Green Eunuch (Part 2)

  
  
   As always--my books on iTunes and such:  King's Books! 
  
   TWO:
  
   Through the vacuous black; below the shimmering stars
   Billows with brilliance this Bridge of Ours--
   It leads us gods to castles high
   Where ravens report to the Conscious Eye--
   Skunkfire, aware of heaven's lair,
   Knowing that all the gods and immortals will forever dwell there,
   Now, him too, alongside Francis,
   Beyond gravity's arch-angelic contempt or Dorothy's Kansas--
   Gubbio prancing alongside
   While Francis mounted on a war horse's hide,
   Sauntering through the frigid terrain,
   Feeling the chill of November-like rain
   Till the pastoral nature of outlandish desolation
   Reveals the purplish smog of an industrial nation,
   Skunkfire wide-eyed and curious too,
   Contemplating his mission that he somewhat knew--
   To free the slaves of this Pandemonium's Mire,
   While resisting the demons tempting one to get higher;
   Still, Francis provided an herb's benign seed,
   Handing it to Skunkfire, and he did take heed,
   Popping the soothe of solace into his mouth,
   Elated though not euphoric as they trekked further south
   Into the city where he was glad to be fazed
   By the sublime narcotic--since the devil had glazed
   This place with slavery and many an opulent fool,
   Giving men an eternity of over others' loins giving drool,
   Thirsting for gratification and serving its Master,
   Finding themselves chained to orgasm that did plaster
   Their mistakes into art for many to perceive,
   For in death is truth for all to see,
   Skunkfire knowing his testicles gone,
   Yet his suicidal karma had not damned him a dumb fawn,
   For he was with friends and soon to be a hero,
   His Earthly life of sorrow having granted him bio-mechanical halo
   Of Emerald Green in continual flux,
   Meaning:  Him robotically handsome though without any nuts;
   Alas, it was better, being beyond seduction,
   For Ooba bragged of carnal destruction,
   Yet for some, that was their heaven indeed,
   Even if it meant copulation from horny need;
   Regardless, Francis led Gubbio and Skunkfire on the terrain behind,
   Through streets painted with vendors and many a scandalous mime;
   Plus, slave girls dancing with yellow and black hair,
   Having no shame as to shake their asses without care,
   Flaunting their physicality and how it might grant pleasure,
   Francis just smiling and Skunkfire too stoned to care
   Though amazed at the beauty of so many an evil thing,
   Like back on Earth where there was death for a Blood Diamond's bling--
   And Gubbio lifted his leg and took a piss
   On a hover car, making the owner glance and hiss--
   Him a reptilian with forked tongue and a double-backed wing,
   Though he did not pick a fight, knowing of Francis' angelic kin;
   Indeed, Francis was famous on Ooba's clouded gleam
   Able to soothe many a soul from the common demon's "mean";
   Anyway, the Trinity of the wolf, eunuch, and saint
   Did anchor themselves in a warehouse's non-taint
   Of opulence or art besmirched by sex,
   Furnished with modesty and not having a witch's hex,
   For this was headquarters for God's small underground
   Outward on a celestial moon for the purpose of things Right and Sound,
   Echoing with hopes of a resonating Christmas Season
   That might balance out the iniquity of Ooba's demonic reason.
  
   --The Trinity Rested--

Green Eunuch (Part 1)

  
  
   As always--my books on iTunes and such:  King's Books!
  
   ONE:
  
   "God is not limited to the Bible."  . . . Saint Francis of Assisi . . .
  
