Robert E. Brown. Cleopatra Peach

She is:

an expatriate in a state of decay,
riddled and thrown by the ugly beliefs her father
and her father’s
fathers declarations of expectation impregnated
upon her at
such a soft
angelic
age.

A specter mirage holding court in the grey matter of those who behold her a different novel in each late night
fantasy hard on.
Hard copy facts meaningless as she poses regal,
the smell of whiskey on her breath,
a cigarette taste,
of lipstick,
and the style of a cadillac.

Her subjects under heel smile grinding bloody as she toe taps,
jukebox
happy
to the joys of James Brown.
she revels in her shackled empowerment
placed on a throne in a
midnight
poor man's
alternative nation.
she is elevated and word candy delicious.
she is black lungs and pale sexuality.
she is a sovereign divinity and a barbarous bitch.
she is mislaid and squandered in grace.
A harlot royalty beaten-
tin crown worn in glamour.
Eye shadows on conspirators all submerged in murk fill
musk dark
dim lit envy
at evening end she exits.
leaving them charmed.
leaving them spent.
a cerebral celebrity.
bloated with dead hope energy.
and thoughts of the next night.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Automatic Horror Show III.

Early Checkout at Hotel Dopa.

There they are, standing at my door,
a visit by the one and only polyester Elvis
idol and his two lovely prodigies, each
luscious young beauty puffing away with
cigarettes dangling and lit with a bundle
of witchcraft dripping from their arms.
(gifts for me I assumed)
Their faces kept moving and they leaned on the MAN clutching at him
and wanting to be him as all good members of the world community do.
He asks if I want to hear a Joke that go's something along the lines
of how many Ted Bundy impersonators does it take to screw in a light bulb.
(I don't get it)
but the women love it their tight little asses wiggle as they shriek
in unison,hacking and wheezing and grunting, rubbing their fart spitting
assholes as they laugh bellowing clouds of toxic waste from the pouty red
gaps in their faces. I'm so impressed I tell them to come back anytime.
Elvis shoves needles the size of pencils red hot and burning into
his skull
(a mighty powerful image)
and again I'm impressed.
One woman tells me her name is Jill like in the nursery rhyme,
that's what she tells me and then she boasts that she can do anything
and crawls the walls to prove it. Elvis does a headstand and pisses in his
pants
(blasphemous to graceland fans)
The girl named Mary confides that she's on the rag and I tell her
I'm sorry and offer her a cup of tea. Jill accepts for her and blows a wad
of yellow sickness on my head from her ceiling perch. It sticks there like
glue for the rest of our story.She apologizes, congested lungs you know, I
tell here it's alright these things happen. Mary starts to cry and I think
to my self that she seems very clean, virgin like. Elvis tells me that she
is, as in the good book do you understand the connection?
He sprays carpet cleaner on his crotch and scrubs his jeans.
You see the stink of piss makes him sneeze.
(an interesting peek at famous idiosyncracies)
Jill still on the ceiling reminds me that she can do anything and
snips off her tits with long hard fingers, sharp and shinny impromptu scissors.
Not knowing what to do in such an awkward situation I laugh nervously. Sour
white maternity pours from her breasts, a broken dam of thick rich creamy
protein,a faucet full of exotic taste sensations flooded my floor.
(Suddenly I feel hungry.)
Elvis shrieks and turns blue black spraying carpet cleaner all over the
room with amazing epileptic fits of gyrating motion, can you dig it?
(a shocking development indeed)
Mary asks about the tea and Elvis robotic and stern rubs her glowing
face into the wet floor.
Shocked by his brutal lack of gentlemanly manners I suggest that
we watch tv and they settle down.
They sit on the couch with me and we watch a football game and I make the tea,
enough for everyone and we sweeten our cups with Jill's bloody milk still spurting sporadically, running down her
belly leaving stains on the couch and shriveling her tenderloin skin.Occasionally
I glance at her and lick my lips
(curious by my own arousal.)
Everything is quiet and cheery until midway through the game.
Elvis and Mary suddenly decide to put on a half time show, choosing
the place of inception right in front of the screen, the second coming,
the king jr. lord almighty they fuck do you understand.
(I'm honored as a witness)
Jill merely giggles and peels off her ear and lights a cigarette.
Why?
(Because she can do anything.)
Elvis and Marry finish quick and rough. Glory, glory the king has
come again. It seems his stamina was low. After a minute they look up embarrassed
and blushing, seems animal instinct has struck again. With the puff of smoke
and bang of sonic boom they disappear leaving the windows shattering in
their wake.
(a truly surreal twist to the evening)
So here I am sitting next to the dripping little Jill, Jill just like
in the nursery rhyme. She stands up and flicks a match into the puddle where she sat,
the room engulfs in flames her with it. Jill was a gas pumping never ending
well of bottomless dirty thoughts. I ask myself why she did it and I tell my self,
"hell that was some girl."
(She can do anything)
I decide to exit not a moments peace,
seems tonight I'm checking out a little early.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. No Pardons

