Meth Lab Radio Show (featuring Willie Nelson from Glasgow)

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Take me out to the ballgame

Attorney John Palmer

Dear Friend,

Please I will like to know if you have hired Attorney John Palmer as your representative towards the collection of your Inheritance with the deposit company. Because am corresponding to the false Email claims I daily receive from Attorney John Palmer. That you have requested and hired his services as your representative Attorney to make the collection of your $1.5Million USD inheritance estate cheque funds collection.

I will not oblige to his request, the reason is because you have not personally notify me about his coming and also after making consultations with the law suit Chamber he claimed he represent. I was told such name do not exist with the law firm either in the past or present. Without wasting much time, I have taken your cheque inheritance collection to the finance ministry to de-activate the Encrypted code been placed on it by your benefactor. All this activity was done by me last week to enable me conclude the final phase of your transaction with the finance ministry.



Meanwhile, I have received response from the Deposits company that they have received your package collection Friday last week at about 14:00 GMT.Because they were the issuing bank deposits company that notify me earlier that you have a package collection consignment for pick up as bestowed in the will document papers of late Rev Father James. Elias who issued you this $1.5Million USD payment cheque in your name. So as the attorney to the deceased I was out-rightly informed about your collections which prompt me to take decisive actions immediately by following what was stated in his will papers.



Once again, I hope and pray you use your Inheritance collection payment as issued to you wisely by investing with it and paying One tenth of it as your tithe to any Red Cross society or orphanage homes near you in helping a soul today.

Furthermore, your compliance towards this E-mail is highly anticipated, to enable the deposit company remit your inheritance payment cheque to you immediately, thank you.

I really want to know your stands on this matter before I pull OFF.

Signed:
Barrister George Williams.
Legal Consultant on Mortgage Equity and Financial network.



(Pics by Pieter Hugo)

an excerpt from The Professional Donor (a working novel)

It's been three days since we last saw Finch, and everyone's got their theories. When he told me he thought he was having a heart-attack, I'll admit, I was somewhat skeptical. He hunched over the table balancing his head between his arms; complained of dizzyness and chest pains. All the while, his cigar teetered between his fingers when he wasn't puffing furiously at the filter.

"Do you want me to call the ambulance, man?"

"Nah. Not really. I'd like to just die to be honest with you. But I want this pain to stop first."

Last night, I dreamed he had come back to the house and in my REM-induced imagination, I conjured up a fictitious conversation in the living room between Finch and Ian.

"Where's my orange lighter?! It was on the dining room table when I left."

"I don't know man. I haven't touched it."

Ian was obviously nervous-pacing back and forth through the intersecting hallway in avoidance of confrontation. The lighter was safe in my pocket.

"Bullshit you fucking thief! I know you got sticky fingers! Empty your pockets right now!"

Although I awoke to no such conversation having transpired, I knew it could easily veer in that direction had Finch come home during my nap. But that was Finch; desperately clinging to every facet of his menial existence. The smaller things have so much precedence. A lighter. A JW Little King Cigar. A bowl of spice. A bottle of Sierra Mist. Everything that meant something was trivial and clamped between his swollen mits; while "the bigger picture", as some call it, eluded him and his otherwise apathetic disposition.

I started thinking about his laissez faire attitude towards his impending demise, and how he clung to the pain and I wondered if maybe he hadn't mentioned his death wish to one of the nurses on duty upon admission and she hadn't in turn, referred his "case" to an inhouse social worker who asked Finch:

"Are you being serious when you say you want to die?"

And he had answered yes, immediately granting her the authority to place him under a seventy-two hour suicide watch in the psych ward upstairs.

Yes. Finch has a tendency to focus on the less important aspects of his life and thus negates the presence of more pressing matters at hand. Then again, this is all merely speculation-bordering on a classic case of self-projection and we, the tenants of the house, have other theories as well.

We are learning to pay close attention to detail; finding pleasure in making it up as we go along simultaneously. Ian is busy flushing anything worth saying down the toilet or barking at the empty walls of his tiny room once the lights are out. We still haven't spoken, save for our coordinating the phone call to 911 a few nights earlier. Benny seems to think it may have had something to do with Finch's spice intake.

"He buys that shit off of some guy he works with and there's no telling what they spray on there. I tell ya, acetone may be the least of his worries."

Benny had heard some of Finch's conversation with the paramedics. As it turns out, Finch had a history of cardiac distress and a stint placed in his heart around six years ago.

"You smoke that shit and it makes your heart beat real fast and there ya' go. Not to mention all those cigars he smokes, the nonstop walking with his job, the heat! Just asking for problems with all that if you ask me."

