—Impressions Rousseauean and beamed from heaven, platonic faint shadows of deranged giants, there go I, flickering and half formed images of the to-be. Here on the cresting rise where already we phase the green way to Gloucester we can see new worlds forming the ever-estate of gormless autocrats, insurance workers and plumbers, filling all the great valley all the way between Bristol and Gloucester. Yes yes, we see it rise in the historical peripheral of the mind’s eye, falling to future app developers building nothing on the fundamentals and yes we select few see the faux-period constructions appear from the earth with the passing of the hours and the words of authori-ty…watching the clock, which now is permanently marred on the mind, reft from their essential rhythms and lost in the endless low builds with no sense of a history at all…a final skipping stone cast to the void…—God, ’s me, and what was once the industrial estate is now; daycare; a gin bar; a gym attached to some cult-like workout routine; a vegan cafe, a veritable alternate high street and the regular high street is dead; and they came when they were all built; all of them foreign; all of them richer and they bought the lot; became our new lords and masters; and here comes the rain and where the fuck should I live and where will I shelter for the night; we’ve no place to call our own.
“Get your sperm here! Get your sperm here!”
Ralph used to say it once and let it rest, but market analytics bawled him out. “Forty-three percent better sales,” they said. “Put your heart in it,” they said. Ralph has a big mustache. Hasn’t had time to wash it in a while, so it looks like a squid’s eating his face. He’s proud of it anyway.
“Get your sperm here!” Fuck it, he thinks. Motherfuckers can hear the fucking music. Indeed. Another gimmick from analytics, loud shit no one else in their right (or wrong) mind would play, like an ice-cream truck. He used to like it, kind of. It was bearable. Now he hears it in his nightmares. Hard life, being a jizz hawker. But he sure as shit wouldn’t go back to medical insurance, not in this climate, no sir.
“Get your sperm here!” He waves a brown bag. Thick plastic. Label claims “100% Recycled, Ethically Sourced, Compassionate Capital Certified.” He doubts it. Heard some garish rumors. Something something makes Rana Plaza look like Disneyland something something. Through an actual grapevine, so he won’t swear by it.
“Get your sperm here!” One thing he knows, only poor folks’ sperm is marketable. The poorer the better. Labels on the bags brag, “Duration on EBT: 6 Years.” Another: “Lifelong Janitor.” Rich folks all tried CRISPr before they figured out how to work the oven, got their shit burnt. Top dogs claim it’s a one-generation crisis, but now there’s this big new business, well, Ralph has his doubts.
Let us salt our open wounds for fun,
for daybreak needs an excuse
to rear its ugly face.
Shylock and the altar both,
grant holy ground to saving grace.
That’s not to say in jest we must
forgive the body for healing
so hard to put in place.
I can safely taunt my shadow now,
for fluorescent bulbs vignette masterfully,
with rose-tinted glass shards/
which line my muddied footprints in reverse,
to guiding stars we douse with mace.
The starlings here,
to the tune of ruins
to try and shy/
A light upon/
the eyesore known as worship
We vomit in our coattails/
for room and board.
Is your hate state issued upon gentrification?
Can your qualms with Daddy be soothed internally?
there’s a computer chip in my dog’s basketball
documenting the motion of oxygen
in a bathtub filled with oatmeal
it’s like feeding a cemetery to the radio
the perpendicular prisms of ignominy
and the brainbombed loser psyches of the herd
replicate the cybernetic agreement
between two winged statues
I held a bonfire inside a watermelon
on the night I drained the ashes from this continent’s hooves
hey, I never skateboarded into raw hamburger meat
but I did drink Drano out of an ice cream scooper
it made as much sense as a horse’s head
bouncing up and down on a trampoline
It was in late February when Kouros lost his herd. The cacophony’s atonality spread into, from parts unknown, the ripe green fields, the blue-black skies—molding airborne skulls from cloud. Kouros was reticent to hire a posse of Ganas or groups of iridescent ghosts because he knew that Ganas’ demands for pay would be much higher than his strapper’s price and knew, also, that the iridescent ghosts were simply unreliable with following complex instructions. He needed to employ a gang of minions who were foolish enough to commit to solving a potentially impossible mystery yet modest enough to work towards earning a small and single reward. He briefly thought on the possibility of importing Indian Rakshasas. Rakshasas had the nose for investigative work, but their vampiric thirst for blood would only lead to greater social malcontent. Kouros, beardless youth, took an elderly neighbor’s advice and waited one year’s cycle. The renewing stench of spring and green and blooming flesh would bring the ones whom he was seeking. This whole time waiting he’d imagined valiant centaurs, shimmering chimeras, and other figures indescribable in words responding to his open call. Yet, when Spring had come to pass, he nearly lost faith in mythical creatures.
In fact, it wasn’t until Summer that the fields were overgrown in the absence of livestock. And in this time of chlorophyllous impunity he’d become acquainted with a choral troupe of satyrs.
With no goats to bugger or wings to tear off from the backs of fowl, the satyrs turned to the field’s new inheritors for entertainment. Firstly, they were merely fascinated by the plant and vermin life, but, soon enough, when they’d made an adequate number of observations, they reacted with parodic reflexes. Some writhed on their hairy bellies in the dirt with the snakes and worms or rolled up dung in accordance with the dung beetles or squeaked in unison with rats and field mice. They observed each specific job of every single species they’d encountered, and, in unison, they sung a jeering song about the limitations of the spineless and the non-mammalian: pointing out the many maladaptations that present with having strange and ornate bodies serving clear-cut functions. They poked at those Darwinian specifications that most higher lifeforms deem “below,” and which over countless generations such lowly organisms cornered themselves into. Kouros was taken by the juvenile yet clever spectacle of it.
He surmised that satyroi might be intelligent enough to follow his directions if promised a reward. Keeping their buffoonish tendencies in mind, he named each satyr after organismic mimeses founded, recorded, and coined by repudiated -ologists of various disciplines: Fritz Müller, Erich Wasmann, Henry Walter Bates, Michael Emsley and Robert Mertens, et al. were to be represented by a corresponding satyr.