Wednesday, July 28, 2021

An Exclusive Interview with P. H. Clockword

 

Great Adventures & Whimsical Disembowelment (GAWD) periodical probably presents an exclusive interview with belly button fluff collector and irreverent quote enthusiast, the totally existing cosmic bard, that is, sir P.H.Clockword (PHC).


GAWD: Welcome sir Clockword. It is an honor to hold you here against your will. Why is it that you rarely give interviews?

PHC: Oh but indubitably, the honor is all yours. The answer to your question is: because, I don't always exist.

GAWD: Can you elaborate?

PHC: Picture it this way: much like the poo which is cast into the abyssal waters of the toilet, only when the sphincter loosens up, so will I, vocalize my wisdom turd into the sewers of your ears, when the right amount of pressure has been released.

GAWD: Does that particular cut of your jib have to do with the fact that you're tied with unbison gut rope to the dematerializer chair?

PHC: Probably with the karmic broccoli I had for lunch.

GAWD: Fair enough. So, we all here, in the GAWD periodical, have a great admiration for your work with carrots. See that large werecarrot statue, next to Linda the spaghetti fingered secretary who's having a really hard time typing any of this down? That's a real, wild werecarrot, unrooted and embalmed with love for the hate we hoard for you. An ode to P.H. Clockword, if you will.

PHC: It's a large upside-down orange chode.

GAWD: No, look. It has a green top. That's how you can tell.

PHC: Pretty sure these are two avocados.

GAWD: Well, I guess it's a matter of perspective. We are all bold advocatos of multiple interpretations of vegetable anatomy. But enough about us, telling you about us. Please, tell us more about ourselves.

PHC: You are the highest ranking crooks of the lowest journalistic circles. The nutter of the gutter. The ink butt-stains on dung-smeared toilet paper. Your para-paparazzi drop from the skies in anachronistic parasuits celebrating a bygone era of exploding photographic machines, immortalizing in unfocused shots, curious creatures roaming the perennial halls of the Cosmic Gallery. There is no unbison. What there is, is a word describing the mere understanding of its non existence, or the subset containing every other creature which is not a bison. So, I can't really be tied here with unbison gut rope. Therefore, I'm free. Logic is taking over this interview.

GAWD: No, don't move! On the press of a button the dematerializer chair will turn you into toothpaste. See the gang of hippies smoking, completely aloof, beyond the rooking grass? Look, one of them just caught on fire. They are the Press of the Button. Having steered their journalistic career away from writing about post-vegan utopias on their cuberspace blog, they are now wholesomely engaged in covering all things button. You must have heard their monthly gazette, 'The Coat's Favorite Jewel' or at least browsed on your portable telegraph through Button App. I hear sites like 'Butt On', 'Un-Button' and 'Butt by the ton' are hugely popular these days. Unlike their failed attempt to include more brutal instruments of the law enforcement among their readers, with the short-lived, yet aptly titled issue of 'Button – but with an A and one T', the Press of the Button will press an issue about how we turned you into unholey buttons. After, I press the big red button in front of you.

PHC: You can't dematerialize me, fool. I'm an idea.

GAWD: Whose idea?

PHC: I'm my idea.

GAWD: Well, here's another idea Mr Brainstorm.

PHC: It's P.H.Clockword. But you can call me Excelsior, or Dynamotronic, or maybe something like, hey you. It's nice to keep things informal from time to time. Getting to know the people behind the punctilious mask of “The Job”.

GAWD: No! Your mind tricks won't work on us. We have been training our whole lives, slogging through reality television and cook shows. We have burned the candle in search of Prince Cohones' upskirts, the world didn't know, it didn't want to see. We know, how President Butterbutt likes to suck on Vicar Nigel’s clipped toe nails right before he goes to sleep. We know, what became of the reparation money for the children's extra-dimensional playground incident. When that photon hydra burned through and blinded the audience, who could not see, as the kids were being turned into musical confetti. We love that boat, man. In fact, we're on it right now. How'd you like that reality-bending crap I'm pulling you? Sound the horn boys, cause we're about to get all the saucy, juicy, mouthwatering, kajizzem. The public opinion is ours to steer forever Clockword. Much like this boat, it's a person-made* thing. It is over. We are ready. You will spill the beans.

PHC: Which beans?

GAWD: There is a bucket of magical beans beside you. Go ahead. Spill them! C'mon! Make my day, Clark.

PHC: Superman?

GAWD: Yes.

PHC: Fitting context.

GAWD: Thanks. Now Spill 'em.

PHC: OK, then. Here's how it unfolds. I grab the beans with one hand and with the other, I reach into your belly and remove your appendix, which was going to be a problem for you in the future either way, resulting in you feeling eternally indebted to me. Now, with a third hand, I had hidden all along in my hat, I pull a fancy bowl out of my ass, but only figuratively. Then, I use one of the flaming button hippies to set your hair on fire and place the bowl containing the beans and the better part of my college years on top. Boily-boily beans - the shameless cow is ill - I never got to meat - cause of my boily-boily beans, I sing, while I make bean-soup in your skull.

GAWD: You can't do this.

PHC: Yes, I can. I'm writing this.

GAWD: No, you're not.

PHC: Yes, I am.

GAWD: Then why do you make me disagree with you?

PHC: To build tension for the readers. Now get in that soup.

GAWD: No please, don't! Not the soup! Is it because of all the butt jokes? Look, I'm sorry. I'm a professional, dude. You can't get really creative on a daily basis. Butt jokes are beyond time. People don't need to try hard to get behind them. I'm just doing my part. You said it. You are the one actually doing all the butt jokes. I believe you. Now please, don't make me jump in the soup.