   After tasting death; next, EVERLAST.  Show me that the gods don't exist, and I will display literary substance concerning a man unable to articulate spiritual brainstorm.  Asceticism in itself births belief, offering altered states and a brain's bewildered potential to perceive, but who gives a rat's ass; this is death. 
   Now, Skunkfire, suicidal by way of razor's edge, knowing Christ's brag:  "The blood is the life."  Thus, empty, into shock, teleported into the macabre black of oblivion, quicksanding him away, though perception of an unyielding light--reminders of his cruelty to others; still, he disregards the pantheistic mergence of it all, knowing plainly, his God--the Abrahamic God offers the perpetuity of forever, a resonating comprehension of the Multiverse minus Earth till that planet evolves religiously and scientifically, able then to gel within the cosmological community--them adorned by the futurity of the Genetic Revolution, having been made bio-mechanical and never to taste corporeal death.  And now, Skunkfire like Christ in the Gospel of Mark 9:2-9, upon the Mount with Moses and Elijah, though King David there too (the boldest of the Hebrew heroes), him being an uncanny bard and the best of Messianic Men, offering Theosis, united in God, totally consummated in bodily resurrection, for Saint Athanasius of Alexandria knows:  "The Son of God became man, that we might become god."
   Skunkfire having a theophany of it all, them Hellenized folk living eternally, and Muhammad's mad mystics penetrating regenerating hymens perpetually--it's all good, though nothing is really good save God.  And Skunkfire, hostile unto himself, loving humiliations and the anguish of modesty, locked within the Transfiguration Chamber, being crafted by the Saints and Angels, them denounced by Protestants, though they are alive in Christ, constructing Skunkfire eternal, forging a robotic cranium gleaming with emerald sophistication till humanoid countenance alive with the cognizance of brilliant, shamrock eyes, and the rest of his body impenetrable, flowing with celestially-mechanical ichor from the vineyards of God, giving him the enduring grace of EVERLAST, and now release--mercurially shot in a living coffin into the cosmos till anchoring upon a Black Magic Moon named Ooba by the eternal locals, it filled with an array of differing creatures waiting for their next and forever adventure.
   Skunkfire immediately felt his resurrection upon the industrially-ravaged surface of Ooba, it offering hellacious smog, angelic luminosity, and the vibrant exchange of art and war that continually rang throughout the planetary satellite that motioned around one of the plethora of deities within the Multiverse.  And awake--alive again really, Skunkfire inspected himself in the quicksilver of conscious reflection, finding the serendipity of a green robe to cloak his castrated humanity merged with the robotic features of the gods--him unable to carnally copulate, though grateful for his besmirching beauty nevertheless.
   Stepping further over the Terra-like surface of Ooba, sensing Saints nearby and knowing the moon's catastrophe deserved his damned arrival, he blessed himself with the sign of the cross, aware that the Blessed Virgin was CO-REDEMPTRIX, glaring up at the effulgent neon glitter of cosmic life overhead, mentioning to the ghouls and gods who monitored him:  "So, this is death."
   And into the realm of his mechanical vision, upon a white horse masked for the brutality of immortal war, nostrils steaming the gaseous nature of Ooba's frosty breathe-ability, the most beautiful blonde man with gleaming eyes of blue and gold approached, completely human in appearance, lacking any robotic appendages, Skunkfire knowing him immediately through mystical intuition, bowing at his Saintly arrival; next, offering:  "Saint Francis--you are mine to follow."
   Francis smiled with luminous canines, a barking wolf close behind his mounted self till past and upon Skunkfire's sternum, licking his steeled facial features, and Francis saying:  "This is my pet Gubbio, ours for solace and protection--granted by the living Christ for our immediate adventure."
   "Thank God for dogs."  Skunkfire exclaimed with laughter, intrinsically knowing the wolf was a necessity in their needed triumph over Ooba's cruelly-architected purpose.  

Six Beers And a Blog: My Life

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   * * * * * *
  
   Nah, never six--not anymore since beyond the age of reason; nevertheless, a pint of Black Irish or somethingorother; regardless, I am not attempting to architect a singular philosophy with my writings, but an elated epiphany of mildly euphoric brainstorm.  I would never drink and drive, after my 18th year involved in an intoxicating arrest, though disregarded, and wise enough to smite its possible futurity.  I am a total dolt most times.  High Anxiety and all the rest.  Forging sometimes "incorrect" opinions I claim as Earthly Axioms.  We are all at fault--yet brilliant sometimes.

  
  A genius makes no mistakes claimed the Irishman Joyce; I am ridden with them.  But a genius only brings himself, a humble man a myriad of others.  Kerouac didn't write about himself as much as we think, but more of Dean, inducing a love of others.  I am to blame, but I'm trying.  I want to Nancy Grace the NSA, but we all make mistakes, even the American Government.  Apologize, correct, screw up, correct again, and just fix it after a few times; next, you're a better country, and may Jack Kennedy make me a better citizen.  I owe to the brilliance of FDR and Ronald Raygun.  We all do.

  
   Sincerely, Mark David King
  
   Post Script:  Just reflecting my 1st Amendment Rights.  God Bless us, and always an autonomy, unless liberty is thirsted by others. 
  
