04-24-2013, 10:21 PM
He wasn't sure if it happened before or after the accident,
but at some point, his wife had taken
to seeing other men.
One of his friends, a former television executive
from the '90s, was fond of spreading the word:
"Yeah, his wife,
she's been handing it out all over town like Laura Palmer."
His writing suffered for a few months;
then it became impressively better.
While his collection of prose poems and short stories,
Someone Lost His Key to the Backdoor, was panned by critics,
it developed a cult following.
And on those people, he came to rely for
the most truthful criticism.
At a party, the man in purple appeared
and told him, "You must use this white powder,
and you'll write faster, and better."
And he did, and next weekend, he did again.
More and more, and he needed more and more.
So the man in purple told him
he was a failure, and he was fired.
He died, then he woke up. It was a dream.
His next best-seller was entitled: I Am the King of Dreams,
Ecce Homo.
The cult following despised not only the book
but the man himself.
A week later, his wife left him for his stepfather.
llllllllllllllllllllll. . . . .
On the last night of April,
he tried acid for the first time:
Only it wasn't acid,
it was a substance made from the third testicle of a
...................................homosexual that once had a
...................................bowel movement that smelled
...................................like the last known breath of Mother Theresa.
The night was black, but not the shade
that he was told wasn't a color;
it was a black Woman
with buttocks as round as the moon,
and eyes as blue as the vein in his penis.
She became his mistress,
and time became a joke he'd tell his friends
whenever they told him the night was over.
Somehow he knew if he had a child by this woman
it would be the end of his legal marriage.
And the man in purple had told him
if he took any action as result of his wife's unfaithfulness,
it would be him that suffered
as she became the darling of the American public.
Instantly his lawyer appeared.
His thoughts conjured him up.
"Do you wish to copyright your work?"
The lawyer asked. "Do you want
to copyright your work?"
He told his lawyer, No;
and the black woman smiled,
midway to child.
Her laugh would be the Child;
but the lawyer asked, "Why?"
Again, he said, No.
But the lawyer assured him,
his previous works had already had their rights
beholden to him, and him alone.
The word 'alone' angered the woman,
and she vanished from sight.
In his heart, love ached;
but in his soul,
the lust of men had been satisfied.
The Rights were his, and his alone;
now he, and his readers, lusted for something new,
something more general, and more vast:
that Love couldn't maintain.
In his sorrow, he fasted the rest of the night;
he maintained his desire for the rest of that night,
after the whole of his desire had been fulfilled.
"These legal statutes are beholden to the New God
only." The lawyer said.
And alone, and unsatisfied, he yearned,
insatiably,
for his wife.
"So even the postmodern prophets fart
like ordinary men?.."
A demon said that.
The only demon in this whole picture.
Then the witches flew out over the scene
that they had been born for.
And a monkey opened a cage.
And out of the cage came a beast;
and out of the beast
came a man...
But even this was a dream.
For without dreams there would be no doubt:
and from no doubt,
the Satanic books would lose their savor.
He sat alone in a tree house
his father had built him as a child.
"Even this tree house still has a savor."
He said. And the only demon in the picture
had to hold that minor fact beholden to God.
And a round of applause raged
from his own cryptic brain.
And from it, a door opened.
Through it, his mother
returned from the dead. And "A Dead Woman's Son"
went out of print.
but at some point, his wife had taken
to seeing other men.
One of his friends, a former television executive
from the '90s, was fond of spreading the word:
"Yeah, his wife,
she's been handing it out all over town like Laura Palmer."
His writing suffered for a few months;
then it became impressively better.
While his collection of prose poems and short stories,
Someone Lost His Key to the Backdoor, was panned by critics,
it developed a cult following.
And on those people, he came to rely for
the most truthful criticism.
At a party, the man in purple appeared
and told him, "You must use this white powder,
and you'll write faster, and better."
And he did, and next weekend, he did again.
More and more, and he needed more and more.
So the man in purple told him
he was a failure, and he was fired.
He died, then he woke up. It was a dream.
His next best-seller was entitled: I Am the King of Dreams,
Ecce Homo.
The cult following despised not only the book
but the man himself.
A week later, his wife left him for his stepfather.
llllllllllllllllllllll. . . . .
On the last night of April,
he tried acid for the first time:
Only it wasn't acid,
it was a substance made from the third testicle of a
...................................homosexual that once had a
...................................bowel movement that smelled
...................................like the last known breath of Mother Theresa.
The night was black, but not the shade
that he was told wasn't a color;
it was a black Woman
with buttocks as round as the moon,
and eyes as blue as the vein in his penis.
She became his mistress,
and time became a joke he'd tell his friends
whenever they told him the night was over.
Somehow he knew if he had a child by this woman
it would be the end of his legal marriage.
And the man in purple had told him
if he took any action as result of his wife's unfaithfulness,
it would be him that suffered
as she became the darling of the American public.
Instantly his lawyer appeared.
His thoughts conjured him up.
"Do you wish to copyright your work?"
The lawyer asked. "Do you want
to copyright your work?"
He told his lawyer, No;
and the black woman smiled,
midway to child.
Her laugh would be the Child;
but the lawyer asked, "Why?"
Again, he said, No.
But the lawyer assured him,
his previous works had already had their rights
beholden to him, and him alone.
The word 'alone' angered the woman,
and she vanished from sight.
In his heart, love ached;
but in his soul,
the lust of men had been satisfied.
The Rights were his, and his alone;
now he, and his readers, lusted for something new,
something more general, and more vast:
that Love couldn't maintain.
In his sorrow, he fasted the rest of the night;
he maintained his desire for the rest of that night,
after the whole of his desire had been fulfilled.
"These legal statutes are beholden to the New God
only." The lawyer said.
And alone, and unsatisfied, he yearned,
insatiably,
for his wife.
"So even the postmodern prophets fart
like ordinary men?.."
A demon said that.
The only demon in this whole picture.
Then the witches flew out over the scene
that they had been born for.
And a monkey opened a cage.
And out of the cage came a beast;
and out of the beast
came a man...
But even this was a dream.
For without dreams there would be no doubt:
and from no doubt,
the Satanic books would lose their savor.
He sat alone in a tree house
his father had built him as a child.
"Even this tree house still has a savor."
He said. And the only demon in the picture
had to hold that minor fact beholden to God.
And a round of applause raged
from his own cryptic brain.
And from it, a door opened.
Through it, his mother
returned from the dead. And "A Dead Woman's Son"
went out of print.
