Rosenbush Cafe

Wily Willie Shakespeare entertained Jon Salk, Edgar Allan, Freddy Nietzsche and Al Einstein at Sardis, in a private banquet room, and they all got imperially wasted on bee’s honey concoctions with Heroin, Scopolamine, hashish and brandy. Salōmē happened out of nowhere; she must have been in the neighborhood and dropped in to fan dance Salk into a Polio seizure; at least until Herodias crashed the party.

A quick combination of Chloroform and antiseptic wipes calmed H and Nietz called in a favor from the Goddesses of Happenstance and teleported Lucrezia Borgia into the room and all was well again in the hypnagogique…

…or at least the manner in which it was dreamed all seemed agreeably perverse in free verse reversed.

Memories unseen
Remedies between
Lightning ravine
Unclothed unclean

In memory of ideas lost and found
Too often unsound

Diminished to Hell
Ne’er do well finished

Dinner bell rings
Ladybug sings

Deeds of god
detonate
the mod

Mini-skirt
Never hurt

Mesh hose
Thorny rose

Fragrance of elegant dancer
Sweetly infused maladroit romancer

Coffer or tea?
None for me

Answers unquestioned and the less traveled roads are one-way and dead-ended M.C. Escher woodcutted puzzle boxes.

by henry b. rosenbush

© By Kalliope Amorphous and Black Baccara Perfume Co.

Today, in the midst of our heat wave, which started in early June, I was leaving the house for a day of work at the office and in the city. I decided to check my mailbox before I left, even though it was a few minutes past noon, and my mail carrier never arrives in the ayem.

Today, he did.

My only mail was a package from Black Baccara Perfume Co.

I knew it would be a unique experience when I ordered my Goddess Theme Sampler.

With a few more selections to experiment with, I took the tiny vial of Marquis de Sade and strategically placed it in three places on my face; beneath my nose in the space where my moustache separates, on my Adam’s apple and near my Third Eye. Afterwards, a tiny drop on my heart chakra and I was off to face my busy day.

And now, over seven hours later and there is still a faint reminder of the delicious bouquet. No overpowering but earthy and sans wipes an leather. Somewhere in the cosmos the Marquis is

I haven’t worn cologne in years; I am allergic to most and when I ordered the sampler, and added some others: Nosferatu, Absinthe and Poisoned Pudding, I knew I was altering my recent dark perspective with ‘uncommon scents.”

My day went better than any this month and I owe it all to Black Baccara Perfume Company.

If you haven’t visited Kalliope Amorphous’ many sites by now; shame on you. Besides being a world renowned artistic hurricane force of exquisite talent she is now a perfumer extraordinaire. Visit her site and order one of her many fragrances. You will not be disappointed…

….unless you ignore me and don’t use your common scents!

Darkest dreams often consume the lighter reality of awakening and none more fanciful or deadly than a recent nightmare concerning a spider motif that metamorphosed into a muscial revue, complete with the Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed, Nosferatu, Vlad III the Impaler, Cirque du Soleil and too many Dannemann Cigars and sour cream and onion potato chips before bedtime.

I am not afraid of spiders, and once owned a tarantula for four years, who kept away burglars and friends alike when I was working in Moncks Corner, South Carolina as a newspaper editor in the early 1980s. The dream was entertaining even by spidery standards and once I awoke I remembered enough to make notes. The song lyrics at the end of this web of surrealism are merely revisionism since I could only remember that one of the femme singers was dressed like Báthory and another was vocalizing something about glass houses and Black Widow spiders devouring their mates. Naturally, earlier that evening I had watched one of the worst mini-docs on NatGeo about the Widow herself that was the set piece of my dreams.

Thanks to Cirque du Soleil, who I have dreamed about before, for their sense of humor in the finale.

I formed a neo-noir arachnid-themed group called the Spider Lovers and their debut album is entitled Araneaephonia. Psychedelic mind tripping is their genre with songs like “Weaving Webs of Desire,” “Desiccated Lovers of the Black Widow,” “Eight Arms to Hold You Tight” and the one destined to be a classic, “Wolf Spider in Sheep’s Clothing.”

