Stream #12

30th Mar - 5th Apr 2019

- Max Ernst

Beauty will be CONVULSIVE or will not be at all

- André Breton

* * *

i stuck my fingers down my throat to see what was there

i could feel its antennae twitching
i thought about a wheat field on a warm june evening giving in the breeze
i thought of the terror of something inside of me twitching its godless antennae

the radio soft in the distance plays to love somebody
i reach my arm further down my throat
resisting the urge to vomit
my shoulder is now on my teeth
i have the thing firmly gripped in my fist
the song ends on the radio
the over confident moron bellows out the next track
okie form muskogee
i wrench the creature from inside of me
to outside of me

i loose my grip of the thing as it leaves my mouth and lands on the linoleum
'we don't smoke marijuana in muskogee'
my eyes blurred
black dots and whooshing swirls

half blind and wild i started stomping
i miss like eight times
i'm panting my vision is still blurred
then wack squelch crunch
i get the mother fucker
'leather boots are still in style for manly footwear'
i stomp and stomp
'beads and Roman sandals won't be seen'
i loose count
my vision finally clears

* * *

He looked further into the telescope and saw the moon smoke.

He adjusted the lens and increased the focus. Oh shit. Tiny astronauts. Frying tiny meats. On tiny barbecues.

Mom said we needed to make a sacrifice so know I’m looking for a goat to steal.

No goats in the wild. He muttered to himself. Kicking sand in the wilderness. He looked to the stars. NO goats. No fucking goats anywhere. Where are the goddamn goats?

He pulled out his smartphone. He opened a browser. He opened wikipedia. He typed goats. A page slowly loaded. He read aloud. Goats don't live here anymore - what do you think about that fuck boy? He wanted to cry. What the fuck? What am I going to do? He moaned. How am I going to get a goat for my mom to sacrifice?

And then it came to him. Like a night bus on a night road somewhere in the night. He ran home. The same route through the wilderness. Home. He powered up his pc. He turned on his printer. He opened google chrome. He typed in nice pictures of nice goats doing nice things in to the search bar. He found a picture of a goat wearing a calico bonnet. It had a nice off white muzzle. Soft kind eyes. He hit print. As the printer sang its him he called his mother. Hey I got your goddamn goat. Meet me at olive garden. We can conduct the sacrifice in the bathroom.

As he entered the parking lot of the olive garden he noticed his mother standing at the front door. His stomach jumped down into his four day old socks. What is she doing. She hadn't noticed him. She was picking her nose. He looked up at the moon. It was still smoking. What are they doing up there.

What are you doing here? For a second she says nothing. I’m here to sacrifice a goat. I mean we are. Why are you waiting outside? She continues to pick her nose. They wouldn’t let me pick my nose inside. He shakes his head. Olive garden have a strong no nose picking policy. He feels a strong urge to look at the moon. Will you please stop picking your nose. She doesn’t stop picking her nose. I’ve already ordered. What did you order? Dried noses. Did you order me any? No. But you can share my order. Where’s the goat? Here. He shows her the picture. What's that behind it? Oh this is my essay on Lord Byron. Why do you carry that thing around with you. It's an easy way for me to feel smart when in reality I've never had an original thought in my whole life. You should pick your nose more.

they both start picking their noses. quietly fingered the cool face caves. this feels good. shall we go sacrifice the goat now? lets. i love you mom. i love you sonny boy.

they walk into the bathroom. the large disabled one. mother starts chanting from the book of dave eggers out now from all good book shops. the son holds up the picture of the goat. he pulls out a lighter. and flint click. and flame.

* * *

out there in some other universe. do you know who i am? sir. can you please calm down. i come in here everyday and order an americano and you can't get that right. sir. don't sir me. do you know who i am? silence. he catches his reflection. salt and pepper in all the right places. how did i get here? arguing with this stupid cunt. i'm fucking famous. this cunt doesn't even know who i am. she probably can't even fucking read. sir? listen you stupid cunt. i don't want your cunting coffee. sir, please. do you know who i am. his rage erupts he fires the wrong coffee at her.

* * *

the flame catches the goat. her eyes widen. his eyes widen.

* * *

salt and pepper in all the right places runs out of the coffee shop. muttering to himself. seize the day they said. fuck them and their bullshit instagram inspirational posts. now raising his voice. i will end all you top not wearing bitches. with your twitter handles. and your cunt mac book airs. and fuck you all i'll end you and jerk off in your blood. you fucking cunts. the sound of a siren. salt and pepper in all the right places hearing the sirens runs down an alleyway.

* * *

as the goat is engulfed in flames a voice booms through the room. laughter. applause. happy days is filmed in front of a live studio audience. live credits appear in the bathroom. mom and son look around confused. the goat is now ashes on the bathroom floor. i thought you said this would work? maybe it did.

The tiny people are still frying their tiny meat. Do they know about the goats? Do they know about how the goats die for them? Do we, tiny people frying tiny meat, know about the goats that die for us?

Every day, another bomb find a home to settle into. The housing crisis is solved by death. Instagram models are making families and blogging about them. They get tiny meat to fry, give to their husbands, sacrifice goats to the tiny people on the moon and tag it #selca.

In Argentina, the bombs are still going off. The high rises fall and the models are taking pictures. The housing crisis is alleviated. There will never be a graveyard crisis. The models go to the fields and take pictures of the burning pits. They're blogging about their families. They're tagging it #selca and frying tiny meat. The goat is still on the bathroom floor. Mother, is this what you wanted?