  

The Drug War Is A Toxic Evil

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
  
   More or less, as I've mentioned before, it is Anti-Constitutional for the American Government to declare War Upon its own people; still, that is precisely what the Drug War is--a declaration of War by the American Government upon its own people, and it is the mentally and physically ill citizens in this country (once haunted by the Holy Spirit of 1776) that are the most maligned and mangled by this unjust attitude, which leads to cruel and unusual punishment in the toxically warped American Prison System, where sodomy thrives, trumping the regularity of rape in making someone miserable, for the anus is not constructed for phallic entrance, especially by a morbid malevolence hellbent on disfiguring the mind, rectum, and Lower G.I. Tract.  Nevertheless, women and their outspoken political organizations turn a blind eye to the most savage and unnatural rape on the planet, man into man, while incarcerated and having nowhere to run; plus, the moralists believe Drug Offenders and other prisoners deserve this sadistic torture, not minding that in our prisons a 250 pound gravy-making man might rip apart another man's anal cavity and partial intestinal tract--all in the name of morality and civil punishment. 
   Anyway, Medical Cannabis is benign.  An Anti-Inflammatory, anti-oxidant, and performance enhancer, offering solace for not just the singular affliction of AIDS but many diseases and illnesses, such as:  Inflammatory Bowel Disease, Depression, Chronic Pain, and a plethora of other conditions.  And to allow Medical Cannabis must mean to allow it for any medical condition seen fit by a benevolent physician.  Yes, there will always be people who abuse their medicine.  Too, people who overeat, drink plenty more than they should, have multiple sexual partners, whatever; nonetheless, for the myriads who use remedies responsibly, this should not afflict their ability to receive and use such medication in moderate fashion. 
   Moreover, cannabis is never overwhelming to the physiological system of a man or a woman, being a moderate tranquilizer, a low key pain reliever, a totally effective anti-inflammatory, and yes--a possible mild hallucinogen that never directs the mind to lunacy lest the user already suffers from an angry psychosis, yet it may soothe his nefarious attitude as well.  And, if it was medically legal in all states and for any medical condition; next, multiple strains would be available at the pharmacy, meaning the ill-fated don't have to purchase it on the streets, where they possibly might get unfit cannabis or more possibly get arrested--this followed by government enforced rehab, probation, court fees, jail, and sometimes sodomy--all for the sake of a twisted and misinformed morality.  Too, if cannabis was completely legal and taxed--we could pay off the Chinese in a few years and fund a better Health Care System. 
   Also, opiates receive much wicked press due to returning War Vets unable to stop popping pills in ridiculous numbers.  These soldiers are supposed to be tough, and instead of manifesting spirits of restraint, having reverence for the poppy plant--they abuse, overdose, blame their doctors, and then Uncle Sam is in your medicine cabinet concealed within the supposed privacy of your home.
   Imagine having bloody or explosive bowel movements--10 to 20 times a day, along with psoriasis in your anal cavity, internal and external hemorrhoids, and an ulcerated and inflamed large intestine--why would the American Government reject such a man's burning anal fire to not be extinguished by God's Good Nature?  Yes, opiates produce a bit of euphoria; hence, the possibility that certain (maybe weak) people will overuse.  This factor should not thieve away the comfort needed by many.  Used in small doses, and taught  respect of the narcotic--these things can and will allow medical patients to use ANY drug responsibly.
   It should not be a sick man's problem if a number of people have no regard for medicine; as a result of this foolishness, altruistic treatment is outlawed by moralistic politicians attempting to architect a NERF America where nobody gets a bloody nose from time to time--yet that is the price of a Free Country.  Or a halfway Free Country holding no neglect for its own disabled and ill citizens.  Furthermore, people prone to suffer do not deserve scrutiny for their ailing conditions, yet the comfort of God's Good Green Earth.  Allow physicians to prescribe by way of their superior educations and definite lean towards sublimity.  We should not make America less Free, yet allow the logic of moderation to soothe our sick.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Rumblitis--Chapter Twenty (Washington Whiteskins)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWENTY:
  
