Excerpt from The Official History of Tomorrow’s Dream pages 87-89

June 22, 2012

NOTE: This is an excerpt from the book I wrote way back in January  2018 and published in May 2020.

Excerpt from The Official History of Tomorrow’s Dream page 87-89

How Jocko and his teamster pal Buck got over the scrap of indigo blow snort gavel, only a real scientist will tell. Examine them closely and you would never know they were table beef survivors. The tracking devices made them look cool and even lowered their temperatures but they were being watched. Every skip and jump over the sand dunes were known by Kaydick Industries.

“Jocko self serving through production of self right bbbbBuck?” Jocko asked with unquestionable certainty.

“Aww knock it off Jocks. We’ve been through this before. These feelings of inadequacy will pass. Drink this.”

Buck passed the chuckle juice to Jocko knowing it would calm him down and in turn calm them both down. Jocko took several swigs and starred into the several sunned blurry sky wishing he were still a civilian and not a runaway ex table beef. The Agency had no use for them but Kaydick Industries followed their moves for the fun of it more than any business matters at hand.

“Feel better now?” Buck asked.

“Yeah. I feel so inspired. Can I piggy back now?”

“You know you’re too heavy but if you need human contact I can ride you. Just remember last time I rode you. You tore a few stitches.”

“It’s ok. Ride me. Ride me.”

The temperature was rising near 1,046 degrees porfeos. Dry heat that humps your glands like a reptile. If you’ve ever been humped by a reptile then you know. They had no choice in a life situation like this but to keep moving. The other side of desert is the town of Gointhaw. They would be safe for a while there. One would think with a population of 456,890 they could get away and not be seen despite the high tech tracking system.

 

Meanwhile Ralph was helping me with my own problems. The center of my scrotum was unnerved during the last explosion. I needed Ralph’s strong hands to reach inside and “pull the strings” as the motthoppers called it in my day. Not sure of the proper medical procedure’s name. Ralph wasn’t medical. He was physical for sure. He stuck his hands right up in there, you see. And wiggled each finger one at a time until he saw my fantastic grin reaching each ear almost. Chagrin. Ouuuther.

“Thanks. I needed that.” I said.

“Uppers yup. For you I can do fritterpops. Wholesale style. Ya know.” Ralph said.

Now my only agenda was to take photo options for the Agency. They remote wired me for the mission. My brain would freeze as they send a signal telling me when to click the device resembling absolutely nothing like a camera or visual recording device. It was built into my forehead like a third eye yet invisible to the eye. It was under my skin yet the 3 kolopuy length and width lens could actually see from the far away Agency laboratory. The trigger/button was on the side of my nose and only about .006 Kintopuys. It looked like I was scratching my colossal sized honker.

It was a fairly simple routine besides the brain freeze but the Agency was cautious and paranoid so Ralph was by my side in case I ran into any trouble. In some countries and cultures scratching my nose and staring at someone would be considered rude or a primal way of saying “skitter over lipper”. Even an inactive agent like myself could get quite the head banging and artillery action for that. Ralph is there to break up any potential violence like that and multiple other types. He’s a good zoo, ya know, it’s fun to keep him around. He doesn’t need weapons. I told ya what those hands can do with my “problem”.

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Underground Poet’s Society 2012 -More Samples

June 16, 2012

I’ve been writing a lot of poetry lately and posting it on a poetry page on Facebook. I’ll be publishing a poetry collection by October or so called  Underground Modern Poets of 2012 collecting various poetry from many diverse people.

Here’s a few samples

Healing — part V
by Art Glib

i am resigned
and
there will always be a place
on the path of
my lifeline
that leads to
the spiral grip of true and
undeniable love
clinching at my heartstrings this day

i reconcile
to denounce sadness
bitterness or hate
seeing them as the impish thieves they are
they are like the anchor on the Edmund Fitzgerald

i have the power to do this-we all do

it was what it was
and we are who we are
i feel the joy on my
face as i
raise your praise to the sky
i feel the heat of
life giving sun
it’s like the way i feel
when i think of the best of us
a place of pristine truth
two souls in a corporation of flesh
a place where i wish you
peace of mind
love
happiness
and an
abundance of good things

bless us
and let no sweeping thoughts
of disdain
corrupt the pure remnants of your smile and laughter
i will not let anger steal those from me
i am not going to risk losing the locket of your memory
that i hold to my breast when you are in my thoughts
good bye
good luck
Godspeed
i love you

sQt 2008

 

Untitled
by Anthony Gray
When everything’s lost
and life seems surreal
When everything crashes
and nothing is real
When sorrow seeps in
and all that you feel
is confusion and madness
How do you deal?

