cannonball

From above comes a loud ripping sound and a flaming Bonzo gong is bashed and there is the tinkling of tubular water chimes and a warm feeling running down your leg and your freaking resident Buddha Nature psychopath named Laozencius shows up in a lift-kit small guy sitting on a phone book monster truck…”

 

 

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Dare then to dream of donning the Bob Log III helmet and getting brushed in pine sap and stuffed into a cast iron circus cannon, a cannon that only ever misfires because the pine tar has you stuck in the barrel but your lower torso is actually burning from the clown (you) who keeps relighting the fuse and you’re sort of halfway launched and you can see the safety net stretched out on the horizon but your region is really hot and there is the smell of roast onions which is making you sort of hungry if mildly nauseous but you can’t put mustard on or throw up a smell and hysterical people stare at small twinkling screens yelling and screaming and pointing with badly dislocated brains and greasepaint selfie faces shaped symmetrically inverse of wu wei and right over there are jacked-up rodeo clowns lurking behind every corner — looking for you — when from above comes a loud ripping sound and a flaming Bonzo gong is bashed and there is the tinkling of tubular water chimes and a warm feeling running down your leg and your freaking resident Buddha Nature psychopath named Laozencius shows up in a lift-kit small guy sitting on a phone book monster truck and shouts ‘YOU IMBECILE – THIS IS NOT THE WAY’ and hits you with his walking cudgel, to, you know, dislodge you from the circus cannon and the needy clutches of your own whimpering unfettered id like some unmoored yin yang motherfucker but somewhere a lonesome bird sings and an inquiring mind wonders ‘who put this 16gig microSD in my lunch pail right next to the tin-foil hat-wrapped Ho Ho’s and what sort of rapt in plastic evil is held inside?’ To wit: the dyspepsiods stewed forward with names like @fr33rangeb33f3r and @Rif1eUpThyArsep0rt their #sneering and #snarking and #leering and #shrieking as The Angry Tonsil lights up with 365meme PowerPontiff™ technically researched manifestos [synaptically redacted] so you can, I can, you know, fire that cannon the PROPER WAY which is THIS WAY and THIS WAY ONLY but, still, the barrel is tacky and possibly has additional electrolytes added on the sly to aid hydration but it doesn’t actually smell very good right about now and you think of chili verde for some reason right when, as if in perfect symmetry, a Nacho opines ‘i like tacos’ and somebody adds soil to a rainbow-masted shitter which is just as historically unpleasing as the fertilizer spread in a prior life on the untamed prairie in that gender-unspecific outhouse old Jeremiah Grandpapants built to save his marriage and it’s all so uncomplicated, really, but you think of fish, presently, in the Metolius eating floating green acorns with wings and there are gold bugs spackling the rippled surface of the Deschutes and here you are glued in this goddamn circus cannon, view blocked by a Trojan Horse pissing cathode polarities and cogtortionists and all manner of disembodied filths all over some miserable mental acrobating/data mining/psyops mind tweak grabbing for the easy trapeze, key loader or a suitably vacant wandering pencil bot-mob and thinking ‘how the hell can I riff my way out of this one’ or ‘what would Lemmy do’ but then Lemmy isn’t there anymore but instead there is a beating heart with a broken world blocking one artery and an iPhone 6 jacked into another, yelling ‘Siri! Siri! Find my pilfered soul you shameless slut! Fuck you! Goodbye.‘ and a tall forehead of a man with taller fingers plays gently a harpsichord version of some other world, body slowly rocking, a wan smirk as the the bridge blows, the head vice tightens and the stocks drop, and  – I knew by the way you were dancing that you were never coming back – still we parry, with every fiber of a shredded humanity which is now smelling of melting pitch and smoke bomb stench and “all natural” hot dogs and Tiki Torch crude and Dorito breath and wait….who is that singing beet-shaped cosplay specter with the Bluetooth Helga helmet and brushed aluminum Thunderbolt fork? and what does he intend to do with it? Is he? Is he going to put the prong in YOU? Are YOU cooked? Can you hear the song? You CAN’T be burnt, wake up quick and perish the thought…but yes dear thinker…actually, yes…the done button has popped and you hit snooze and you are still wedged in that cannon very, very, very, deep…

 

Originally published:
Issue Seventy-Five
September 2017

(words and illustration by john richen)


 

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