The Shaman
The shaman had no intention to continue the debate. He quit. And started working for Satan in order to repay his debts owed to Santa. The anagram was itself satanic. (Code word: versus diabolicus). It fucked with the very alignment of his soul. He laughed through it though. And into a Siberian exile he would gladly go. Nothing could hold the shaman back now. Come urine-sleet, come gargoyle, he was ready. Amanita, sage, salts, a small fortune of very "dear" medicines. He was certain that he had left the redwoods behind him. Following windy cracks, forgiving dendrochronology in order to trick people into shaving their neuro-fro as part of a complex scheme to turn wise crones into drones. And then, out of nowhere, Hasidic robotic beetles spitting their belief juices on arid plateaus with Hasidic straws. They die when juices are spilling at Judas dirt imbedded Jesus clone; a minor Dr. Seuss inspired odyssey. I would write about it I suspected or maybe not -- not to weaken the sentiment with withering sentences. And what threadbare attachments my threadbare emotions had miraculously been stitched to near perfection by "the thread bearer." Who was that thread bearer shaman in the desert? I was the God self again. I had slain the animal self. It was irradiated by the FMDR for the... It's hard for me to remember. Just as my feet are callous so is my soul. I feel nothing. I want to talk to god or the devil. I want to pick the louse out of my proverbial neuro-fro. Soon it will be time to harvest the penicillin from the bread. Then we can hold our annual ritual of bitching about babies with scabies which inevitably leads to our diatribe concerning all manner of dampened felt scratchy infantile infections and remember the better times back in the old days, thunderstorms or when we beat kids with novelty cocks. Brown lines inside grey dissect the sky vegetables gravy with blankets made with scantrons marked to digest the information of the world intestines. The world intestines are in the vault of the belly of the world bank. "Gut track" the subversive synth-pop band from the UK; whose reputation withered when it was found that they were actually drama students from California. One such student was in league with an anarcho-capitalist art student who believed men are bread-winners by design. She made pamphlets and glamour bombed the school with them. Glamour bombing is not violent. It simply is a form of distribution. It heals ulcers with the light of information, the gender of illuminated pipe-tranced lovers of Lucifer. After enacting this glamour bombing, the students decided there's no hope for culture. In bioremediation, or the grand television hope of it. These students instinctually sought out the errant shaman, like Conan's instincts for the rightness; a radiation from the oily LSD cove of it all. Broadcast souls of uncertainty and hold contests to see which orgiasts could consume the most entactogens. You might call it debauchery, but we're just trying to revive reverie and study alchemy in Salem's lot of lofty, lo-fi, zealous laughter. Decontextualize your recorded emotions later, lay threadbare naked, lay it on the dirt without the expected. Lived redwood moments. Lay it without your usual tiered rules for needs and wants. These aren't a filibuster, no speech by extremist cults, these emotions are no shirt, no pants, in dirt. Khaki sometimes helps us undo the fake and inflate reality. We denounced religion and preserved God as a concept which we reserved for unnamed signifiers shifting in subjectivity. We proclaimed misanthropy as the new one true religion. Renounced humanity. Denied our humanity we became extraterrestrial. We acknowledged that in essence the universe is unstable, or if not, at least our knowledge of it is unstable; a concept that the existentialist would support. Sexistencialist turning dirty ally cat circus tricks slit-throat banally anally laissez-faire spilling the filthy guilty line left-handed polydactyl pterodactyl terror-wrist witch trial!
