6/15/2016 0 Comments Hideosity by Julius FerraroWhat To Do or A Hideously Complex Complex(ity) Narrative by Foolius Jerrardo; “Held Her Smelled Her,” a Farce in Short Horridies; nor How Tragedy Isn’t Tragic Anymore, in light, in light of our knowledge of the repeated Failures of Life “It’s a slow process into hot water toes/anklesveryhot/ass+genitalia/back/ legs/st””””””””omach/neck/hair/forehead/ey-----winkwink------es/nose/chin/ mouth/bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbreathhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh/standupquickly.” Unformatted Handwritten Throwntogether Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Breep! Frank wakes lathered in sweat, beneath his eyelids a nightmare of floors monocular and motive, nocturnal cupidity burning off in the predatory light of day, two suns swirling round each other in the big sky today, dichromatic, a light blinking on the immortal- horrific alarm clock. ---------------- Frank couldn’t decide on walking fast or walking slow so he walked medium. Obviously the problem was diverted imagination; pushing and holding at the same time. His imagination was of the old type, and it posed him problems. The world around us was in a state of freezeframe. Plenty happened in it but nothing happened to it. Something was waiting to occur, some great storm; the air was wet with it. And Frank feared the storm, knowing he had been dry for too long, like the wicked witch. Until then he’d stumble onward in a forgetful haze, looking back every once in a while in fear and anticipation, slowing, quickening. The crime was murder like all of the others. A murder precipitated by a Well it was all in his notebook Why look into this one and no other the world is full of happenings Well it was in his notebook He passed under the tree line and was glad of it. Sheltered under the lazy boughs he found fresh air. The city anymore had come to smell of must, and old dinosaur bones. The smell of trees reminded him of the day he struck a tree while speeding to the birth of his first-born. He came to a stop at the place. Mad spoke softly, at times hissing and at times growling. “I got you no leads. But let’s walk, have a talk, Jer to Frank. I’ll tell you it’s a hell-hole out there. It’s no wonder I hang out in here. Makes my fur go white watching you anymore. You’re no longer social, Frank. No longer social. Cigar? No? I’ll tell you, Man, your problem is your general structure doesn’t match its base. You’ve got all sorts of frames and pilings and shit and nothing inside it anymore; you’ve updated the heating systems but left the surface structure the same. Now, everybody’s standing outside the building watching the empty glass elevator glide up and down, big abominable eye blinking dumbly like some inbred invention, and everybody’s too claustrophobic to even dare push through the rotating doors. I used to see people pass through each other’s proximities but you watch really close now, there’s nothing of the sort. And if it does happen somebody’s hackles are up. Cigar? No? Who the fuck do you think you are?” “You’ll condemn me for being anti-social Jeremy Mad, but you live out here in the woods.” Frank sighed out all of the air in his lungs. “Well I’m Jeremy Mad.” And he winked mad, as empty-lunged Frank examine the air around his lips for imaginary contagions. ----~~---~- His cousin Luke was a compulsive masturbator. He sits crouchd in a public bathroon pumping, furiously pumping. Milking the one-eyed. He makes the worst noises doing it. He couldn’t in his own bedroom because the location has gotten redundant and invasive. He has dry hands and the webbing between his fingers is the worst dryness. He does things like this (masterbate) even when he’s sick, when he’s cold, whn he’s drunk, all times in which it is selfdestructive. And Also when it isn’t, but just saying. So he’s thinking of swelling things, like tits and fat pussy lps And he’s thinking about a wet, warm, sweet, decadent, luxurious, comfortable, sweet, slick, swampy place for his prick. And after his prick cums all over the floor and the bathroom wall he notices that the spac between his forefinger and middle has crackd and hes shed a little bit off blood which has already dried. He does’nt take much note of it and went immediately to clean up the mess. ~~~s-pl.