The group, two men (guitarist and drummer) and three women (all vocalists on keyboards, flute and bass violin), dress in myriad spider-related costumes and their stage shows have seventy foot perfectly constructed webs with massive arachnids moving across them; dancers are former members of Cirque du Soleil who were injured and are no longer able to dance so they mimic spidery movements, shiver, copulate with one another and devour their mates.

A variation on Cirque du Soleil’s seldom seen “Pozře Spider Dawn francouzština,” based on the infamous Grand Guignol performance of the Czech fable wherein “Spider’s Devour the French Dawn” as Napoleon eats Swiss cheese on rye while ravenous arachnids decimate his troops to save Europe.

Since they are produced from my feverish sub consciousness do not expect to find their concert dates on Ticketmaster but be assured they will be the next cosmically bizarre music group to spin listeners into a cocoon and drain them of their life force.

“Desiccated Lovers of the Black Widow”

Invisible lovers in houses of glass
Mirrored no image of the lad and lass
Maison de Verre on Rue Saint-Guillaume
Nosferatu blood banks ruled the day

Crimson Hunger in Hungary they said
of Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed
as Vlad III the Impaler blood tears instead

Trembling and cautious the male approaches
Through carcasses of flies and roaches
The mating urge too strong to deny
Making love to widow and then to die

Wrapped in silken coffins of fire
One final yearning of eight legged desire
Lusting for the widow all dressed in black
Caressing her belly before succumbing to the act

A thousand borne from the ritual of the dead
Red-houred glasses spring into gardens of dread
My lover I taketh; my lover I feast upon
In the final rays of summer rebirth in the dawn

Desiccated Lovers of the Black Widow Remain
Consumed in passions from a love insane
Desiccated Lovers of the Black Widow’s charms
Loved once and strangled in my arms

by Lisabeth Borden-Browning

Singularity XXXXV

There is no voice
Nothing
Here
In the midst of life
Being created
Cauldron
Of brewing emotions
Sparks of lightening
Wishful hurricanes
Something for the mind
Reaching towards
Endlessness
Mountains of infinity
Behind the veil
Rising of the grail
Sword becomes a cup
And the wind
Becoming another voice
Another kind
Of revelation
Inside the quietude
The wandering mind rises
With newfound gratitude
Like the waving of a magic wand
Child of dreams reborn
And across the sky there is heaven
And the carpet is white
There is no blood here
No stains of wicked delusion
There is just the child
And there is just the mother
Just the hope
Leaping towards eternity
As those sorrows come to fade
With every breath of love
In which the sleeper dreams
And in which the dreamer awakes
To kiss that soil of life
And then …

© by Steven Van Neste

“Intelligence without ambition is a bird without wings.” - Salvador Dali

eXisTenTiaLNihLisT Graphic Language and Sexual Themes, darkest humor, Metempsychosis

Who shall take themselves too seriously, believing their importance in the Celestial long range plans of the Universe, shant wait for the end too soon it cometh and taketh them away with rapidity. Cool whipped into a frenzy of denial and spoon-fed to gargantuan mouths the size of the Black Hole at the Centre of Thy Universe to feed the inter-galactic furnace of Hell Half Past 9 Greenwich Mean Time on a Sunny Sunday in August.

Oh how the Multiple Linguistic Galactic Whirligig has no need for humanoid expressions; nothing better defines how insignificant carbon-based life forms are when evaluated by Gamma Ray Bursts of Intellectual Silicone Beings whose intellectual capacity is comparable to the human brain versus a deceased cockroach’s severed antenna in the stomach of ants. Such is a desperate attempt to explore mental capacities so grand that the puny human mind vaporizes under the pressure of deep thoughts while the cockroaches talk nineteen to the dozen and continue surviving, patiently waiting for another ice age or surreptitiously stowing away on board space ships off planet earth, in search of insectoid intelligence off the planet earth.