PHC: SILENCE! Your side of the story is not one half...

GAWD: Don't say it.

PHC: ...but whole.

GAWD: You said butthole.

PHC: And now, in a somersault maneuver you dive into the expanding bean soup bowl. The soup water smells of a thousand farts, as the angry beans sprout invisible threads wrapping swiftly around your flailing body.

GAWD: (incoherent screaming coming from beneath the soup surface)

PHC: You are my puppet.

GAWD: (more incoherent screaming) You sa...stic basta... (sound of raging water, a seagull having a verbal argument with a stork about the origin of babies, someone burping the arrows of time which pinpoint us all. Then silence.)




* Instead of using the term man-made thing, the author of this article decided it is important to let the people know, that person, is also a regressive term, and now prefers beingswhorefusetheyaremonkeysbutstillbehavelikeones – with spaces.



Saturday, August 22, 2020

Cosmic Pariah

The one doomed to drift

    the realms of Sh'Ect

Will always repeat

    the cycle of life

    in circles of death.

 

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Excerpts from the Sleepless Cycle - Train

I was telling her something.
But then I turned my head to look at her, and I realized, I wasn't. I just imagined I did.
I then went to open my mouth to tell her what I wanted, but I couldn't remember what it was.
How did I get here? Is this even real? Is she sitting right beside me, or is her bewitching perfume the longing of a distant memory?
I am now alone, in the middle of the rails.
Waiting to catch the last train.
There is no light at the end of the tunnel.
There is just more tunnel.

Monday, April 6, 2020

Queendom Come

A clock begun to tick.
And I charged into the battlefield.
Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage.
I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death.
Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn.
But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise.
All the better for me, I thought, and tightened the grip on my sword. Adrenaline pumping in my veins and I kept running, but the more I did, it felt more like her unmoving image floated towards me, like I didn't move at all. Or maybe I was stuck on the ground and something else was what pushed me forward. Someone else. I could feel the friction, the resistance, dragging me down more and more as I closed in.
So, the moment I reached in front of her I stopped too. Like some godlike force outside of my realm of comprehension abandoned me to the inevitable pull of gravity, back in my earth-bound fate and the stillness of it all.
I stood there staring at her, accompanied only by the constant ticking of clocks. Starting and stopping, dictating the war's pace.
I was looking at a mirror. That's what it felt like. Her arms touching my things, her hand holding my weapon, her unmoving silhouette matching my own form in every single manner. All but one. Her color was all wrong. She seemed like a negative image of me. Compelled by the invisible wall in front of me, I couldn't take a step further. Frozen in place, I only raised my eyes, until they met hers. And when I peered inside of them, the reflection I saw was of my true self. So different, and yet all the same. It was our role which defined us, not the colors of our banners. We were alike because we shared the purpose our rank and place commanded. That of the foot soldier and the first line of attack. While looking into each others eyes, the realization I knew we both experienced, was the reason why no one would attack. For raising an arm against the other was to threaten oneself.
We stayed like this for what felt so long, that the rage and hate all now seemed like a distant memory of a warlike game. Lost in introspection about the vanity of violence and the real purpose of existence.
But the battle was not over, and the clocks were ticking still.
The sound of horse hooves returned me to the battlefield. The rider galloped closer and stopped right next to me. I didn't turn my gaze from her, but I saw his horse hitting the ground and neighing in the reflection of her narrowing eyes.
And we were one no more.
Like my reflection in the mirror acting on its own, I was taken by surprise, as she raised her sword and cut down the horse's head. I heard the thud. I knew one of my own was down. Ignoring my presence, she moved out from my sight and stood beside me, above the rider's corpse. I knew she was, but all I could see now, now that the distraction of her was gone, was a vast battlefield stretching away in front of me.
A new sense of purpose burned inside of me. Lying in the distance behind the enemy lines, trough a series of unoccupied spaces, a new path led to what was now the sole reason of my existence. There was no other way for me now. Reroute. Reroute to remain relevant.
The battle raged on and on, and I kept being pushed forward towards a holy grail most of my kind will never live enough to realize. The crowning achievement. Where I would be exalted among my people. My chance to become something superior.
The clocks kept ticking. The slaughter and the pain was fading all around me and I forgot about her, and her fabricated self reflecting illusion, which had enchanted me so. My goal was coming closer and closer by the stride, shedding its white light all around, until it became a radiant platform. The final space.
I stepped inside. I was there. Its burning embrace engulfed me and weightless, I was lifted up. I reveled at the glorious moment, as my body stretched and transformed and a black crown was set upon my head. In my new imposing form, I stared down at the battlefield. It was not over yet, but the board had changed.
A new queen had come.
Far in the distance, I saw her again. She had seen it too. Her own holy grail. I couldn't let that happen. I dashed through the battlefield among towers and knights, bishops and pawns. She could not be granted the same blessing I received. She was the enemy once again and I was set to atone for my missed chance to show that to her. To prove to myself, that she was mislead and stranded from the righteous path. In an instant, I was behind her. She was almost there. Too bad. I sliced her throat. Sorry, we are not the same any more. Maybe, we never were.
A hedonic chill crept up my spine as I felt the surge of raw power flooding my veins. The taste of blood. The superiority of my being, dominating and awe-inspiring. With maddened eyes and drooling rage I raised my head, looking for my next target.
Check.” A voice from beyond this world, commanded.
So I turned, and I checked.
Neither his regal white garments, nor his oversized crown could conceal the crippling fear reflected in his eyes.
And I knew, I was the reason.
Your move, King.” I said.
And a clock begun to tick.