There are no more pardons.
Brutal in simple reality.
You,
Beneath my gentility.
Stupid without confession.
Crying like a girl.
Polluting like a child's seat.
And I,
Impatiently awaiting your demise.
Murdering the mailman.
Suffocating your creative rights.
Euphoric in apathy.
And you,
Rotting the alphabet.
Whimpering with your
shallow exulted swagger.
Gasping profane neglect.
And I,
Pleasing my right to value.
Puritanically shunning the dynasty.
Letting the axe fall in your scarcity.
My graffiti on your joy.
Shit smears on the side mirrors of your vision.
And you,
If I am successful, feeling this with out my presence.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Tale of Two Dukes

The Dukes weren't exactly a fine couple and this they knew.
but, things went rather well as far as okay things do. Then one night, eight exactly, dinner was late and
burned charcoal dusty and the ropes binding their chests twisting tight
with courtesy snapped.

Bang.

Mariposa Duke all house dress stained and menstruation greasy threw the gravy out
the window chanting widow maker prayers of divine condemnation
while Claude staring at shit metaphor flushed the toilet three times in protest,
jelly belly murder mad,
screaming.
Unfortunately
all in all it didn't matter in the end.
And in the end
that ending was all that mattered.

Three years of violence later they divorced.
Him chewing bubble gum,

her chewing lead.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Greetings from Hell

Alone.
Bar stool king.
Proud whiskey shot shaking.
Holy horny hipster,
life stealer,
Fuckmonger,
gasping at a secret personal nihilist jihad.

Monstrosity.
A wordstuffed zealot hero cheat.
Proudly razing a shriveled skull consciousness and blank disinterest.
Always an offering at the table,
accepted and always inhaled,
soft and smooth like milk sheets
relaxed with a virgin maiden martyrs scent slowly held in with frigid
air pulsing lungs exhaled drunk and floating of the ground just a little,
Coughing loudly
and suddenly hard to swallow.

A moment of march hare clarity.
Raping angels,
terrorizing the ape gods,
fist fucking the resistance,
teeth gritting the allies,
embarrassed slightly,
and a pleasant shade of blue calm,
for just a moment,
and then
tainted again.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Late Night Moment with My Me

Here I am, desperate.
Sitting.
And here I ask, secluded,
“Who the fuck is knocking at my door?”
Silence is my answer.

And still,
Here I sit
Bewildered
with my dead muse sternly fused to my head.
conscious of my every thought.
Narcotic shackles of schizophrenic
consistency pierced through my lips,
weighing heavy on my every move.
Uncontrollable words poisoned and sweet
slobber down the links,
the droplets strengthen and ruin
the different pools each make.
A mirror image of my me.
In my belly squirm the worms of inconceivable
delights.
They duel sharp as stilettos
Angry- Ravenous- In a hole-
Never ending- An infectious abyss-
Just like my me.

And still
Here I sit
My cock curled up,
Meat for the beast.
I don’t move,
My feet rooted concrete into the ground
with a disconcerting ease.
My eyes serve my meals in a heated
religious fervor
I shutter with every bite.

On occasion
while choking on shadows and sweat
I want to conduct surgery,
amputate the baggage.
But with all the bloody slop and plop have and done
What would become of my me?

Nothing. Nothing? Nothing.

And still
Here I sit.
Comforted by the soothing easing torment my own
womb provides me.
With babbling giggling idiocy I skip rocks down
my dream day childhood sunny little wet wonder brook,
smiling
shinny and idyllic
as I tetter on the brink of black uncertainty.
What would become of my me?
Nothing.

