Hell Raised by T.W. Selvey

Can you come over here and help? There is a Jesus trapped in my urethra, flailing and confused. Not again! Look, his fat, rounded head is crowning and mom says it feels like passing a kidney stone. I don’t want to give birth. No amount of drugs lessens my will to refuse.

The hard, adamantine cranium is a myelinolysis bomb shelter. I care. Wounds I caused need care. The Nightingale is nigh. In the dark halls of the oedipal complex I set up a medical tent tenting lips. It’s opening day on the oral frontline. Cripples huddle in gum lining holes. Absolute fucking poetry, by the way.

Read to them. Read them $9000 textbook documents that recount uncontrolled biological urges floundering unfulfilled among cruciform helmets after peace accords are signed. Mouth worship sucks! sucks warships down to the nether regions. Telling my grandkids, I have a storied saga about bootlicking I mean bootstrapping men diving to the deepest regions, the berry flavored shit sticks crapping purple diarrhea on their bibs. The only begotten got irritable bowel syndrome in middle school, in the wild, early on, the untold start in making plaster cast molds of Chupacabra pawprints, mammary tissues and hornet nipples, drooping neoclassical torsos and instincts denuded into mucosa, the kind of constructive purposes Freud call sublimation, a wild night of electrocautery, such charming devaluation. Thanks. I don’t want eternal life. Keep the prenatal interference for another baby.

A little labium, pausing Basic Instinct and I was rubbing as mom walked in. A rubber leg slid on floor piss and I asked ‘hold the pickle’ but know this Whopper will do. I can levitate over a urinal, as a legendary pisser, legs unfolding like from a folding table, no help needed. I extrude a day teaching dried out sex magick, the odd choice of The Carpenters ‘best of’ as the endless musical encouragement to fuck demons on the astral plane, rough and unlubricated.

Magic mushroom, during the geodesic time you were tripping up on a wormhole cord. I took a century long Carnival cruise and can you believe, the goddamned thing rode me north, hovering the cursor over the northern hemisphere and double clicking a tear on the pineal gland, melting my ice cap. In my foolish waste stream of thoughts, you’d test me? Fools, I insist you take the safe passage, slide down the waterslide adductor in my whiskey-yellow micturition, so I can fill up a broken light bulb, because, mortal Jesus, your hair strands are a thousand plumose of impotent cocks, gluttonous like a bottomless Aleister Crowley refill.

Gutted body with an abundance of organs. Grab some on your way out. Take some home in a Ziploc bag. Help yourself. I can’t eat it all. My teeth haven’t come in yet so use the blender to prepare a smooth puree. A once supple integumentary system is chipping human paint.

Burned the fuck off, I now have no flesh, an ethereal sex drive, a stomach pit trapping incorrect verbs, as a mage burns little hairs, which had succumbed to the pain of a bed bouncing rapidly, having been smothered in too many hand-chosen disciple-prostitutes.

Jesus fucking Jesus, upright and erect. That gets the full attention of the patriarchal fat-daddy. Fat-daddy dick swinging. Fat-daddy dick swinger. Fat-daddy gut swagger.

I have now successfully chewed a Jesus mammal. Accept his neutered conscience, and beat him until his penis falls off into my impure hands. Wring the life out of it like a tropical fruit, then switch it back on.

Wrinkles on the brain wriggle around, gyrate, and gurgle, which indicates high order thinking is underway. The very high IQ is too high. Find the very lowest setting on the lawn mower. Stay close to the ground and give it a buzzcut. So, they pop up like snakes in the grass and spurt blood on sunglasses. Poor enunciation streaking the lenses. Sun lava on full blast, blasting the eyes. I lived through this shit. No, no one did.

I now brag about my offers of manger sawdust and lice. Sleep in a separate room and observe my parasite body, screaming its prostrate Wozzeck opera, and then reunite to feed me a dismembered yogi, having had the temples squeezed out of him.

Put on the gag order. Don’t talk about it. The mirage is banned. Shut down the rectory. Shut up about the rectum. Come on, who hasn’t heard about how the afterhours perpetrator has a cameo appearance in a toga or yoga pants or Pantocrator pants? Giveth and taketh, taketh off and giveth head.

I have nothing for the non-spectral to take. Penis like a stag beetle cut in half, half way to enlightenment, crawling slowly, cooing, fueled by tantric revenge and psychoanalysis. Lift up the blanket, my netherworld sheet is stained with blood, red with the blood of mars, and what do you see, still moving like a child removed from his dead mother's body, self-created?

Put your dick away, excited dog. Excited dog, the phallocentric heir apparent, the abhorrent philosophical byproduct shit-mounded on the lawn, the eager and obedient mutt licks lint morsels and says this cannot be contemporary dramaturgy because the most profound message has detergent, force-fed, purifying and sickening. Die inside, and die clean.

I’m not trying to uphold the traditions of western culture, dog, because that’s not my fucking problem if it dies out and it’s the institutional core of racism. Anyway, it was dying inside, and nothing dies clean.

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