Juliet Frank

The Centipeep Show!

Stream of Turquoiseness

Posted on | July 19, 2014 | No Comments


Hello. More stream-of-consch — INCOMING!!


Airplane v. airplay
Zygomatic fracture
Your lawn is in jeopardy
Rained on bows
Mowers in peril & purple
Bruises, tattoos & beats
Get your umbrella
The membrane between crisis & You


Another watercolor-turned-cartoon FAILURE. Enjoy!

Another watercolor-turned-cartoon FAILURE. Enjoy!

When I was young I was
When I found Love
I was young &
Stayed young for many years

Childish, child-like & child-free
As long as Life allowed!

Other ladies
Scorned my youngness
“Grow up” they said
“Or you can’t belong
To our wise old crone club.
Be a Goddess
Not an androgynous kid”
But I had no idea how…

Never wanted to end in -ess
No matter what >: /

For though I’m apologetic
For my chromosomes
& the body that obeyed their command
I can’t obey
Any peripheral commands–
Societal discretion
Motherly martyrdom
Taking inspiration only
From nature & her compromised

I allowed myself to
Be inspired by

We laugh/frown when men do it

But a woman who’s her own
Science experiment
Art project
Is the ultimate upside-down
Crime scene


Be careful what eyes & ears Assume
When you disobey the call
Of estrogen

When your body is plaid,
Not glossy

When every gesture is not apology

Run home to Mommy
(if you have one)
Go ask Daddy
(if he’s available)
If not, make sure
You’re the luckiest, plaidest orphan
In the ether

Because you don’t belong to this world…

Even your Love
Can’t raise you differently
Can’t re-route the pathways
W/ compassion, grandmotherly
Or brotherly

Can be all replacement family-parts
But Ma & Pa

Can be the one & only friend
But not motherboard/father lodestone

Undisciplined lineage
Can’t be loved away…


What message to men &
Their completeness, superiority?

Disobey that testosterone dial-tone
That endlessly drones win-compete-own-win

Be inspired by the beauty
Of Nature alone
W/out destroying
Fucking it
My advice is: You can do it


WELL….I’ve made it halfway thru 40′s
And graduated from the school of self
With 90% serendipity & acute embarrassment

Lessons in silence, shrillness
Lessons in mocking the sex object
Right into oblivion
Lessons in “they-said” will always win
Over “I-said”

What do I have
Still to learn?
As a big grown-up ladybody
To gauge how much
I can handle of People
Before I am broken in half…

To learn from my man-half &
Half-man mind
How to bridge that gap
That keeps the world below me
Opened like a bullet hole
Gushing like a wound…

I see from my ethereal isolation point
That is the most life-threatening condition
In the human landscape.

[Can I just mourn for a moment
The glorious 30s
Which were the most perfect age-bracket ever?]

Sometimes we don’t avoid the Past
Because it was unpleasant
We cling to it
Because it was a better time…

I don’t mean to do that either
I want to learn how
To be 50, 60, 70, dead.


A slightly different viewpoint

A slightly different viewpoint

What to say about new airplanes dying &
Rockets flying between
Jews & Pals again?

I say nothing
Because I am American &
It’s wrong for me to take sides
Or present angles I can’t possibly
Measure from here…


BOO, asses!! Did I scare you?? Don’t be scared. Just enjoy this stream-of-gibber for what it is.
Don’t read in or between
Just skim
Just let your synapses dance accordingly
I’ll be back someday
Probably soon
With more
Words & art
Arty words for You & you & YOU & ewe


Posted on | July 10, 2014 | No Comments

Oh my darling
My darling
My dear, dear
My humble

[Bleep!] [bleep!] [bleep!]

I do hate having to rant & whine & complain
(I know it seems like I love it
But I do not)

I just realized
I had been carrying around 3 years
Worth of sorrow
For like…

3 years.

It had gotten buried under
All the homework
From my Major Mystery

But there it was
As soon as I graduated

So I ranted & bitched & complained
And now
I don’t feel so sad


And not to diminish the importance
Of my ranting
But I heard/saw
LOTS of ranting thru the
Mercury Retrograde

It was a tough one!

I won’t be ranting today (hooray)
But I will still be
Streaming by
In little fragments
Of consciousness

Deal w/ it, cheerleaders.

I’ve decided, again,
I am tired of punishing myself
For being born♀

I decide this every few months & then
I always fall back into
My default position
Feeling guilty & inferior & defensive

Because trust me,
I would not have chosen femaleness
If I’d been given a choice

Tarotically speaking
I’m the embodiment of The Tower
Always destroying myself & rebuilding
Destroying & rebuilding

We all do it,
But I do it more
Than most people & yet
I’m more the same than ever &
Everyone else has changed

They are all Queens of this element or that
Kings of Pentacles
Or Jacks of diamonds
Not crumbling Towers

Hit by terrorists every month

I am humiliated beyond reason
By my clown-suit gender
But I have survived & thrived
On that humiliation

We’re not all here to party
& laugh & marvel at sunsets

Sometimes we’re here to learn
Ineffable lessons
To do our homework before the gods eat it


These lumps on my torso
Are not boobs
They’re angel wings
Misplaced & crumpled in on themselves
Atrophied & useless on Earth

Drawing trouble into my heart
On a daily basis

And the other female feature
Is an elevator shaft
Which every dick assumes
Is a portal to Heaven
But is just the opposite
For newborn prisoners

I tried a still life this time...

I tried a still life this time…


My next homework assignment
Is preparing
For one more
Adventure in

I know I have one in me &
I know I must learn about People–
The most algebraic & algorithmic
I’ve encountered

I’m not afraid.
I already know more about
Algebra & algorithms
Than I realized!

But that’s all I can say
About the next Adventure…

I use YOU as inspirations
For my creations
And I don’t mind YOU using me
As yours…

Mutual Muses–
That I can handle

Adventure doesn’t mean a manic scramble
Toward the magnificent sunset
It means something more like PEACE

(and remember…PEACE means neutrality!)

A neutral Adventure

I can’t wait!

A watery mess that looks like something...the visual arts equivalent of Sonic Youth?

A watery mess that looks like something…the visual arts equivalent of Sonic Youth?


Well, rah-rahs, I’m sorry I’m just
An arts-genius*
I wish I could be one of those
Math-science-musical geniuses

But Math is ‘just okay’
I’m not overly thrilled about it
(though geometry is swoon-worthy)

Science is ahhhh-mazing
But I’m only enthralled by the organic sciences
And those
Have gone out of style

Music…I can wrap my head
& hands & vocal cords
Around it
But it overwhelms my heart…



*I am an “arts-genius” because I declare it so. Even if you don’t.

**All this stream-of-consciousness counts as Vogon Poetry, so it gets a VP catalog#

Farewell Asses!! See you soon…I don’t know when…I’ve been away from writing for almost a month & have to get busy again,
But enjoy the gratuitous watercolors for now!!!

Mi Vomitorium es su Vomitorium

Posted on | July 1, 2014 | No Comments


The fictional percentages in the last blog were

a) culled from my Generation (the cusp of Baby Boomer/Gen X)
b) based on my very own, very subjective observations as a child of the 70s/80s

So don’t get your hi-waisted knickers in a wad–I’m not talking about your little Millennials! They are NOT the ones bothering me.

