Don’t Smoke the Brown Naugahyde

Reflections in a Petri Dish – January 25, 2012

Dog Poet Transiting…….
May your noses never be brown.
Mushroom memories, toadstool realities, munchkin mentalities, in a soft stool parade and don’t drink the brown lemonade. Don’t drink the brown lemonade. The cultures sitting on a bench at the Altamont Arcade, checking out the underage with the eyes of an Israeli sniper, fishing for electric eels in the generation of vipers. I got your ADD and your bipolar sanctimony, swinging just for you, swinging just for you and don’t drink the brown Monsanto Slurpies, don’t drink the brown Monsanto Slurpies.
Trying to cure stupid is like killing for peace but hope never dies as long as wonders never cease. It doesn’t matter who you are, what matters is the grease. Do you have the grease? You got that duck oil deodorant to slip you through the crease? Maybe you know Dick Morris or Rahm Emmanuel; get you box seat tickets for a season in Hell. You’re getting mighty thirsty. You’re getting mighty dry. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde.
Newtron Gingrich has near zero support. No one shows up at the office. No one comes to hear him speak. Some junkie wanted to use the toilet but not to take a leak. Newtron figured what the heck and gave a speech outside the door. Later on the janitor swept the junkie off the floor. The autopsy was inconclusive, which junk killed him was elusive. Either way he’s dead and glad to be there. Don’t shoot the brown heroin. Don’t shoot the brown heroin. The quality of the excrement is why the call it ‘horse’.
Neutron has an Adelson with money up the ass. It’s not hard to make a fortune when you’re absolutely crass and your conscience is a bat that sleeps in a cave, where the sun never shines. Of course when you own the press and most of all the rest, what really happened is anybody’s guess. Just feed the public guano, till they all sing soprano, like the Vienna Sausage choir boys, if that sort of thing makes you hard, you can look for them in the doorways on Santa Monica boulevard, after dark but don’t use the brown after shave. No, don’t use the brown aftershave.
Things once familiar have all gone passing strange. If only they were passing and we could call it change. Somebody different wins every primary. This ain’t no kind of accident but Stupid cannot see. He’s in a Budweiser paradise, with pork rinds on the side. Further down the road he’ll be the brown Naugahyde. Ricardo Montalban will do the funeral oration, from Cliff Note Eulogies for Dummies with footnotes and citations. The guests will be sitting on fine Corinthian leather, made from one hundred percent reconstituted pleather. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde.
Mitt Romney’s coming. I can’t even look, sounds like they’re killing the spring lambs and here come the hooks, serve them up with Fava beans and a nice Chianti wine. I suggest you use the lotion when he tells you to next time, “or else it gets hose”. Shit for brains ain’t hard when it can fly right up your nose. First they tell you what you are, then you take off your clothes. Then you assume the position. For them it’s only business, for you it’s a religion. Jesus made me do it. Thank god I am saved. Don’t let it bother you that it rhymes with enslaved. Yeah Mitt Romney’s coming, oh god I’m coming too! I’m coming to the exit doors and then I’m walking through. Don’t hump the brown Mormon dead. You could use jumper cables but attach them to your head. The brown Naugahyde is a stationary ride. No one says “Ouch” when they’re part of the couch and the coroner has to open up the wall, cause you can’t fit through the door. They’ll bury you in a piano case at the Museum of Modern art. You’ll be the hit of the opening cause even dead men fart. Don’t drink the brown Chablis wine. Don’t drink the brown Chablis wine.
Rick Sanitorium is a real piece of work. We need a longer more intricate word. I’m not comfortable with ‘jerk’. It’s not comprehensive. It’s inadequate at best. I’d like to watch that man have sex with his corollary kind. Then afterwards he’s dinner or the character from “Thinner” or the character from “Freaks”. It’s not only geeks …that bite the heads off chickens. Soon Rick meets Mr. Apocalypse and then the plot thickens and then the game’s afoot. He’ll be George Michaeling Satan and sucking every toe on the devil’s cloven hoof, kneeling in front of the brown Naugahyde. Yeah there kneels our hero by the brown Naugahyde. It might be dark out here, think how dark it is inside. Dreaming about demons on the brown Naugahyde.