   The ebony cool, merged, of course, with shamrock resonation, being Shamra Soul, escorted Ray Rumble back to the sprawl of his Montana suburb.  She smelled delicious; moreover, let her patient take a few puffs from her KOOL Menthol, saturating his lungs with the freedom of personal choice--even if it killed ya.
   The day passed in supermundane fashion, Staci Rumble and Shamra both engaging in a cackled conversation concerning Ray's pure BatShit Crazy; plus, some positive comments as well, reminding each other that he once punted the pigskin near 80 yards in the mysterious CFL. 
   And as Ray listened to the sublime synergy of the twosome, he mentally tongue-lashed Bob Costas, reminding, schizophrenically, that "Redskins" was not meant to inflict insult, yet celebrate the beauty of God's greatest warriors; also, Ray decided:
   "Why not the Washington Whiteskins?  That would be perfectly okay with the crackers in the country, for Mr. White Bread is diminishing in numbers, giving away to a Multi-Hued Nation that is transcending the original (White) architecture of America.  Yup--the Washington Whiteskins--a pic of General George Washington on the helmet planting a cannabis seed, remembering the American Indian and their love of a cultivated Nature, something besmirched by the modern Political Machine--moralists and socialists alike--for the children are fragile, and we must cautiously construct a NERF World."

Rumblitis--Chapter Nineteen (Bonanza Jellybean DIES)

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   NINETEEN: 
   The holiday season had wended away, and Montana became the frigid monster of awe-inspiring isolation that it was--a Libertarian's Dream, boasting of medical cannabis and the individual ability to freely carry large caliber weaponry, like a single action .44 Magnum capable of smiting the most Brown of Bears, or take the head off of a wandering pronghorn for practice.
   Anyway, Doctor Basil Loveflesh had visited Ray Rumble's incarcerated crazy, offering pedagogish pragmatism, giving the former Saskatchewan Punter a near mint copy of Tom Robbins' Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.  And Robbins be waaaaaay more better than this drunken Blogger of Bullshit; regardless, Ray was euphoric during the read, made magnanimous from the might of opiate-derived drugs consoling his physiological system.  And as he devoured the novel, Ray appreciated ObamaCare even more, in all its insanities, knowing that the Federal Government does provide the galloping mercury of the Postal Office; plus, a mighty military backed up by the 2nd Amendment, meaning that neither Russia nor China could ever invade and usurp our freedoms, for the African-American citizens in urban areas mixed with the bucolic-dwelling rednecks are all armed to the teeth, driving away any damned determination to soil our liberty or land, unlike England, easily able to be overtaken by such Barbarism that was the culmination of the Roman Empire.
   So, Ray, weeping for the death of the superlative cowgirl, her name:  Bonanza Jellybean--aglow with tits divine; specifically, firm, symmetrical breasts, just like the Genetic Revolution will offer all women down the evolutionary road, trumping the aesthetic aspects of ObamaCare.  And yes, the Federal Government killed Bonanza Jellybean, thieving away her cries of Hindu Theology and eternal wardrobe of Dale Evans; anyhow, Ray knew paradise promoted the weird, elevating slackers and the unsophisticated to Saints and Sages.  For as the Christ Man concluded (KJV) Matthew 20:16:
   "So the last shall be first, and the first last:  for many be called, but few chosen."
   "Amen Jelly."  Ray Rumble thought; next, pondered why his own author wasn't so slick with the vernacular--whatever dude; there's always Twilight for the soccer Mothers dreaming of having adolescent sex with someone other than their husbands.  Thus goes life . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Eighteen

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   EIGHTEEN:
  
