FREAK FUCKER

(white god/white subway)

Jordan Krall

Bulbous heads expanding into weaponry. Celestial bones bleached into oblivion, pick-pocketing solar systems. Picking up teeth that have been lodged in the sidewalk cracks. Some blue-breasted cunt is selling crack and she tells me to shut my fucking mouth. I tell her to shut hers first or I’ll fist-fuck her esophagus until it’s hamburger for the wild boys. She smirks, burps, and walks away.

I’ve installed listening devices in those buildings over there-there-and-there. I’ve even installed them in the junk-blobs and now they’re paranoid wrecks, not knowing who the hell is listening in on their shadowy deals of chemical transformations.

Making my way down the street, bumping into pimps, rat-addicts, and suicide queens. Fuck this shit, right? It’s not like I ain’t got nowhere else to go. I’ve got hidden apartments and tree houses and caves and shit all over the place. I’ve even got a farm in New Jersey just in case. And a hole in the clay pits, too.

I sneak into the backroom of a skin flick shop and watch some perverts jacking off over a donkey flick. The animal looks pretty pleased with itself while it sodomizes a pair of emaciated twins who look at least fifty-years old. Their teeth grind deeply into ugly totem poles that look like blue-veined rockets.  Shit, the stuff people will do for food, for fame, for everything fucking thing their childhood didn’t give them.

Some of the bulbous heads wear masks. They twinkle like stars through a whiskey glass. My head fires up and prepares for battle. Spent a lot of my days building junkyard bombs, blowing up idiot real estate gods, facilitating the abductions according to theories I found scratched on restroom stalls. Intergalactic sigils drawn in spit and feces. Helium and methane gas whispering my name through the vents that are twisted like metal vines.

The streets are aching for rain, for violence, for some great big BOOM. I ride the subway back and forth, all around, underground. I come up to the surface and I’m shocked by the lights. I’m the great white worm filming this shit for the masses. Cameras are more expensive than I thought. Must have sold blood, sperm, and anus for a machine like that.

I’m waving my light in the air and saying: take me now!

Nothing, nada, zip.

Some French creep tries to rub his come-hand on me as he steps out of the skin flick shop. With my fingers I blind him like a newly shaven saint. That’ll teach him, yeah. Fucking tourist. He mumbles something about being a member of some ‘cable regime’ whatever the hell that means, I don’t know. I don’t care. I wipe my finger off on his pea coat and tell him to pray to the stars, motherfucker. That’s your only way out of here.

Fucking freak fuckers.

Some other guy is finished with the donkey film and steps over to another machine and puts in his tokens. A handwritten note tells us what he’s watching: Rose Well in COCKEYED SLUTS IN OUTER SPAZE.

Not worth the money, I’d say, but the guy doesn’t give a shit, I know. He’s slobbering all over himself. It’s pathetic but I understand where he’s coming from. He doesn’t know the truth, that he’s only a flaccid skin puppet dancing around Times Square for their entertainment. Poor guy.

He sees I’m looking at him and gives me a dirty look (not as dirty as the movie he’s watching) and the finger.

Eh, fuck him. Fucking puppet.

Fucking freak fucker.

I ride the subway again, back and forth, back and forth. Clears my head. The graffiti speaks to me like gospel. The messages are there if you know where to look. Space codes in ghetto script. Not only does it clear my head but it cleans out the vat of psychic retardation that’s been plaguing me for the last week. Thoughts have been burning a hole through my perception and making colors appear as people and people appear as sounds and smells. I feel like a child drowned in rainbow wax.

Two hours later I’m back on the streets, running my own game, being my own hustler. The talent on the street know better than to ask me if I want a blowjob (the best blowjob in Times Square, I’m told by every other head-hole). Shit, they know I’m all skin, hair, and metallic bone: rebuilt from debris from dozens of crashes. They have to know because I’ve told them time after time after time. I’ve told them to spread the word. I spent some time in front of that flea circus, telling the patrons my story.

Looking into the sky I see them circling and I’m reminded of when they were following the Jews in the wilderness. So many years of experiments just to create a few dozen freaks for fucking, freaks for solar systematic pornography, planetary snuff films involving living skin flaps and teeth monkeys and five-headed prophets with gargantuan penises in dead bone towers. These people and the goats and donkeys and camels all reach orgasm in primitive atom splitting. Mushroom clouds cover the promised landscape until all freaks are forced underground into the hollow earth.

Look at those fucking saucers go. Gigantic things, very intimidating, enlightening.

Now they’re circling Times Square and I’m wondering if they’ll just take me back up there or leave me here to ride the subway for eternity. Eh, who gives a shit? I’m dead either way.

Fucking freak fuckers.