AND ALTHOUGH WE HAVEN'T MET, OLD FRIEND

The forest goes on forever.

Forgiving is hard. Accepting is really hard. Being kind is hard to do.
Coming back in an instant like an oiled steel scorpion is important too.
All fools are foes, ya know, and every book's a love letter.
Bring down heaven's hammer with higher goals set in pious poetry, delicious kicks, and a feral use of logic and jostling reality itself - if that ain't a blessed falcon punch of creativity then you can revoke my Birdwatcher's license. 
The Hard Stuff is worth doing.
The Pleasant Stuff is pure sport. Be true to your school though - to them that don't harm, to them that love fierce and true blue.
On the horizon is another horizon.
Here, there by Tygers.

We've come back to kiss quiet country.
America is hitting one if its all time lows.
"The Shadows are here to dance, jack. The Shadows are here to stay." hissed the cackling checkered devil during the RNC.

We love you America, oh stinking in the unholy mires 
of ole's scratch hisself - that snake.
Happy Holidays. Keep coiled and yuh nuh, solidarity between freaky dreamers and visionary wanderers - like on the streets of Compton, San Diego, Honolulu or Milwaukee. Thank you, wonderful assortment of minds. Our exam in moral truth has been afoot since the time that time stopped forgetting. Are we somehow collectively inhabiting an archived reliquary of our times, trapped in misstressed media amber? I'm not sure.
But I hope you kiss whoever your sweet heart is. 

From thhheeee deeeeessss...
(inaudible)
San Francisco, California

GLORIA GLORIA GLORIA

THANK YOU.
THANK YOU SO MUCH.
I'M SANCTIFIED BY YOUR LOVE.
YA KNOW LIKE A BLOW JOB FROM A NAIL GUN.
OH IT'S A HOLEY EXPERIENCE
TO FEEL SO TRANSPARENT
THAT SADNESS LEAKS FROM EXIT HOLES
LIKE GEYSERS TO HEAVEN.

WE ARE GONNA ARCHIVE MORE THINGS.
AND PUT MOOORE FUN IMAGES UP. REASSEMBLE THE WORKS. SOOONGS OF THE SOUND. YOU DESERVE IT. WE WANNA SHARE LOVE.
REDESIGN THE HOLE PLACE. 
OTHER LIQUID COLUMNS AND CLEAR EXAMPLES OF FINE LITERATURE BY BB AND FRIENDS TOO. OOPS - KICKED OVER THE FAX AGAIN. SHALO P IS STILL HANDLING RESEARCH AND DEVELOPING THE GREAT LAST "SOUND AND VISION" CHAPTERS OF VALLEY FOR THE ONCOMING ROLL-OUT. MORE INFO FOR ANOTHER TIME.   
THANK YOU TO ALL OUR FRIENDS OUT THERE, AND TO ALL THE KIND FOLKS THAT PERCHANCE COME TO VISIT US HERE.
KEEP HUGGING YOUR PALS. KISS YOUR FRIENDS ON THE CHEEKS. HOLD HANDS AND SING SONGS YOU LIKE.

BE GOOD.
BE KIND.
BE GENTLE AND SUBLIME.

IF THERE'S A CHANCE THAT WE DON'T HAVE TO FIGHT EVERY NAZI TO THE FUCKING DEATH, THEN LET US HOPE IN OUR MAD HEARTS THAT WELL CONSIDERED, THOUGHTFUL LOVELY ART CAN INFUSE THE HUMAN SPIRIT WE ALL SHARE TO BRING THOSE ASSHOLES ONTO OUR SIDE INSTEAD. YOU CAN LAZER OFF A SWASTIKA TRAMP STAMP AND NIX THAT HITLER HAIRCUT WITH A TEMPERED GONG TO THAT COSMIC PIT OF A SOUL. REDEMPTION IS STRONGER THAN TRAGEDY. 
PERHAPS WE CAN FIND FRIENDS SOMEWHERE UNPREDICTABLE IN THE ROVING FANTASTIC PHANTOM COUNTRY COMPRISED OF LOVERS AND TRUE FUCKING BELIEVERS OF MERCY AND COMPASSION, OF INQUIRY AND UNDERSTANDING, OF LAUGHTER AND UNBOUND CREATIVITY. THAT SWEET SPIRIT LIVES PEACEFULLY QUIET IN THE HEART OF MOST. 

MAYBE IT DOESN'T HAVE A VOICE.
BUT IT SINGS.
IT SINGS.

THANK YOU.
THANK YOU.
THANK YOU.

LOVE.
we here, doing our best. 

