ACHTUNG!

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LYKIDAS AWAKENING IN TOPEKA -- A HUMBLED PROSPECT

Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold:
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth;
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

What say ye about love, Godless Mozokawa?

"For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land." Solomon 2:11-12

Memories

DON'T LET YOUR FORTUNE FAIL YOU....

SUMMER OF LOVE 199X—21st Century flung course from Salt & Pepper Shaker Road, I used to work in transduction mechanics for Ol' Jimmy Rue, ten cents an hour, nauseating spiel of tree-tracks and peanut oil leaking out onto the road, "'No' ain't mean a dam' thing, Spoke." My first 'real' job straight out of woodworks, still dregging out in a clownhouse somewhere between Arlington and Fairfax. Cycles of carburetor squelching off into sunless expanses was always a welcome break of low-rise atmosphere, traditional pullout wrensong and carpent belch, "Wronnada' sonna' din, spoke." Uncle Jim used to aphorize with a Monty Coke in his hand like the dirty limerick he always used to tell:
There once was a man from Roanoke /
Who sawed his dick off with a Monty Coke /
He opened one more /
Fell down on the floor /
To death on a pop tab, he choked.

Summer of Love, Summer of Menthol and Sprak...
MOKKORI, MOFUMOFU, KYA HA HA HA!—The Spit Revolution will not be televised. It is not material and physical, but a radical spiritual change in the feeling of our Katz. Beyond Midian we rise and conquer.
There is too much gasoline in my blood.

UNINTIMIDATION CATALOGUE—fine,Mr. Emp? with seeing your son tarred and feathered, askance, on Lordcomb's show? Or is it that you have finally found the niche of your own unintentional delight of 'creme ecologie,' the terrordome moderne (which, goddangit!, L.P. will sell you tickets to at an absurd markup) with the slightly uncomfortable aura of new aspiration--"Well, he's an adult and it's his own choice even if I don't agree with him." Yet you nervously furrow your brow and cringe-contort. "Ahhh... As it stands do I even believe that?" And the answer, as it turns out, is a resounding "no."

Realize that your essence is divine, son.

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SPRUCE is an asymptote of your slave consciousness.
Mother Earth laments, our planet shakes with a thunderous cry.
A call for the Messenger of Davos to hang, weak and deafeated
In some faraway land.

Depression still lies underneath the Martha viaduct bringing Amfure to recall incessant masters’ dreams today: One-fifties creepily stalk broomed concrete, shit slugs and crawls and riptides, desperate Aloha tiki skirts rise above the glubbering critters and shake—like Autumn leaves, light is bounced off at different points and excites them—the vertical dance to complete softer barriers handed from Sho the cascading Flood-Drain. Meanwhile the Atkambi drums pound Sub-Saharan rhythms that echo in dooga triplets throughout heraldic apartments, radiating sinusoidal caramel covers that thump and rock the grasses, locks of filtered sunshine that condense, strain, and release in the air. The night looks amniotic to terrified onlookers; the procession profane. The theme is “Take Back Katz,” and each of Bentley’s babies plays some kind of sinister variation on “California Roll.” The jivying from curiosities ‘round McDowell stops for a moment as B&BB settle by riverfront and tear out their caviar tiki torches, cartoon eyes peering in woods look at each other hastily, all shut and are replaced with a military marching score in 4/4, jotting up riverfront—

This cannot be right. No aspect of this cruel scene looks to be anything short of extraordinary by McDowell standards. The Krew watches silently, tucked between a xanthophyll nook from underneath the viaduct. A Zig Zag containing the McDowell "Baker's Special"—1.5 grams Indica-dominant hybrid strain, half an eight-ball, dipped in a little bit of liquid benzene to keep them on their toes—is being passed around. By the time it reaches Big Toodie's lips she is tearing up, cursing the ground beneath their feet in her native Cajun tongue.

With an accompanying Wilsonian harmony provided by The Traveling Katz of Shamsher (ba—do—do—dum—), their march bounces back and forth from victory song to scherzo, from Desuetude Kreed to Nyaapolka~! Snares pick up and paradiddle on every stressed beat. A lone tuba blows its sad theme, vocoded Kreedal chants in the back. Cutie Fluties join in and whisp farty wind over major pentatonic scales in neuro-European traditional. Suddenly the march halts and Shamsher Dancers waltz into view, removing their masks—avacado, imitation crab, cucumber—and tipping them to the crowd for use as spittoons.

This is only stage one of a multi-phase McDowell Haunting, and Bentley knows it. For beneath his confident exterior his aura cracks. He sees the ghost of John Hardy rise above the creek in mogged ascension, takes it to mean that no matter how hard he screams for the Katz to March, how far his voice carries through, he cannot deny Appalachia her fate.

The strongest force in the entire world is the Western Dead, the inexistent guardian angel of America. Who else can provide such a lack of mark yet still be summoned in dishonorability or in some eternal parlor game? I guess now the question is, how long will they be able to sing the same goddamn song? And for how long will they be able to convince themselves that anyone is listening? This fills Bentley with an unspeakable dread, as anything would.

AMFURE, ATKAMBI, SHO—Bentley may not realize, but Faceless Mozokawa wrote it into every one of his little love fantasies. But if there's one thing you can't count on, Godless Mozokawa, it's Appalachian politics.



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"Beautiful night to go bowling?" - M.G. 199X