I HAVE DISCOVERED THE TUNNEL PEOPLE; THEY DRINK THE GREEN CHARTREUSE

THE DESCENT IS EASY TO AVERNUS,DESCENT INTO DARK ROSES, LAND OF HEROIC PSYCHOSIS , GLANDS OF METAZOAIC THROMBOSIS; THE TUNNEL PEOPLE, THE LIZARD EYE; THE TUNNEL IS LUSH, SLICK WITH THE GREEN CHARTREUSE…

|||||||  weirdness alert||||||||!

over 18 only please

 

 

 

 

 

I’d get farther away from myself
most days……… if I could!
I judge myself –it’s called the negative
script — and the disdain you can feel for
yourself is quite surprising. Self-hate abounds.
That’s one of the reasons I drink….

*

When I have a brain clawing hangover, as I have now –
LAO TZU says: “START WITH COMPASSION FOR YOURSELF”,

then the world will follow in harmony
around you.

*

Now…. this morning, things are a bit
different. We had a “chartreuse” party.
Dexter and Nicodemus, chief brewers of the Tunnel
People always did look a little green…
an unhealthy hue, both men have.
*

Then again, they’re afraid of the sky –
so that puts a crimp in their tanning…
Tanning? Tanning? Don’t tell big fibs –
no one tans up here, cept in mid-May when the
snow’s still two feet thick – hence, no flies!
Bertie, Artie, Matilda & Hanks,
and him who I call “Double Dexter” — he
of the praying hand, 2 praying-blessing
hands, like a praying
mantis…. Except his routine’s not quite so dark…
his female doesn’t eat her male, at least not yet
anyway – not today, but the morning’s young.
Maybe after they pray?..

That foxy little,
full-buttocked blonde vixen with the pixie
cut – she looks like she could eat something
all right.
I’ll give her something to chew on
any time she likes!

(Whoops!  Lost
one thread and pulled another…)

Hank is making a clanging noise
at the end of the bunker…. which is extended
by about ten feet after last weeks chewing and scraping
into the cement construction… he chews something and

licks the wall to set the  re-bar. What it is I have no idea!…

*

So we pay Dexter $20.00 for just two quarts
of “chartreuse”. We call it that only because
it’s green; and it does have a sweet aftertaste of
sugar and decay…

*
“You got tree roots in this stuff?” I ask
the brew masters, who look like the less fortunate
people in a Brother Grimm’s fairy tale.

*

“Aye, and mushrooms of the rarest
variety picked under a waxing crescent moon…”
Double-Dexter and Nicodemus sing together in unison

Did they just sing that? Have they been rehearsing?
*
“Oh, no!” I mumble…”No one would rehearse that song. Dexter,

where does the green come from?” I ask him.
I’m on my second glass.

*

” IT COMES FROM THE SWEAT OFF THE ARSE
OF A TREE TOAD!” he answers loudly.

 

*

Did I hear that right?  No, couldn’t have!
Did I hallucinate it? I hope so. I’m on my
third glass… and I hope I’m seeing
things… Maybe I’m hearing things, too!

*

IF THIS IS REAL THERE MAY BE

NO ESCAPE!

_________

*

A whole sheet or iridescent white light
sweeps like a sheet across Hank’s
glued and re-barred wall… It’s beautiful, really…
“What the fuck was that?” Foxie asks. (She must

have seen something move.)

*

Good going, Hank. You put
some sparklers in the wall also,… very
clever,” I say. “Better than clever,
it’s CUNNING architecture….”
I call out to Hank.
*

Dexter,Bertie and Matilda are lying on the
mud floor…unmoving…. Wait, I just
saw Matilda make a squirming motion,
like a snake… She’s crept up over Dexter
now and appears to be sucking one of his digits…
or is she trying to digest it?

“Ye gods, no! Is this some ancient
ritual? Is everybody part of it but me?
Oh God, situations like this… ancient
rituals… chanting and making hissing
and sucking sounds — tribes who indulged
in such practices have never been
kind to outsiders…”

“And… … I AM THE
OUTSIDER! …….

In this… situation…”
*
What? What atavistic
primal twisted thinking is this?

“This is MY BUNKER MOTHERFUCKERS!
And no genital-sacrificing lizard people
are going to kick me out!”
“NO WAY, JOSE!”
*

There appears to be a long
green tunnel, rather like a vagina
THE RELEASING OF THE WATERS!
or a throat…..extending and twisting
off into infinity… slimy, green, and
glistening….

(snatch/twat/ cooze/ vulva!
HOLY VULVA! —– cause of the rivers that flow…..

CAUSE OF THE RELEASING OF THE WATERS!
or a throat, extending and twisting
off into infinity… slimy, green, and
glistening….

*
Dexter stares into my eyes
with a look of prescient understanding…
he knows the tunnel… he is beckoning
to me… he wants me to walk towards it….
“CARE FOR A LITTLE STROLL?” he says
with kalidescope eyes…or were they lizard
eyes… I can no longer remember…and that
little detail might be essential for my
future survival…!
*
Too weird. It does not compute.
“Hey Hank, what does KUNTz have to say
about situations like this?”