Finally, Mrs. Just disspells the rumors on collection day; informing us all that Finch did indeed have a heart-attack, and that he was recuperating accordingly in the county hospital.

"He fine. Finch is fine. I speak to him a couple of days ago." she explained, as she taped the eviction notice on his door. "He is two weeks behind now. And now he is eh...not whowking. So I don't know what to do. All the time, he is here and nevwah says hewhoah when he sees me. You know? He is here slamming the doors and spraying bug spway everywhaire. We are not kids and there are no bugs. Maybe Finch have lice or something. I don't know. But there are no bugs. So...eh, Finch must go. I have nice married couple, like you and Lisa, who need the womb."

Mrs. Just was still justifying her decision as I trailed off for the bathroom. To my unamazement, sitting on the back of the toilet, was another dirty spoon.

A few more days passed and then Sunday, there he was in his old seat at the ceremonial round-table. Sulking. Alone. There were multiple puncture holes in his left arm; where the i.v.'s had once been attached...where his blood had been checked. The exact points of insertion glistened, fresh scabs beneath the ray of an L.E.D. flashlight dangling from the wire over his head. The fly paper swung in the breeze and so far, had mostly been successful at capturing debris from the trees in the yard. Very few insects were attracted to the scent. Finch had bought the roll some time ago.

"They (paramedics) didn't believe I was having a heart-attack. They thought I was having some kind of drug reaction or some shit. 'Kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to go to the hospital." An empty vial of X-Pressions "potpourri", a glass pipe and a rusty nail (THE RUSTY NAIL!) sat in front of him. I got the impression he had been sitting there for a few hours before I happened along. His head wobbled back and forth on his shoulders. He spoke uncharacteristically slow...

"Say do any of you guys happen to have an orange lighter?"

'You guys?' I thought, just before turning to my right and finding Ian's silhouette lonesome. Sullen...in a chair next to the neighboring fence.

"No. I haven't..." A train rumbled along the tracks of the boxed-in night; making his reply indiscernable.

"What about you Anton?"

"No. I ain't touched it man. I got this one, that I bought in Albuquerque last night. Still has the sticker on it."

"I had one sitting on the table with my smokes when they took me. The cigars were in my room when I got back, But no lighter."

"Hmmm. That's weird. How'd your cigars get in the room? Who put them there? Were some of them missing?"

"No. I had everything but the orange lighter."

"Who would just take a lighter man? That's just weird."

"Ah, who cares? Just forget it."

"Shit man. I was curious. Lisa and I have had some things come up missing lately."

An awkward black silence seized us, as I looked up between the branches and past the gutter of the house. The moon looked like the tip of a bright yellow finger, pushing...no pointing its way through a black ironed sheet; which had collected dust mites or stars. Finch lit one of the three JW's he had left in the pack.

"It's sposed to get up to around 108 degrees by the end of the week."

"Oh yeah?" I replied.

"Yeah. 'Gonna be a hot one for a while I suppose. Fucking sucks. I 'gotta get some things together, talk to some people. I guess I 'gotta find a new place to live by the end of the week...talk to the title people 'bout my car and go back to the hospital at some point."

"Did they set you up with another appointment?" I asked.

"Well, I have to go back and see the damned doctor so I guess that's an appointment. It's whatever. I'll either have to go back for that or another heart-attack one. Whichever comes first, I guess."

I felt as if he were searching for some source of empathy; digging amongst darkness and relative strangers.

"Doc said I have 80% blockage in one of the valves. Don't remember which one. But, it's just a matter of time before round two."

"They 'gonna do surgery?"

Finch shrugged, which made his head rock slightly. "I doubt it. I got no insurance. I tell you, I think they gave me some kind of radical drug treatment," he squeezed his arm in the light, "that turns fat cells into piss or something. I lost ten pounds while I was in there. I was pissing like thirty liters a day and I wasn't drinking nothing you know? So, I wonder..."

The ember began to falter on his cigar-due to his inconsistent drags throughout the conversation. Finch picked up a red lighter and re-lit the little king. "Yeah. You need to eat healthy, workout, and quit smoking." He pointed to the roll-up in my hand. "I mean, you can look at me as an example if you want." he chuckled. "Quit now, while you still got the chance." He stubbed the cigar on the edge of the table. His head dropped. He closed his eyes and didn't speak again.

Ian's shadow was looking in his direction. He had been listening intently the entire time. Even though it was hypocritical, today, it seems like some of the most sincere and mindful advice I ever received. I still smoke however...