And as I sit.
I burn blue in the snow
brightly
and I die with my muse fused sternly to my
head
dead
Just like my me.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. He's Clean

(robbing the doppleganger)

They say-
he's clean
just like mama
or maybe papa
depending on your tilting bent.
He's smooth.
I liked him cause
he slides
unfamiliar
righteously Blind
sick toothed
mouse Trapped.
His knuckles shine like chrome on a hot rod
just waiting to be shifted to another day,
a twisted point of view.
Like a fouled cat turned out on the street,
our boy learned to hate well.
After all, what did he have left?
A shining sense of tear and wear fashion.
A sonombulist's Reason.
The company of spent men and unfamiliar Cooze.
A curse giving us Something to strive for,
to die for
to wrap our Little girls in news paper and cry for.
Either way he's smooth.
Yeah he's the kind.
Bathed in his Porno satan giggle.
Attending his toilet bowl mass.
Breaching the anti-etiquette.
Sleep crusty hungry.
Dirty jeans and lactate.
Unaware of this theft,
and just part of the search for some kind of brutal salvation
that has always left me wondering.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Automatic Horror Show II.

Robert E. Brown. The Automatic Horror Show I.

The Tales of Anna Banana, Sodom Queen
bed time stories of love & madness

episode one

ANNA IS A CELEBRITY

"Well now it's been a long time coming back"
screeched our anti hero.
A maiden with small breasts
large feet
green eyes.
Icon to the cringing plaid personalities that frequented the sweaty back alley belly,
The fuck crazed room.
All holdouts of long past trends.
Shrill ex-teens, bouncing
blind
horny.
Her rump was plump and round and her skirt hiked high.
She smelled of roast pork, clammy and old
and her hair was straight and cold and oh-
it was so good to be back.
They chirped and hummed, rubbing there chests-
slow.
She smiled a flash of slick yellow and inhaled-
dragging from her cigarette and they gathered around hanging on,
waiting.
She paused and exhaled-
a plume of perfume scented smoke.
She said nothing and sat...
From the cushions bellowed a mushroom cloud of choking dust as
she sprawled herself across the archaic patterns
crawling over the rough fabric,
faded.
The air in the room was wet.
Damp from a hundred spent bodies.
The smoke in the room was thick-
eye burning life giving oxygen,
a hazy hampering treat to the
floundering crowd of grinning open mouthed zombies waiting on our sodom queen.
By her side laid her husband-
sallow and unmoving.
He was draped in sheets,
covered in flower prints-
bright and flowing.
The shinny silk clenched like plastic over his withered limbs-
hard and loudly cheerful.
He was uncomfortable in his submersion of affluent excess,
but no one cared because that was where he was supposed to be
that was who he was supposed to be and-
no one could tell anyway.
His soul laid hidden
near dormant inside his shriveled husk
slowly petrifying
slowly stiffening
joints grinding on those occasions that he moved.
They were linked-
by vows of self destruction
this corpse and our dead and gone queen.
Hooked-
together in a wedlock of hedonist frenzy.
Locked-
by the addiction to their own gratification.
For a moment he focused on the crowd.
The cold bodies sweating
wreathing
moaning
waiting
enthralled and in love with his
dearest
sweetest
kindest
sodom queen.
For a moment his eyes surveyed the room.
Eyes glazed with a pale sheet of sweet narcotic glass.
For a moment he watched her fans laying in waiting-
scattered through the darkness and he thought...
For a moment he thought how foolish they were to let themselves on and on and...
The moment was gone.
But our anna was still very much aware.
This was her entrance.
Life was good-
thought our prime performer in this tasty play of comedy and words.
She sat back sucking on her cigarette, and tilted her head to the sky.
She stared at the faded chipped paintings smeared-
across the crumbling ceiling of their desolate orgy dungeon hall.
And it felt good.
"We love you anna" (anna is a celebrity)
murmured a young man fan
stud gone bad,
bold-
eager for the rush.
Chicken for the feast.
Squishy ripe plump for the picking.
His hair long and thin
dirty, covering the bruises on his face.
But not the ones on his neck
chest
arms
legs
feet
hands
not the shit on his cheeks
not the blood on his balls.
"And I..." spat our lady of the hour perfect in her poise and grace
"love you as well."
A long and lovely sharp finger uncurled from it's hand glided to our boy,
lover boy
darling boy
that cute little scamp
This finger, her finger
stretched to his forehead and
with love in love
lovingly punctured the tomato skin hide.
Not at all hard,
easy in fact.
With a sigh he clasped her wrist with both hands and licked her sandpaper wood bark shin.
Plasma and puss on his face.
There was a soft clamor among the restless room.
Movement, like a bowl of salted slugs-
thought our maiden in distress,
in need of rest,
smirking at the creativity contained in her analogy.
Once again anna banana, sodom queen sucked on her cigarette-
turning to her husband wheezing with every breath.
She bent down, exhaled her lung full of pink smoke,
and kissed his blue lips bridging-
saliva across their mouths as they parted.
And it felt good.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. Jack Is on VacatIon