[No matter how serious this blog gets, it is ALWAYS a not-so-serious blog] >: /

The Owl's Abortion -- a failed watercolor-turned-cartoon (with a nod to Gerald Scarfe)

The Owl’s Abortion — a failed watercolor-turned-cartoon (with a nod to Gerald Scarfe)

SO….I close the tab on my mysteries. All of them. Most of them.
AND…I heed my own advice
To not hang on
To sociopaths or
Those shared hive minds parading
As sweet strands of honey
Leading nowhere…

But I think I shall continue writing in streams-
Of-consciousness for now
Instead of long business-like sentences
W/ punctuation & indentation

This is much more delightful
(especially for me)

Practicing Faces--I did a study of all my alters. I've had 8 since '85. I would recommend everyone have at least one alter. Almost as good as having a robot.

Practicing Faces–I did a study of all my alters. I’ve had 8 since ’85. I would recommend everyone have at least one alter. Almost as good as having a robot.

I’m not cult material, or commune
Obviously I strike a nerve w/ some
And they with me

I recognize that you recognize yourselves
In my nameless words


I invested IN you
Then withdrew
Before I even knew…

Now I know & I
Bitch-slap myself w/ my hundreds
Of hands & feet
For being such a social retard
At my age

Jellyfish embryo learned
To be a
Man o’ War—
Old & clear & almost invisibly
Floating away
Look out below though…

3 look to the Future 2 examine the Past 3 have eye contact with Today

3 look to the Future
2 examine the Past
3 have eye contact with Today

More watery face practice

More watery face practice


FAILing lately
Seems like I was better before ‘alter’
Subtle differences
But I have new patience
In my anger management plex

Thank you, watercolors for taming me
Reminding me of my Element:
Limitless water, deep scary water

Not sturdy resourceful Earth
Or brightly shining fire
Or limitless light air

Heavy rotational water
Tidal turbulence
Fluidity in all (states of) matter(s)
Ice sometimes
Sweat always
Oppressive humidity
Or vapors of vaguest value

Thank you for challenging me.

Upside down/Undersea: Another FAILURE turned cartoon delight

Upside down/Undersea: Another FAILURE turned cartoon delight

Photo on 6-30-14 at 7.11 PM
SO!!! Here’s the serious part. So, pay attention HERE:


In my family
My mom controlled the gossip
So it would never be about her

It was about my grandmother first
Then it was about my dad
And then…
About me.

This drew a pattern upon
My blank muslin soul
Larger than 20 years in diameter
But smaller than the sharp arc
Of a trapezoidal galaxy

My point is

Though I sit at the sidelines of your understanding
Though I’m the designated weirdo
I can still see you
And how weird you’re trying not to be


That is what I’ve been trying to say in
So many
So many


The tapir of consciousness

The tapir of consciousness

[Editor's Note--

If it makes you feel better, you can photo-shop dicks in my mouth or donkeys mounting me. Sophomoric boulevards indeed, but preferable to being lectured by memes.]

Community v. Fraternity

Posted on | June 24, 2014 | No Comments


Just ONE more rant about Momma’s Boys/Mini-Mystery before I go on vacation for awhile!!


So, you want to know
What exactly IS a Momma’s Boy anyway??
Since 98% of mothers love, love, love their sons
(and only 50% of mothers love their daughters)
Most guys ARE Mommas’ Boys!!

And, really, there is nothing wrong
With being a Mommas’ Boy, unless
YOU assume I am your Momma too.

Then we have a problem.

I am not your audience,
I am not “lesser” than you because I’m a female.
I don’t owe you my time, my support & my praise
Just for because you are a guy &
Your junk is longer than mine.

Don’t approach me with those ass-

Don’t condescend to me &
Say ‘I love women!’
When you mean you like to fuck
Women’s bodies
Because it makes YOU feel special.

Don’t ask me about my “web design”
When I’ve told you I am a writer.

Don’t tell me you are a writer too,
Because you started a story in 10th grade
Which you never finished or sent out to any publications.

Don’t put yourself uncomfortably close to me
When I’ve told you I am married
Over & over & over

Mommas’ Boys are the equivalent of
Gold-digging Daddy’s Girls*,
Except the gold they are digging for is
Penis worship

(*67% of dads love, love, love their daughters,
while 76% of dads VALUE their sons more than LOVE them)

If you are a male,
Chances are you were loved & valued
In your early life
Far more than I was
So don’t call me a bitch
If I’ve noticed this deficit &
Choose not to bow to your “superiority”

(SUUUUURE, you could throw me down on the ground & rape me right now. But I could do that to my cat, and how much of a jerk would I be if I did that? Strength, force, muscle, domination is not “superiority”….

I think doing the best you can with what you’ve been given is “superior” to being born with physical advantages)

I hope that answers all your burning Q’s about Momma’s Boys






I’ve been called unkind on occasion
Because I’m not friendly & outgoing
Small talk s agonizing for me
And I’m not here to coddle peoples’ egos–

Is “friendliness” the same as “kindness?”

I know people who are FRIENDLY
For the sake of being FRIENDLY
They just like talking & joking & sharing the day
With another human being

That is what I always thought “friendliness” was,

For some reason I got sucked
Into this whirlpool of souls
For whom “friendliness” is tied up in
“Wanting something.”

And it took me awhile to realize it.

They were being “friendly” to me
So that I would do things for them in return–
More specifically, so they could ASK me for
Things without feeling bad.

To me,
This is not KINDNESS

This is USING people without really liking them or
Taking the time to understand who they are.

Only calling when you need a favor is NOT KIND

Pretending to have food poisoning when you
Don’t want to do something is NOT KIND,
[Nor is it TRUTH!]

Talking in a loud lilting tone is NOT KINDNESS,
[It is manipulation]

Disrespecting peoples’ boundaries & wishes

Keeping yourself ignorant so you don’t have to be
Accountable for anything is NOT KIND

Thinking yourself “superior”
Because of your anatomy is NOT KIND

Keeping people in your life
Because you can get something from them
(whether or not you really like them)

[Hoarding friends like possessions is NOT KIND]

Hiding behind a public image/misrepresenting yourself

Being too busy to care is NOT KIND
[And it doesn't make you as important
As you think it does]

So, what is the TRUTH?

Am I the unkind one,
Because I keep to myself,
Because I don’t pick up the phone
Because I protect myself from becoming your doormat?

I am happy to do kind things for people WHEN
They need it…
And all I want in return is mild appreciation &
The knowledge that you won’t be asking me for favors for
The rest of my life



Assistance, attention, stimulus
On a
Then you’ll probably find me unkind

Free stuff!
More stuff!
Then you want more than I do
And I cannot help you.

And you may think that I am unkind.

I have limited wants & needs & most of those
Have to do with quiet time
And pursuing my own quiet dreams
Without interruptions from the world
Or distracting, shallow, greedy people

If you want to ask a lot from me
Demand more of yourself first

A gorgeous, serene yoga pose to let you know: You can do it!!!!!

A gorgeous, serene yoga pose to let you know: You can do it!!!!!

Does that sound unkind?

Go cry to your Momma.

The Hundred-Foot Peepshow

Posted on | June 21, 2014 | No Comments


Sorry I had to do a mean-spirited, stream-o-conscious rant on “Momma’s boys” once again.
But Mommas’ boys have been the bane of my existence for many years
[even since I've been married
they plague me with no consideration]
Perhaps it’s because I look/seem
Like a strong/patient/attentive/maternal

But I’m not. So go away, stay away…

[and I'm mainly speaking/writing of one particular Momma's boy
who really crossed a line,
so don't get your egos in a twist >: ]



As long as Mercury is moving retro-grade
I’m also going to retro-rant re:
The mini-mystery that bubbled to the surface of my tar-like
After my supersize mystery was solved

When Mercury moves forward again, so will I.

