I wrote these all about 30 years ago. I edited them very slightly – but I realized most of you probably haven’t read them yet.
Here they are:
Unplug that particle accelerator, kid.
I could pull the nether worlds out of your left ear
I could teleport your ass from here to Tau Ceti with the toe
of my boot,
ya ether suckin’ punk.
Listen here, kid:
Smoke the last ray of an age dead sun.
Read the entrails of a protozoa.
Catch for me tomorrow morning a dozen instants fresh from the
Void
and then I will show you the alchemy
of movement from one world to the next
the knowledge that counts
the spaces
between science and dream.
* * *
I wake down.
In the chocolate insanity,
the sweet dark neverland,
I own a small but respectable burger joint.
My fare is decadent and greasy:
the fattening french fries of fantasy
the cholesterolic baconburgers of secret desire
the non lite beer of childhood make believe.
This is what I want to be.
An infiltrator pouring weirdness into the water supply.
A gremlin in the gears.
A toymaker, an eternal space cadet:
a purveyor of rhapsody
a whisperer
of wish.
* * *
Words in motion,
skittering knife booted across slippery pages,
lodging in the eye,
tormenting the cornea with a feather
dipped in battery acid
These are the stories of the coming days,
These are the tales no tongue could release.
These are the Books of Awe,
controller of all human lives,
with the exception of those of us
who are going to wait for the movie.
* * *
[Yes, I clearly can’t count to “three” properly.]
Code Of The Shocking Pink Illuminatus
(To Be Read With Closed Eyes)
Never surrender your Transylvanian soul.
They have the money, the power, the logic; theirs are the
guns, the beer, the air conditioning, and the light of day.
But we have the Mad Science.
We draw the blood of destiny. We autograph madness. We
scribble in the margins of the books of Fate.
We are the professionals.
We are the grand meddlers.
We hum thoughtcrime in barbershop quartets; we throw open the
vast doomgate of Things Best Left Unknown; we penetrate the great
telepathic obscenities of salad (if you use Russian Dressing, you
are one of THEM! Be warned: we know where you hide your tuba.)
We are concealed, but we are by no means gone; subtle, but
strong.
Let them control What Is.
We are the caretakers of What Might Be.
If you like these, try Changeling Grown — Jeff Mach Writes
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