Television For Ghosts Aug. 2017
San Francisco, California

COLUMNS / CORINTHIANS

Smell the smelter. The iron works. 
A charmed mind is resilient in its efforts to evade the rusted palaces, shoreside.
Paperwork. Paperwork.
Had some π and coffee, thinking of that old mathematic mechanic cafe that used to be around here.
There was also a boutique that played songs with a stir of strings when it got lights out and late.
Washington Square could spare some more tales, a splash of port mayhaps for this salty dog. 
It serves a dood draped in ox-blood any ole' time.

This goldern necronomicon got side-saddled stitching and was distributed by this zine distro out near where James Dean got wrangled in the reins of his Little Bastard.
In life's free-for-all explosions of emotions the question persists as well.  
Is the internet about good or bad vibes?

Does hell prevail? Oh well, I'm not sure. The demon-haunted world seems undaunted - joyous, even.
But the kicks are getting higher than a legion of chicas' can-can.

Another fax came in with all the words - funny ones.
The end came with the question of when a joke is a joke or a funny statement a funny statement or just merely an actual inescapable position witnessed from afar. 
Laughter draws blood into the lungs. 

Singing is thrilling.

Singing is resisting.

----

Dream Friday

I know of a day that stays in bed and runs around at night.
Damn fucker would steal a car and steer it into the bay if it could.

The pictures on the wall around this place are taped like messages from a kidnapper.
They say Shalo P suddenly disappeared somehow.

Who knows?
I can hear a humming through the walls and this place smells like an ashy furnace with its dancing swirls on the mottled surfaces - more messages. At the foot of the fax I found an old coin with lewd marks in its face. Penny for a thought.

I'm not aware if any creature so low-down could be up for transubstantiation. A tricky creature knows all forms of tricksey, if ya listen close to quiet ones rowing their little boats along the shore of their subterranean bog.

I'll leave some cookies here. I'll step on the poor little things to not spoil the artist with pomp or pristine.
I'm told that broken shapes ease even the foulest of moods. 
I'm tempted to leave a fire within the wall to smoke out the saint, but I reckon that title is already held by another, elsewhere.
Somehow, I imagine a fire smoldering still from once when I pitched a chewed stogie into one of the whispering mouths along the hallway.

Perhaps it's just a small game of a door and her sisters. 
In this match we connote a fractured window by the desk with perhaps just some poor lazy cousin made with feet. Grainy prisms mark where the glass was reinserted into the kicked-in pane.

I can't stay in this room too long. I'd just keep dancing here and bopping away the witching hour until it switches night for a midnight morn. That's the place, consequently - my home town.
The room just melts out of shape when I feel that manic panic tug at the socks.

There is unknown music somewhere in this place. 

juice,

------

DREMME FRIDAY : ZESTY / LIQUID PANTS

NUWS ZOUNDS NIL

HI HI HI.
It's me.

HEY.
It's UH found below.

FROM THE DESK OF DORDERY MARKS
Look up or just below blow me push the red button. Lock up or jest below me push the red button.

A song sorta felt right for sharing today. 
THIS JUST UH.
It comes with a very uh special transmission from UH YA KNOW and WE HERE amid the squalor of democracy clashing with those filthy sombitch alt-nazzies and scumfuck patrol of narrow-headed bumpkins trying to send this country to hell in an armpit. Dead America at night is a frightful sonovabitch to encounter at cold dusk. I tell ya true.

DEVASTATE, BUT FORGIVE.
AND AND UH AND.




FROM THE DESK OF SHALO P

UH YA KNOW I KNOW

why hell prevails...
Have ya read the news?
That march might get to goose-stepping, but brother and sister I gotta tell ya that I'll SLIDE ELECTRIC this motherfucker to oblivion before then.
Ya see, I got this system.

Tippity-Tap, and that's outreach.

You got to learn to let it go.
You got to know when it's all over.

And upon that horizon lies another in the haze of some morning.
Morning breaks some where, every there like an egg as the doom dawns, love.
There something mysterious and compelling about the mix of oxygen and sentience.
And if I hang by my words - when I'm alone and its dark, choked up and sensual - then I pray I get my kicks in too.

I hope you sweethearts are keeping to being speculative and zesty.
Reach into your pants and pull out a libertine.
Tell BB to keep her heart in the shadows of the black cape and her hands off my magazines.

I'm in UH hiatus. High Ate Us as one of my forlorn swore companions states as we take turns wrecking the wall and sneaking in to use the fax.

I slept beneath trees once and swam in some hot springs.
There's a big ole' rock on the California Coastline that smells like Mammoths.

Don't tell any one.
I BELIEVE IN FIRE.
I BELIEVE IN IMAGINATION.
I BELIEVE IN LOVE AS THE LOVE OF BEING FREE.

I do my best to make an effort (lest any truculent wretch flip my record) to show it rather than just say.

I'm a miserable prisoner of this unending passion for life.

See you sooon.