*
Hank laughs, a long shivering laugh
that he CAN never repeat in 1000 years,
I hope…
He says (Kuntz says): ‘THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO
BUT WHERE YOU ARE.”
*
It makes a strange sordid kind of
sense… is this man some kind of genius?
Did he anticipate this meeting already???
Did he know what we’d be doing here??
Dexter grabs my arm, reaches out
to me from the direction of the morning star and
says:

‘RELAX, IT’S TIME TO PRAY.”

Dexie doesn’t kill ya with his prayers

and imprecations…. he makes you

want to kill him. I particularly don’t like it

when he puts his hand on my head! 
*

“The lord has not created the earth: THE
EARTH AND SKIES, GALAXIES AND STARS
are being created by the ONE WHO IS CREATING
US… The LORD IS NOT SOME jealous DEMIURGE

WHO CREATED IN THE PAST TENSE! NO! ”

Double-Dexter proclaims loudly, his fingers

clutching in my hair

*

“Get your hand off my head before I crack you one

with a blunt instrument!” I say, “Stop trying to push me

back down on my knees!” I say. And I mean it.

*

“DO NOT TAKE ME TOO SERIOUSLY,” he says.

… I AM GOD’S ROUNDER, a drunken messenger

“BE my companion in this rollicking
dance that splits the atoms, circles the globes
and pierces the galaxies…..
Only one Mind is at home here,
and there, and millions of light years away,

AND THAT MIND IS MINE!” he shouts

over his congregation… all of whom

are turning from pale faces – to

constant green hues.
*

I notice Hank over off to my right

digging his own tunnel once again,

in a snit…

I think of a hound dog digging, kicking out with

his hind paws, throwing out sand beneath

his ass – as frantic as if he were humping your

leg. Which means he has to dig fast…

Hank is digging fast. As always, when he

has another panic attack – he digs towards the east.

Don’t ask me why…makes no sense to me.

*
This method of building
cement reinforced beams out of re-bar and cement
in order to support the muddy sand ceiling as he digs

deeper his bunker with urgency…towards the East.
All the while to the light of these
candles that burn like toned-down sparklers….
I can only assume the black flecks in the nasty
yellow of the candles are tiny dots of gun powder…
*
What’s so funny now?” I call out. Over the

hissing, cackling sounds… the staccato hissing
is the candles burning…. the cackling is what passes
for Hank’s laugh…
*
“What’s  funny now?” I ask him again.
 
“It’s what he says,” Hank answers.

What who says?” I ask.

“KUNTz!” he shouts, a bursting laugh
passes thru his nose.

“We are too late for the gods but too early
for TOUCHY FEELIES!”

“You can’t fall in the same shit house twice.”

You can take a train; you can take a car:
But “THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE!”‘
( p.s. That’s the name of a John Rock song) .

Kuntz has started to make rhymes. He is living in the upper Amazon, and has been taking a number of ayahuasca  vision trips…
with a shaman guide…..

He’s doing it the deluxe expensive way. With me

there was just a fire, the jungle, night birds, fruit bats

and some inquisitive snakes… (I’m not even going to

mention the Little People.)

*

Now he wants to talk. Now he’s getting
lugubrious. Now he wants to express himself. He sings:

“There’s nowhere to go
But where you are
You can take a plane
You can take a car
And you might go far
But THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO BUT WHERE YOU ARE!”

*

The song seems strangely familiar.

That’s because you wrote it, fuckhead!
(It refers to the fact that each of us travels with his own neurosis, obsessions, complexes, and negative script derisions….

whereever each of us goes, we take our whole troubled psyche with us….

so we can go to Lima, go to Alexandria,
Bucharest, Bangcock – sit in a cafe in Paris, sit in a dungeon
in Toronto —- and it’s the same old brain, the same old
habits of seeing… but slowly we change, slowly we
learn…? Don’t we?)

I SEEM TO BE DESCENDING INTO DARKNESS
on a green hallucinatin chartreuse train…. dark
memories….
Ninety days butt-naked in solitary confinement,
wearing an asbestos fire-proof top… getting my

meals from big-hipped jail matrons… through a slot
at groin level….
In other words, you want to eat – you stare
at her big-hipped groin or her, magnanimous butt
right thru the eye slot – aye! aye! I got to like it…
More than this I got to need it…
BUT…. why are we talking about this? How did we
get here?

*

..WE WERE in WAIT-A-BIT! now we’re in a dungeon
in Toronto…..

Oh, No! No!
We don’t got no grip at all!

*

 

“Two things are infinite – human stupidity and the
universe…. and I’m starting to have doubts about

the infinity of the universe…”

*
“GIVE ME YOUR HAND, LITTLE LAMB; I’LL
SHOW YOU HEAVEN AND HELL IN A GRAIN OF SAND,
and I’ll take you to the EDGE of the Universe,
THE QUANTUM GROIN OF THINGS!”

*


40 below Celsius = EQUALS 40 BELOW FARENHEIT

Either way it’s freeze the balls off a brass monkey time.

