Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Evidence 1.1: Cunt Death Terrorists (CDT) Instruction 'Manual': Cunt War & Weaponary

NOTE: Proceeding a police raid on a suspect CDT cell, the following document was found and bagged as evidence. Most was lost in the ensuing fire and explosion, but what remains is nonetheless presented here in public interest
There are Four main types of weaponry used by CDT’s:

Here the document terminates, the remainder burnt beyond recognition.

CDT’s are not suicide bombers and do not wish to come to any harm but to continue venerating the Cunt and blessing it daily. The longer the life, the longer the service. However, they are equipped to adopt a more militant intervention.
Interventions are normally carried out with minimum risk to the general public and those not directly involved. With corporations warnings are given before force, disrupting business but leaving staff unharmed.
In places-of-worship services are repeatedly disrupted with focus on those in authority such as Priests, Ministers etc. Foam Cunts can be placed over crosses and other relics. The Cunt Spritz (constituting menstrual blood and other collected vaginal discharges) can be sprayed or thrown at Church doors or notices. Placing spritz in Holy Water is particularly effective. Toxins can be released in their funded places of residence making them uninhabitable. Churchgoers can be subjected to Cunt Flyers attached to their windshields. Sunday Schools can be interrupted by CDT’s in Cunt Suits.
Jehovah’s Witnesses are a religion particularly suppressive of women and the Cunt, forbidding oral sex and masturbation. Here, a group of female CDT’s could invade a local Kingdom Hall, exposing their cunts (the more acrobatically inclined have greater potential here), spraying the Cunt Spritz (again, the spritz is a good method of direct confrontation) and offering copies of our specially-designed magazines ‘Cunt Tower’ (featuring a Cunt logo rather than a Watchtower) and ‘Cunt Awake’ dedicated to the grand awakening and return of the Great Mother-Cunt in all its glory.
The possibilities are endless and these are just some ideas and techniques we have utilized. Other interventions can be designed depending upon the socio/political/cultural/religious influences in your locality.

The Cunt Spritz
Aforementioned, and the most passive in contact.

The Cunt Mitt
A heavy-duty glove cunt-shaped at the palm. Effective at close combat and usually coated with Cunt Secretions.

The Revulva
A ‘pistol’ Vulva that can discharge gas (usually harmless and sedative), rubber pellets (usually causing bruising or other minor injury) or lethal ammunition designed for combat. Deadly ammunition is rarely used and usually for protection. However, if a CDT points his Revulva upwards and discharges a few rounds of live ammunition the seriousness of the event should be made known to all.

There is also the Revulva Taser based on the same design carrying a small electrical charge.

The Labia Decimator
An bomb labial in design. The timer is set by manipulating the labial ‘lips’ left and right. The device is armed by depressing the ‘clitoral’ nub located at the uppermost part of the Decimator. The charge can be live explosive, biological (a agent causing a Hermaphrodite change in males is being considered and developed) or the Cunt Spritz released by a small (relatively harmless charge) en-mass. An adhesive is usually added to the Cunt Spritz mixture to ensure it coats and adheres to people and objects. This is known as the Cunt Adhesive.
These (unintellgible) weapons(?) ----- worldwide ------------- sex - 'rites'(?) ---------
occult -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucius Rofocale was raised by wolves in the wilderness. Though 'rescued' and indoctrinated as Homo-Sapien he remains very feral. Lucius is an Ordained Minister of the Church of Sub-Genius and posits than self-breeding Hermaphrodites are the next evolutionary step for the human race. You can talk to him at and read him at

Monday, June 21, 2010

Room #3 is Infested and Necra-Mantic

Keith Donnors is one of the maintenance guys at the Hot Camel Inn...located somewhere between the border of Vegas and California. He is a burly man.. Buddy Holly- Framed glasses..full "jeb" beard..short crew cut..obese, and twangs subtlety when he tawks..

