Beardo Wierdo (_wire_) wrote in storyzine,
Beardo Wierdo
_wire_
storyzine

read if you like Imaginative prose

a story i've been working on for some time.....



These streets, with there broken bottle-spirits that call out to me in anguish.
These streets, writhe and conspire, laugh at my uninspiration.

Bog’s hands crack and bleed. The workday has taken it’s toll, leaving his body sore and his spirit unfulfilled and desiring. He needs music, he needs significance, he needs renewal. he opens his door and takes off his boots and collapses on his bed.

Too tired to write. Gotta feed the monster.
God so tired I don’t want it anymore.

It’s not long before Bog is surrounded by the massive wall of sleep. There he sees the Lotus bursting orgasms, lilywhite and orgiastic, swaying with calm satisfaction in the still wind, cumsap dripping from there petallegs. The flower goddess Enthroned, her flowery flowing strands of windswept hair making timeless love to Man and Worlds beyond the sugar center, her giant breasts, she squeezes squeezes squeezes and urges Bog forward. He is covered by her loveliness, she is warm and as a result so is he.

A small bit of Morning streaks in Bogs window and over his face. He awakens. Eyes shut open semi-sore yawn stretch arms run hands through hair scratch Goat get up a new day. Put something on the record player. Music fills the room and his soul, rest has been good.

Bog feels happiness swell inside him. He stands in front of the cracked window and stretches his arms out wide above his head. Brightland. Industrial ghetto, hidden Bohemia, the place containing my place which contains me.

Bog opens his door and spills out stoned into the street. His feet splash continually into puddles of rain. Smallness and bigotry misbegotten already forgotten. Blast of rock n’ roll sax. Screech distorted guitar solo, steady bass. He walks on, through also under the streets, the wet dark streets of his mind, his brainbox pollution, the uncontained almighty, housing music and film and poetry, this must be it. so be it.

BE IT!

He cannot help but watch remembrance sink down onto his outer-mental screen. People smoke dried leaves of something called reality out of pipes carved from stone that was used to build the 10,000 dungeons of New England, when these united states annexed themselves. New England lost the war with America. there were no winners. the U.S. of A and the entire world went out in a blaze of atomic destruction.

All life’s wonders wonders Bog, is sustained by that indestructible and neverending world unto infinite. Ahh! This is my wine! This is my thrown crown into gazing crowds, who wish to walk amongst the clouds.
Bog blessedly crosses his arms over poetry and philosophy, those twin statues of his art and soul, his very being, transferred into essence.

Laughing Crowds gather before the scene: Bog face down in a pile of mud, his weblike hands flapping incongruently in the stirred rainfall. His head had been so forcefully focused onto his reverie that he lost physical control and slipped
on a pile of mud. The mud is Black, and sticky, Like no mud bog’s ever seen before. It seems to swell and grow before his eyes. There’s splashes of it all over his body. It’s hot, and it aggravates his bumpy greenskin. Ahh! What the fuck is this shit? Why does it burn? Ahhh! Bog jumps up and screams and suspended agony. The sticky black fire-mud is making his flesh smolder. He struggles to tear the mushy substance from his body, scratching at his chest and stomach with razor-tipped, gratuitous shreds of his thick orange fingernails. A large chunk of bog’s flesh-armor slides slimily down his arm and falls to the floor in a burning glob of greenskin. The crowd collectively openmouths in stupid bedazzlement, there eyes lit solid-tragic stiff at Bog’s struggle. with anguish and horror they run run, snapping there cold faces and bodies back and rushing outward to there delusional comforts.



Bog writhes and screams on the sidewalk, desperately trying to scratch of the burning globs of mud. The heap that he has slipped on has grown to a giant size behind him. It opens what can only be a mouth, to reveal an explosion of jagged teeth. Slowly it begins to grunt towards Bog. AHH! What the fuck! Oltari! Demanoni! Altreavine! Bog shouts as the top of his lungs. The black fire mud begins to shake. All about It’s disgusting mass appear slits of painful light, that implode the being into nothingness.