Jack Is on VacatIon,
-------------------------------
(prose in poetry, metaphors for the eternally tired)

Jack is on vacation, come back tomorrow.
Prologue: (love what you do to me)
She wore the cloths of a frigid mother, house wife, bitch, but she was beautiful. Under the cloak of convention was a body drunk with decadence. Her mind was on fire with strange ideas and ambition, inflamed with unknown experience. From her lips dripped the dreams of men. From her thighs steamed moist soft heat. Sometimes I would hover around her head absorbing her words and thoughts. Other times I would sink inside her, emersed, forgotten, lost, euphoric in a sea of primordial indifference. The gaze of her absent eyes would penetrate my body making me squirm, giddy like a child being bathed, baptized, drowned. On stormy nights she would stand in mud and pouring rain while I grubbed and groveled at her feet, licking at her toes, in the mud, with pride, in conquest. At times even Christ in heaven masturbated with envy.
*************************************
Time hates you, living deadman.
Skin cell no. 1 (brain cell no.6)
My four walls contain me, nothing else but me; me and my filth. Waste crusts the floor in piles of my trash. It's all around me, extensions of me. My shit children born from me out of unknown substance, sustaining me from an unknown source. My belly is always full.
The air in my room, the space that contains me is pasty with smoke. Thick gaging smoke blown out from my lungs. Heaved out of me in uncontrollable mechanical spasms, forced by reflexes naturally beyond my control. My lungs repeat the process over and over in a constant flowing motion bellowing out my breath. Toxic breath sucking the poison in, and pushing back out. My eyes tear as the clouds travel and plume onto the walls or the ceiling or the floors and return crashing back into my face. Hot air in my face. My four walls contain my air with a rubber seal efficiency, tight and binding, never letting a breath escape. Thick choking suffocating breath never escaping air tight. Sometimes in the quiet and the dark I hear a fly buzzing or a cockroach crawling, scratching, clicking up my wall. At times I'm sure I've been invaded. My bunker womb has been violated and I start to cry. But I calm down. I know if they're here, they're just part of me. Nothing is alive in my four walls. Here, everything is dead. (Inside.)
***************************************
The little monkey man led them in a parade through paradise. Glory, glory let them all in.
There I was, in my dusky room on a dirty floor stinking of stale sex, cigarette ash and lies. There I was, with seven children of God all around me. A cast of angels:
-Three sat by my side in the bodies of three dogs, black as tar smeared midnight. They were all in a line softly moaning, suffering quietly.
-Three in the bodies of three young ladies dead and cold. They stood before me one by one waiting. Decaying with their eyes closed.
-One in the body of a small naked boy. He stood in the corner of the room and his body faintly glowed just enough for me to see.
The child was chained from neck to floor by a bronze linked leash. He stood next to the wall with a vacant stare as he cracked his head into the grey bricks. Over and over, slowly and methodically into the same bloody spot. I watched enthralled, enamored, hypnotized as the deep rich droplets of blood once racing through the boys body came bubbling out into the cold world above. Every crack of skull and brick popped little dark beads into flight. I was fascinated like an eager child and I watched each drop fall, slowly speeding into the granite floor exploding into nothing. I was content.
I turned to the first three by my side and pointed to the boy. "Why doesn't he scream?"
"Because my lord, he doesn't know to scream," spoke the dog weeping.
"Just as you don't know to scream," snarled the angel.
"He is deluded in his perceptions and pleasures," spoke the dog whining.
"Deluded as you are, my lord," panted the angel.
"He is blind to his spectacle and humiliation, though he can see," spoke the dog sobbing.
"Blind as you are, my lord," barked the angel.
I felt a slow wave of dusty heat crawl down my head around my body knocking me smiling dizzy. I turned to the women with a half wits grin. I got it. They floated off the ground with arms out stretched beckoning me forward. Sealed with sleep their gateway eyes slowly opened releasing large wet tongues. They opened their mouths and unrolled more, sticky red tongues. With a musical rip, their nipples revealed another pair of fat hungry tongues squeezing forward slug like, dripping threads of mucus. They reached out for me, beckoning forward.