It is now his 3rd year on the job and he has well adjusted to the position of Head Maintenance Technician at the hotel. The pay is lousy. The hours are long..but Keith has found that there are many perks to the job as well..The residents of the Inn sometimes leave their stash, or rubber sex toys lying which case he quaintly slips them beneath his blue dingy coveralls..

Once a woman from El Paso left a small red suitcase in the corner of the walking closet in Room #12. When Keith opened it, he found 3 8-Balls of Cocaine and a series of obscure German pornography (depicting beastiality scenes with German Shepherds and young impressionable teenage girls, bound..gagged..bitten. One in particular caught his attention for its depiction of a fallen Persephone, portrayed by a young anonymous hazel haired starlet. In the scene, she is raped by a brooding Hades, leather bound..and a masculine shouldered Dog with spike collar who is aroused only at the sound of a bell hanging from the tower of Hades throne room..just before dawn. Cleverly enough, Keith observed..was the director's choice to name the masked actor playing Hades as Pavlov Dong.)

BIG LETTERS...big position..big stories about the short-term residents at the Hot Camel Inn..Why, just 4 years ago he was just another misfit redneck from Murfreesboro wild, on Benzo dreams across the High Plains...smoked Meth from a light bulb and had the bright idea to take off live near the Hollywood sign and live one of those Bob Seger Nights.."with the diamonds and thrills..and those big city lights..and those HIGH rolling hills.."

"Yeah those High Rollers come in, fresh from Vegas with their willy nilly ways and them HIGH skirt, quarter-chasing bitches from the bus stops..from the HIGHways..from the desert towns. Yea, here they come fresh from Doomed cities and states of being. Every last God-forsaken one of ye'!"..

Tonight, Keith has stayed late again.. He opens the door for Room #3...A/C is full blast.and there on the bed, Lyla..24, blond, blood hair..clumped..knotted, a twisted scene for sure..with those big dead eyes..those faded pupils..that gnarled mouth, gray skin..crumpled hand, smeared lipstick, bruised cheeks, battered a rescued corpse from the swamps of Moulin..from the great great jowls of the night and the 'gatar..her dress tit high..her tits exposed, bluish cold...still, and the A/C running smooth as silk..smooth as her bloody hair..smooth as her thighs..smooth as her lips against his fingertips..and when he bends to kiss her cheeks, the swelling seems to heal..He's a savior, Resurectus Phelia..a vessel of living breath for the damned who trodded the desert..

"Looking for more sin..and so it shall come to pass. Behold, the light of the day fades fast..fades fast! Across these hills are a lost man's dreams...and the nightmare's just begun..So sit and I'll tell you a story! about the Devil and his son..."


Every once in a while, he comes to check for "pest infestations".. without management or the residents being the wiser..He slips inside quietly while they sleep.."just to check on the shape of the room"..while the HIGH rollers sleep heavy..while the Desert Tramps, the Lot Lizards..The Dolls lay in waiting..still breathing..Two weeks ago, he found Lyla and a resident under the name Barry Hanowitz asleep..with the A/C full blast..He could see his breath..Barry’s breath.. faint..but Lyla was a steady force of if some collection of dead souls rest in that place deep at the back of her pretty little throat..

Room #3 is so much more than pre-paid, compact living quarters..Tonight, Room #3 is the louse, the white breathless insect that occupies Keith's thoughts..lying atop the covers..lying above the spilled babies of yesterday..weeks before..small infested still births..The louse and the semen fuse, turn to flaky chips of crustacean..infantile husks glisten against Lyla's skin in the moonlight..the black light..making her appear to have been sprinkled with the sand from the beaches of Nod..These specks are scattered across her half-naked the cold folds of her arms..the beads of her eyelashes..crushed ever softly against the press of her lips and he tastes mass genocide deep in her mouth..while his tongue searches for the cove of the fallen souls inside her..

He pulls a pair of clamps..roach-clips..from his big red tool-box..full of hammers, screw-drivers, wrenches, Vaseline, 'rub that snatch down..greased and tight!' .before the real work begins..Her eyes stare only at the stained white drapes..Hole-ridden..barely hanging on to the pane..of the glass that keeps the outside air from whisking a last whisper to the clouds..Keith applies the clamps to her blue nipples..There is a lack of tension in the he tugs futility at the sagging remains of a two-week corpse..She is a rough terrain now..a rotten pear, riddled with decay..The A/C is running full blast to keep the smell bearable..He pulls at the clips..and the dead never moan loud enough..