--- Marijuana stalked the land. Carrying clubs and rakes and burning torches, cannabis and alcohol and lysergic acid diethylamide combed the high grasses and the crumbled buildings, killing man where he stood. A stalwart few of us, rallied around the colors, carried our rifles and shotguns and hand grenades and fought back. Most ran. Some tried to defect and were shot dead for it. The fact was, the drug contingent was not taking any prisoners. It would come into a town, spread itself out. Cocaine and Heroin and Ecstasy and Booze would spread out like a cancer and take the children out first, cropping us at our roots. Then the businessmen and officers, destroying all order. Finally the remaining middle class and the poor folk would run around, abandoning their houses, mindlessly fearing the alien killers, trying to find lodging or asylum, but even the church officials were long gone by then. We locked ourselves up in a bomb shelter, but like the living dead, marijuana found its way in. Snuck in through air ducts. Burned us alive, pricking the youngest of us on pitchforks and carrying them off to be eaten. We, the rest of us, were burned alive. I was burned alive. I was burned till dead. End of paragraph. --~~---~- The building crumbled on the outsides, though the insides looked jüst fine. Apparently this was not true everywhere. Our office looked jüst fine, but downstairs in Accounting they claimed they were losing drawers by the desk full, and those in Finance claimed their notepaper and their pencils were ripping or breaking far too easily. At these complaints the managers had a meeting and we finally decreed that A) those offices should be locked down, and B) anyone trying to leave would be shot till dead with staple guns. In addition, their flow of refreshments, drinks and sandwiches, was cut off. Their misfortune was being susceptible to the infarction; their crime was hosting it. Conclusion: as a result of decreased profits incurred by these cutbacks, we may be forced to execute layoffs. ------- The man who had been wrongfully accused sat at his trial. The timing of the crime was unfortunate, since its punishment had been recently increased to interminable solitary confinement within the home. The state’s lawyer questioned him brutally as we watched with mixed emotions. Finally, halfway through the trial, the accused broke down, screaming out with some remorse, “I was in the room when it happened.” This was very strange because all present had assumed he was innocent ~-----------~----------~~------------------------------~----~ The town was my town now. No one came in or out but me. I had collected all of the sanity I could in armloads full of guns. I kept them hidden in various places, the safeties snapped off to keep from a misfire. They were hidden in deep, dark places which only I with my malformed child’s body could reach; only a twelve year old missing a left shoulder and some ribs could reach. I would hide out of the way of the nighttime at night, sleeping or not sleeping, I never could tell, and during the day I would stalk. Shotgun and bandolier (slung over the extant shoulder), knives and hand grenades, all left by the human militia, by dead relatives and tribe members. All of the weapons I collected in my combing of the town. I was always finding more and hiding them away. Food was scarce but I had trained away my appetite, eating only the cockroaches, which had survived, and drinking only their juices, making sure to hair-test them in the local lab for edibility first. I killed anybody who came near me. Single shot to the bridge of the nose. They could be drugs or they could be drug fiends. These days Cocaine looks like just anybody. I killed a woman who looked like my father, single shot. Bridge of the nose. Could have been him. I killed a child who looked exactly like me, and I thought he was me at first but then I realized that he had his right shoulder missing and not the left. Shot the left one right off, shot off his feet, shot off his genitals, and shot out his eyes before I finally killed him dead by stepping on his heart through his shirt. Killed every bit of him before I killed him. Single shot, bridge of nose. You have to be careful, these days. -boom-- Freddy sped down the long pass on his bike, hopping the front tire over rubble or exposed roots and forearms as he came to them, relishing the deep feel of the seat lunging into his backside as his rear tire humped thickly over the impediments. His biking skills were improving. Before the town blew up he never had the guts to ride, being afraid of the people on the sidewalks and the cars in the streets, and the sharp turns; he could never turn well. But now that nothing huffed breath in this world besides him and the Korean grocer down the street and his sister Phil there wasn’t much left to be afraid of. So he took advantage of the opportunity too improve his biking skills on this very nice, stolen bike. There was a forehead poking out of the dirt ahead of him. It was already cracked and difficult to see