by Jim Meirose.
My word, in my shit, cried the cuffed prisoner, of a sudden, I wanted to do it one last time very very very bad. I am a defector mon mon I think it not fine my countrymen die mon mon I snapped when I witnessed my hundred and fourth brainburst all gore to drench me all gore to turn me all gore all gore all and I went to the yonder great yonderman of a chaplainette recommended by my sergeant major who she herself as I was told as I fled after bursting through deaf ear after deaf after deaf ear ear deaf after after way sillier that you will ever see a man be, having not been behind my lines. There is chaos back behind the lines where our grand trickster and his light chorusmen’s rankettes and fileistas drone up yonder all the way back to the last stockpot of hot civilization back way back even further than imagination’s biggest best fastest inner tube recycling plant and water replenishment and subzero meltdown harvester’s retirement nest egg site—all stylized you understand not to be taken literally of course of course as a matter of fact if any truth be deserving of multiple hosing of single sand grain solutions served on the side most inconveniently hey Al it got a ring to it Mister named for what a bull does best most inconveniently in a big back buttspace the runner von Runderstein will be cause to feel the most inconvenient yet quite ago-go-go-nizingly inconveniently sad but true spot ever, ahhh, so anyway here’s what I’m driving at; the Madison rumor yes that Madison rumor I feel I witnessed it I feel that for dom de deiu and his all that’s humanitarian any more jazz band I should cross the lines so I crossed the lines under a fat lie-blanket of non-sniper fire and went to the nearest limo available to be militarily commandeered. You buddies not know or see the carnage resultant from your recent deployment of the version zero on zero Great Big Madison. Yours they tell us over the lines set in ice conditioned parlors whipping joysticks back and forth all whoopie and hollerie and even though beer’s banned on duty, the general shaft yes by bucker know well of the practice. The Anvil-Man Paul which is established in our mythos stoked to fire heat by the appropriate dosages of Pevertinian pills provided by the waitstaff all primly dressed hard starched and ready to rumba with our men in the silly parties spontaneously erupting from the deep holes of each one’s personal despair and loss. The Piano Sonata number nine in E major, opus fourteen, number one, is an early-period work by Ludwig van Beethoven. Somewhat like that one over there witnessed her very Father figure shredded by a carpet of clogbusters deployed by—his name ah, is on the tip. Oh, he—no it’s a she her name’s on the tip—but never mind the fact is the piano during the last rise of the Mannheim Rocket section of the concerto, got its center vaporized blowing razor sharp pin needly inch sized stabbers out ‘round taking her Father to similar but softer and more apt to bounce off any bystanders bits—and from the bloody flow that one over there next witnessed from the underblood microspace of small but effective juvenile safety, rolled hundreds on hundreds of now orphaned homeless unfortunately immortal notes. Immortal ‘cause of the master himself penned each one by hand somehow secretly simultaneously to boot, the entire concerto flung out over ream after ream of blank hot white staffpaper taking as stated already immortal form which, is, as most don’t know dream of whistle along with or give a shit about, a large curse. Dig this; each is brought to the edge of their own personal Sahara, given one dixie of warm water to drink, then ordered to walk across straight and straight toward the full jug which awaits them in some kind of promised land heaven or some purgatorial suffering-pit which they are assured is only temporary, but which is not to be taken lightly since they will be enduring twenty four by seven three-hundred and sixty-five for no less than one hundred years duration, give or take one or two million, which after all is nothing more than an approximation, which also if you ponder it a blip or two, is what everything and anything the hypnotized herd is tricked into considering absolute fact; shop at Mabey’s if you want the finest designs, get a Hippomobile, yonder great spender—after believing of course real people real reactions are what just came at them oh yes we feel better—which when placed into a herd of bubblemobiles will stand out as unique and mark your smart card to feed you the lie that purchasing aye—purchasing non—hey hup ho miss Kirkpatrick why yank out my soapbox with no warning causing me to become instantly aware that I’ve been noosed to a gallows pole all my life and—someday someone like you would—push the joystick. Release the Great Madisons—orphan the immortal notes rolling out all ways under no homes to go to yah you Ms. Kirkpatrick Kirkpatrick her Johnnyman Johnnyboy and you both better run vacate your comfy-fuckerspace ‘cause sooner Baroness Josefa von Braun would never have been the ancestor of our primordial age’s rocket-ship mastermind-man. They missed it with no God as a backup. Dots. Nothing should be done without a backup. More dots. When a fail would mean the end then there must to be a backup. Many more dots swarming each alone. When a fail. Many more dots swarming each alone unable. The night passed brightly through the night. Many more dots swarming each alone unable to care. Would mean the end. Many more dots swarming each alone unable to care for itself. Each dot of these millions when unorphaned was a note. This goes against God’s plan. Each dot of these millions were linked together by time space and tone into music. Dots to notes piling up quicker than quickly. Then there must. Music that once had a timbre sound and soul. Do not take your God for granted. War has one function. To be a backup. The opponent must be destroyed. Failing to do right yourself is throwing a command to God. And all the while this blast that strike and those hits cut loose dots to notes and they swarm in all directions. When the Great Madison was Deployed is was. When a fail would. A crime against goddess music so to. Thou