he got. From the reporting on the ground, and I really shouldn't be telling you this, it's supposedly- *wounw, hork, crack, splat!*

    "-the mongrels, the filthy, the lowest, the scum, for we are the Shitizens! Vive Les Shityoën! God is Dead! Long Live Bukefalos!"

Below, you'll notice a break.
[Chapter Break:]


[Chapter 2]

[Quote, Introductory, Chapter 2:]

"As you can see, sir, these are the organs we're looking for. More of the long, distinctly muscled variety."
-Me, Three or four minutes ago, Right Here

Above, you'll notice a chapter break. Pay it no mind, as if it continued unbroken. That's just a stylistic tool to provide you with a citation reference point.


To wit;

    I've long been a fan of yours: you have great lips. I've finally decided to write you a letter to ask some questions. First, where do you get all your great ideas? I've loved it all, but since the high middle ages, I don't think you've gone wrong once. Some of my friends secretly tell me that they are fans of satire or slapstick or parody more, but they're mostly retards.
    I am also retarded, but not in my brain like they are. I am retarded in my legs and feet. That is to say, I am wheelchair bound. Trust me, totally, this is not an attempt to get sympathy so that you'll sign a picture and send it to me for framing, although, if you want to, you can do that. Me and my limp legs would appreciate it. I don't have a lot of money or talent, you see, and this leg thing is just another in a pile of stones that is crushing my spirit. Could you save me the cost of framing? Because I am so very poor that I would probably have to go to a thrift store and buy a frame for your picture and I will get an oddly shaped one because of my idiosyncrasies. Because they are so cheap, they are also too small and I will have to cut off part of your head to fit it inside the frame and still keep the signature part visible, but I would also cut off part of the signature, because I don't want to give the impression that the flick of the wrist is more important than your face. I'm saying that I would damage both, severely/equally. But, if you would provide an appropriate frame and possibly put it in there yourself, it would be sized correctly and put right in the middle of the frame for the best aesthetic impression. You wouldn't want your PRETTY FACE shoved to the left or the right, because it would reflect poorly on you, amongst the people I know. If you could include a nail on which to hang the picture, I would also be obliged, or as obliged as a person who is given what he rightfully deserves, the photo, the signature, the frame, the nail, all of it. Honestly, I probably shouldn't have had to tell you, and while you're thinking, "How could I know?" Well, you could have asked, that's how you could have known. But I am generous, so I have related it to you. Also, do you ever do speaking engagements?

    Franklin Delano Roosevelt
((////\\\\\?????()()****President of America****()()?????////\\\\\))

Animal organs inside the body are often referred to as internal organs.
This story is thirteen sentences long.

[Story Introduced II:]

    He was a beautiful boy from the day of his birth, Praise Jesus. He was smiling and sweet and when he came out he was covered in miraculous blood. They held him by his feet in the air and his first sensation was probably of flying through the cold air, his tiny brain already circulating theories about the world around him. God knows how long it took for him to figure out that his mother was a tramp, probably knew before he made his entrance. It was her goddamn father, too afraid that a single tear would fall on the cheap gray carpet that lasted too many years after I told him it was threadbare. But there was always gymnastics. And lessons from scientists about all manner of dead, rotted animals that she got to cut open (and pay for). And sleep therapy. And secular summer camps, every year, learning from those Jewish Socialists, and the girl went and voted for Roosevelt. All four times, and I wouldn't be surprised if she does it again this year, she's got nearly a Greek Shrine in that back room to the man, with the whole bit, candles, everything.
     She's a tramp, but I love him and his smile and when he gets frustrated with me, his tiny eyelips squish tight and he squeaks. See, when he was born and they brought him up into the air, they thought he would scream, like all the other babies, but he was special. He just let out the highest squeal they or anyone else ever heard, and it didn't stop until about twenty or thirty seconds in when my little baby hiccuped. We all laughed like heaven was upon us, because it was delightful.

[Poetry Finale Grande:]

There are no more Eunuchs
For Etcetera.

Longer drives aren't the best for you
They pause and hesitate and recursive rescue you
from/in your haste to endeavor to learn;
"Sir, where are you from;
And why did you spurn my advanced science?"

Thus my ode to an inferno
blasted from the cold rocks of no longer winter-

Pause.  Hesitate. Continue.

It was back before you finished your thought
and your thought was frozen out of your mind
and you waited for the thaw to prove it true
                                or your ruse was up;

Either way it was over and the longer better darker angels of your nature,
freed from their deeded compounds of marked phalanges and
fascist organ-elles, found out about justice,
and the hole gaping gasped whitefish stucco
hiding cubist gladiators and old-growth pencil sharp spears,
All who cried slowly and with depth
because it was wasted on them.

Your German Shepherd- his fused organs on the far lawn,
counterfeit cow and goose strewn and lined with crude sharpie veins
all to grift my post-apocalypse Shanghai coins.
Now we walk carefully and slow, not slipping,
Our ears bloomed quicker with a closed mind,
and you know this, so you will be careful,
                                       and discreet.


Anna Nym said...

"They only served to convince me, how superior humour is to wit in respect to enjoyment-These men say things which make one start, without making one feel; they are all alike; their manners are alike; they all know fashionables; they have a mannerism in their eating and drinking, in their mere handling a Decanter-"

John Keats, Sunday, 21 Dec. 1817

“Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit.”

Oscar Wilde, maybe.

ETC said...

but, but, but...
I "heart" eunichs.