Acidity - Novellete Part III (final)

Part Three

Cyanide Heaven



Street Dancing is right! The MMA is the quicksand of myopia, hatred and intolerance. This much I am sure of. Because like Abrar they too moved from the trees and the jungles and onto the limelight of mainstream fame; emerging from the romantic but tough cult-rock visions of the present. Impulsive, up-front "intelligent apes" exploding a nuclear device! A quasi-reactionary right and then way down into money with none of them ever thinking of what contributed to the ape becoming man on Adam and Eve’s debut album!

Local blasphemous people, improper because they dance on consumerist symbols instead of moral symbolic imagery. Attraction also mostly .... and ironically .... and … who’s Kajol?

Taoist taboos. Western war crimes. Feasibility issues. Narcissistic traumas. Billboard conditioning. Opportunity prisons. Plural vibrators and ritual condoms.
Quantitative taxies forecast forced labor. Paint their meters red. And then some. But the Bolsheviks are sucked. Fuck! PHUT! Saint Petersburg loves popcorn. Are these your strides?

These are mine. Number nine. These are the strides taken to kill. Not just one another. But for emancipation. New relations. And if you cross the bridges. Of destinations. These are the strides. Of honey and money. And in some cultural egg yokes. Quite funny. Watch your ass bleed. Conceive. Read. Gabriel on line. www.come. Hey, proxy server. This is they say: God sink America!

Coming! Hissssss said the good bitch. Alien reptilian shhhhhhh. Piss on graves and the stars, lads. Wagon loads of want. Local mud orgies. Mind the ladies. Triumph.
Today matters to tight-assed cancers. Mate a yuppie with a tomorrow’s Mirza and then a preacher. Beard the bomb? Roll back the escalators. Babes got hair. Khan Bhagro from NA:19, Shikarpur. Unholy desert wet Bhawalpur. Pop unholy! To where?
Epileptic doomsdays kilobyte the sight. Unemployment needs haired shores and doomsday surgery. Eden block’s Osamas of ice and protocol parties. McDonalds’ the tradition. Bow-tied idealism. Fail to hail the religion of “professionalism.” Of toe-tied chootias in counterfactual shells. Hollow eyes under the shadow of M.A.C Mascaras downsizing ingenious anarchist pranks.

Think-tanks giggling, cunts flushing, sight drowns the shocked. Eventual ice tonight. Plastic Iblees, brown walls, pop porn. A paper-clipped dystopian mix, tall, bored. Whitewash the might. Guillotine evolution. Literature for masturbation. And surgery.


Asked the heroinchie: “Why are we here? Or rather why were the Vital Signs and Abrar-ul-Haq here? What possible reason could there be for the existence of these hairy-chest, cola-laced Pakistanis?
You don’t know? Moron! God sent them. Yes, god. Makes you think twice, hah?
They were the abomination before Congo Fever.
John, the late canteenwallah at St. Patrick’s Govt. Collage, once in a deep state of meditation and while listening to late John Denver sing about the birds and the bees, said, “bullshit!” Which sort of answered the question about Vital Signs and Abrar.
But what about you? Why were you put on this planet? Are you just another Vital Sign or are you a fruit about to get Congo Fever?
Maybe a cabbage is how you describe yourself. To tell you the truth, I really don’t give a damn. I don’t care why we are here. But I do care why I’m here and Madhuri Dixit there!
However, my favorite all-time eternal question remains, “why me?” No one has ever been able to beat this one. Imagine Zia-ul-Haq falling from the sky like a burning mass of tyranny and asking this question. Imagine Saddam Hussain and Mulla Omar ducking American missiles and asking this question. Imagine Atiqa Odho looking hearing herself laugh and asking this question. Imagine one of George W. Bush’s dogs looking at his owner choking on a pretzel and asking this question. Makes you think, huh? Does it? Really? Don’t fall over with all that blood rushing to your head. Consider art. Consider politics.
Our neuroses are defined by the questions we ask. The paranoid, the depressed, the totally fucked-up, they can all be classified by the questions they are always asking of themselves and others.
No sir. I never ask myself, “why me?” I look around and ask, “why you?”

The flowers turned into dry gray thorns. Didn’t look very, very tasty, tasty anymore. Worried, the plants used reversed psychology. And that was to basically do nothing. That’s why the elephants had wonderful memories.

Said the Holy Father: “The Lord’s a savior of this earth and all kinds of the pension fund mullahs. It’s only fitting that there is a Bush. We knew there was a reason why those guys mate with praise, give thanks to him and praise his name. His faithfulness continues through the pro-corporate movement. The new Hindu movement in this context is a very vague term, but is appropriated by problems and is really ruled by the New Aryan Delhi’s Bhagwan Sri Krishna’s period pains rather than a pension fund in Mumbai.”

“The Islamic movement is a better investment than a pension fund”, said the Mufti. “The new song we’re most pleased with is actually a speech.”

Violence gave his mullahs commerce opportunities in Peshawar. “Hmmmm…” pondered the heroinchie. “ God! May it be my darkness!”

The Coptic Church and the mountain Druids shat straw bricks on the wanked heads of silver screen scientologists.
Loaded ashes, the glass smashes. Might is sight. Robots stung and exulted. Cut the thaw. Never deny hated loot. What the fuck. Culture and cunts unite. Took death to cyanide heaven.