since the dried blood blended in with the red soil. He sped up. He was going to take this one full on. He had a stiffy the size of his thigh and this was his favorite bump in town. It certainly wasn’t the biggest, but there was a long runup to it it so was his favrite. He picked up speed, standing up to get the optimum power and momentum behind his dive, and closed on it going faster than he ever had towards a bump before. Exileration sped through th eveins in his eyes. His fingers are burning holes into the bike handles. Just before he struck it he slam his ass down on the seat and thrust the front tire into the air. Before thet tire even landed the back tire smashed against the forhead. He heard a horrible noise, somewhere between a squish and a crunch, coming from under the tire. Simultaniosly a sharp, stabbing ake echod thoughh is prostate and his balls all th eway down to the tip of his dock. Struggling to keep ontop the waverng bike he griped tightly with hi sfingers as he howl at the awfull pain. His stiffy shotting away. The bike topple and struck his head on something softish. He lie in the dirt a long time, hands clamped over his acing ass-hole, holding back teaers and hating hi sfucke dup masturbatun ass i stod bye + laghf, because the forehead was not a forehead but a swollen eyeball jutting out of the dirt. -squonchhahahahahahahahahahahahah---------haha--------ha------------hah After the great kablooie we returned to our offices to find rubble and just the frame, we all proceeded to lie down in various parts of the rubble, one by one, those untouchable steel pillars vomiting up into the sky, and moan our exhaustion to one another, staring at one another, our libidos hung slack, like elastic underwear past its expiration, all of this not out of allegiance to the office but for the shelter of the sure, straight steel --- - - - ‘I - - […] and then she felt herself solitary within a hollow cave, one which seemed to stand three feet around her. She thought she was opening she eyes but she wasn’t. Her lids might just have been frozen and then been ripped off by Gods bitter hand’s. As thoughts once more began to spawn on the void around she abandoned brain stem, little, one celled thoughts, she packed snow into her ears and recalled a bit of avalanche advise, spitting. It told you what is up and what is down. She spat, and it flew up to strike the roof of her snow cave, and with its heat burnt away a bit of the wall and died hissing. Above her shrieked the desolation of the world she knew. Panic-stricken monsters!! Crying to leave the rock!!! She tried to rain them down but they shimmered and shook from between her helpless fingers. Pour downwards down in to the earth. Down into the gray snow. If I had a shovel, she thinks, I would dig a hole. Just to get under it and face The what is under it instead off The what is above it. Down, down, like a shovel, down. Digger, down. Hoe, down. Digger, into dig. Magnificent great grey metal tilling object, in to the snow. Finding a hole and digging it out. Scooping snow back behind her, filling the holes behind her to find new holes. Her mittens wear away and she use her fingers. Frozen, being crushed by the rock, his dirty little fingrs wear away and he use is wrists and teeth. The knees of is pants ware away and is legs began to freeze, s flthy fkng lgs,let m go. e kk s eind, e lms sself […] manuscript ends here.---~th--u---ckkk--thu---p------~~------~-----~~~~~~~~~~~ A woman told her daughter she was not allowed to go to the mother’s trial. The daughter sat in the living room alone for the first time in her life, frozen solid and paying very close attention for a while to the crumbling sounds around her, coming in from the outside. She sat on the couch creating fantasies in her head: Great green dragons, emeraldine smoke drifting from their cavernous nostrils, sky-blending helicopter blades jutting from their backs at angles, like airborne whales lumbering through the sky, soaring and sweeping, soaring and swooping, making the most delightful grunting wails. They would scoop the frightful birds into their maws and chew them out, squeezing the bones painfully out their genitals like urine and letting them fall whistling to the crash. The bigger ones flew low, snapping the more twisted, tortured treetops down and leveling the apartment blocks. The smaller dragons flew high up, spouting their candied breaths at the people standing on balconies. Certain dumber, inspired ones would collide with the earth, forming great craters and evaporating with their mass the basements and the lurking caves beneath. They were martyr angels, re-carpeting the world with desturction. But of course she was