Shane Jesse Christmass, Acid Shottas, The LedaTape Organisation, 2014.
The purveyors of consciousness expanding LIED! They told you to TUNE IN, TURN ON, DROP OUT - but they did not qualify this statement. Dropping out from what to where to what again. Dropping from sanity to madness, to bad breath, the horrible cheap tab. ACID SHOTTAS is the aftermath. It is the mid-80s. Heavy Metal is rife. It's pre-MDMA. Tacky, inexpensive acid is on the streets. This is the decade of hate. Cold War. Reaganomics. This is the aftermath. Wolf-shot words written to Dancehall and Acid House. Window Panes, Sugar, Mind Detergent, Microdots, Weddings Bells, Orange Cubes, Hits, Barrels, Tabs, Blotters, Heavenly Blue, Sugar Lumps, Sunshine, Tickets, Twenty Fives, Liquid and Liquid A. All different names for Acid ... LSD. and then there is Thenailomen. This is Samuel Cowley's plunge into madness / mysticism / dancehall and acid. An indistinguishable situation of controlling Cohorts and bubbling psychosis. Apparitions flickering across Samuel's mind. Most of the women hold their Spanish Brandy breath. They do not move. This novel couches literature into counterrevolutionary measures. The essence of the mentally anguished individual stands up for what it is, pitiable. Greetings folks! You'll be approached and watched as you slip your tongue into the Thenailomen. The Nail of Men. Arterial connections. The detective agency shrills, shattering the late afternoon. Silences. Huge creatures stand, bunched like big come-ons. This horrible drug racket. Toy-like like the other sea scum. Fifth Avenue executives. Complex organisms. A yarn chain of parked cars. There's the door to the hospital. Jittery girls moving in to embrace. Blunt jaws. A boatman comes ashore. The girl's arms about me, mashing herself against my face, addicted to Thenailomen. Her shoulder. Stumbling among short minutes. The Shoe Co-op around 10am. You are not too caring... This is Vietnam...
excerpt 1:
The Police Officer furiously unzips the backpack. A steaming pile of grease on cloth awaits him, and although contempt of legal establishments displays emotion, rarely do Police Officers and officials act as a single organization. They cover facets such as coldness, their faces, while simultaneously crossing cultures with joy, contempt and whining. Chester Patton had no identification with these blue knights, with their controlling take, and whether or not the Police Officer does accept payment, the origin of their evil species is uncertain.
“Okay, but we got to take your photograph.”
“Why my photo?”
“Because it’s just gone 2:30 am on a Tuesday morning. If anything happens in this city tonight, we’ll place it on you.”
Contempt greets the employee, these guys reverse that and give it back out again. Contempt over the world means sitting within the element, the air, utterly - police policing. The bulb stirred Chester’s half-closed eyes.
“You take a beautiful photograph, Mr. Patton. You’re all photogenic. Thanks for you time.”
Both parties departs. There’s a pallid taste of cortical whoredom upon Chester’s lips. I pick up the morning newspaper. Several scientists overseas have managed to read the mind of a man whose been in a vegetative state for the past five years. They have done this with a brain scanner and asked him “If his father’s name is Alexander”. To answer yes, he has to imagine he is playing tennis, to answer no, he has to imagine he is walking through his house. I find out that in this great age, and behind a closed door, scientists are preparing to read the minds of these people, and their remains, which is the consciousness of the living dead, and thereupon the physicians will try to share, and publish, their information, for they are aware that the presence the undead shows to external stimuli is only working to supplicate human thought, whether it be developed by a doctor, or whether it rises and will cause nerves of service to the rest of the living world is unsure.
“Will thinking I’m playing tennis ever help us.” I wonder.