Got a small generator going….powered an old TV set…
the only thing on is a zombie movie,

“Die! Die! Die” the blonde
heroine is screaming….

Better turn the volume down… in this silence
the tunnel people will think it’s an invasion….
oh I haven’t mentioned the tunnel;
people yet , have I?

*

The population of wait-a-bit is 18
I bet you’re wondering where the other 14 are…
These are the folk who were most disturbed by
Incineration Day —- seeing everything they’d worked
for all their lives disappearing in flame and smoke….
and then came the second flash.

Bombs come from the skies.The tunnel people

do not trust the skies
so much…. when they are exposed, they rush
from A to B…..to the D TRAIN… deeper
and more deeply TRAINED to TUNNEL
into the night.

*

No need to FEAR THE WEIRDOS HERE.

They is us.

*

Finally I get to meet the Tunnel People.
I had heard of them once before… only in a dream…
of green Ice-cream….

LOOK AT THE EYES ON THAT ONE!

What is the green in that latrine again?

The green in that drink? It is swirling, circling…
OH we’re going deep deep deep — no blue at all
here…. only green.
*
THE GREEN EYE OF SOMETHING OBSCENE!


It’s a friendly lizard beckoning… waving

me down the green undulating twatish highway
of a nostril snorting me up into a new
reality…
Something I’m not at all sure I want to see.
*

A friendly LIZARD takes my arm
and shakes me… green comfortable slippers,
green eyes….. now Alice meets the TUNNEL PEOPLE.

I am Alice

*

Down, down, down – darker still
the undulating Hershey highway brown and green,
green and dreaming EYE….
IMMORTAL EYE – no blue at all.
Cold grip of his friendly claws, grasps my wrist.
My, my , my: it’s the TUNNEL PEOPLE, at last.

…In green and purple smoking jackets,
smoking a heavy WEED, handing me glistening
mush-goodies. I eat. I am giddy and
blue-eyed…. under the UNDULATION OF THINGS.
IMMORTAL IMMORAL THROBBING…so it seems

to me when I look at the floor, my neighbours, green

bodies writhing, excreting wahoo!… Yipee!
*

Tunnel People at last, just like in
undiscovered earlier dreams I had bye and by.
Here they are at last, with green martini
glasses —IMMORTAL DELIGHTs in the night:
CHARTREUSE IMMORTALS STILL…

WHO FEAR THE SKY.

*

“Dexter! Put that Bible down and give me two more glasses

of that green shit. ”

I raise both goblets and toast the room. I take

a gulp out of one and long swallow from the other.

I call out to the room: ”

*

I SAY, “As Your Mayor, this is the essence of my job. You

don’t want a mayor who won’t explore….! Not here. Not

now! No way!”

” You know me:

 

“I’LL PUSH FORWARD ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

INTO THE RISING EYE OF MORNING!”

 

Gutteral cheers rise up from the floor.

“Those are my people. What do I do?”

“I dive down headfirst into the fragrant, palpitating twat

of the unknown.”

*

“Hey, Hank! You catching this?”

 

*

Posted by William Milne at 5:29 AM

*

(C)2014-2016 by W.G. Milne

 

 

 

 

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NO WORD OF COMFORT CAN SHE HEAR

no word of comfort can she hear

______________________________

 

the storm caught her

huddling in the rain

a sweet girl, eleven

heartbroken…

in the autumn wind

(brushed with pain)

in the same scene

precise from childhood

the light is the same

exactly

repeating

the same scene from childhood

precise, exact

 

*

experienced again…

she’s a caring mother now

she calls her daughter

tells her where the food is on the counter

feeds her from a cellphone

across town

in the storm

she eats nothing herself

all day

*

in the wind & the rain

abandoned, lost

rejected by mother,

she with a tender heart

in the rain

not worthy of food

deserving nothing

she was told

feeling repeated

moments,

angry…

*

homicidal sometimes

*

stares off into the distance

shunned and ridiculed

by “caregivers”

deserving nothing

they said

abandoned, ignored

the same feeling returns

as when she wandered the streets at age 11

and slept in the back

of a truck

*

blamed by a psychotic helper

for every failure

a bird with a broken wing

at my window

huddling in the rain

*

I hear her on a cellphone

gives tender care to her own daughter

11 years old now, too;

she makes certain

the girl in the distance is fed

“make yourself some chocolat milk,

eat that piece of cake on the counter”

*

as a penguin feeds her children

with her own blood

she will not make

the same mistake

as the others made

with her

*

*

 

a wet bird huddling at my window

with a broken wing

caught for a moment in a ray of sunlight

eats a little

she shivers

glances sideways

will not look at me

jumps away,

leaves

*

stares off into the distance

makes to fly

tumbles

away

below

I see her motionless on the lawn

by the bus stop

broken wing alone

wet, unmoving

confused

*

drowned in the rain

absolutely

she still feels it

even now

rejected, solitary

as when a child

this feeling is exactly the same

*

when she is at my place

no word of comfort can she hear

anything I say

means nothing

she stares into the distance

feels her wing break

again, repeating

sees the same scene

once more

exactly as it was

back then

*

where once she was

abandoned, injured

that very first time,

hurt and ignored

*

a bird at my window

wet in the rain

how I want to help her

to ease her pain…

but I am not allowed,

to speak or to say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To K with love.