He pulls at her hair, while he slips the black and banana yellow panties from her sleek thighs..Barry watches on in the corner with that fixed 2 week stare..his mouth is open..his eyes are closed.."Even now, you can't watch? Fucking pussy!" Keith snickers..and removes the panties from Lyla's ankles. She looks to the curtains..Barry is dead..Barry is watching..Barry sees Keith from behind the glassy stare..from the outside looking in..from the inside looking out..

"K E i T H"

whispers in the room of necra-night..secrets in the Inn..and the door to Room # 3 is closed on closing-in on Keith..and Lyla..looks to the curtains..

Keith snarls and throws a Bible at Barry.."Suck an egg you dead fucker! I'm trying to get my fuck on here! Shut the hell up!"
Barry's head slumps over upon impact of the Lord's word..Revelations upside the head. And so it was that the words rung out from Barry's dead lips, quotes from the End Book itself:

"and the Living one; and I was dead, and behold, I am alive for evermore, and I have the keys of death and of Hades"

to which Keith replied in quick fashion:

"Fear not the things which thou art about to suffer: behold, the devil is about to cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days. Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life."

And while the Outside Lord watched from Barry's fixed eyes..Keith buries his face in Lyla's dead womb and wrought the seeds of death..searches for those who are being tried beyond the decaying 'uteran world..only to find louse flakes and the stench of dried semen in abundance..Lyla's head slumps from her gaze..curtains, whispers to the window have fallen to the floor..and neither her vapid eyes nor Keith's writhing neck wrapped in dead woman thighs make notice of a strange visitor to Room #3..

He crawls from a 1.6 mm space behind the nightstand..which has been jostled from position by the incessant knocking around of the bed during the lover's fray. The silent invader has six legs, antennae, prodders..feelers..hairs..has crawled through fecal matter and urine, fed from scraps in the corners lived in many televisions with thousands of brothers and sisters..Now, he has strayed from his crowded home beneath refrigerators and within bathroom sinks..He has found his way from the bungalows of Haiti to Hollywood..made his way within the folds of crates holding imported fish..Now he has found his way into Room #3..and Lyla's eyes cannot move away from him as he scurries around the edge of the nightstand.

The cockroach has stopped to observe the events of the 2nd week..within Room #3, Lyla's blank facade almost looks to smile at the Keith reaches at the other side of the bed for the Vaseline jar. "Gonna grease 'er good to-night. That pussy's 'bout dried up."

Keith dips three fingers into the jar and pulls out a glob of the sex paste..and holds the jelly to his nose for a quick check. " I can't remember if this stuff ever goes bad." Keith looks at Lyla.." Do you? Ha ha ha."

Keith applies the Vaseline to his member, and rubs the con[cock]tion slowly around the base.....applies adamant pressure to the tip as he strokes and leers at Lyla. "You like that don't you bitch?"

The cockroach has moved to the edge of the overlapping quilt on the bed as Keith searches for the insertion point..Lyla doesn't wince as he slides in..her head bounces up and down and almost clean from her shoulders as Keith's pace quickens and slows..his thrusts expand and disperse..the children the louse..the cockroach..They all watch on.

"And now for the goldmine!" Keith says, as he flips Lyla to her side and positions himself behind her. He sticks his greasy 3 fingers back into the jar resting on her pillow, and swipes them along her anal cavity.."Better safe than sorry."

He licks her ear as he inserts the same 3 fingers deeper, removing them to find no remains of a meal or soul inside. "I know there's something in there you quiet bitch!" he screams, and punches her in the back of the head before ramming his member inside her dead orifice. The children of the mattress have finally wept..The louse has leapt for the last time tonight..but the cockroach, watches from the foot of the bed now..The cockroach stares into Lyla's void mouth.