I began to giggle. The dogs began to laugh. The boy stopped his work and pulled at his chain chuckling. I began to laugh. The dogs began to howl.
I got it. I got the joke.
(but it wasn't that funny at all)
*****************************************
The silence speaks to me. It whispers secrets held deep in the minds
of sleeping lovers. Secrets the lucky forget. Don't you hear it? It speaks in
tongues, motherfucker. It screams.
There was a girl once, with a painted face. Not painted on, painted. Like a renaissance saint, Joan of Arc at the stake, softly martyred. Her skin was smooth and relaxing like a narcotic sleep, glowing specter pale. Only her eye lids moved. Slowly in lazy dreaming motions. Opening and closing barley detectable over cavern water eyes. Eyes sad and unreadable, eyes that see differently. She knows something. She never talked. She never smiled. She never looked my way. I wished she would, and I'm glad she didn't. She stood in the corner of the room and mourned. For what I don't know. She just stood there while the little monkey man ran in circles up the walls, across the ceiling and down the walls, screaming obscenities as he went.
The light bulb screamed and the bricks bled and I felt melancholy, crying for the rest of the day.
****************************************
Ain't that right, living deadman.
Skin cell no. 2 (brain cell no. 35)
My four walls were white once. Shiny white enamel bricks. I remember that. I remember the smell. The enamel smell of my shiny white bricks. Now they 're grey and cracked old with grime. I can see the grey, I can smell it. The mortar lines in between the bricks are caked with age and smoke, dust mysteriously settling in my vacuum tight four walls. There are microscopic patterns splintering across the bricks. Intricate delicate patterns mapping across my room laying out landscapes of worlds I will never visit. Taunting me with directions to places far more glorious than the room my four walls contain me in. Mocking me with roads that don't reach my door. I know they're there, I can feel them. I can see them. Up and down my four walls.
****************************************
"What is your name?" I asked the spider sitting on my wall
"My name is Joe," he replied.
"Why are you here?" I asked the spider.
"I don't know," he replied.
So there we were, Jack and Joe.
The slamming door pulled me up out of my liquid dream, wet and dripping with warm fantasy into the dry world above. I opened my eyes and focused on the little monkey man, my dirty keeper. He smiled for a moment with a toothless simpleton stare and then pointed to the end of the room which had stretched creaking long into a hall ending beyond my sight.
From the center of the hall a pool of thick water began to form bubbling up from the granite floor rushing, hurrying to form a stagnate pond. Moments after it's calm completion the center began to ripple and stew then steam and boil. from the middle of the disturbance suddenly erupted two angels leaping out onto the water.
One riding on the back of the second galloping across the pool onto the shore where I stood dazed. The rider appeared as a well built woman with the head of a black dog, horse whip in hand. The beast appeared as a well built man with the head of a black mule sporting bloody holes for eyes. They stopped in front of me and the rider pulled at the mules head which promptly snapped off.
"My lord, do you enjoy my prize? This animal I ride?" Inquired the angel, lifting the head and spitting fire.
The dismembered animal burped decay "I'm used at convenience."
"When I finish I'll toss away this disgusting thing, and it will know no better," declared the angel with glee.
The head wiggled boasting, "I'll call it a great victory ."
"Why?" I mumbled to my self.
"Because my lord, it is deceived."
"I am deceived."
"Then it deserves it's fate," I whispered choking.
They laughed and jeered. The rider set down the whip and reached into her mouth and pulled out a large serpent.
"My lord this is our gift to you," she said tossing the snake into my arms. "Does he look familiar?"
With that the angel took up the whip and cracked it. They leapt into the air, laughing as the went and rode into a hole in the sky.
"Don't worry, " reassured Joe, "everything is just fine," I squeezed the snake tight to my chest and closed my eyes.