forced to let it go, eventually, knowing that the destruction outside was not from dragons; it was, impossibly, manmade, and made herself lunch for the first time ever: a grilled cheese, a beautiful grilled cheese, bread burnt to black-top perfection, beautiful and long and toasted like the black-sanded beaches of Mirrormeremeland, fantastic land of Obsidian and lobsters; between these beach-breads a paradise of cheese, gooey and warm as God’s good hands enclosed about a good girl, golden and hot as a mother’s eyes which burble and love with protective delight; it was a daylight sandwich, which, bitten into, provided all of the promised land’s promised purchase to her incipient incisors. In this moment of peak affection, she chewed the sandwich, the food made of her own hands, and turned off the burner safely, and made it back to the couch, still loving the sandwich, and the toasty world between her walls burst with home. 000000001 Craig was a deformed human being. Hideous, hump-backed like a whale, web- fingered like a frog, wing-hipped like a woman, cow-eyed like a cow, rock-foreheaded like a monster, single-balled, he had no right to live in this world. He ate soup out of cans and stayed in his room. He enjoyed pigs’ feet as an occasional treat. His lack of genitalia and isolation made anything disgusting-looking fascinating to him and wonderful to eat. The more grossity he devoured the more grossity he possessed, and if he couldn’t be beautiful he would show others he didn’t want to be. Animal eyeballs. Animal foots. Animal cock. Animal fetus. He would slaughter horses and throw away the rump and the ribs and the bellies and eat the meat around the knees, the neck, the groin, the gums. He would eat the organs and the other things not meant to be seen. One day he died of an infected sore on his finger from scratching his ass so much. Weirdo, final son of man, dead to a finger. The blast of a chopper’s blades stirred the dry leaves up around him: “whup whup whup whup whup whup whup whup” looking down through the branches into the empty sky/vulva hanging limp over the sides/uncertain what to attract to/chopper pilot gender uncertain/ no want to be a gay girl/lookng down through th ebranches/and seeing th esky/earth gon/eys sttop brain/ / / / \ /\ | /girl gone/penis drifting loosely toward the spinning blades/pulled by strange loud wind/uncertain (who is I? around not so much anymore. want to run but legs = earthless, and no rooms to stand up; looking down on chopper blades, they are an eye always blink- pupil hollow. run flirty squares around the nopilot - who goes there over there now? He’s fl-ng endless lengths into the blending sky -) growing slithering crumbling crawel; Moxie was a boy with a girls’ name. One day shortly after his parents’ death he met Phil, a girl with a boys’ name. He started talking and they became immediately close. They didn’t take their eyes off each other but occasionally they would take the clothes off each other. In bed they were maniacs, constantly shifting positions. Moxie wanted bottom but would take top, Phil wanted top but would take bottom, often they would lie across from each other and shriek. Their sex was maniacal end shfitng. Phil wanted to rub herself against his face but found it disgusting. Moxie wanted to head in her ass but she was very dark there. Often they would sit in different rooms and watch television. They breathed hot water. Moxie stopped taking drugs. But one day they looked out of a window and saw the desert, and he lay on his back and she climbed on top and finally after the long months and months of furious fucking they had an orgasm that flattened his testicles and swelled her uterus to bursting, and the desert around them shook with it like TV’s first ever sin, and celebrated it, as its atomic blast splashed outwards and incinerated every dead cactus stump and smoked every cockroach corpse and torched the unmarked amoeba graves, and slowly, cautiously, the world opened up in a hideous grin - - - - Bio: Julius Ferraro is a journalist, performer, playwright, and administrator based in Philadelphia. He is co-founder of Curate This, has served as theater editor of Phindie, and writes for thINKingDANCE, Philly.com, The Smart Set, and the FringeArts blog. His recent performances include Micromania, The Death and Painful Dismemberment of Paul W. Auster, and The Mysteries of Jean the Birdcatcher with {HTP}, On the Road for 17,527 Miles with 14th Street, and his Phindie Fringe Bike Tours. With the City of Philadelphia Mural Arts Program’s Restored Spaces Initiative he coordinates community-led environmental arts projects.
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