Keith has seen the doctors about problems with his urinary tract in the past. He attributes an acidic feeling in his urethra to the inhalation of boric acid while laying traps around the office and rooms of the hotel. The doctors have suggested that the prolonged exposure to boron may have caused adverse effects to his kidneys and possibly his reproductive organs including, but not limited to the urethra and sperm count..

Keith has fallen asleep inside Lyla's rectal wall. The cockroach is at the entrance of the dead girl's mouth. He pauses while Keith breathes heavy into the night air..each rise and fall of his chest reverberates along Lyla's hips to the mattress..from the bed to nightstand..from the inside to the outside..past the glass..into the land of Nod and never again.

The cockroach scurries into Lyla's open mouth. Upon entering, the prodders begin searching the decayed tissue at the roof and scuttles quietly down the top of her throat and into the alimentary tract. It cuts through the esophagi, with a rapid pace..and goes mad at the sudden visions induced by the floating blood at the bottom of the appendix. Blood pool images of screams and Barry lying motionless on the floor.

For a series of moments, the six-legged intruder is stricken with a human's view of bludgeoning fists, tight grips, hard smacks..a great white grin..the letters: K E I T H, on a woven patch.. All at once, there it brutal men can be..seen through the eyes of an insect..seen from the blood and bruises of a quiet woman..seen from the inside looking out..

It fights its way through the gambit of 2 week dead memories and finds the exit from the last still sphincter inside the small intestine. It stops and doesn't dare to look back.. Keith lies asleep..Lyla lies dead..The cockroach stands inside..It springs with a vengeful speed from the exit..and runs into the rectum where Keith's urethra lies limp and sated.

The cockroach almost grins at the sleeping worm with his one closed eye..before charging forward and into Keith's urethra.

Keith leaps up and out from Lyla..HIGH-pitched screams resound through the walls as he scratches furiously at his "pee-hole"

"What the fuck?! What the fuck?!"

The cockroach burrows deeper inside the 26mm in to his means..and the blood begins to seep from Keith's he screams..SCREAMS!..SCreams..Screams..screams..moan
s..scratches..kicks..goes slowly quiet..while the roach tears and travels deeper into man..
2 weeks later..Keith, Lyla, Barry..have not left the room. The A/C is on full blast. The smell is down..

The cockroach has finally died..from prolonged exposure to boric acid..inside Keith's urethra..

Frankie Metro claims to have never had a cockroach climb up into his penis.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

1994 From Above

And there was that rich girl who slit her wrists
Because nobody understood. (not the psychiatrist father, nor the psychologist mother)
The twelve-year-old boy
Nurse yells!!!!!
The quiet brown-haired girl cries. She SCREAMS; "THIS FUCKING PICTURE. FUCKING DRIVES ME NUTS!" (A poster of a woman playing tennis.)
Her parents visit regularly. They bring her poster of Kurt Cobain to cover the tennis player. They bring her the Care Bears sleeping bag that her Grandmother gave her for Christmas at age five.
That brown-haired girl wants her disc-man! She misses fucking Seven-Year-Bitch and In Utero!
She screams, "Daddy! I cannot see! These pills! I can't see!"
Her roommate is a trollop: sleeps with the lazy-eyed Puerto-Rican in the shower when the charge nurse is handing out meds. (She checks under the tongue, so that the children cannot fake taking their Haldol.)
THey all look out the window. The windows, Plexiglas and barred, but they can see the city below.
Saint Patrick's Day, Easter.
They watch the parades.
Staring down below at the world

Klonopin found a toilet by the graveyard. I don't know if she used it or not.