***************************************
I opened my eyes and lying in my arms what did I see, but the most beautiful thing that there ever could be.
A gun, is something very special. A weapon, a gun has power. A gun is an extension of one's anger. With a gun I can rain death on who ever displeases me. I point my finger and destroy, magically like a God. A gun shoots down innocence. A gun shoots down illusions of might. A gun shoots down naivety and weakness. With a gun I can take life. I can shatter worlds and banish souls. A gun burns in wombs and leaves voids in infant hearts. It's a maker of grief and tears leaving years of accomplishment and struggle nothing more than fading memories in the minds of the mourning.
Here I was with the most wonderful gift. A key, an answer, deliverance from myself, but it didn't shine; my wrist was limp with it's weight.
"It takes time," advised Joe. "learn to love it, hold it, sooth it. Soon It will be yours."
" Thank you Joe."
"Don't thank me Jack, thank your self."
Somewhere I could hear the dogs howling.
******************************************
You're such a pretty pansy living deadman
Skin cell no. 3 (brain cell no. 0)
I have been here in this concrete cube for so long. I am action living in fear of motion. The constant fear of breathing. Fearing the act of living,
the act of walking out my door. I live in a limbo trance always avoiding the eyes of a God who would deny me the sanctity of sanctuary. I need safety, safety from the cold, safety from the eyes of those who walk stumbling red raged through the frozen winds outside my door; those who have long since chilled dry in their hearts and minds. The cruel who threaten to touch me, to meet me with their eyes; hiding thoughts far back inside their bricks of judgment and opinion. I sit inside my room cringing in the corner vainly trying to warm myself by the friction of murdered affection, affection blanketed black by growth aborted again and again by the foul experience of maturity. I do not need the company of others, I have my room, my four walls. I have my self.
******************************
"Jack... Jack wake up."
"Yes?"
"Jack, all good things come to an end."
This guest, I knew. She was an angel, hanging from the rafters, suspended by bundles of wires leading deep into her skull, lighting her mind with visions of other worlds. Her hunger never ended and she feasted off bastard fetuses abandon by the damned; a baby in each hand.
From her sixteen breasts drooping to the floor dripped burning pussy milk that fed generations of her children. Harvests of screaming monstrosities reaped from countless orgies with unseen beasts. A new one squeezed out her hole into a pile of sibling where it was attended to by one of the three black dogs circling around the hill of wet flesh. The children sluggish and grey crawled on each other, clawing at their meal. The angel just hung there, rolling her head back and forth, euphoric, in ecstacy, in love with herself and her world. I stood by impotently, wanting to make eye contact.
To her right stood another angel. I knew him too. He was dressed in my image, a mirror refection of me. Was I so ugly? He was a bitter old man stuck in time, reeking resentment and seasoned in anger. He raised the gun I had in my pants to his head and I felt my brains explode out the side of my skull. Then like a broken record he did it again, then again. My head jerked with each explosion. The scene played over and over.
The door opened and in walked the little monkey man wearing an old tuxedo and a dirty stovepipe hat pulled down to his eyes. By the hand he led in another angel of God. She was cupid like, all dressed in midnight blue with the face of a child and skin fresh and cold. There was a look of sheltered naiveness in her eyes and passion stirring in her belly. The monkey man left the room and she stood by the door sitting wide open. At First I was bewildered, over powered with joy, then I was angry, pissed.
"I'm no fool. " I screamed, pulling out my gun, threatening. (but not knowing why)
She drew close and softly whispered "I'm here to tell you that there is a full moon this beautiful night."
She turned and left and I let her go, the door clicking tight into the frame of my four walls.
"You made the right choice Jack," echoed Joe as he faded back into my skull.
"I guess so," I whispered staring at my gun, "I never liked the color blue anyway."
And yet, somehow I felt...

(disappointed.)


My Company