Then we got Michelle Bachmann Turner Overdrive. Dumb is just too short a word, like ‘jerk’ it doesn’t fit the bill. You know it gives me a major chub to see her soaking in Liz Bathory’s tub. I think she has fantasies about Ehud Barak, whose arms are so short that he can’t scratch his ass. That can make a man mean. There’s no explanation if you have to ask. Ah Michelle, a cowbell, would look so charming hanging from your neck. I think your sense of romance died from pure neglect. Even Priapus would need Viagra, or a crane to stay erect. You and Katherine Harris are bookends of a kind, where no book will come between you. Ah forget it, never mind.
Let’s not forget John Huntsman. Who says money doesn’t talk? John slithers like a caterpillar climbing up a stalk on a plastic potted plant. Some do it cause of money. Some do it cause they can’t. John’s a nasty customer, an Oren Hatchet type. He comes on all avuncular. He comes on smooth and cruel. He knows that basic formula where those of privilege rule. He thinks he’s suave and debonair. He thinks he’s really cool. I think he’s just a tool, a left handed skyhook and meaner than a cornered rat. I think that’s where it’s at. Wait a minute, he’s charitable. He gives so much away but long term calculation is the order of the day. He made his bed with Reagan. He made his bed with Bush. I don’t think he makes his bed and I think his daddy’s inside his head and he’s with the church of Mormon and the clan of Joseph Smith, a Church of Scientology clone whose tablets are a myth. I know the clone is the other way round but I could not resist. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde. He’s an Area Seventy, high ranking slut, of killers with no conscience. I feel it in my gut.
They’re all stalking horses for that other Barak. The fix is in. The votes don’t count. The people sleep. The kingdoms burn. The well informed are the last to learn but soon a special worm will turn and dreams of that will turn to this. Madness is just a seashell, beyond the ocean’s kiss. Solitary status is a joy for some favored few but solitary psychopaths are cloistered with us too. I don’t know where I am tonight, nor am I sure of you. Two face off in shadows like in John Carpenter’s “Thing”. Something indefinable passes …in the sky above. Something indefinable rumbles in the Earth. Something vibrates in the air. Some have hope and some despair and I can’t find you anywhere, cause you are closer than I know. Things happen for a reason so, on with the show and don’t snort the brown Naugahyde. Don’t snort the brown Naugahyde.
Right now there’s no joy in Mudville and my quote marks have gone missing. I’m talking on the aethers but is anybody listening? Disappointment rules the night, except for true elation and some of us have certitude for the purpose of demonstration. Life is bound to a wheel of fire, or a permanent vacation. There’s but a hair of difference between dreams and wide awake. The disparity is by degrees and gnosis is a snake. I float and trail my hand in the water and brush the cheek, brush the cheek, of the Lady in the Lake. They all lie sleeping in these times, submerged like treasure chests. The lame, the halt, the ghosts of old and even the very best, have no comfort in these silent rooms before the tense approach, quite frankly friend (can I call you friend?) the one who loves us most …and you should have some gratitude, cause otherwise, you’re toast. One should study why things happen and then motive might appear and if you’re slow to comprehend, it will kick you in the rear. I have no comfort in that recycled lie …that the end is near. We’ve still got ground to cover, yes, each and everyone. You can tag it how you like it but the story isn’t done.
We’ve had our fill of bullshit, sauteed and casseroled. It’s not the flat up front that counts but what’s hidden in the fold. Poly runs as Pollyander. Diabolus translates as slander. Some transmit and some will pander and so forth as it goes. Like the ancient television line, “only the shadow knows”. It’s not correct but it is precise and someone’s nuts are in a vise or soon will be there.
Enough for now, we’ve run our course. If friends are swayed by fabrications; what kind of friends are these? Trust isn’t something lightly given or you’re hanging in the breeze. The calculated ugly plots are complex things by nature, they tend toward independent ends and swallow their creator. It’s best to step away and let the course run through …until it’s clear to see, the simple truth would be enough but… better you than me. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde. Don’t smoke the brown Naugahyde.
End Transiting…….
Visible’s Patriots head to the Super Bowl in a rematch of a few years past; should prove interesting.

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Otherwise known as Smoking Mirrors, Les Visible provides a voiceover in a disintegrating culture as Reflections in a Petri Dish. While in his guise as Visible Origami, Les offers perspectives on the invisible forces shaping our world

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