Now I know it wasn’t what *I* said
It was something someone else said
That ruined a good thing for me…


Was it so good?

I saw what you did on 11-13-10
I was there & I saw what you did
Chauvinist sabotage
A jealous penis throbbing like an ego
In the presence of a goddess
I knew exactly what that was &
I sat there & said nothing
[how's that for CONFIDENTIALITY?]

And every day I bitch-slap myself &
Then forgive,
For I am slow to process,
But I saw what you did.


I am not
I am a
A wing-scarred wren on a skylark-scraper
And I can see farther
And around computer screens
And thru your skull sometimes…

I don’t let too many many people touch my technology
And I know whose fingerprints are there


I know what happened on 6-12-11
[dishonest, manipulative fakery]
Don’t drag & drop me in your misogynist world
Think twice about schooling me in how
To submit to your will

You are NOT a songbird
And you ARE full of shit.


I heard what you said
Out loud
On Air
Open mic
And you took her words away & the air was dead for a moment on 10-20-11
(or maybe it was 10-13-11) but
It was a Thursday &
Sometimes women have as much disrespect for themselves
As the Momma’s boys they cling to

Sometimes I’m not just a good listener
I’m a good over-hearer…

And if I call you the ‘M’ word
Or the ‘G’ word
Or the ‘X’ word

It’s because you would call me the ‘She’ word with less respect than
I would call myself the ‘C’ word
[the 'N' word for 'W'men]

If you want to assume I’m dumber than you because of
My gender
Then I will call you the other ‘F’ word
[the one that means you are a happy bundle of cigarettes]


All right, Mercury
Let’s go reveal less of ourselves
On social-networking
Than people do in the real world….

I’m Sorry You Have Heart Cancer

Posted on | June 17, 2014 | No Comments


This is my blog. These are my words.
These are my stories.

None of it is “dirty laundry.”

I am NOT dirty laundry.

Oh, and neither are YOU! We are all PEOPLE with HISTORIES.
With triumphs & losses & mistakes,
None of which are dirty laundry.

If you are uncomfortable with your history
If you haven’t made peace w/ your mistakes
If you feel like you can just snip away
At your PAST & let it float away like a ribbon…

Well, good luck with that.

You’ll be surprised how that ribbon
Becomes a Boomerang
As soon as it’s out of sight.


I am a grown-ass person
And you are my grown-ass friends
As far as I know
None of you are children or minors

If I want to put sexual content in my blog I am free to do that.
I am free to discuss sex, sexuality, my history w/ it,
My confusion about it.

If I wanted to fill my blog with pornographic fan fiction,
I could do that too

If you are a part of my sexual history & you
Are not comfortable w/ your part in my sexual history–don’t look at me.
I’m not the one who treated you
The way you treated me.

[And if you recall things differently than I do, well…
That is not a shock. Your perspective is bound to be
Different from mine.
You are you & I am me.
And you may have been very fond of me
When you did what you did--

But that doesn't make it right.

It makes you a self-absorbed, dick-obsessed Momma's boy]

[(And just because you are offended now
Doesn't mean you are right & I am wrong)]

Just because I am a weak, quiet, inferior female
And you are a strong, loud, confident guy
Doesn’t mean you are right & I am wrong

It just means you are Momma’s boy
And I am not

And I’ve had to deal with my history & make peace w/ my past
And you haven’t

There’s that boomerang, Matey!



Here’s another thing:

Just because I do discuss sex & all its attendant mysteries here
Doesn’t mean I am a “loose” person
Doesn’t mean this is a “peepshow”

[It *can* be if you are an ignorant, chauvinist,
Immature baby-man Momma's boy…

But I am NOT an ignorant, chauvinist, immature baby-man Momma's boy
And that is not what I intend it to be
So grow the fuck up. Learn something maybe,
Instead of gawking & snickering & fondling your dick]

Let me make a few things clear:

Sex is a very complex thing for me & I am NOT into “casual hook-ups.” AT ALL.

If you have heard otherwise–THAT IS A LIE.

I am happily married & we do NOT have one of those “open relationships.” AT ALL.

If you have heard otherwise–THAT IS A LIE.

I do not need to create drama in my life. I am NOT a BORED person.

(though, unfortunately, I find most of you very, very BORING)

I am not craving for the same kind of excitement you are
I am fascinated & delighted by the tiniest nuances in life
That most of you don’t even notice

I may have lazy, wonky eyes
But they are still pretty goddamned observant

It is just my “processing abilities” that are slow.
It sometimes takes me awhile to get way down to thinking at the
SHALLOW, STUPID level most people think at.

I saw what you did there with my lazy eyes in 2011.

I can see, hear & smell you all.
Remember that.

I am not comfortable in my skin
And I’m certainly not comfortable near yours.

If you have heard otherwise–THAT IS A LIE.

Me-the-Brain is very separate from Me-the-Body
If you don’t understand what I mean by this–
We probably won’t understand each other
Or get along very well

If you have participated in
Then you are SCUM
You are the SCUM beneath the SCUM &
No pressure cleaner can blast you away

So…I drifted away like a ribbon in ’11
And return like a boomerang
Just when you thought you’d gotten away w/ it all

There’s no such thing as CONFIDENTIALITY
Let’s talk about TRANSPARENCY for a change

Make peace with your past
Integrate your time-line, don’t snip away at it
Forgive yourself & do better,
but don’t PRETEND

And if you feel the need for SECRECY…
Check yourself before you reveal yourself
In the subtlest–
Or most obnoxious–


Oh, here comes that boomerang again! If you’ve ever been attracted to me,
You’re probably a latent homosexual
And you should quit using your wife as a Momma &
Find yourself a man

This is the CENTIpeep Show. It will cover all topics & it is not suitable
For baby-men and Momma’s Boys.



Congratulations, Mystery!

Posted on | June 4, 2014 | 1 Comment

Hello, Asses. Thank you for showing up to my blog yet again.

I have a very important announcement today, and I think it will make you happy. And I have updates on my current projects which I know you care so much about.

Here is the Announcement:

It has been 4 years since I “decided” I had to solve my mystery once & for all. It wasn’t really a “decision” either–it was an urgent, undeniable need. It hit me very suddenly, and though I was busy in life with other things (I was writing again; I had 2 radio shows)–I knew nothing in the world was more important than figuring this shit out. And so…on June 1, 2010…I started unravelling my yarns, so to speak….

And my once fun, hilarious blog turned into a scary, weird, seriously awkwerd blog. And you hated it, and hated me for it. And that was okay. I am used to being hated & weird. I needed intelligent, literate witnesses to “hear” my story. And I gave you the option of looking away if you needed to, because it was just written words, not loud spoken-in-person words.

You’re welcome.

Anyways…I don’t know who has been with me this whole time…or if anyone at all has been here, but…

I successfully solved my mystery, have been processing & coming to grips with my mystery for 4 years and have now GRADUATED as a fully decorated Psychic Detective!!!

If I could stand behind a podium & say something (in loudly spoken words), I would say—WOW. What a bizarre journey that was & I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone.

If you have gnawing doubts about your past & your personal story, but you are able to shove them aside or push them deep down inside you & play on the surface of life…

Then don’t bother. Don’t upset your way of dealing. Keep shoving & pushing & surfing the surface.