The current and breathing deceased are piss-potted and bedpan strapped to life machines, in some dull and ended Nightclub in London. They’re now the subject of Emeritus Professors who first poise over their thoughts, and these Emeritus Professors burn their findings. They are causing irreversible brain damage to people the world over. Main henchman, alcoholic drug addicts who have grand plans to raise the buried henchmen in the basement, back from the dead, and in some crazy conclusion and culmination, this henchman activates the brains, like it’s something to really behold, and he searches through their musty voices, to see something within them that is nevertheless, them casting themselves into communication without an outside brain scanner. The undead truly asks, “Why thirsty land, if you are the accomplished, bring us the most high for the assessment of the true living, so that we can push us forth through this deathly misery, so that we’re involved more in life … rather than this horrible portal in our ceasing heart”. I draw back on my cigarette. I head over to the State Library. It is just after 3:00 am. I catch sleep until it opens at eight. In the morning, the peat-like sun produces lithe warmth. People sun while events like bashings go on in the street. The following is another argument against ingratitude. I am dammed if I am going to read and adore the world’s fabled knowledge.
“Okay, but we got to take your photograph.”
“Why my photo?”
“Because it’s just gone 2:30 am on a Tuesday morning. If anything happens in this city tonight, we’ll place it on you.”
Contempt greets the employee, these guys reverse that and give it back out again. Contempt over the world means sitting within the element, the air, utterly - police policing. The bulb stirred Chester’s half-closed eyes.
“You take a beautiful photograph, Mr. Patton. You’re all photogenic. Thanks for you time.”
Both parties departs. There’s a pallid taste of cortical whoredom upon Chester’s lips. I pick up the morning newspaper. Several scientists overseas have managed to read the mind of a man whose been in a vegetative state for the past five years. They have done this with a brain scanner and asked him “If his father’s name is Alexander”. To answer yes, he has to imagine he is playing tennis, to answer no, he has to imagine he is walking through his house. I find out that in this great age, and behind a closed door, scientists are preparing to read the minds of these people, and their remains, which is the consciousness of the living dead, and thereupon the physicians will try to share, and publish, their information, for they are aware that the presence the undead shows to external stimuli is only working to supplicate human thought, whether it be developed by a doctor, or whether it rises and will cause nerves of service to the rest of the living world is unsure.
“Will thinking I’m playing tennis ever help us.” I wonder.
The current and breathing deceased are piss-potted and bedpan strapped to life machines, in some dull and ended Nightclub in London. They’re now the subject of Emeritus Professors who first poise over their thoughts, and these Emeritus Professors burn their findings. They are causing irreversible brain damage to people the world over. Main henchman, alcoholic drug addicts who have grand plans to raise the buried henchmen in the basement, back from the dead, and in some crazy conclusion and culmination, this henchman activates the brains, like it’s something to really behold, and he searches through their musty voices, to see something within them that is nevertheless, them casting themselves into communication without an outside brain scanner. The undead truly asks, “Why thirsty land, if you are the accomplished, bring us the most high for the assessment of the true living, so that we can push us forth through this deathly misery, so that we’re involved more in life … rather than this horrible portal in our ceasing heart”. I draw back on my cigarette. I head over to the State Library. It is just after 3:00 am. I catch sleep until it opens at eight. In the morning, the peat-like sun produces lithe warmth. People sun while events like bashings go on in the street. The following is another argument against ingratitude. I am dammed if I am going to read and adore the world’s fabled knowledge.