   Staci Rumble, the androgynous Holy Ghost Itself, into the spiritual vacuum of the mental ward, frowning down upon an opiate-induced Ray, knowing the poppy soothed, offering solace and contentment in the control of small doses, a needed theophany for the complainers of pain--and they must be able to control their own intake; otherwise, blaming the benevolence of physicians for their own dependence, unable to articulate respect for the majestic narcotic, thinking it candy corn and not the nectar of a comforting God offering consolation in modest ingestion--a blessing of the divine, not to be fucked with by the pseudo-morality of an American Government getting orally-sexed by Monica Samille Lewinsky underneath the ghostly resonation of Jack Kennedy's desk (possibly), ornamented in a Lime-Green Thong purchased online, back in the day. 
   "I have no testicles, but I'm happy sis."  Ray grinned.
   "I know brother.  Just as Christ was AMAZED in the New Testament concerning their lack of faith, He continued onwards towards the Good God, wanting to pilot that Holy Engine of Sublimity.  Now, let me tell you of the days of High Adventure."  Staci smiled, spilling--
   Ezra Pound is alive and living in Nashville, Tennessee; moreover, Anti-Semitism is the foulest and most toxic of all evils; nonetheless, there would be no WASTELAND or penile rants of Joyce without the horrible/insane poet known as Pound.  And there, amidst Nash-Vegas, born pre-mature, placed in an incubator, a father's wicked, adulterous entrance into a carnally cunning cunt mutating his discharge--yes, it takes two--no, it does not take three.  Him, unable to evacuate his bowels as a child.  Medical devices inserted into the rectal cavity, digging out the folly of unfumbled fecal matter.  Next, urinary tract infections.  Sanguine piss.  Surgical appendages inserted into a young urethra, way up inside, probing with pain and misery.  Cranberry Juice is drank.  Night terrors.  Obscene imagery, constantly, always, freaking tattooed on the brain.  Molestation from imagination.  Insomnia.  Sneaking into brother's bed; subsequently, getting punched in the face for fear.  Social Phobia; specifically, inability to urinate or shit publicly, meaning no food or drink till after school, bladder bulging till home and in the safety of suburban habitat, pissing brilliance; then, more bladder infections.  Now, pissing razor blades.  Mother bitching at mutations.  Low Intelligent Quotient.  Inability to learn.  Lost in school.  Stupid.  Cutting after puberty.  Punishment for loins being alive, it being innate knowledge.  Erections, spill of semen--disgusting, causing washing, asceticism; next, stalked by a child-molested female.  Only person he engages in intercourse with.  Only one.  Crabs.  Syphilis.  Penile gash.  Insanity.  Homo-erotic ponderings.  Fear of women.  Celibacy for a decade.  Punishment for masturbation.  Locking himself in closets.  Weights stacked upon his thin back, mimicking march to Calvary.  Esophageal cancer masked by high intake of raw garlic and lycopene paste.  Then, bloody stool.  Venomous, squirting, bloody shit.  Vanderbilt Nurse has him arrested for poetry.  Stupid.  Him.  Real stupid.  9th Grade Drop-Out.  No piss.  No crap.  No talk in public. Cysts on nose.  Self-induced surgery.  Facial mutilation.  But Christ is there.  Hope.  Redemption.  Virgin Mary soothes--every freak needs a mother.  Chronic, Inflammatory Bowel Disease.  Iron Deficiency Anemia.  Complete large intestine ulcerated and inflamed.  Colonoscopies.  Blood transfusions.  Surgery needed to remove gut.  REMICADE IV offers remission.  Anal fungus.  Psoriasis in anal cavity.  Cheating wife.  Epididymitis.  Testicles in abdomen for a year--the size of large marbles, red and severely sore.  Bruxism.  Thrush.  Bloody gums.  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics.  A goblin of a man.  117 pounds.  Ten to twenty bloody bowel movements daily.  Prednisone.  Disfiguring acne.  Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors.  Ant-Psychotics.  Christ is awesome.  Cheating wife, again.  Teenage curses from black magic witches having a Satanic Bounty on his sanity and genitalia.  Punches himself.  With tools.  Minor concussions.  Lacerations.  Facial stitches.  Burns.  Vanderbilt Burn Unit for facial cleanse.  Smashes hand for gay leanings.  A fucking hammer.  Christ is good.  Obama offers capitalistic communism--ObamaCare.  Free health care, but you have to pay for it--even if you're stupid, depraved, rejected, shapeless, retarded, psychotic, neurotic, dumb to it all.  Herb for medicine illegal in the Dirty South.  Satan is Drugs, they say.  King David, Solomon, using in mystical invocations--no matter.  Get in jail buddy.  Get ass fucked for freedom in the cruel and unusual punishment of the American Prison System.  Morality hates cannabis!  Testicular lacerations.  Makes pass at Publisher in Las Vegas.  Throws away paycheck.  Squeezes manpiece till it bleeds.  Christ is good.  Bill Clinton should remove a testicle for sorrow.  Liquid Metal Arch-Angels/Devils penetrate his barricaded room.  Attempt to smother.  Dog protects, sleeping on his back--all dogs go to heaven.  No depression--fuck depression.  Stands fantastic.  Bleeds more out the ass.  Two months of constipation, pain, weight loss.  Christ is the apex of cool.  Never addiction--that's for the ignorant.  Moderation.  Inspiration.  Christ.  Forever.
   Ray glimpses at the Ghost of His Sister:
   "I hear ya."
   And She wisely offers:
   "You think Sam Champion wears pink panties underneath his business suits?  Pope Francis loves Sam Champion."