(C) 2015 by W.G.Milne

 

FLIES!

2016-03-17 00.10.30 (2).jpg BACK IN THE BUSH WITH MY UNDERTAKER

 

“WAIT-A-BIT!” — strange doings in the land of the midnight sun!

 

FLIES!

 

__________

 

 

 

 

MOON-BLIND BITCHES OF A SICKLE TOWN (nope!)

(Trying out titles for this batch of stories…

a foxhole village in the vast Arctic wastes

East of the Mackenzie and up from the Bay)

______________________________________________________________

 

 

Chapter ONE – FLIES

________________________ This is a cartoon ( pencil and ink drawing) a caricature

by artist Ernie Taylor (North Bay, Ontario)….

Working for the “Talk of theTown” Press, whenever I wrote a strange story (which was basically all the time) Ernie loved to capture the `mad act.`

My first article for the Talk of the Town Press was:
“ROVING REPORTER DISCOVERS FLIES” This story drew Ernie`s attention immediately. A line like – “Your Roving Reporter has ascertained that Flies do indeed exist outside the civilized areas.” This line got his attention immediately.

 

IF YOU WERE WONDERING WHAT I WAS doing with “moon-blind bitches of a Sickle Town” I was trying to make a rhyme, trying to get a title. Rhyme with what? With “Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town.”.

But that’s where the ressemblance ends – I am working under far more savage and extreme conditions than Leacock ever saw..

You don’t have to feel sorry for the animals

around here – because the animals WILL KILL

YOU– not just the polar bears and the menacing

100 pound weasels. But the wolves howling all around us… and trying to bite my ass when I have a shit!

Here, even the DOMESTICATED animals try to kill you!

 

 

Just to set things staraight, THIS STORY IS

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

TALES OF WAIT-A-BIT

 

“MOONSHINED BITCHES OF A TOWN

BOMBED-FLAT”

(And by “bitches” I mean fools of both sexes)

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

______________

 

Now I`ve moved farther north. Here in the CANADIAN Northwest Territories, you can`t tie up your horse outside for longer than an hour in fly season… If you stay in a bar too long and your horse is tethered outside, one of two things can happen by the time your return.

(1) Your horse has gone mad and he won`t let you near him… every time you draw near he tries to bite you – and there`s no way you can ride him. In his own crazy, eyeball-rolling way the horse is dead SELF-LOGO THREE****Screenshot from 2013-12-08 21:56:39serious about hating you… and he won`t change his opinion about you for 2 years. You`ll notice you can see his ribs now,when you never could before. That`s because the clouds of carnivorous insects have been eating his tenderbits – and now they`re thinking of burroughing thru his hide to start devouring his internal organs…

You can be sure his ass hole will mostly have been eaten out so it is almost beyond repair… this will not have a calming effect on your horse, and it is likely he will hate you for as long as he lives. I leave my smokey burrough and and go outside to talk to the fool. I don`t like being outside at this time of day, but – after all, I`m the reason he`s up here, so it`s only fair that I talk to him….

… I can see in his eyes that he`s a long way from sober… He`s getting that “step n`a lurch” tourists get around here. It`s easy to spot… ((Bertie`s walking past: “Hey, Bertie remember that tourist we had a few years back?” Bertie: “Sure do… Nice fella…. Didn`t say much tho… Funny the way he ran after that plane!”

“Sure was.” Nice to talk to Bertie.Don`t see him much anymore… To tell the truth, I thought he was dead.

I go real quick over the lane to talk to the man. It`s obvious his horse is in distress… “Distress” is putting it mildly.

“Your best plan is to shoot him quickly and use his body for food.”

Fella whirls around on one heel and stares off at me as if I`M in the distance when I`m only ten feet away. Peers in my direction like he`s never seen a man in a hat before. He says,”WHAT?” He`s looking off to the south trying to see the plane. The Plane`s been gone for hours. Won`t see a plane for weeks now, maybe months, maybe a quarter year.

I SAY: “You`re going to need the food for survival in these parts. And nothing stands still here for long…” Just as I say this, a dog goes running past us down the street, as if ten children are throwing rocks at him. And they say God doesn`t have a sense of humour. Well. nobody says that up here. Up here everybody knows God has a sense of humour… Just… not a very pleasant sense of humour…

This guy. He keeps staring at me like he has never seen a hat before, keeps trying to reach up under my screenings…. I swat his hand away and kick his leg a light one. “WHAT?” he shouts at me again.

Spose he`s been down to Artie`s Grill That`s the only place you can get liquor around here. And the man hasn`t had time to make his own.

I say: “YOU`RE GOING TO HAVE TO SHOOT THAT HORSE!” “WHAT!” he shouts at me. He`s not asking questions now. Now he`s getting rude. And he`s standing there unarmed.. He`s sort of a big fella, but I was big when I first came up here, too..