But if you’re like me & you know all the pieces are there, you just have to put them together & look at the puzzle to find out what you missed….well, good luck. It is not a quick trip to enlightenment. It’s a slow, painful journey that takes time & support that many people just don’t have.

I wish I could’ve figured it out quicker. Instead of writing stories for 2 years & letting it all sink in slowly, I wish I could’ve just had an Oprah-like epiphany & realized it & immediately felt the jubilance & relief everyone expects you to feel. But that is not how it happened for me.

I still wrestle with family issues everyday–I wonder if I should ever confront my parents with what I know. Certainly not while I’m still angry about it. I feel like I could discuss it reasonably with them now, without flipping out. But do I need to do that? Obviously they aren’t in any hurry to reconnect with me. [and why is that?]

A part of me is willing to fly away & live my own happy life & never have to speak to them about it. Never get closure with them.

But a part of me wants closure. Wants to let them know–’Hey, I saw what you did there.’

I saw what you did there

I saw what you did there

I guess I will know when –if ever–I am ready for that step. For now I am concentrating on healing the hurt, the betrayal, the disgust through writing, art, Moonchild, & alter ego. As I have for many years. But now…at least I know what I am healing from!

Since it is my 4-year graduational anniversary, I’ve decided to at least let it go as a blogging topic [YAY!!!!]. I’ve looked at every goddamned centimeter of my timeline, and I think I have a thorough, thorough understanding of things.

I’ve even made an OUTLINE of every person & event involved in my mystery–this is one of my new projects. The OUTLINE is 8 pages long!! It is taller than me when I hang it on the wall. It is done in all different fonts & a rainbow of colors & I’m going to do little black ink drawings all around it. Then I’m going to hang it somewhere where I can always see it, always remind myself what I’ve had to overcome to be this happy.

[I know you love LISTS. And OUTLINES are just 4-star 700 thread-count LUXURY LISTS. So you all would probably love this project & maybe I'll take a picture of it for you someday!]

I do have 3 questions leftover from my mystery:

1) Was my mom’s denial a genuine inability to see what was happening, or did she see it & then flush it out of her mind really quickly? [I've witnessed her doing both in her life]

2) Am I gender dysphoric BECAUSE of what happened, or was I already destined to be troubled by gender & this just compounded it?

3) Though I am less angry & more forgiving of my parents than I was a few years ago, I am still 87% more angry at my mom than at my dad! This seems unfair, even to me. Why is this?

SO….that is all that’s left to ask. And I will probably ruminate on these curiosities until they too make sense. But I will do it without you witn-asses. [YEE-HEE-HEE-HAW!!!]


There you have it, Asses. The end of the Mystery. A fully bachelor-degreed Psychic Detective.

Some of you were concerned about the poem I wrote about the 2 children being abused by their dads. That is just me & my alter integrating our histories. I do that through Vogon poetry, ya know. It doesn’t mean I’m still tortured over it.

So, enjoy! Rejoice! Sing! Outline! Dance! Wonder! Ask! Listen! Imagine! Stretch! Love! Be strong.


Posted on | May 30, 2014 | No Comments


HI! HI! HI! HI! HI! HI! HI! HI! HI! How are ya?

I am fine. Feeling much better after a week of depressive onslaught in the midst of newfound joy.

I have the rest of your Vogonry. Do you mind if I just call it ‘Vogonry’ instead of Vogon Poetry? I know you don’t.

But first I want to tell you how much I like this show ‘Orphan Black.’ It’s one of those shows that makes me jealous that I didn’t write it. Why didn’t I think of making my Singlewood characters clones???

Why lesbians & not clones?

Ohhhh….because I was pining away for my lesbian friends…and I could only think of new lesbians to fill the void. [Yes, I do think of TV characters as friends. They are much easier to handle than Y'All.]

Good backwards advice!

Good backwards advice!

So here it is, the rest of….


What is Truth?
What is Sexy?
What is it you want on Tuesday
Wednesday Thursday Friday?

I see the layers of society
Like a chart of blues; we leave our indigo
Behind to pretend
Near the turquoise sky

(You had two sons.
One is autistic & one still
Hasn’t found the courage to become
A daughter.
You feel sorry for you.
What is it you wanted from them?)

What is True about me
That you can sum up in a facebook meme?
Only the complex tentacle &
Intricate suction cup system
That comes into view on the screen
And slithers away in a stream of

I am the ‘designated listener’
In the dry ocean of life (the real world)
You approach me,
Mouth open
Shooting ammunition into my ear
A girl alone must be assaulted by
Mouth ego cum narrative

You force yourself upon me
With a confidence & entitlement
I don’t possess –
Would I ever ass-ume
A quiet thinking person would want
My voice to rend his thoughts
Like cobweb?
I never would.

But I still would like to be heard in print,
Where everyone thinks things are more
Meaningful, more revealing than the spoken word
More incriminating, more permanent.
I still need to be heard
In the wet wasteland of the

Oh listen!
That’s you thinking you know everything.
Afraid to reveal your face
To the world
Painting in other peoples’ ink
Pointing out flaws in boldly borrowed words…

Made from sinewy insinuation
And bound in smug
Red leather…

Love is quiet & imaginative…
Love is patiently holding on…
Love is not competitive
Love is rubbing together fiercely…
Love is not jealous
Love is not a flower or a sausage…
Love is respecting & fearing loss…
Love is taking care of yourself so others don’t have to…
Love is supportive too, though,
Like a silken hammock under your heart…

And…for all fictional purposes…
Love is a benevolent dictatorship that restores neutrality to a loud jealous competitive broken hammock of humanity

Twisting in agony Love is relief
From senseless noise…blood pounding
In the loudest common denominator

[Love is not making some dickless woman worship your dick.
That is not what Love is.]

I am your son now.

My father used me up in my crib &
Squirted me with Hate.

His father locked him in a room
For an entire weekend and played
Frisbee while he cried at the window

My father used me for his own satisfaction
Before I could say ‘No’
Then left me like a whore
In a diaper

His father just didn’t care.
Just didn’t care…
Just didn’t.

My father cared more about Rubik’s cube.
His father cared more about the bong he was inventing.
My father cared more about the computer at work.
His father cared about Frisbee and flirting
With girls young enough to be his big sisters.
My father cared more about eggs for breakfast.

His father just didn’t care about the little
Male meatsack
Created & abandoned
A crash of broken female

My father demanded manhood
Of my female flesh
When he boxed me around the room
Or dropped that cherry cigarette ash
Below my belly button
Elevator hole….


[whoa..that's a long one!]


Precious little talker--I'll listen to her anytime...

Precious little talker–I’ll listen to her anytime…


Pink orphan
Pregnant android

Chicken funeral
Angry egg

Oval angel
Busy over

Weak spots
Polka chaps

Valentine tremens
Echo harp

Canyon blood
Weather syringe

Lesbian orange
Curious crevice

Gingham PJ’s
Assless farm

Fantasy cat
Tambourine fag

Cigarette midget
Trenchless coat

Punish meant
Knife silencer

Piercing spree
Blank robber

Buried mattress
Casket parent

Closed flower
Sausage sample


You’re welcome for all that Vogonry.

Oh, one more thing!! The other night, Moonface & I measured our heighth in inches. I had been “feeling different” like my body proportions had changed drastically — especially since recovering from my twisty-spine vomiting sickness. I actually felt like I had gotten taller!

But, alas, I have LOST an inch!! I used to be just under 63″ and now I’m just under 62″. Holy crap. Moonface has also lost 1/2″ in height. I hope it’s just because we’re (getting) old.