Where will you go?
Where will you go?
When no one is sorry
for nothing they’ve done
Where will you go now?
Where will you run?

Everything dies
and the time will come
when the days grow too short
to mourn every one
When life’s vicious cycle
throws you ‘neath the wheels
and there’s no one to turn to
How do you deal?

Where will you go?
Where will you go?
When no one is sorry
for nothing they’ve done
Where will you go now?
Where will you run?

When it’s all said and done
it’s hard to regret
knowing full well the sun
is determined to set
When smoke in your eyes
can no longer conceal
You just let it mask you
and that’s how you deal.

Where will you go?
Where will you go?
When no one is sorry
for nothing they’ve done
Where will you go now?
Where will you run?

When you’re all alone
and the passion is gone
Can you keep your own head up?
Or where will you run?

OmnImpotence
by KrackPipe Ken

through the gloom
a dreary moon
lay soundless on the sod

a haunting tune
from dead leaves strewn
engirdled brooding god

“if I am naught,”
aghast he thought,
“but smoke and grim façade

“from womb to tomb…
…then only doom…
the deadless treadless trod.”

Little Boy Little Toy
by Jo Hewitt
Men and my pen always a dangerous combination, I’ve gone there before I’ll never be anyone’s whore I feel they never see me as real well you better duck and cover for I’m about to tell you about your own private hell mamma’s boy using women as your toy you’re invited to have a say but not have things your own way 41yrs of age you have a fit a real child’s rage in your childhood room you cause doom and gloom action figures a twin bed what a man you can barely tie your own shoes it’s no wonder it’s not you I choose grow up don’t blow up nonsense lies you spout a never ending fount try again a slave to the children you crave whine away for you I will not pine child in a mans body

 


Hillen Prison Blues – I Feel the Fluids Rushing

March 29, 2012

I feel the fluids rushing

Up and down

And back

Up and down

My back

Spine

Light headed

Heavy hearted

Ears fuzzy disoriented

Vertigo

Bones crack every time

I move

Elbows

Knees

Hands

Feet

Fingers

Toes

FACE

My facial affliction

Nerves explode

Fireworks of the nerves

Side of my face

I seek relief

Scream in agonizing

Torture and terror

I chose

Sleep to

Escape

Forget

Awake

Remember

Impairment

Then depression

Sleep

Forget

I want to forget

I don’t want to sleep

I want to sleep

I love my sleep

But not much

My dreams are pleasant

And my reality is a

Nightmare

But

I’d rather have the bad dreams and the good life

“Sleep. Those little slices of Death. How I loathe them.” Edgar Allen Poe said.

 

“Sleep. Those little slices of pleasure. How I adore them.” Rich Hillen Jr said


Interview with a Psychopath Video

April 5, 2011


A Sneak Preview of The Best of The Serial Killer Coloring Book

August 8, 2010

Here’s a small sample of whats in The Best of The Serial Killer Coloring Book.

Order here.

Order Now!!

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-best-of-the-serial-killer-coloring-book/12104405


Delete Me: A Poem & Spoken Word Video

July 31, 2010

I wrote the following loosely based on my last entry. I also made a vido for it you can find on the bottom of the page.

Delete me. Go ahead delete me. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Carry your gun in the waist band of your stretch pants that won’t stretch any more if your tried and you tried. A gun that you use in the wrong places with the wrong people and the wrong intentions. It’s not even loaded. The gun. Not you. Loaded.

Delete me from your world from your cancer from your bloody sounded heart that you think is screaming but it only cries for more love. Love you can’t have.

Stick your pencil between your eyes and twist it as you open and close your eyelids slobbering my name while kissing a tree that will never understand you like me.

Delete me. Delete. Go ahead. It’s ok. Delete me.

Push the panic button and no one comes running anymore because they’re tired of your boy cry wolf mentality. Too many false alarms for anyone to understand. I understand. It’s ok. You can let go now.

Delete me from your heart and fill it with vengeance and hatred. Kill. Destroy.

