Salvador Dali Is A Slice of Fascist Ham!

By the time the heaping mounds of cleavage have stopped falling from the sleek, black saucers that whizzed by overhead every fifteen minutes, every sinner beneath the warped, new sun knew that the man with vampires for eyes was without frontiers of any kind and working for the clampdown. If you look at the famous photograph of him attempting to fly through Charles Manson's beard with a magnifying lens, you can clearly make out the image of three crucifed Shaolin monks just behind the wave of locusts buzzing around Manson's left ear. Apparently, dragons guarded the feet of the cosmos way back in the day. It was weird, though, how the bits of metal embedded in everyone's visors could still breathe, despite the lack of oxygen in the picture-frame.

Nights like your voice get satisfied in the negation of taboo and begin with mysterious incantations that take control of royal palaces everywhere. Random echoes held prisoner by hypothetical thighs, no stranger to the poetry of fishnets and their cherished ideas about what floats around the stale air in public washrooms, tonight they are no different from any of our most secret hopes, the songs we sing in winter.

Somehow cinematic, wearing the appropriate styles and colours dictated to us by a suddenly telepathic moon, we drum lush, radiant lotus-leaves into being as a gift to the wet contours that feed us sex. We self-proclaimed blue shadows like to gather in the minds of schizophrenic insomniacs to share code and suck images from the pulsating cuts of shimmering vulva dotting the interior landscape. And this is also where you'll find my fellow suicides, dressed in the latest bohemian finery and chugging back litre after litre of stardust in the style of those who have programmed their choirs to harmonize in alien keys that exist only beyond the confines of time and space.

Salvador Dali, always a slice of fascist ham, is the first to stagger from his seat and lurch outside, where he is immediately impaled by the tusks of a melting elephant who has been distracted by all the astronauts and pygmies running through the labyrinthine maze that is stalled traffic tonight. Chaos screams in shock and horror, especially after a dozen aborted fetuses begin to clamber from the dying painter's mouth.

To everyone's amazement, though, Dali rises from the dead, wipes the blood from the gashes in his torso with a paisley rag and winks lasciviously at the reflection cast by his corpse in a mirror Jim Morrison has brought along with him for just such occasions as this. When Dali is satisfied that his notorious mustache has been set to stun, Morrison blithely resumes chasing long-forgotten lullabies through the alley's murk while stomping every sonnet beneath his feet into invisible, erotic gas that will soon inspire the birth of many new dimensions beyond the farthest reaches of prophecy. New mountains of wax are all a part of his milky, subatomic journey.

Only ancient divinatory techniques learnt at the feet of wrinkled Navajo shamen, or the post-aesthetic aesthetics implied by the mathematics of bad poetry and vegetable oil processed in grimey vats of broken-hearted logic can explain how reams of Swedish pornography became what is now known as our halo. The resulting algebra, however, is so startlingly sexy it was finally forced to seek permanent refuge in random digital reproduction's most esoteric particles, to, in effect, become a bell that is also a cup.

"Need an inspired explanation friend?" offers an ossified Albert Einstein, looking more than a wee bit wobbly and pointing boldly at the erection protruding from his pants. I can't help but gasp slightly when I notice the tattoo of the cosmic lemniscat on his left testicle.The hair at the back of my neck stands on edge as equations all throughout the abstract universe deflower in tribute.

"I have plenty of my own, brother," I sneer, not attempting in the least to conceal my contempt for his overly-Euclidean sense of architecture, nor the sounds of mourning that drip from his past homages to every cracked egg that steered its own riddle into his needy veins.

The newcomer is a study in permutation's frenzy, albatross and sweet, funky white-noise. Robotic chasms, razorblades, all receding waves of science and cherubic blips on the radar that is my leather jacket; his every molecule betrays a determination to straddle cognition's fluid emergence into adrenaline, it's need to reference other ideas regarding the apocalypse. His genetics are all muscle and wiry toughness, but he will receive his comeuppance later on between the pages of a magazine.

"I saw The Black Madonna strapped to a pile of severed legs studded with diamonds and rubies," he's telling anyone who will listen. "Bent over electric sand, lashed and licked into a rubbery sunset by a gang of men large enough to peel loud, garish colours from their very source. Her smeared, runny permeation by the zero, with all velocities lifted from the arcane catalogue that flutters along with the strange, atavistic fear of the sonata's most recent direction, almost resulted in the creation of enough orgasmic energy to topple the reign of the harsh, purple truth that terrorizes us all!"

In those lonely, mariner eyes, drifting between vines of skin and rushing streams of cocaine consciousness, then focusing rapidly on something ineffable in the cold corners of the room, you can detect the faintest traces of a visionary reason. There are the peacock feathers some artists have sought for millennia in swirls of lust and by crawling through subterranean mirages. Hammered in like a preternatural beauty, they appear to expand their vocabulary by absorbing what is most verdant and binary around them. They possess many qualities that other celestial travellers easily become jealous of, like their power to evaporate the abyss at the heart of everything, or to assuage the despair caused by lost chances for receiving thirty different varities of fellatio.

"I saw Martin Luther King, headless and lounging around the rings of Saturn. He had been elected President of All Individuality by the insect seers who inhabit that planet, and he could give birth to religions a thousand feet high, charred enigmas that united the laws of the serpent with an array of burning worlds."

"And you expect us to believe a single word of that, I suppose?" I shout across the quarries of a new, crystalline Jerusalem, lush, with nicely curved warheads.

"Two non-believers this hour alone! Are you trying to ruin me, man?"