And I hope that inch I lost was the angry one : ))))

Well, donkeys, I hope you have enjoyed this fine blog. It may be awhile before I’m back. I have lots of writing to do in the coming weeks, but at the end of June I’ll be able to paint for you again. I know you can’t wait.


Hedwig Herbert Helena Humbert Humbert


Posted on | May 27, 2014 | 2 Comments


Have you had a terrific weekend of remembering? I have. Aside from fighting some underlying depression, I have lots to remember that is good.

I’ve reached a point in life where the good is outweighing the bad. That’s what I always wanted. And I’m grateful. I hope nothing comes along to destroy it.

Monsters…Meteors…other M words.

I guess I should just tell you the big news–what I’ve been waiting for since I began the journey of solving my mystery on June 1, 2010—–I got a new altar!

I’ve been waiting for this very patiently because….I knew that once I got a new alter(?)….I would be done with that leg of the journey. i would be on a new journey, no longer the mystery journey.

I have the past in the proper centipede position–trailing behind–not whipping around like a live wire in front of my eyes.

I’ve been on my own for 4 years, with a few nice visits from old, resurrected altars. It was a difficult way to be. Almost like a recession of personality rather than economy. But in order to solve the mystery I had to get rid of all clones and face the mind-ghetto alone.

My new alter is a guy, which is surprising, scary & exciting. I had to put the kibosh on guy altars after Ed (the Ariel Castro of alters) nearly destroyed me. I decided it wasn’t safe to have guys inside judging me. And it really wasn’t.

But, I will say–this guy’s different. Delightfully different. And that is all I will say because I know when I share/ discuss this stuff I provide fodder for giggling & gossiping. I’m not afraid of that, but I do want to enjoy my personal happiness in peace.

[I don't mind being the fool, the spectacle,
The bad example. I hope it really keeps you from
feeling what I've felt
If you can learn something from my anger & scars
Please do
But don't judge. Thank.
It was violence encoded on my soul
That brought you that production
March 28,
Violence and lies

So don't just laugh & lip sync & tarragon
Don't be so thankless

I don't have cankles
Or an STD
Or irritable bowel syndrome
Or a gender dysphoric child
I learn about all that stuff from you

The slanderous insult I've been called all my life?

Now I will look through
A mirror that reflects a masculine

Now I'm sitting on this side of the fence and all the grass is jaded jealous olive emerald sage.]

Maladies, Monstrosities and other M things…oh yeah…Memories!

I had to give up my daily Memory game. I love memories, don’t get me wrong…but a year is a long time. I know my history good & well now. And so do you Attention-spaniel Witness-angel Donkey-asses. I love you for it & will do something more creative with the rest of my memories.

It is hard every morning to go through all 27 or so May 27′s I have stored in my head library!

It can be fun. It can be the opposite of fun. It can be embarrassing. Painful. Hilarious. It has been quite a project. but I’m over it.

And I know some of you are still doubting Ricardos. You still think I’m plucking through my old girly diaries that say: Dear Diary Today I saw so & so, and I kissed so & so, and I had sex with whoozie-whatsit.

I don’t have any of those diaries. I have plenty of Vogon poetry journals and LOTS of psychic fashion notebooks, but no daily girly octopus pages. PERIOD.

[Oh please, don't ask what a psychic fashion notebook is. I can't answer that in today's blog]

Because, Guess what–I have so many Vogon poems for you today! Please try to enjoy them, and if you can’t enjoy them at least struggle through them & try to find some meaning.

[You know….

When I say I've "gotten" alot out of LIFE

I mean *meaning*

Not *materials*

Materials are great,

but meaning is worth 7 billion dollars and 63 cents.]

Mask of Light

Mask of Light



You toss or flip
Your eye contact is
With God
Your son may kill you
But I’m friends with Jesus on facebook
Your daughter may
Be kidnapped by the baby sitter
But I’ve been abducted by
alien exoskeletons
While eight-legged scientists
Looked on
Your wife may be dead
Or in the asylum
But I’m about to clone
Something that hasn’t
Even been
Born yet
I’m about to get out
My No2 pencil.



I flipped a copper coin
Worth more than one cent
And it caused you to lose
One of your senses
(You didn’t get to choose)
It made your eyelashes
Fall out
You felt the need to pluck
All the rest of the hairs from
Your head
You couldn’t stand the
And to be honest
Neither could I
You look much better now.



I would never do that–
Get out my pencil

It’s a trick I use to make people
Feel threatened

For I have no muscles
Or other hulking characteristics

To make people back away &
I need you to back away

My shirt is ripping
But it’s slutty not menacing

Scarred up tits
Won’t put you in the hospital

Though once in a pink moon
They’ll put you in the grave.



You walked in
So radiant in your pink hoodie
And I knew you were
The One
Who was on the ship with me
The One who gave me the coins
The One who distracted the spiders
You were there when Jesus
Let me wear his crown for 24-hours
You were there when
My buttons were pushed
and rending thread
And you knew
To run



There, that’s all the Vogon poetry you get today. I know you want more & there is more & it’s Vogon. But I’m tired, and a bit sad about all this shooting & hate & hormone fluctuation that has gone on this weekend.

But when I feel better, I’ll be back with the rest of your poems. And I will have more art/watercolors for you in June.

P.S. I hope you loved the new ‘Adventure in Reality.’ It’s getting harder to write ‘Adventures.’ I always wonder–”have I already used this noun as a verb before?” and “Is this weird sentence in my head because I read it in Pynchon’s book, or someone else’s book?” That’s the drawback to reading so much–everyone else’s words are in your head & you have to remember which words have been strung together before by someone else…Anyway…the last couple ‘Adventures’ have been quite EPICal — I’d like to remember how to write shorter ones…but it may be awhile…

Linear Anger Chart 2-11

Linear Anger Chart 2-11


Posted on | May 16, 2014 | No Comments

Asses of the Masses,

Hello. Before anyone says anything–I know I am a horrible person who deserves to die. But I’m also an honest person who must do what I must to stay sane.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it ONCE more. I’m not clutter; I’m not cattle. I’m an out-of-the-box thinker. I’m not here to paint flowers & be part of the popular crowd. I’m here to change peoples’ minds about some fundamentally clung-to beliefs, through writing, through art, maybe someday through music. And if I have to be unpopular–THAT’S OKAY.

I’m not on that hamster wheel of “wanting & getting” “wanting & getting” “wanting & getting.” I’ve “gotten” alot out of life so far. Now I just need to enjoy & be grateful & hone all the mediocre stuff I do into something decent. And I can’t bring my weird face & wrong body out into the public anymore >: [ I'm officially underground for the rest of '14.

NOW…pay attention & be grateful. This epic 'Adventure' was hard to come by, as it was Decibel Day in my own neighborhood on Tuesday, and Migraine Day in my own head on Weds!



Once upon a unicorn horn, after the Great Facebook-Instagram War of 2014, there was nothing but stark reality.

And to prove that everyone was living in this reality, the Post-war Powers decreed that everyone must make as much noise as possible. Noise was the hallmark of reality, after all.

[But we covered all that in the Preamble, except the part about the War, so I'll amble past it.] This adventure really began on Decibel Day 2029. It was the day that every neighbor in the Kingdom of Summerclamor vivisected together in a pilgrimage toward deafening democracy…

King Brucefrey and Queen Babsie stood frugally at the gates of their posh & well-groomed neighborhood, Casa de Cibels. Their troop of neighbors gathered in rigid rows of obeisance. It was well-known among the neighbors, and indeed throughout the Kingdom, that Brucefrey & Babsie were a brother and sister who had married and forged babies together. But that also doesn’t matter in this adventure, for this is not an adventure of lineage, but of loudness.