HEP! HEP!

sp




AND that's what was in the fax thing.
AND there were other sorta stuff that Void Fox sent. Most of it's schematics and maps.
AND now back to the program, starring a stalwart scythe of a brittle babe.

FROM THE DESK OF BB
Doo-Wa-Diddy Diddy-Dum Didddy Doo

OH OH OH

An Aside from Glowy. She ran onto the balcony and was last scene leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Poor girl didn't know the forest from the cold steel breeze.
Plus, we're getting a P.O. Box for correspondence ASAP but that stingy piece of shit fink of a MAN is on our back with paperwork. Frankly kids, fuck the fucking system. 
LOOK I'M A TROUBLED LADY and life isn't getting any, ya know, koolr.
Oh no not me. I'm actually koolr than I think sometimes.
I take it in STRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE PART TWO - this time it's personal.

I'll never let the bankers bankrupt my soul.
Without at least a smidge of free-thinking independent loveliness, the world would soundly plummet into infinite darkness.

BB


FROM THE DESK OF DO DO DO DO DO DO DO DO


...
loosely transcribed by Dordery Marks
San Francisco, California 

SLITHERING SNAKE / FROM THE DESK OF BB

The ascension of snakes is old hat to us, son. Pres-don't Orange Manure can't fire us. We cuddly as fuck.

NONE THE LESS

It's no limit craziness from that "florescent shockwave" Shalo P and the whole Television For Ghosts gang. Fistfuls of courage to all our peace-loving angels.

Shalo P sent a postcard themed-up all "Jack The Ripper". It poured out crimson out onto the floor when it was handed over - serves him right for sending a gull to do his dirty work.

CUT TO THE CHASE

New books are in the works but we're also in the studio making music and working out these dang riddles 

Void Fox keeps faxing.

More "new" soon. We're part of the resistance that keeps singing freedom. We UH love UH freedom of UH expression and will UH fight for freedom of speech for every one, even the UH damn fools.

Well, this fool here thinks all life is one and that our only battle lies with the human heart. 

Open up and take freshness balls deep, bitch.

Reach out to your brothers and sisters and trans-community. Reach out real-life interesting friends.

Skip out and live with your beasties. Live in caves full of laughs instead of like slaves seeped in wrath.

Don't sink into the Beat-Off Generation, fingers clinging to the edge of a pool of endless "YOU", like Narcissus.

Forgive yourself for chasing those lying bastards' dreams, or any old wack shit, and join us. 

Meet us out in the Wilderness with a boombox and a bag of tape.

We just want a weirder stronger sexier gender-fluid tasty creative clever common conniving future for everyone. We're into optimism, cause that's the only thing keeping these little fists from just flying.

If I rip another dress or have to shave my legs higher than my fucking knees I'm gonna go kerzy. BUCK WILD (while also probably nude and rude to boot).

ANYHUH

We always believe in artists. THEM FUCKERS SELL PATCHES OF HEAVEN!

TELL YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS 'CAUSE ARTISTS LIKE US LIVE BY THE RICHNESS OF TODAY'S AUDIENCE.

SWEAT AND BLOOD MAKE THAT GREAT MUTHA'S MILK NOURISHING AND JIZZY GENIUS.

THINK ABOUT IT. BEING AHEAD OF YOUR TIME JUST MEANS YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY GOLDERN BACKWARDS SOMBITCHES. EGAD, SQUIRE.

ROLL THAT SHIT FORWARD AND BE A STEWARD FOR PURE INDEPENDENT MADNESS. LET'S LIVE IN THE FUTURE WHILE FIGHTING THE EMPIRE.

BE AN AGENT OF THE SENSUALLY ENIGMATIC. KISS THESE INTELLECTUAL TITS. TAKE A NIPPLE INTO THAT HEATHEN MAW. TASTE THAT?

From The Desk of SHALO P

"We make no truce with the uninteresssting."  

OH OH OH

That would be crimnal,

BB

San Francisco, California 

FAX FROM HUNGRY TIMES PRESS / STABBER

 

FRIZZ UNFURL / FAX FROM HUNGRY TIMES PRESS / NOTHER EDITION / DODO

There was a strange turn of events last month. I saw it myself. There was a hole in the wall, big enough for a brute.

It came outta nowhere and led nowhere too, deep into the walls and in-between what's between them. 

DOWN DEEP. 

We're patching it up with stucco but also thought of using the yogurt in the break room before it all goes "off".

I saw his ghastly office door, now gone awol, all haunty and shit - that one mentioned in the first fax from Void Fox, leaning keen at the laundry mat up on Grant Street beside a folding machine that mangles kids to bits (just guessing). There's a bench in the park that had the door there leaning onto a glinty red dewey Madrone at an angle, as if furniture were practically Fonz.

These things came at inopportune times, so I put it into song and ignored texts asking about the boss and its whereabouts.

BB was already handling that stuff. She's culpable.

