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.