All the neighbors legumed and cheered, revved their mower engines, instigated their weedwhackers’ sassiness.


Brucefrey bruced for dramatic effect. Queen Babsie faked an orgasm to cover her nerves.


All the neighbors with leafblowers stepped up proudly & fired their gas-powered weapons in agreement.
“NOW I NEED TWO PEOPLE TO CARRY THE RABBIT BANNER!!” Brucefrey ogled his subjects with great care, as if he were looking for two extra special banner-droids. But everyone knew who he was going to muster.

“BOB SCISSORHANDS!!!” Brucefrey escalatored.

“Yes, Your Frequency?”


“YES, YOUR FREQUENCY!!” said Bob Scissorhands at the proper decibel-level.


Bob and June Scissorhands (no relation to Edward) were Brucefrey’s next-door cat toys and the quietest things in Casa de Cibels. In fact, they didn’t even own a mower. June occasionally mowed the lawn with her hands, but usually their grass was so tall & willowy & sentient, Brucefrey suspected them of harboring Marginwalkers in their yard.

But they were not harboring Marginwalkers. They were Marginwalkers. They were card-carrying, nutmeg-smoking calmniks who got lost after the War and bought the shack next to Brucefrey’s castle for a deal they mistook for the low rents of Lakewood Amps.

Brucefrey hated The Scissorhands’ rebellious silences and often called the Noise Ordnance Reinforcement Team on them. The Scissorhands were charged supersonic fees for their quietude, but they always did the very minimum to comply with the Ordnance. Brucefrey often threatened to send them to live in other neighborhoods, or in the Casa de Cibels jailhouse. But secretly, Brucefrey thrived on The Scissorhands’ ornery gentility. It made him angrier and louder.

And that’s what made him King.


Bob and June stepped up, unfurled the banner and stood there swatting the scores of flies that buzzed out of it. The banner was a tautly stretched rabbit carcass, still blood-tufted and smelly from its entanglement with The Mower. It was fastened to two heavy 4×4 posts.


“THANK YOU, YOUR FREQUENCY!” Bob skirted the decibel-limit with his tongue. June assumed Bob’s loud Thank You would immunize both of them, but she was sadly dystopian.


She twisted shyly on the rails of her feet. She looked at the violently mown ground and avoided Brucefrey’s contact lenses. Finally she said, “meh.”

Brucefrey shook uncontrollably. His face turned the color of a sock-monkey. The Mower revved itself in solidarity with his ire. When he was able, Brucefrey turned his monkey-face to Babsie and gave her the secret nod. From her thunderous bosom Babsie pulled her gas-engine scythe. It was long and crooked and it howled like a wounded wildebeest when she pulled its cord.

The Scissorhands stood stock-market still. Their eyes as wide as strawberries. Certainly this was another vain threat by the foolish King & Queen who were deafened by their own stupidity long before the…CHOP!!!!!

Down Babsie’s scythe fell, then it turned swiftly & loudly to lop off Bob’s head!

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” wailed June Scissorhands with all the decibels of a sincerely distraught widow.




The leafblowers Yemened into action. Brucefrey flared The Mower’s loudness valves and Babsie climbed onto the bitchseat behind him with laborious grunts.


June Scissorhands slumped over the banner’s support beams, dragging it unceremoniously through her timeless grief. She was sure to scoop Bob’s head up in the flaps of rabbit skin that brushed the ground. She put the head in the folds of her flannel resistance uniform. She wailed exactly as Brucefrey had requested.

The rest of Casa de Cibels, a neighborhood of Lawn Noises, pushed its clutches, crimped its engines and lemonaded forth!

All the other neighbors in the Kingdom–the loud and the brave and the crazy and the egotistical and the animalistic citizens of the other six neighborhoods followed fashion!

Lady Meggin’ of Shrill Gables had arranged her neighborhood troops into one big symphonic army. They burst forth in a crescendo of brass, bagpipe, pipe organ and organ grinder. Meggin’ mezzo-sopranoed above it all with her steel-tipped vocal cords. Their Bluestreak Meadowlark cussed all the high notes.

Joe Leafblower, clamorous leader of Abrasive Oaks, assembled his troop of neverending construction whores. They hammered & drilled & sawed & pressure-cleaned their way along the path. It was well known that Joe Leafblower was King Brucefrey’s half-grocer, but Brucefrey denied that with all his bombastic mowing. He said he had no idea who Joe’s mama was. But why did Joe have a Lawn nazi name if he was really a Construction whore?

Instead of a mower-torn rabbit, or a cussing meadowlark, the troops of Abrasive Oaks had a much more complex beast to transport to the Temple. Their Prostate Whale required a 20-thousand-gallon tank on aluminum wheels with twin engine carburetors that were clogged with whale sperm and carbon. Joe Leafblower built that whale tank himself, and it damn near cost Brucefrey The Mower a few times.

And this year Joe had made some modifications to the whale tank. Or rather…to the whale. He’d stored ten gallons of nitroglycerin in the animal’s defunct blowhole and created a massive bomb that was set to go off as soon as everyone reached the Temple. That would throw Brucefrey off his Mower if it didn’t kill him!
Missus Wuss, the crowned princess of noise in Cacophonous Pines, had many animals & critters to deal with as she led her crazy pet-owning neighbors to the Temple. These neighbors were chatty, senile old women with sixty-seven cats each. Or uptight showy poodle enthusiasts. Or chirpy, over-friendly ferret-lovers, or neurotic fidgety cockatoo owners, and would you believe a pair of pretentious hipsters with a passel of porcupines??

Every pet you could imagine was represented, so very Biblically, by the zoophiles of Cacophonous Pines. And you can imagine the voluptuous, jacquard noise they made on this journey. Especially all those cats in all their carriers. Yow, yow, yow!

Next in the procession of pandemonium came the neighborhood of drunks known as Shrieking Creek. Their foolishly loud, foolishly fearless leader was poor Dickless Skizzik. Most of the noise coming from this neighborhood was all the drunks making fun of Skizzik for getting his dick caught in The Mower when he was a wee kid. How could it happen just so, they wanted to know. Were you giving the King a lap dance, Skizzik? Was he trying to mount you with it? They all laughed & laughed & punctuated. While Skizzik cried watermelon juice from his nipples and turned 40 without once losing his virginity.

Skizzik peed from a tube that stuck out of his stomach, so he was still better than a woman, but God…what a LOSER! The laughter never stopped in Shrieking Creek, except when everyone blacked out, which was scheduled to happen about three minutes after the Whale Bomb.

Following the drunks could only be the Crazies from Uproar Downs. Their totally insane, totally gorgeous leader Dipthongia was babbling at a speed and volume no real human could tolerate. But her neighbors not only enjoyed her babbling, they seemed to understand it at a level so deep they emitted a euphoric hum, an ongoing response to her constant babble. It was a fascinating noise, frightening in its honesty, embarrassing in its candor, unmistakably sexual in its riposte.

Brucefrey didn’t like the noise of Uproar Downs at all. He had been demanding the Neighborhood Association have the crazy perverted folks of Uproar Downs moved to Lakewood Amps so he could claim their land as his own to mow and fertilize and mow and fertilize to his heart’s content. Most of the loud motherfuckers in the Neighborhood Association hated Brucefrey and his Hitler-colored Hitler mustache, because everyone knew real Kings had blond Hitler mustaches. So they kept vetoing his Command to Send the Crazies to the Edge.