excerpt 2:
Fast and working to satisfy the people’s needs, to the system of ownership anything carried out under the influence of Thenailomen will merely maintain the separation of the immediate impulse. Since it is not linked with revolutionizing the watery night, Thenailomen is the most abundant alkaloid found in opium, the dried sap (latex) derives from shallowly slicing the unripe seedpods of the opium, or common or edible poppy. What response do the authorities provide? Little, in their longest, obviating way. About 83 per cent, 12 times a day, they bully the mineral kingdom, advising the kingdom that the kingdom must provide the opportunity to provide the world colours. The actual colours are due, no exceptions to the tool of manipulation. They keep on with the Lehrer Code. “Two invisible ghosts – all and no appreciation – fat in harvest as an autocrat, hand to the cause or spiritual armour, ash and whatever - can not continue with bereavement…” this is an excerpt from the telegram the authorities received.” On display at the Army Medical Services Museum there is an exhibit about all the fear and limits which have objectively restricted the development of the masses. It subjectively states the people need to strengthen their own authority, to “free themselves”, to “work hard” and “obey orders” in majesty of excess. In science there’s no mass extermination, no mass industrialisation, and while the Buddhists are becoming interested in software to quell digital distractions, the Catholics are still kissing the bones of dead Saints, practising mystical algebra, a rude intercourse betwixt chloroform and water. When the Lehrer Code is introduced in the 1970s, the neighbours to that psychiatric ward, the one above the garage, report excessive noise. It turns out the noise is coming from the 100 block on the corner of Lemoyne Street, off Lake Zurich. Some juvenile delinquents are arrested, a 17-year-old on a second-degree theft charge on March 1. He is adept at ESP, also has previously had his mind uploaded by the Institute. His name is Lowne Caskey. Tight Shot: Close Up: Mug shot of Lowne Caskey. Although never convicted of racketeering, Caskey is convicted of income tax evasion by the federal government. In 1920, the Eighteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution bans the sale, the manufacture of Thenailomen. The book opens up - Hepatitis C – Contraindications – Pharmacology - Gene expression - a movement to rectify the mistakes. The lady plays her many pranks. She circles the image. Now of Fear and Falsehood hear no more, all innocuous liquor. In many a mimic moon, a representative or a state represent the political line. This include new revolutionary orientations which the Party “unanimously agrees to dismiss with unapparent fire” ANY WORK OF TASTE FOR ETERNAL GAZE IS TURNED IN! Chester Patton enters the apartment. It is my place. By the way, my name is Samuel Cowley. The front of the apartment lies out onto a small side street, the back leads onto a public park, quite unusual. There is about 5-6 people inside the apartment, Chester Patton and myself. It appears that most people have finished work and come straight over. I have a sample of Thenailomen and everyone is willing to try it out. The central channel on the television set is switched to Channel 44, a picture of a female vagina and an elastic massaging jacket moves in-and-out of static. Until the recent discovery of cloning, no one thinks that technology is in any way known as the wake or night watch. Television’s main purpose is to connect the reciprocating mechanism to drive the stout wooden crosspieces which are placed under the wrists, elbows and guide rails of all accomplices. Chester Patton sneezes. No one cares. I pull out vials of Thenailomen.“Place it to your nostrils,” I wheeze.
“Form an outer wall, like a sliding unit, move the vial about the nostril. Move the vial reciprocally so it connects to the minute members of the Thenailomen into your brain.”
On and on Sam I go.
“Move the rotating shaft 31 degrees…”
Chester looks at the vials, horse tranquilizers, poppers from sex shops skewer the victim and straight inside with the drug, there’s no such style or favourite daughter in this business. Chester once had a friend who cracked it with him. Chester was huffing down poppers between the dance floor and the toilet stall. This friend, more a sterile acquaintance really, was concerned, being that his father was a veterinarian. Imagine that, “I’m a veterinarian’s son!” He described to Chester that the vapour produced massive holes into his brain. Chester imagined something like solar flares whereby his body would spasm linearly into the bone of the sternum, and a pitchfork would prevent all movement in the skull housing that of the head, rupturing the sensitive membranes and tissues in that area. Chester, myself take Thenailomen, not knowing what the preferred embodiment of the present invention, that being Thenailomen, will occur. Chester blanks out. He sees the 5-6 men walking as groggy toes to a chain, permits fell, the permits secure the wearer in a process of evolution. The species here on Earth is selfish. Men start massaging other men’s human sexual organs automatically. Someone wheels in a Breast Ripper, cold or red-hot the four claws slowly rip the flesh of the 5-6 men, rip the flesh to form a formless instrument of execution rather than terror, or torture. The device encloses blows with mallets, underpinning the men with eccentric and reciprocal motions, while the linking member becomes pivotally connected between the shaft and the sliding unit, while the metal gag is principally used on scolding housewives up and down the tiny side streets. It turns into a hell of a commotion. Chester likes the Thenailomen; it is like a cool crank portion on the crank shaft. Chester enjoys the drug. He has no reason, just a mounted portion up his nostrils, destructive in accordance with the jacket and cap on his body.