I SAY: “The horses can`t stay out long this time of year…Usually they just run up and down the street a few times and peel right back into the barn. Then we lock the barn door tight.” He`s walking up close to me now. “What do you mean this time of year?” he asks…

“I mean the summer!” It doesn`t last long but it`s NASTY, LONG AS IT LASTS!”

 

 

He shouts,”Looking for a man called WILCOX!”

“You mean HENRY Wilcox?” I ask.

“I MEAN ANY KIND OF FUCKIN` WILCOX AT ALL!”

“Ha! Ha!, Well, you came to the right place! I`m Frank Wilcox. Henry was my uncle.”

“WAS?” WAS? Did you say, WAS your Uncle? YOU MEAN I JUST CAME 5,000 MILES TO SEE A DEAD MAN?`”

“Yeah, that’d be right. But don`t be blaming me about Henry. S`ǹot my fault he`s dead… you can`t just go runnin`off across the muskeg around here! It looks like a field, I know, but it`s got HOLES in it… Just watch the moose they don`t stay on top long…. Course you won`t see a moose this month…”

Once again he made a grab for my hat….kicked him harder this time closer to the knee….This one `hurt-a-bit`. In Jamaica they got a town called “Wait-a-bit?” but that`s a different story…. …… …… Sure as hell wish I was in Jamaica now…. It`s hotter here —- and you can`t get a beer to save your life…

“DON`T GRAB AT MY HAT AGAIN!” i`m taller than this fool when I stand up straight, and you better believe I can choke the life out of him…. God knows, I`ve had enough practice! It`s just not smart to stand up straight around here – you make a better target…

HE SAYS: “You kick me one more time, I`ll rip your nose off!! Right off your face… that`s if you have a nose!!! Under all that screen shit. COME `ERE! I WANT TO GET A LOOK AT YOU””

Artie`s laughing so hard he`s rolling in the dirt… 3 legged dog keeps sniffin at him…

“WHERE YOU FROM, ASSHOLE?”

“Maryland…” he says

“””YOU DON`T TOUCH MY HAT! Takes too long to strap it on! Those screens are real important to me. I`ll tie em up when we get inside… Artie`s buying us a drink.” Artie, get up! You look like you`re enjoying what that dog`s doing to ya!!”…… a little too much.

We go inside and I get Artie to unsnap the back of my hat where it tightens around the neck… I hang the hat from a hook in the ceiling…. don`t have to reach too high for the hook. Ceiling`s only 4 inches above the top of my head

when I`m crouching…. which I do these days pretty much all the time. You get used to walking in a crouch… ask anybody who”s been in the army for about 4 years where people are shootin at yer head.

Now that I got my hat off and the tourist can see my face —- it`s too dark in Artie`s to see yer face…( I can write good english, but not always)

It`s cool in Artie`s Bar because it`s dug in the ground…like every other fukin place around here….after the Joint Canadian-American cruise missile tests… and that dumb NUK (I mean CAN-NUK – I`m not being racist, not that anybody`d notice around here… nobody gives a fuck and I tell ya…after smoking your skin a foot from a wood stove 10 months a year… nobody can tell what colour your skin is anyway… cause it`s too dark to see anywhere you can relax enough to have a drink…..after all, there`s only Artie`s.

This guy`s name is Hank and he`s not a bad guy – he`s going to have to learn some manners…. He just took the oil lamp off the bar and shone it in my face….

Nearly blinded me: “Relax, just want to see what you look like…see if you`re half mad or if you`ve gone all the way.” Artie laughs: “Oh, he`s gone all the way.. All the way and back!”

All the way round the moon —— only the dogs up here understand him cause they sing together.”

“SHUT UP, ARTIE!” It`s nice to see him – just not that nice.

” So what were you trying to tell me about my horse?” the tourist asks me.

I was saying…. YOU`RE GOING TO HAVE TO SHOOT THAT HORSE….Artie`ll lend you a rifle and sell you a bullet.

Artie pours us all a double shot of moonshine mixed with water, berry juice and syrop from farther south, flown up from NORMAN WELLS..

“OK, listen to me now: You`ll likely be spending the winter here, because people don`t like cruelty to animals in these parts, so no one is going to give you a ride south. Not that there are any rides south —- unless you can paddle 2000 miles up river….”Ha! Ha! Me and Artie laugh. After all, you`ve just lost your transportation. You`d better shoot him fast before he runs off into a lake somewhere and stands up to his neck in water for days, like the deer do.

“Every once in a while you`ll see a deer duck his head under the water to get the flies off. He`ll stand there in the lake up to his chin in water with his eyes closed and he won`t move.It`s hard to see em after a while – look just like a stump.”

“No, your best plan is to shoot him quick before he gets in too deep and then you`ll never catch him. But first you`re going to have to dig some holes – at least four feet deep, so they`re below the frost line. And don`t you put more than 20 pounds of horsemeat in any one hole!”