shalt not dare to command God. Speak. Mean the end. At the end the three to six foot layers of orphan notes cry to be cared for. The great Ludwig Von B. forced to exile. Thou shalt not make assumptions about God. Von B. Then there must to be. Forced to exile Von B. Thou shalt not assume salvation. A backup. The next day came up and the task was to. Thou shall not take God for granted. Resume at the point dis. Thou. Rupted and to fi. Bark bark said the dog in the night through the open window. Nish. All right singysonged the big sleeper. The four ran to the fence baying. Bark bark—said the dog—when a fail—thou shalt—would mean—not assume—the end then—still over still the truth flies out all over too loud screechy loud all undeniable, that at the end when we’re told its over and the victors turn away forget arms full of warspoils and warswag there will still be a here and now and where we used to live all ruined but for three to six foot layers of orphan notes crying to be cared for. Lane came in the studio a mere fifteen minutes before their time zone’s sun-up. Crying and crying all loudly on loudly lost-hounds all baying. Lane felt immediately that something was wrong. Hit hit. Bay! He searched behind his forward all the way to the back wall bone curved sweet. Lyd oh yah Lydia. Weird yesterday. But there is—hypnogogic dreaming. Baying why baying? When a fail would mean the end then there must to be a backup. Baying to rivering. That must be what’s to blame. This job is dripping poison on us new where are we son we’re immature for sure—weird yesterday yes that is it she seemed—and in this case the publisher’s provided us a guide—but never to be known to us. Rivering to creeking. She claimed Lane seemed gone and the book. Just because God had always turned on the light before he assumed that he no longer had to be ready to do it as backup for God if God decided to test him. Baroness Josefa von Braun was one of his patrons at that time. At her death this affiliation abruptly ceased. Was different. Was small and smaller down to creeking gone to rivuleting. Test him yes test him yes. Sill so. Rivulets carrying death to the voidspace. He claimed Lydia seemed gone but of course that can’t be. Someone after all has to maintain control. Of course the book doesn’t change around on the fly but. Need to humor. Keep the peace after all. Bottle the nasty up inside just a moment and in the very next moment that pulls back over to smother the last the nasty is gone. Push the vacuum. Or, on the other hand raging deeps spanning from over horizon thatside to past horizon otherside. The unknown scrap’s not sucked up. Number one. Six foot twelve foot twenty-four foot thick war-orphan layers crying. Do it again it’s the same again. But; be wise in the ways of how to use such devices. As a matter of fact be wise in the ways of how to use blank blank and stay lightly limber on ya’ feet and you will easily be able to dance your way into mastering any device in performing any of the tasks in the spectrum of those it was 1. Designed intentionally to perform, and 2. Any others for which it may be found capable of performing from the time of its birth to its death or obsolescence—much like the living specimens of every breed of living thing in the universe. For example, Yondermen can torture to death with a power mower. Yondermen can whittle a beautiful songbirdie figurine, with a slick beheadsman’s blade. This is a lot. This rule is dangerous. Beware such a powerfully applicable rule; such a rule is just another weapon of mass destruction and ought to be this and ought to be that and everything in between to be rendered impossible to build formulate design construct imagine model assemble or, last but not least of course, use for anything. Whew! I say Doc, I say to you men; this testing for entry to heaven is past tough. Too many years it takes men; number two. Forty-eight foot ninety-six foot one hundred ninety-two foot thick war-orphan layers crying. Too many years most will die before we’re ready men; number three. Three hundred eighty-four foot seven hundred sixty-eight foot one thousand five hundred thirty-six foot thick war-orphan layers crying. Infinite years it will seem all will die yes, all will die before we’re ready men; number four. Three thousand seventy-two foot six thousand one hundred forty-four foot twelve thousand two hundred and eighty-eight foot thick war-orphan layers crying. Infinite years it will seem all will die yes, all will die before we’re ready men; number five. Twenty-four thousand five hundred and seventy-six foot forty-nine thousand one hundred fifty-two foot ninety-eight thousand three hundred four foot thick war-orphan layers crying. Infinite years it will seem all will die yes, all will die before we’re ready men; number six. One hundred ninety-six thousand six hundred and eight and times two equals do foot plus times two equals re foot plus times foot equals plus foot equals plus equals plus equal plus equa plus equ plus eq plus e plu e pl e p foot foo fo f.
Hey spirit off yonder. Thank God it’s fell quiet. Always this noisy hereabouts always? Anyway hey; is this flat barren flat the site of the once-mighty but quite likely apocryphal legendary nation of the Beethovenites? The one composed in seventeen ninety-eight and arranged for string quartet by the composer in eighteen one—is this its site?
Yes but—
Beethovenistas?
Yes but—
Beethovenettes?
Yes but—
Beethoveneers?
Yes, but—
But what soldier? But what? Spit it out man!
But—
Know you not that the result contained more quartet-like passagework in the more comfortable key of F major than the version originally envisioned?
No, I—
The bottom line being that many pundits ascribe its eventual downfall as a direct result of this ill-advised quite quietly untoward dilution of its power.
I did not know, but—isn’t there also—
Also, nothing! Either you get it or you don’t. Which is it?
I don’t, ah, no. I—
Do or don’t! Either or! No other words! Answer now!
Pull.
Well?
Snap-punch.
Well? Well?
∅. Repeat.
Pull. Snap. Punch.
Repeat ∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅.∅. ∅?
Repeat.
∅.
This is how anything’s true final end feels like.
What’s on for dinner?