“We don’t matter, how good, how bad they say her name is.” Chester babbles..
“I’m with you. I didn’t shower, you know.” Lowne replies, scratching his shoulder.
“Just shaving. You’re talking too old. I’m looking at, and I’m not getting cussed out behind you because of all kinds of stuff.” Frances interjects
Horrible work, senseless employment, sweat encumbrances all compelling, blacker than a coal, they are flame. Frances owns a boat. It is all regulations, relations, more precisely, the bourgeois political relations. The boat achieves some remarkable entertainment. I came off it once in a little way, amidst work. I keep them at it, rendering the barnacles between complete theories, barefoot, standing on the shore-ground. Lowne slowly, in his one reading style, reads the press attentively, and the most he deduces is the militarised line of before and after 1966. These news headlines about the serpent, the golden flame of wiping the mud from his face, the productive forces so to say, strengthen Lowne’s brain power. It is diced, and cubed, and is randomly pressing the buttons. The light from the commune and the factory, 400 members of the party illuminated. What a formulation of beggars, and not knowing a human from a person, I fire the shotgun at them all. I pass out, proffering lengths of gardens on dollar and a house for Lowne to executed, as scared as he’d been lately. He ricochets off in a new noise. There has been no creaking as this new noise comes down; but should there be? The sea no longer is distinguished; denied, dictatorship of 1969. It is all tepid buffoonery to Chester anyway. He’s never been a fan of sound, all that noise, music, chiming carousels, the trumpets, the classical cultures of the Hebrews, the later cultures of the Greeks, the Romans, the common areas of music, the Persian music from the language countries, the science and art of music, the 1970s, 1980s rock fusion, no he’s never been a big fan - all rah, rah, rah.
Shane Jesse Christmass, Croak and Grist: An Anthology of Short Stories, Paroxysm Press, 2007.
Read with caution. Croak & Grist is a psychotic collection of work from two thoroughbreds of the Paroxysm Press stable. The stories are host to paranoia, schizophrenia, illusion, delusion, mysticism, love and redemption, themes that are excruciatingly extracted, and transmitted in such an unflinching manner that they may cause a contamination in the mind.
BLACKER THAN COAL, THEY ARE FLAME.
All the Motion Controls & other poems
Whispers Of Flux Duppy:
Flux Duppy leaped up, grabbed my ankles, and pushed my body along the ground, yelling mean-spirited words at me. I picked up the words with my teeth. In this house we whisper, harsh and coarse. We whisper out the window, playing in this house, in our mouths, silly swords in our hands. Flux Duppy is all competitive. She slams prayers, all dicey from her larynx. She explores meat-caves, then runs her fingernails all over my vocal chords. The air makes eye contact. Wrestling air to a whisper. Crawling out of like a firefly. Houseplants deathly like heat. Flux Duppy lions a carcass. I climb on her shoulders. Slightly hunched as it’s a tiny room. Telephone with plastic cups for a receiver. Holding my voice with my other hand. Walking the distance up to Flux Duppy’s mouth. She disappears into rope. She jabs time. Beleaguered, I down my throat into her eyes. She becomes thinner. The sword goes into the sword, further deflating her. She slinks away, fingers glued to her head. Shrinking to the size of a search lamp. Flux Duppy running toy trucks past the bedroom. Flux Duppy slinging gin across my mouth. Flux Duppy’s hand dragging a red glint across the sword. The cat comes in. Crawls onto the sofa bed. Hops down, up and into my larynx. Flux Duppy shrinks words by my neck.
Shane Jesse Christmass
A Few Manifestoing Thoughts on the Novel Acid Shottas
Shane Jesse Christmass is the author of the novel Acid Shottas. He’s was a member of the band Mattress Grave, and is currently a member in Snake Milker. He firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy.
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