“Good God, you`re kidding!” he shouts, scratching all the while, and insisting on scratching repeatedly in several unattractive places. After a while you see newcomers do a dance, hopping from one leg to another – rather like a kid who has shit himself.

“I only wish I was kidding,” I say to him, giving him a sympathetic nod and trying not to laugh. He`s noticed I have a big screened hat on my head – I look like a beekeeper, only crazier and more extreme,(Talking now when we first met) “We got flies and biting insects up here that make bees look cuddly and friendly – sometimes they even look like they can keep your warm.”

“Better have another drink…” I tell the poor man. I remember when the realization first hit me – and I`m not talking about any spiritula Awakening…The spiritual awakening you have up here is that you`re fucked – I mean well and truly fucked. Not fucked by a woman …not good fucked (Yeah we still have women up here, if you know where to dig deep enough)”

“DIG deep enough?” he looks at me ascance, as if I`ve offended womankind. He`s worried about this is he? The poor little fruit? Jesus Christ! He`d better go somewhere else and flap his hands at the end of those limp wrists he has… (OOOOooo, I`m feeling the 200 proof, that`s good. Nothing like drinking out of a tin cup to really taste the stuff! “)

There`s class and there`s class and up here this is class…

 

“Hey, Artie, fire a blast at Jerimiah!” ( I mean a blast of sound —- bullets are too expensive to waste…. and we really need em in the dead of winter…”

“When`s the dead of winter?” the Tourist asks

“Shit! Was I speaking out loud?”

“Sure wuz,” says Artie…. I stare at him like it`s the first time I`ve ever seen him. I can`t remember ever hearing him talk.”

“OK, Mary`s Land – the LIKKER`S STARTING TO TAKE EFFECT —— that means hallucinations —— I like it when it happens – I think it`s an added attraction, but.it… it takes a little getting used to…. the rule is – DON`T SHOOT ANYTHING UNLESS IT MOVES REAL FAST!”

“I don`t have a gun,” says Hank.

“HEY, ARTIE, GET THE MAN A GUN. He`s gonna need a gun soon as he starts seeing things…Or needs to take a shit. We all start to laugh. I lean over and say to Hank – the outhouses aren`t the safest places around here, either. You really do have to take a gun when you have to go for a shit

“Artie, you`ll have to show him how to shoot!” Artie whips a twelve gauge shotgun out from under his smock and blows the horns clean off one of the mooseheads by the door.

I didn`t think Artie could see that far – twelve feet! Har! Har!…. I just saw somethin skitter real fast acroos the bar… I blast it`s head off quick like lightning with my no stock

sawed-off single-shot boit action Lee and Enfield 303. I keep it as a convenience under my right arm….I` feel naked without it; hell, I can`t walk straight without it. (I probably can`t even relax and take a shit without it resting there under my arm, but you don`t need to know that) ”

“None of that pistol in the pants bullshit we used to see on TV… when we had TV….before that Canadian flyboy blew the jail and mayor`s office, the A&P and our Artic version of the Dixie Chicks right off the face of the map and incinerated 4 fifths of the town in .036th of a second.

” I MISS THOSE GIRLS….”wails Artie and goes outside crying to have a piss.

“Fuck! Did that really happen?” Hank`s starting to scribble in a notebook…. ….. I watch him for a while. I used to scribble in Notebooks, too – it`s nice to see some fool at work – scribbling like the idiot I used to be. ”

“Oh, it happened all right, and that` not all that happened…” After all the corrugated cement buildings turned to powder, the Beasts moved back in. The lowlands here were always the Wolverines` home.

“By the way, how` you manage to have yourself dropped off by a plane that lands here only 3 times a year?”

“WILCOX hired me as a reporter….”

That stuns Artie and me into silence… it takes a long time for us to digest the absurdity of it all.

And the unbalanced strangely tilted technicolour beauty of living in a world ruled by the smiling Trickster God —-The Trickster clearly has gotten us all by the cosmic/comic balls ….

“You were to be my replacement – but Henry`s dead… he ran off into the bush with a hard-on. God knows what he was chasing… they found his socks and his Walkman,that was all -The same song was playing over and over again…and we hope the song had nothing to do with his death.”

The booze was obviously finding a place in Hank… On impulse he rubbed his hands over the wood stove until his hands were pitch black, then he smeared his hands over his face and the back of his neck and in the crack of his ass and he rubbed more of the soot on his balls….

“We`ve got women who will do that for you,” said Artie

It might have been something I said — I told him smoke is the only effective fly repellant in the area, especially when you mix the soot with skunk piss. But then there is always the chance a huge weasel will wait for you in your deep-dug- human-home (in the army it`s called a foxhole)….. and mount you when you enter in the dark. “And you don`t always have to be covered in skunk piss,” Artie says.”If you`re lucky you will have passed out drunk , before the animal has it`s way with you.” Artie knows. It`s happened twice to Artie. The first time he was pass3ed out drunk, the second time, not so much

They tell me, if you happen to be sober at the time, the nightmares persist for many years.

When the missile struck, we were fortunate. It was summer and the people leave any way they can. There were only forty-six of us left in town. Now we have 16, but this is different. This is our busy season.