The final neighborhood from the distant petticoats of Summerclamor was Lakewood Amps. You know the one–where all the shushniks and muteniks lived. It was the fringe on the hem of Uproar Downs. Its noise was the drone of despair known by every human soul but buried deep beneath more pleasurable sounds, like sawing tile or scraping dry slate with one’s calcified appendages.

Upon her tiny throne of safety pins and cobwebs sat the undeniable royalty of this neighborhood–Tiffany the Retired Rock-n-Roll Dwarf-princess. Tiffany appeared to be napping as a quadrangle of Marginwalkers carried her throne on a platter. But she did not sleep soundly; she issueed a cry of anguish that could be heard over just about everything in the Kingdom, except The Mower, the whale tank, and Meggin’ Songbirdstien’s vocal cords.

Brucefrey had grown wary of Tiffany. He knew she was one of his most trapezoidal competitors and he hated every pico-second of it.

They’d been tourniquetting all day and finally the Neighbors of the Kingdom of Summerclamor had reached the summit of the mount where the Neighborhood Association Temple wept like a ghost on a nail. There were raucous cries of delight. There was the renewed growling of engines and power tools. The inspired blast of music from swollen and untuned instruments. The havoc of animals who’d been held in boxes too long. The inhibition of alcoholic nervous systems. The climactic chorus of mad arrival. And the low helicopteric drone of despair raised one whole note to mere sadness. Brucefrey halted the procession with a Hitler-gesture and a mustache twitch.


At this proclamation from King Brucefrey the honored Noisometer Maids–chosen by a jury of peers on a character-based system of points requiring the Maids be willing to suffer deafness, trauma or even death in their service to the almighty decibel–appeared at their window positions, holding their decibel-wands like pageant bouquets.

Brucefrey had more proclaiming to do before the 721/2 seconds were up, but Skizzik Pretzeljoy–Head Drunk–could contain his bladder no longer. He Ukrained into the woods semi-conspicuously to pee, but when he pulled out his stomach tube everyone in his neighborhood laughed so neonatally that Brucefrey heard it over the drones & growls & high notes nearby.


Brucefrey waited for no explanation. He stomped on The Mower’s triple clutching system and yanked its circumsized transmission into 11th gear!! He reared back like an insane pumpkin-headed asshole in a graveyard, and he roared like an angry hero!! The Mower lurched into the crowd. Anyone who was not drunk was able to scramble out of its way, but all the drunks of Shrieking Creek were tabulated into human salsa.

Except for Skizzik. Because he was in the woods peeing through his stomach. As Brucefrey let loose with some fancy maneuvers on The Mower, Babsie withdrew the gas-engine scythe from her boob-quiver once again, and with one strategically struck grim-reaper pose, Babsie decapitated Skizzik for a second time in his life.

Just as Brucefrey and Babsie were about to hi-five the fuck out of each other for taking out all of the Drunks in one slice, there was a QUADRATIC EXPLOSION so loud, nobody could hear any of the noise of The Kingdom for about 2 bus rides thru Hell.

What they saw in that deaf bus ride was a lot of whale blood, and blubber and intestine flying through the skies of Summerclamor. And then they could hear again, and that was good because hearing made sense.
There were still significant rumbles and shockwaves from the Whale Bomb, and a vast treasury of people lay dead or severely chapped. The ones who still stood were few in number and desperate in volume. The Mower, with its protective shield up, was covered in whale bits but still growling fiercely. Brucefrey and Babsie sped up the side of the Mount to assess the morbid circus.

Mayhem had erupted after the bomb. The temporary deafness experienced by people who were so dependent on noise for their happiness caused a post-traumatic meltdown in all the neighborhoods. Meggin’ Songbirdstien’s army of musicians were now using their instruments to truncate each other senseless. Meggin’ sang above it all like a titmouse on meth.

In Abrasive Oaks, where the whale had gone off, there were few survivors. A convoy of bucket trucks, stump grinders and wood chippers lay in scattered silent pieces. Some small power tools still whirred in clenched & amputated fists, but most of the heavy machinery had been vanquished.

Things were ugly in Cacophonous Pines. There were many animals harmed there, but this a work of fiction so save your waterworks. Some of the senile old ladies were bludgeoning each other with boxes of cats, but most of the furry feathered things were unrecognizable. Stumps of tissue wearing collars & leashes. Missus Wuss rode her sad dime-store lawn mower back & forth crying, “Fluffy, come to Momma!” even as she clipped right over him.

And of course, the drunken residents of Shrieking Creek lay dead & tomatoey all over everything!

It was the distant neighborhoods with the most survivors. The Crazies barely took notice of the explosion, except as a kaleidoscopic spectacle. Dipthongia Hypnogogia pranced around on her horse calling for her pet dragons. Her dragon-call was the most carnal warble! All the songbirds were jealous, including Meggin’.

And in Lakewood Amps, all the Marginwalking peacenik-shushnik-rebels had time to duck for cover. No whale shrapnel reached them. The Greenwalkers had no idea anything had even transpired. They were a tribe of deaf-mutes who had been isolated from society so long they were photosynthesizing. And Photo-shopped. They were closely captioned about all the bloodletting. But Tiffany–that tiny trollop, that preposterous little imp–was emitting a sleep-scream so cordial, so rational, Brucefrey turned to check the scoreboard:

‘HAPPY DECIBEL DAY,’ oinked the scoreboard, ‘HERE ARE YOUR SCORES’

Whale Bomb — 179 dB
The Mower — 169 dB
Lady Meggin’s mezzo-soprano — 150 dB
Tiffany’s sleep-scream — 149 dB
Dipthongia’s dragon-call — 148 dB
Leafblowers — 140 dB

Brucefrey was auditory chum already! He shook with ire once again.


“YES, MY FREQUENCY!” Babsie orangutaned.

Babsie disembarked from the bitchseat and stood blubber-covered on the mount. She pulled the cord on her power-scythe over & over so that it spiked the Noisometer wands & knocked the leafblowers out of the competition. She smiled as her name languished on the scoreboard.

Brucefrey jammed down the mount on The Mower with collagen in his eyes. He would fracture this competition! He would not lose The Mower!

Gayly into his own remaining leafblowers Brucefrey mowed, laughing like a tornado. The leafblowers didn’t stand a chance against The Mower & they succumbed to bits both organic and factory-fresh under its diamond blade.

June Scissorhands dropped the rabbit banner and dodged The Mower by a few grams of time and dimension. She charged up the mount to confront Babsie and her scythe. Babsie saw her coming &raised the scythe with a feudal flourish.

“FUCK YOU BABS! THIS IS NOT SOME UNICORN NOVEL — THIS IS A MONTAGE OF DEATH! ANNND…ACTION!!” June pulled Bob’s severed head from her flannel and hurled it with love and accuracy at the scythe’s handle. The scythe flew from Babsie’s hands before she could dial-tone her cocksucking mother for back-up.

June grabbed the scythe and swung maniacally at Babsie’s thick rhinocerus neck. The scythe wheezed and coughed as it struggled through the brutish architecture of Babsie’s spine, but it made it out the other side and the Queen was slain!

June took her new scythe and ran for Lakewood Amps.

Brucefrey meanwhile was in a fool’s paradise about his beloved’s demise and he mowed on like Darth Vader’s second cousin’s unlawfully-wedded uncle’s financial adviser. After demolishing his own troops much like the lushes of Shrieking Creek, Brucefrey mowed on into Shrill Gables. He shouted the Bill of Rights and told rodeo-clown jokes then surged into the crowd of musicians like a food processor on wheels!