2 poems and a collab from Norrin Radd

Pour me a Bowl

back into form i storm
alarmed and clutching a forward
rewards are for the moralless drones
clones of a thief quilted
warm as a mid summers lightning bolt
i felt like 5000
smoking hash in the hallways of hostels in and along the border
storm waters brought on feelings of gathered conscience
smash hammer dagger mouthed class clowns wandering
we scaled the skyscrapers with great repoire
speaking of stocks intermittently
laughing as brashly as if colorado hadn't changed my world
dark storm clouds rolling on the lush green fields
fuel simply described as human motor oil
spoiled feelings on the lightning bugs underneath the moon
the stars
cars came rushing by as conversations pursued
consumed thoughts of blank delocation
as more is perceived
less is controlled by dablooms.
swooned by the swaying of starscapes my scalp was tingled by the news
the blues seemed the only thing appropriate in the smokey dimly lit pool room,the water glistened blue
this brings me back to her eyes,the beautiful ohio mornings that smelt like nag champa and cold rain
those mornings that let me compose this for you
when the world was in fractiles
and my muse in the next room.
the reason I still do this
so it will bring me closer to whom I believe I am
manifesting a way to see clearer
and recreate those days anew

visegoth

she moves like a manta ray
swaying
crossing
making the days parade like
centuries.
her eyes are a time stretch
clutching mornings in honest retrospect
clutch word introspect
the gages are built from a cleptomaniac
stark
staggered
buildings melting realms
her scalp
smelt
of
felt
I breathe lush yellow fields for health classes
Classless.
I sat in a Denver rat trap
guarded by evil spirts and bad ju-juu,as if drugs were scarce.
Rare was it for I to smile.
Dull eyes
witch.
glisten.
The visegoth resides in valhalla

Caught up in a long nap... (an FM NR COLLAB)

in a pair of green shades,
sat a rip van winkler
wondering if happy years
were something one
would find in its sleep...
or a muscle tension, hyperactive disorder
out of bounds, rust stained and carpet munched

it felt like three junes and two suns
when he woke up to the sound of
5 guns blasting holes
in the accused.

tied to a post,
forced to make with it
and mate with the conceptualized
foreskin
of a dickless ape...

I think it was burgundy shades
the presentation was full of thoughts of escape.
lay lady lay,
lay across these big brass bergades.
stray alley cat lengths of strength
her mildness
atrocious
spell bound ways of persuading
were less then hazing
more than a cascading wall of denial.
IN his life he struggled
in my life we mugged them
switch those around and have an answer.
cancer
we coughed that up.
trackers
they followed us up.
abrupt standard address tags that hold information vital
as sonar paths rumble
her eyes keep me star spangled and
bannon.


meanwhile,
imbibed with the ressurection
of a slaven dream,
the salutations commence
and burned are the tatters of a dress
burned are the ropes that tied wrists
burned are the hours we or he can sleep

"we'll look for more shooting glances
in the night sky."

i'll hear her whisper...

"Adieu."

alors qu'elle se mourait

Nous portons cette couronne de droit

you can catch the Raddest here: https://www.facebook.com/dr.galaxy

Demons ripping apart inside

Demons tearing apart
inside of head
As if it
were a
loaf of
bread

Wine dripping from lips
Poetry dead

Bird
Spirals
hits
window
sky
falls
down
shatters

Pages torn from book
Empty words

in absence
when everything is lost
they realize the paradise
was within
in there heart pounding
the people they loved
the people they screwed over
while they had everything
millions of dollars
still an empty can
head hits the wall
throwing up in misery

What lies behind the beauty
Open door
Realize the emptiness
When away from
Distraction
Eyes fixate
Angels will appear
When one becomes blind
Tear out your eyes
For your sight to have meaning

Smiles dripping
From fe(a)ces

People drown upon the misery
Demons drown upon the glory

Homo-sapiens unaware
Of their demonic nature
They go to church
Pray
Then, the cycle restarts

Angels within
but their choice
Vegas
The city
of

flame
rises higher

clouds wait

people kill

with a change of context
an alternate perception
a realization of what morality is
the story, the poem
will hold a different ending

For now
the bottle breaks
dripping red

demons ripping apart head
cluster headaches

sun fades
and starts to set
moon is half full
stars absent of light

millions trapped inside head
banging against the walls
of the mind

sky fell
shattered like glass

No longer blue
world’s colors drained
Like water flushed from
Toilet and into the sewer

Full of diseases,
Contaminated

the river filled with shit

Why is the blood of the winged splattered?
species no longer high

Passed out unconscious
Woke up to little light

Demons screaming
still tearing inside




Sina is friends with transvestite ninjas.