Nobody knows where we are. And we don’t know where we are either!”Artie laughs.

“Don’t depress the poor tourist,” I say to Artie, feeling the moonshine

like a strong breeze in my ears already,

“The poor fool will be depressed plenty… when he understands the

sitUation he’s in up here!”

 

After Incineration Day, all our memories went blank. To tell the truth,

none of us can remember what the town used to be called. In time

maybe somebody will remember the name of our town and exactly where

we’re at. Maybe, maybe not. We gotta wait. This is why we call this

joint, “WAIT-A-BIT!”

 

 

 

 

 

(C)2000-2016 by William G. Milne

 

 

from LIGHTHEARTED TALES OF ISOLATION AND PANIC etc.

__________________________________________________

 

HUGE HUMANOID WEASELS INCLINED TO RAPE AND PILLAGE

OK this is my sense o humour. Approx 4-5 more stories on this theme

zappadat- THE MOVEABLE FEAST

Somehow, as the story goes,

the female residents mated with the

bull weasels know as “devil beasts”

or wolverines – and a half-humanoid,

half weasel  race began. But this

wasn’t the cause.

*

The cause was the military gene splicing.

GMO experiments began, at that

installation on the shores of the

of the Arctic Sea.

*

Now it must be remembered, an otter

is a weasel,and the otter is a very

clever beast with a tendency to be

playful.

I was paddling a canoe along the shore

of Poplar Lake at dusk. I came upon an otter

family sliding down a wet rock and

splashing into the lake. They were making

high pitched squealing noises almost as

if they were laughing.

*

I glided by so quietly in the semi-dark

across the calm lake, that the otters

scarcely noticed me. My presence did not

bother them. For once a human being

View original post 618 more words

A SERIES OF POEMS SET IN NORTH BAY

 

 

 

A Moment On First Avenue

_____________________

 

 

the dance of something invisible

the wind in the flowing screens

hanging from the balconies

across the street

*

like the breath

of the mysterious god

from down the lake

*

the islands floating

out far in the glimmering waters

they were called, “the Manitous”

we all knew what that meant

*

the wild god who whispers

in the wind

which howls like wolves

in the eye of the moon

at Temple’s Gate.

 

 

 

(C)2016 by W.G. Milne

 

HUGE HUMANOID WEASELS INCLINED TO RAPE AND PILLAGE

 

Somehow, as the story goes,

the female residents mated with the

bull weasels know as “devil beasts”

or wolverines – and a half-humanoid,

half weasel  race began. But this

wasn’t the cause.

*

The cause was the military gene splicing.

GMO experiments began, at that

installation on the shores of the

of the Arctic Sea.

*

Now it must be remembered, an otter

is a weasel,and the otter is a very

clever beast with a tendency to be

playful.

I was paddling a canoe along the shore

of Poplar Lake at dusk. I came upon an otter

family sliding down a wet rock and

splashing into the lake. They were making

high pitched squealing noises almost as

if they were laughing.

*

I glided by so quietly in the semi-dark

across the calm lake, that the otters

scarcely noticed me. My presence did not

bother them. For once a human being

was being quiet. The otters don’t really have

a lot to be afraid of in the Martin River

area. Their attitude seemed to be

“live and let live” and this was my

inclination as well.

*

The wolverine is the king of

all weasels. He does not believe

in “live and let live” He has an inbred tendency

to attack the balls of 2000 pound Kodiak bears.

A wolverine will driver a huge bear away

from its food.

Mating with such a weasel is no joke,

And such actiovity ought to

be avoided at all costs – if the penetratee

has any choice at all in the matter.

The native women had no such choice,

so they should never be described as “weasel-whores”

or any such name-calling appellations.

*

It is said their eyes glowed yellow in the dark,

and their piss smelt worse than a skunk’s spray –

and they pissed all over the food of trappers and

ripped their sheets and blankets to shreds and shat

all over their pillows, and ejaculated inside the soft

down to make an odor so foul as to be scarcely

imaginable to city folk.

*

This evolution of beast-man

intimidated the native tribes to the south… For

not only did these big-brained

weasel minds know for certain when they were

being tracked, they had the lust of ten-peckered owls

and their snarling mawed minds were filled with a

deep desire to fuck all trackers-trappers’ brains loose.

*

As if the smell were not bad enough, the vision of

some mad 200 pound weasel horny as 12 sled dogs

in the spring, that notion, that vision was far worse

than any smell could be.

*

After the military started their genetic modification

experiments – splicing human and wolverine DNA

together into one new strain… After these experiments

started, (ten years after) that’s when the

bizarre occurences started to happen up and down

the Mackenzie River.

It was a shock to us all.

*

The mind of the wolverine is devious. The mind

of man is sneaky and devious… vengeful and sadistic

with a twisted sense of humour The experiments

were successful, if you want to call this horrific

mixture a success.

*

The new wolverine grew in size. It was bigger

and faster and mean as a snake. It wanted to eat

practically everything that moved. Its lust increased

into a dangerous thing. Unfortunate incidents

began to occur.