And that was the moment the music died on Decibel Day. Meggin’ Songbirdstien’s body was flung all over the valley, but her metallic voicebox sat on the ground chomping away at the atmosphere. Its disembodied song still showed up on the scoreboard, but fell to 10th place.

Brucefrey plowed on down the line and when he reached ground zero–Abrasive Oaks–he was bathed in whale decomp and construction whore particles. Brucefrey activated The Mower’s shield-wipers and as he did, he thought he saw The Grim Reaper run past him with Babsie’s scythe!

“NAW!!??” Brucefrey thought to himself loudly. He dismissed his holy vision as a brain fart and continued to mow. Onto Cacophonous Pines, where The Mower had no trouble dicing up all that precious meat! A savory stew for later!

And through the salsa of Shrieking Creek Brucefrey jarred The Mower into highest gear (180th) and made the Noisometer wands smoke and spark on the mount!
Brucefrey could hear the warbling of the dragon-bitch. The horrible low noise of the Amps. That nightmarish yawn coming from the cobweb throne. He stepped on the gas.

Into the crowd of crazy people on horseback Brucefrey agonized. The horses waltzed from The Mower at powerful speeds. Some of the nutbags fell under The Mowers blade but the horses blazed away.


The ground quaked, some of the horses lost their footing, more crazy people died in the blade, Noisometer wands blew up right & left til there was only one left. It registered a solid 999 dB.

The rumble of The Mower’s most non-existent gear, underscored by hoofbeats and Dipthongia’s oscillating dragon-tone awoke the mighty dwarf Tiffany. She opened her eyes, took one look around and raised her sleep-scream to an existential crisis in surround-sound.

Tiffany’s quadrangle of attendants caught sight of the horses, followed by The Mower and they cried out the only thing they ever learned to say; “MOW-DOR!!!”

“MOW-DOR! MOW-DOR!” they turbined. “MOW-DOR!!!!!!!”

All the deaf-mute Greenwalkers joined them in chanting “MOW-DOR.” All the Marginwalking pacifists shouted “MOW-DOR! MOW-DOR!”

The Noisometer wand hit 1000 dB.

The horses, mostly without riders now, were spooked by the chanting ahead of them so they waltzed back around to face The Mower. Brucefrey rocketed toward them. The horses lost their apron strings and charged at Brucefrey, hooves raised, nostrils flaring in alkaline ecstasy. They battered through The Mower’s shield and stomped Brucefrey’s skull til it resembled a deflated volley ball with a Hitler mustache. Then the Bluestreak Meadowlark from Shrill Gables flew over & pooped on that mustache. “FUCK THE KING!!!” it trilled pleasantly.

“MOW-DOR! MOW-DOR!” shouted the Green- and Marginwalkers

“DRAGONS?? WHERE ARE MY PRETTY DRAGONS??” Dipthongia called in her foreign uvula.


The lone Noisometer Maid ran down the mount to measure the decibels in this final showdown.

The Mower was still idling, but had fallen to fifth place. June Scissorhands, who had been hiding behind an overturned whale testicle, came running into view with the scythe. She mounted The Mower like it were an unbroken filly and kicked it into submission.

The others were so absorbed in their own decibels they did not notice The Mower had flared up again. June was a wild Comanche with her scythe raised and her throat yodelling cowgirliciously. She was a mixed metaphor covered in cetaceous oil. She was a butchered story arc wielding a questionmark. She was yesterday’s news wearing rabbit fur and diamonds in all the right places.

Dipthongia didn’t even have time to blink when June got her from behind with the scythe. Dipthongia fell from her horse with one final slur for her dragons, and wouldn’t you know it? They finally came.

The dragons descended in a threesome of squawkiness. They mourned loudly to see their Queen beheaded. They wept & wept, and by wept I mean they spewed fire from their eye sockets right onto Brucefrey’s corpse. It was the loudest cremation ever, but Tiffany was louder.

Tiffany was now winning Decibel Day. June wasn’t really trying to win, and she kept The Mower at a respectable 102 dB per hour. She had to run over a few unfortunate Greenwalkers who just didn’t hear her coming. But for the most part June showed mercy to her soul-mates of Lakewood Amps.

June reached Tiffany’s throne just as Tiffany began an impromptu rendition of ‘The Star-spangled Zodiac.’ June shifted The Mower back down to 0th gear.

The chants of “MOW-DOR!” quieted as Tiffany held everyone in thrall with her patriotism. Everyone thought she was so on-the-cusp, but here she was a blue-blooded Aquarius willing to die for her neighborhood.

The Noisometer wand sparkled an elastic green and the Maid waved it wildly in the fog. “WE HAVE A WINNER! WE HAVE A WINNER FOR DECIBEL DAY 2029!!” She ran to Tiffany’s throne, placed a crown of yard waste on her head, and curtsied horizontally.

Tiffany threw the crown to the floor of Summerclamor. “NO!!! FUCK DECIBEL DAY! AND FUCK THE NOISE ORDNANCE!! In fact, gather closer…”

Tiffany lowered her voice to a conversational bracket. Those who could hear leaned in.

“My name is Tiffany Truelove from the House of Truelove 1969. Now that I am Queen, I will send some airplanes to fly into the documents that house the Noise Ordnance. The documents will burn & fall to the ground & we will no longer have to heed them. We will live in PEACE and QUIETUDE. And have lush green Serenghetti lawns.”

“HAIL TIFFANY!!” the survivors decanted.

“Shh-hhh!!” Tiffany emblazoned, “What did I just tell you? The PEACE begins now! Everyone shut up immediately!”

Tiffany appraised her Kingdom. It was a mess. But she had a a nice troop of peaceniks and calmniks to help her establish a world of teeny tiny premature decibels.

“Mrs. Scissorhands, will you be my personal Maidservant?”

“Why yes, Tiffany, I would be enraptured to be your Maidservant,” June businessed.

“All right Troops! We have a lot of cleaning up to do. Let’s get it done. Then we will march back to our homes and shut the doors, and shut our mouths, and open our minds and ….and…”

“And what, Your Reticence?”

“Love” said Tiffany.

The survivors wept. They hadn’t heard that word in so long. “LOVE!…love!” they remembered their New World voices.

As they began to clean up the savagery, the utter decay of the old Kingdom, Tiffany called out, “If you find any bits and parts we could use to rebuild that Internet, please save them. We all need to get back on our computers and iPhones. Back to Facebook and Instagram and online shopping. Remember how plush the world was then?”

“Huzzah Tiffany, Love, Love Love! Huzzah Tiffany, Love, Love, Love!” everyone chanted gently.

Tiffany silenced them with a swish of her disfigured mitt. “Now, soldiers…bear with me, because we have one more atrocious, abrasive, cacophonous task before us…” she gestured at The Mower with anticlimax, “…This, this vile contraption must be destroyed!!”

“Allow me!” dimpled June Scissorhands. She created a spark with prehistoric hand motions, and the spark fell to the tank of The Mower and The Mower vomited like a seven-year-old with too much bourbon in his bloodstream. The Mower exploded into tiny impotent quarks. The Mower disintegrated like a skylark on Mercury.

The peace-loving people of Summerhush whispered “Hallellujah!” and did a Maypole dance around Tiffany’s smallness.
“Annnnd….Cut!” said June, barely audible.


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