Where he went was deep and where he is now ain't any mind to this Minnie, not since I saw the bare dusty footprints strutting up on the walls and on the ceiling.
I got faith in freak.

Good ole' naw naw's UH numbwhere. 

UH ANYWHO 

Come on sisters and brothers, Trans, daddies, mamas, nanas, num nums. Get close and send your monetary gifts in form of checks mixt with lil' presents to our new PO Box mailing address (COMING SOON). Mail Art and Friendship Peace Gangs are cool with us. Let's be pen pals, but above UH all pals, asshole. I accept nothing but love and likewise my love is rough as sandpaper, but true as sweet rain.

The printers are humming hot, more news coming soon. We might have a subscription-based bargain with the devil that will be made available soon for new works from TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS and our MUTANT BOOKS projects - POST-VALLEY - fathoms deeper than death. Shalo P wanted me to personally convey that- Wait. Wait. Wait. UH.

Just got an urgent fax from Hungry Times Press:

WHAT COMES BEFORE ZERO?

FROM THE DESK OF BB / ZOOP!

FROM THE DESK OF BB / SPECIAL EDITION / DIFFERENT STROKES

The boss just went (OH NO), sent to face the doc over a tooth looking like a melted mushroom. Frankly, the child needs an exorcism, or a time-machine abortion where we steal his mom from his sweet daddy beforehand.

ANYHOO (to loan a term)

His wide white eyes were pale as pigeon poo on the shoulder of Pallas.

That mound of ashes mentioned Latin, smoke creeping at the corners of his sensual mouth. And I said "No Hablo Ingles" and stepped on his fingers to let him go.

So he sent these images from his death bed (probably just a rickety chair, maybe he's gone electric). I feel electric already and that's just some leftover heaven through a window.

All I know for sure is that coconut oil is kind to supple skin and slipping off a cliff.

I'm speaking from experience, I've seen his will - it's weak, and I get EVERYTHANG.

He should get Lasick but probably would end up opting for lazer eyes HISSSSSELF - the snake.

OH OH.

A daughter of serpents gets to know a whole lotta mystic secretessss...

We're coming alive to thrive with creative fun from the offices of DUM DUM DUM - TELEVISION FOR GHOSTS.

We'll keep celebrating Christmas 'til next year - down on your knees praying all intense as frosted leopards lick them feet.

Give one shiver of fear for a gang seriously run by love and raw feeling.

FROM THE SHED OF DORDERY MARKS :

UH, I was jerking off my boyfriend ya know, and he says to use the other hand 'cause he don't like lefties. Too bad.

Who doesn't like lefties?

Well, I technically do, I guess, but I'm really sorta totally selective. IT'S CRIMNAL. 

FROM THE DEATH BED OF SHALO P :

Unhand me, you damn dirty doctors!

OH ON ANOTHER NOTE - Diagonal Walkers: WHERE DO THEY GET OFF?

It's BB's Bach like Sebastian playing that tune that sounds like Phantom of the Opera, ya know, the serial killer and not the musician.

I'm figuring shit out with the printers to share some mutant books and mutant works for Good Uns and Camouflaged Saints.

Bright colors will come from the chameleon messiah. Absorb life through every membrane. Merry Christmas, you loathsome heathens!

JUICE!

BB

WUZZA WUZZIT

check this space tonight.
we switch some keys.
they're dragging something away and it's screaming snakes loud as humble hell
woo hoo hoo hoo!

UH WHUTTUP? WHO'S THIS?

om The De

I'm a silica saleswoman they let off the leash...

GLOWY GARDENER

Hi, I'm using the internet computer in the main den. My name's Glowy Gardener.
Ya can't hide me.
It's always on, this machine. Now there's a new faxer in the corner by the coffee. It's one of the new sleek black ones. It's a hummer. Saw a funny message on the fridge, the boss might be back or he might not.
So much black plastic on this brown little earth.

For the love of ivy,

GG

BOP!

(heard howlt thru the wall, not sure from where though)

GODDAMMIT MOTHERFUCKING SHIT I'M GONNA DIE IN HERE.

Not one fucking sweet lil' card from anybody
that's called me "DADDY"
all these filthy fucking years?!?

CAN YA EVER TRUST ANYBODY WITH A MOHAWK?

(sound issues forth: a brusque inept knocking about of cheap trophies from cheaper wooden shelves, unto the sudden stab of contact with an orgy of broken glass, 
like the proverbial Christ's kicks at the twinkling shit of awful capitalists; tossing them out like barrels from his Donkey Kong temple. That is, until a boom struck THONK upon our holy walls when the lord's voice shot out to say.)

THESE PURELY ORNAMENTAL, 
DECADENT
WHIPS AND THINGS
AIN'T JUST FOR SHOW.

(transcribed by Dordery Marks)