Run for the hills little one while you still have a chance to get away from me. Or do you? Am I always there?

Distracting yourself with THINGS that keep you busy. THINGS that do nothing for anyone except distract you from me. Me. THINGS.

Delete me as you drive over the speed limit racing to anywhere that you don’t have to feel anything.

What kind of God allows you to feel this way? What are you doing? Why? Who do you think you are? Ok so maybe even a broken clock is right twice a day. Maybe you can self help yourself and forgive God for leaving you alone. Maybe your cancer isn’t so bad. Maybe the wounds will heal. Maybe your heart will soften over time. Time. Time to reveal yourself to the ancient ones in a language you don’t speak. Time to stop running. Let go. Let go!

Delete me. Delete me. Delete me.

Are you finished yet?

I am still here.


Change and Serial Murder

July 21, 2010

Change. Like it or not I change. I grow even when I don’t want to. Sometimes I slip down and fall and have to climb back up but it’s still a change and it always leads to more growth. They say hindsight is 20/20 but I disagree. Personally, my hindsight is delusional. I look back and see things better than they really were. Thank God I’m a writer. Thank God I can look back and read what I was thinking and how I was behaving in the past. Thank God I have friends and family that remind me of what I was.

One of my close friends is always telling stories about things I did to him in the past. Not to put me down but because he finds the humor in it now. I don’t even remember half of the stories until he is halfway through. He was a less tolerant person full of anxiety and I apparently was an insensitive prankster. I won’t tell you the specifics because: a) they aren’t important and b) you might talk to him one day.

The reason this topic came to mind today is that I am going through my infamous Serial Killer Coloring Books and looking at these sometimes vivid drawings I did and the drawings the murderers have done and the crimes they have committed. I am compiling all of the issues into one book and have been going through them page by page looking and reading. I was shocked by some of the things that I’ve said and the drawings I’ve done. Imagine that. Me? Shocked. It happens. It made me question whether I want to re-publish it or forget about it. I worked so hard on those comics that I hate to see it go to waste. I poured my heart and soul into it.

I’ve spent years defending myself as to why I took an interest in serial killers enough to draw, write and form a band that sings about them. I understood why completely. Even in my delusional state of mind I have some awareness of what’s really going on in my head and heart. I always looked at what I did as an over the top exploitation of the exploitation of murder and true crime. I never thought that they were cool like I’ve been accused of. The truth of the matter is that I was secretly identifying with the serial killer. I didn’t identify with the desire to murder but with the common obsession and addiction. I have many addictions but most are harmful to myself. I have no desire or even fantasy of raping, murdering or cannibalism. I found it fascinating that there are real life “monsters” out there that not only fantasize but act out on it. Why? What makes them different?

I’ve believed that anyone could be a serial killer under certain circumstances. We are all just one gene or one spanking in our childhood away from it. I have mental illness in my natural family genes so of course I have a mental illness. A treatable one. A controllable one but I still have it. After being raised by a paranoid schizophrenic mother for 8 years I found  myself seeking other “crazy people in my life especially girlfriends.

As I grow older I find myself dealing with my issues and growing away from it. I’ve also lost interest in serial killers. I don’t write about them or draw them or even think about them except when I perform because most of my songs are about them. I look at it differently now. Now I’m going through some of my drawings and I can’t believe that I’m the same person.

The big question on my mind is do I abandon my previous creations? Ignore them like they never happened. My gut tells me to embrace my past and everything I’ve created good and bad. I don’t really think that anything I’ve done has brought any bad energy or karma into the world. I still don’t think that writing, drawing or singing about murder is going to influence anyone negatively or make them do bad things unless they are already inclined to do so. I used to say “serial killers don’t have time to read about or listen to songs about serial killers. They’re too busy serial killing.” It’s true. True crime buffs don’t commit murders. It’s usually the seemingly “nice” guy that lives next door to you, sits next to you at work, rides the train with you to work, cooks your food at a restaurant or maybe even your lover or family member.

There has always been an internal struggle with me as to letting go or holding back in my creative endeavors. I’ve mentioned this over and over. I always come to the same decision. I always do the same thing. I decide that I will be an open book and talk and write about anything and then I hold things back anyway. Sometimes I censor and sometimes I don’t. Hopefully, my work is appreciated either way. Hopefully, I keep appreciating my work either way. After all, I am my biggest critic and my biggest fan.


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