Monday, June 14, 2010

bat. shit. crazy.

we knew she was bat-shit crazy from the get-go, but that don’t get ya kicked outta the house ‘round here. hell, if ya ain’t a little fucked-up we might not even let ya in.

she came over with a twelve pack. an hour later we was wonderin’ why she didn’t just bring a case or two, instead of makin’ us drive to the store for a re-up. six beers into the new case she dropped her drawers & pissed in the middle of the kitchen floor.

after she cleaned herself up, she went out to her car. came back in with a big-ass diaper, put it on & crashed out on the couch ‘til mornin’.

bat. shit. crazy.

next time she came over she brought plenty to start off with. about eighteen or so in she asked for someone to hit ‘er. she wanted it right in the face, and she wanted it hard.

ain’t no fool gonna hit a broad right off the rail like that, but she didn’t give up. got all pissy ‘bout it, called us a bunch of fuckin’ pussies, so I decided to take one for the team. she was askin’ for it, after all.

I gave ‘er a good knock with my left, thinkin’ that’d be good enough. my twelve measly beers musta addled the ol’ brain. bitch called me a pussy again. “ya goddamn pussy, my na-na hits harder’n that.”

I clocked ‘er a good ‘un with the right. didn’t really mean to hit ‘er hard as I did, but shit happens sometimes. broke ‘er nose & blacked both eyes. them bitches was swole shut in ten minutes. she gave me a bloody kiss & said thanx.

bat. shit. crazy.

didn’t see ‘er for a couple weeks after that. she didn’t bring no beer next time, just a whiskey buzz & a bag of weed. she sat down by the fire, & asked for another lick.

I didn’t have no intention of hittin’ ‘er again, so I just kept playin’ my guitar. started into that tune with the chorus that goes “bang bang bang went frankie’s gun, he shot me down, Lucille.” first time through she cocked ‘er head kinda funny & just looked at me. I kept on playin’.

second time around her beer just barely missed my head. slung fuckin’ bud light all over my purty alvarez. I wouldn’t drink that shit for free, much less polish my two thousand dollar guitar with it. kinda pissed me off. “bitch, what the fuck is yer goddamn problem?”

“I don’t like that song.” “yeah, well no shit. lotsa people don’t like lotsa songs, but they don’t go ‘round throwin’ shit at folks.” she was getting’ damn close to earnin’ that knockout she’d been lookin’ for.

“frankie was my sister’s name. she shot herself in the head two years ago. dumb bitch, took me a month to get the blood outta the carpet. here, check this out.”

she reached down in her purse & fumbled for a minute. not findin’ what she was lookin for, she went out & rifled through her camaro, came back through the door smilin’. chunked somethin’ at me again, but this time I caught it. good thing, the goddamn thing was loaded. a smith & wesson snub nose .38. “what the fuck is this.”

“that’s frankie’s gun. & I don’t like that song.”

bat. shit. crazy.

Yossarian Hunter is a bad motherfucker from Mississippi. Read his poetry or fucking die.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

The Terrorist’s Meth Lab on Sesame Street

Also Published at Paraphernalia Quarterly

I’m wearing a wet suit with a scuba mask in a crowded subway
Out of breath because Big Bird just chased me six city blocks
Screaming obscenities and brandishing a sawed off shotgun
He refused to tell me how to get to Sesame Street

In the kooky subway carriage, a doomsday cult of ventriloquists without dummies
Tell knock-knock jokes
and quote Ginsberg sporadically
Emphatically poking my ribs with used vibrators,
They attempt to sell me yesterday’s lottery tickets
I politely decline their solicitations but enjoy their unique interpretations of “Howl”

Nobody in the crazy car asks me for change or identification
Not even the homeless homophobic circus clown who keeps on farting
Or even the cross-eyed mime wearing a rainbow afro wig and only one shoe

When I get out at my superfluous stop,
I meet Martha Stewart on the pitch-black platform
Her head is revolving like the “Exorcist,” and she’s dressed in a 1920’s purple polka doted bathing suit
She asks me how I am in Chinese street slang, vomits, and offers me stock tips
She tells me I should run sideways into oncoming traffic shouting korma recipes and
Quickly waves goodbye with a middle finger, dancing the “Running Man” out of the revolving door
See ya later, alligator!