He shudders and points to the sky, where the light has begun to form into an angelic choir, serene and crispy. A pair of shapely, stockinged thighs glide across a perfect hydrogen soliloquy before coming to a landing in flecks of pure chemical exchange. An omen of trails to come?

"More fingernails!" barks Dali from the mist, sniffing at the ghostly wreck of laughter beneah the sea, the same way Marilyn Monroe's cruelly murdered sex did. Angular enough to slide through any and all abstractions, even while saturated with what makes us all long for genuine connection, Dali still knew treble clefs from alchemies in orbit.

Cursing his hair for never ceasing to be what the internet tastes like, Einstein gets up from his sear, makes his way over to the newcomer and calmly starts writing random passages from Das Capital on his jacket, using only a single judicious stream of semen from his still-stiff penis to do so. When he is finished, the Goddess tosses her wet panties into his eager mouth in appreciation of his magnificent skill.

"I tell you, I saw simulacra that could self-organize themselves into red fishermen from Mars, ten million gaunt wheels of machinery chomping away at ennui like a tanned piece of ass!"

He falls silent and goes back to chewing on a gold coin he has been intermittently pulling from between the lips of a disembodied vagina sitting next to him. I also feel obliged to ask him to step inside the inferno outback for a little soak in the pit. But I'm fascinated by him now, the way his retinas condense into parallel universes when his wings are hungry, then slam into my circular, repeated mantras. The inner walls he wears on his head are clearly not his own. He is muttering something about time travel, decapitation, and the occult layers of meaning in a deck of tarot cards now, but I fail to make out any details.

Aleister Crowley, who has also taken a keen interest in the man, sidles up to him at the bar and engages him in surprisingly quiet conversation, gesturing to the Buddha in a nun's habit behind the counter to bring them a couple pints of the joint's purest karma. I notice that Crowley is distracting him with the good old Golden Dawn In a Grain of Sand trick, so I stealthily move over and make away with his leather backpack. Immediately, we are swarmed by the ghosts of Lenin, Trotsky, and an army of Bolsheviks still loyal enough to fight at the barricades with them! Gargantuan spiders hurl their vilest in cyrillic, and there, behind the sudden increase in entropy lies a golden age longing to be born, a crystal ball in which can be seen a set of swollen, sweaty testicles rubbing themselves off atop the pages of the Bhagvad Gita, and...some sort of manuscript. The title reads: How Purgatory's Mountain Ranges Fell Through the Pink Patches of Ice That Also Devour Headless Eels: A Romance by A.N. Whitehead.

"So that's your name, is it?" I blurt out. "Well, Mr. Whitehead, have you ever wondered what the face your mother had before she was born would look like without any lipstick or eyeliner?" Crowley and Einstein snap their fingers simultaneously, and a holographic image of the woman appears out of nowhere. She is completely nude, except for a leopard-print bra and enthusiastically gyrating atop what is guilty or dead by 4pm.

There's also a photo of a genetically-modified Lucifer; clean-shaven, looking appropriately futuristic as he smears banshee wails and painted birds on the murky fog smiling from stomachs filled with cancer. He has taken aim at the time machines sitting as heavy and inert as swords stuck to a slave's dismal idea of fun, beauty chained to a maelstrom of beer-cans. Gorging on rust that understands genocide, and with a panoramic view of perverse sex that spits on puking heads in exile, his hoofs are guerrilla tactics won in fierce battle from the void, x-ray specs meant to be mystical.

It's an odd choice for what was originally supposed to be beyond warmth, the only sound capable of taking the uncanny form of dolls swooshing as bohemian nihilists hissed their disapproval at passing armoured cars in the street. Stringy, filthy clots of hair tense around theories channeled by aliens, then relax, tease and release myths into the moaning, sopping-wet strangeness barely audible in the comet's limp into industrial hysteria, ritualistic barks from a mirror out for blood.

Somewhere inside your skull, evolution dances on the magnetic heart of America's secret canals, bottled evenings waiting patiently to be born and stuffed into flimsy lingerie in galaxies that have just learned how to breathe. Hieroglyphs slide from fiery sheaths to impregnate butterflies burrowing through the fumes from a billion discarded whiskey bottles in search of whatever will empty their minds of thought and therby enable them to grow from adolescence to alphahood. The apparitions in the mouth of the satellite know they can only worship at the altar of bullets from the relative safety of distant tidal waves, where sex is politely curated by Rene Magritte's furry ears. Their habit of racing Lincoln convertibles, radios blaring space-age disco and snowflakes flying from the back seat, is quickly declared illegal in the realm of abandoned limbs when the law of value is caught smoking marajuana in the ladies' washroom, wearing nothing but a garland of flowers and hovering dreams.

"The laws that govern how buttocks swish and react to black clouds naming names are a dadaist collage. Tristan Tzara and Hannah Koch are already preparing to invade the future and colonize our truest love songs. But the tape-loops needed to stop them are buried somewhere in the basement at the Cabaret Voltaire," says Whitehead calmly but gravely.

As if to confirm his warning, chimpanzee doctors in fluourescent suits appear on the televison screen injecting the entire St. Louis Cardinals baseball team into Buzz Aldrin's urethra. The sky barely blinks. Next week, viewers can tune in to see colossal steel buildings disappear into a raindrop as the battle to see who will get to kiss God's wet nipples next reaches epic proportions!

Oh, by the way, rumour has it that if you read this text all the way through in one sitting, your sexual organs will turn upside down, and you may fall in. If that happens, there you will encounter Ronald Reagan and Timothy Leary sitting happily together, sipping rocket-fuel...the kind that can also be used to prevent the formation of cataracts on one's favourite chakras.