Bog snaps out his monstrous tongue, licking up the strands of that black fire-mud from his body. The sick black mud lay in a dead heap on the sidewalk, steaming. Must be a spiritual protoplasm. Bet church or corporation involved somehow. Gotta find out. The mud burned his fleshplates but didn’t affect Bog’s innards, which are lined with a strophic acid. Bog, like all the people of Brightland, was a descendent of the original Masscorp mutations, the people of East Boston, who, after years of exposure to harmful airplane fumes caused by Logo airport, had degenerated into a variety of freaks. This was the cause of New England’s war with America. New England supported the malformed freaks, and wanted to help them to lead normal lives. But the rest of the country (excluding Michigan, which was the first to flourish anew after the nuclear annihilation of the earth, being rebuilt and replenished by the great faerie Queen Zuchinia, the flower goddess, who planted magical flowers across the earth which made all things grow again) thought of them as a dangerous menace, and demanded that they be killed immediately. New England steadfastly refused, and eventually annexed themselves from the rest of the country. Not long after Washington launched the nukes, and the whole earth followed suit. Everything was way lasted. Nearly no one survived. Those who did survive were the Massport freaks. Somehow they were immune.

No one knows from whence The faerie Queen had come. No one knew why she had come. Once day, simply, as the legend tells, she drifted into the rubble of Michigan and started to plant her flowers. The flowers bloomed all over, and the earth was born anew. The faerie queen was not mean to the mutants of Brightland. She thought they were funny, and very kind. She taught them how to grow and cook food and speak again. She also set up a new society, one with no filth or lies or war or pain or anything bad or distasteful. The people of Brightland as a result flourished, spawning many headed children (and some headless) and repopulating the remaining states. The faerie queen grew old and died, so the mutants erected a shrine in her honor.

That was many years ago, before the discovery of the underground human camps and there retaking of the earth, before the building of the great stone dungeons which held the mutants as slaves, before the mutants flower goddess rebellion, in which they applied secrets learned from her sacred magic manuscripts to break out of there prisons and savagely kill the new humans, eating there insides and burning there remains in a luminous festival fire.
The resulting earth was one of ugliness and discomfort. There was a water supply, and the air was barely breathable, but the trees and animals and wonder of the earth had all decayed with the passing of the faerie queen. The mutants began a life of hard work and faerie worship. The ugly mutants sought beauty in a resurgence of the creative arts, with theatres, cinemas, and literary magazines and novels, A philosophy steeped in physics and metaphysics, and ritualized sex, which took there minds off the brutal reality of there worklives.

Bog concentrates all his thoughts into a still horizon. The sea’s of his mind cascading across the vast and ivory colored walls of consciousness, his will twisted inside out, exerted, deserted, clothed in somber sober wishmakers and wishfulfillers, that writhe without focus, without destination. Bog hesitates. He places his hand on her faithfully.


I Love You


He says in soft tone. The mountainsides of his brain, the varied moody seasons of his head destruct brilliantly in a tower under a desklamp hidden inside the small of his sight. He need not worry for new ones are growing learning and taking foot taking steps learning techniques applying refining and walking away. Bog puts down the pen and looks straight ahead at nothingness. The rapid visions in his head had ceased, he was all struck out and burned loose dry and the wind was whispering him home and that was the most it could ever do but that was alright because it went with the song and strolled along down the road and we chose were we would confine it had to hurry hide it we could not find it was it lost or did it slip away?

Bog moves slightly to the left. Dark wings envelop the cloudless moon. Your older now boy the wrecker said to the one who had broken his wings: I’m just, he replied, and I bathe in the stream that is innocence.
And then he stuck his spear through the wrecker’s head.
Well I think it’s very good says Drea, who washes her hands at the sink and prepares slices of meat: Very comprehensible.
I’m tense right now, I’m shaky. Is there something wrong with me?
You need not worry drea laughs, there’s something wrong with everybody. There’s something wrong with the world. I think that’s what I’m worried about bog says. He picks up a small slice of the salted meat and observes it momentarily, then eats it.

The shaded priest cast a malignant hand o’er the crowd of faces: Never remember this again! He shouts, and sucks up the spiritual protoplasm with his pouty, gargantuan lips. Damn it all to hell! Damn it all to hell! Damn what master? Says Verni, the priests hunchbacked henchman. Shut up you fool! Says the priest, slapping Verni across the face with his frozen-stiff hands. There’s more were that one came from. Better call the Governor.

Drea sets the salted meat on the table and sits down beside Bog with a calm, loving air. you have to learn to relax, baby. You Can’t let these things get to you. Your not some avenger for the world, your just a person.
I’m not a person Drea, I’m a mutant. I was born so and I shall die so.
Stop it! Drea says in anger, you’re a poet, you’re a wonderful boyfriend and you are certainly not a mutant. I told you not to use that word.

Why not? that’s what I am! Bog jumps up from his chair and throws it to the ground with fierce strength and anger. I’M A MUTANT! he grabs a large piece of the salted meat and gnaws it in savage imitation, tossing it too to the ground. if your gonna act like this then just get out! Drea says with barely sustained anger.


it's far from finished and some of it is hokey, but what do you think?
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 0 comments