Walking out into the suicidal street lacking empathy,
I see an eclectic electronics store with a large window display of TVs
24 hour news cycles are euphonic in fast moving imagery and perfect alignment
Talking impatiently in interruptions about missing white teenagers, sports scores, and celebrity gossip
As brief crawls regarding the genocide in Congo pulsate, I try to remote control click away pedestrians
Where’s a TV guide when you need it?

Walking past an asinine alley,
I hallucinate the Tooth Fairy holding up Cookie Monster at gunpoint
Cookie Monster incoherently mutters something in a Cuban accent about:
“I ain’t got yo money, mang!”

A commotion soon ensues as Paul Wolfowitz runs down the street on all fours, nude, disoriented
He barks like a dog and bites random people; ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! ERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!
Foaming from the mouth,
He squeals a profanity laced tirade against the liberal commies that want to take away his
Alpaca farm full of Iraqi children chained to radiators in his basement
Whilst doing a partial handstand, he whispers like Brutus in my ear,
“Pūrṇam adaḥ pūrṇam idam
Pūrṇāt pūrṇam udacyate
Pūrṇasya pūrṇam ādāya

Pūrṇam evāvasiṣyate.”

Nearby, in front of a foreclosed on church…
Seven Hooter’s waitresses gather for their weekly support group…
Though they aren’t there for personal reasons…
It’s all about the fire hose enemas, bad coffee, and “Mattlock” reruns

A group of German tourists walk up next to me
I yell “Fick Dich” to them so they feel welcome

When they ask me where I’m going,
I tell them I’m on my way to see the Terrorist
He lives in the Meth Lab on Sesame Street
It’s between Washington, DC
And New York City
Eerily east of Essex
North of Bangkok
West of Sydney
It used to be in Caracas
But now it’s just a few blocks away
The last time I went there, I drove home at 90 miles an hour in reverse on the wrong side of the highway for seven hours straight blasting Celine Dion from my distorted radio in a constant loop
This time I’ll come back on a Segway or a rickshaw instead!

Auf Wiedersehen! So long! Goodbye!
We part and exchange hostile text messages

[woleb rorrim eht nI
eotletsim eht rednU
stimrep tuohtiw stimreH
timreK dna yggiP sM kcajraC]

Walking to the spot, I enter the goofy ghetto sponsored by Bank of America
Pompous posses of gangly gangsta rappers on every street corner have gay sex
While smoking banal blunts rolled up from Florida 2000 butterfly ballots
They spit at me and throw gold chains and urinate in my direction
I thank them and perm my hair with pepper spray
This sure isn’t Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood!

On the next street hopscotch a pack of crack smoking girl scouts
They calmly riot, throwing Molotov cocktails and
Smashing windows and pumpkins, too
I ask one named “Betsy Lou,” why the upheaval? Why the evil?
She tells me that their jobs selling cookies have been outsourced
To coarse robots controlled by girl scouts in New Dehli
Like a jellyfish,
the little bitch
kicks me in the nuts, struts, and steals my subway ticket and runs away yodeling
Flailing her arms like a windmill, but still,
I thank her and brush my teeth in the sewer

I finally arrive at the Meth Lab
To get in, I have to give the password to Oscar
He’s the grouch who lives in a garbage can out front
I noisely knock on his lid, da-dada-da-da-da-da!
He pops up reeking of cheap whiskey and the perfume of an Asian hooker
He belligerently inquires (in a voice that sounds like an angry black man), “What, muthafucka?”
I tell him “Karl Rove’s Rectal Exam” (the password)
As he opens the door, I ask him why he is such a grouch
He says, “You’d be a grouch, too, if ya lived in a garbage can, bitch!”
I concur with him and walk inside backwards doing the Moonwalk

Inside, Elmo smokes a bong and collects money from a prostitute with three tits
Bert and Ernie watch “Will and Grace,” bake a quiche, and talk shit
Snuffleupagus watches snuff films and sharpens his knife
Talking about how he’s gonna cut up Big Bird and make fried chicken outta his wife
I ask a psychotic 6 year old girl sorting powder like Scarface if I can see the Terrorist

She hands me a mirror

Newamba Flamingo gets abducted by aliens a lot.