Only man would combine his cock with a roach because he is pre-occupied with his sexual organs. Our cocks should be teleported from the nether regions to the tops of foreheads, like grotesque dunce hats; oh how delightful the cock-headed man trying to disguise his arousal when all can see his confusion.

While SETI searches for advanced civilizations off planet, exploration for intelligent life here has diminished. War, racial, gender and religious hatred, risible programming on television, the ether, between cigarette burns in movie reels, on dusty bookshelves and in the decadent halls of power only proves unequivocally that brainpower is eroding like the earth’s crust beneath the unenlightened minds.

Cosmic Thoughts

Mereological, Metaphysical, Epistemological, Moral Nilhism through glistening galaxies of myriad possibilities other than the usual bullshit the populace are generally led to believe without questioning and oh how most of them do not question anything of substance.

You know the expression: mereological nihilism?

Get the fuck out of here and take your entire insensitive attitude with you and dive unto the rocks below.

No more space for futility in my universe, mother truckers. Down shift and pass me because I am neither slowing down nor speeding up to change lanes from your inane ponderings on philosophy. Viewpoints are only constructive if the view indeed has a point, other than the one atop the head of man’s flaccid member’s only mentality.

Μετεμψύχωσις: for all you faithful to multilingualism and not the irrational lot who believe English is the only language on Planet Earth know that the Greek into English translation in its rough form is “transmigration of the soul.” Naturally, those who do not speak or read Greek are pissed and are even more irate that without intellect or a dictionary does not under transmigration either. While you’re still pissed head to the S page and see if you actually have a “soul.”

Get headaches trying to cogitate Latin; “Oh, that’s a language?” My father lived in an epoch where everyone took four years of Latin and it started in high school, not college. When someone says it’s a dead language it is only because they are themselves dead. I surmise only archeologists and linguists even study Hieroglyphics in this era. Multilingualism is not dying; however, comprehension long ago was buried in unmarked graves besides multitudes of forgotten hearts and still skeletal remnants fortunately return to the loam and cultivate future flowers of dead goddesses.

Aaah, freedoms of will, expression and thought still is better than a week long orgasm. Afterglow is brief; freedom in the mind is forever, darling. With freedom of thought you can consider mentally a week long orgasm, which would be more fun than all that god damned ooooooooooooooh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah vocalizing that frightens the neighbors enough to dial 911 for the sex police to come – heh, heh – and take your nymphomaniac asses to Cell Block C.

So as to not intentionally confuse those whose conversion in this astral plane where born again is convoluted messianic dreams of reinsertion into the shallow plasma pool. There is a conception of being born again that is generally ignored by religious zealots when they reflect on their conversion of born again-ism that will only confuse those of us who prefer to be born once and accept the consequences.

By now, anyone who knows anything about this writer has learned he lives in the Bible belt and it is worn tighter than the nooses once used by lynch mobs.

I put down the 1941 straight razor and decided beardless preferable to lifeless and fancied metempsychosis over blow fly vessel.

I am at last coming ashore on a secluded beach with a dissimilar scheme of the thematic scene of my remaining life cycle wherein I am devoting more time to writing and less to camaraderie. As a bombastic outsider I am a newly cultivated field of blooming roses, but none these worlds has even seen, or likely to ever see again. I have undervalued myself habitually and finality endangered my improvements to a level that was frightening.

My long overdue sentient death and rebirth as a exquisitely beautiful and deadly floral arrangement was glorious. Finality was Healthier Than Expected.

Illuminate, ruminate, reviving fate
Exhausted of color of late
And shattered like a china plate
Under an earthquake of insecurity’s weight
Water above the bridge
Sans perishables in the fridge
Cupboard is barren a smidge

I really didn’t try to off myself and I haven’t been without a beard in over thirty years; however, as far as metaphors for momentary depression and the unexpected leaping feline interrupting tears and angst go, it challenged me to look beyond the ugliness of my own mirror image into the bright light of profoundly positive possibilities of prescience.