*

As I say, before we’d take a shotgun with us to

the outhouse. Now what you wanted was a shotgun

and two armed guards to accompany you every

step of the way.

*

In those early days after the Incineration,

we were forced to eat anything that crawled, walked,

scuttled or slithered, there were very few women

with us in WAIT-A-BIT. So the wolverines

started raping the men.

*

Everybody with any brains started the long

trek towards the East. Some of the trekkers

went no farther than the encampments

and dwellings of the Cave Bear People – that

notorious tribe of trappers and magicians.

I know more than I’m ever going to admit

about their dark ceremonies.

*

East of the Cave Bear People, that’s

where the military had started their DNA

splicing experiments, The military had been

there about ten years, so I’m told.

It was just two years ago that Artie

got nailed from behind by a huge weasel

that wanted only one thing – Artie’s ass.

Artie has never been the same since.

*

But who has? Who has?

In WAIT-A-BIT! none of us are normal.

*

 

NOTE

There are several more stories in the WAIT-A-BIT!

series that involve the modified king weasels,

the “devil beasts”

 

(C)2016 by W. G. Milne

 

 

WE SHALL NOT CEASE FROM EXPLORATION

 

 

 

 

 

MUGGA MUGGA MUGGA

 

 

 

“WE SHALL NOT CEASE FROM EXPLORATION

AND AT THE END OF ALL OUR EXPLORING

WE ARRIVE AT THE PLACE WHERE WE STARTED

AND KNOW THE PLACE FOR THE FIRST TIME.” T.S Eliot

 

 

 

The great poets have always touched upon this

subject, have written about it and have been

obsessed by – not just death, but what happens

beyond death – what goes on before we are born

and after we die.

*

The question is what transcends death

and what few proofs do we have about such things

*

“OUR BIRTH IS A WAKING AND A FORGETTING.”

*

Wordsworth said this, and being a profound nature

poet, he knew what he was talking about…

*

“TRAILING CLOUDS OF GLORY DO WE COME.”

*

Is the glory ours? Not necessarily. But glory is

something we have bathed in before we were

born. We partake of glory, and then our lives

tend to be a long forgetting… of:

*

“THAT PRIMAL SYMPATHY, WHICH HAVING BEEN

SHALL ALWAYS BE.”

*

The poem I’m remembering is called:

*

‘INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY”

*

which is a pretty terrific title for any poem.

I tend to confuse the words and works of

Blake and Wordsworth. Back at the University

this would be considered a great sin. But in the

mind of a mystic, it doesn’t matter so much

who said what.

*

When Hildegard of Bingen said:

*

“I AM THAT LIVING AND FIERY ESSENCE THAT SHINES

IN THE GLORY OF THE FIELDS”

*

she wasn’t worried so much about quoting

chapter and verse.

*

“We shall not cease from exploration

and at the end of all our exploring

we arrive at where we started

and know the place for the first time.”

*

We start out as a child. As a child

we are imbued with that primal

sympathy. We see one shining world

and we are part of it.

*

Then adolescence comes, the mad

obsession with romance and sexual

completion – a wonderful and desperate

time, but a confusing time

in our lives.

*

Puberty is not a time known

for clarity of mind. No, we are too

busy procreating or at least attempting

to procreate.

*

I think of that whole period of

my life almost as if I was underwater.

A passionate time of pursuing and

defending, of plunging deep into

the wonders of the underworld.

And pursuing again, and being

pursued.

(I certainly did enjoy the swim)

*

Yes, a confusing time – a time of

love, passion and procreation – and

after the babies are born, well

it is a noisy time, and we are busy,

busy, busy – buying and spending

and trying to impress the neighbours?

*

Well maybe we don’t go that far,

but the time when we’re raising

children, that’s not always a quiet time…

Not always a time for silent contemplation.

But we can grab a few moments.

*

The burning desire to be one with the

universe never quite goes away. We seek

the glory from whence we came,

we need spiritual completion. The mystic

may go through all kinds of arcane

practices in order to achieve this unity…

but we all have a similar need.

To get back to that place which is called

“the dream time”, that place called

Eden, which we were apparently cast

out of.

*

We seek the place where we can learn:

 

“THE EXPANDING OF LOVE BEYOND DESIRE”

 

To a poet, mythology and the use of

metaphor and symbol, this is the highest

form of human thought. I use the word

“thought” loosely, for the myths take us

to a place that is deeper than thought.

*

The place that is deeper than thought.

This is where the quest

for unification actually begins. The place

that is beyond the intellect but which is

remembered in dreams, the place

of spiritual completion, the feeling

we used to have when we were

a child.

*

We seek it and we may find it –

the divinity of our source. We

are on a quest to return home,

and when we find home once again,

we remember it, we recognize it;

it is the answer to all our yearning…

*

“AND WE KNOW THE PLACE

FOR THE FIRST TIME.”

*

 

 

(C)2016 by W.G. Milne

 

 

NOTE: I use this * between paragraphs so that

all the paragraphs don’t merge.