Sambu: Sorcerer of the Stars.

Here's a preview of an upcoming work, Sambu: Sorcerer of the Stars, an adventure-style wizard comic written by Bryce Abood and drawn by me. We want to do it in color though, so I'm working those out right now... but the comic should be finished shortly. 

Celadon at Skylight Books Annex

For anyone staying/living in the LA area, all three issues of Celadon are available at Skylight Books Annex in Los Feliz. Some are also available at Meltdown comics but I think I have to bring more down there. Check it out if you can.

Remember to listen to the Sidhe, my friends.

Celadon Issue 3

Celadon Issue 3 is finally completed. I'll have it printed later this week and it should be available at somewhat scattered places around the LA/Hollywood area. Meltdown and Skylight books carry my stuff but I'm trying to convince some others. I always carry a few on me, so if we meet you're likely to be offered one. 

Jhotuday: The 7th Of Saturnalia

((THE STIMULUS WILL RISE AGAIN))

You are listening to the Wyrm.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.

Residents of the Calciflex Pontoon region were met with a horrifying bit of Reality CODA
when Diabetic Sun disrupted the value of its UV dispersing what would otherwise have been quaint tho eternal prolapse. Hail what furthers in pain, turn your eyes in Haloes of Mutant Copper. Hark the news team that delivers, that sends, that follows each trickling Source.

Round the bark, round the Fibrous Hanging Tree they shot.
Now desolate they wander. Watching the Night for its Salmon, pink Ascending up its River.
When in the Deeps beneath I gathered of this Hybrid Fruit,
A Hybrid Seed of Self and Slaughter, a Body like Hysteria, like Pink in Scales of Water.

This is the Wyrm.

PROTESTERS IN THE EAST DISTRICT OF THE CANTEL:2394,   
AMBER RECKONING


One day they will question.
They will look at nutritional facts.
They will look at pillars of scab.
They will look at ph levels.
They will look at the clone.
They will look at my hands.
And they will know nothing still.


A nothing in today too, but open, free in some way our current scans,
our current scoops and reports on scene miss. Look again, look again,
I say but they will not find it out there: amid the stone of Terror.

What we shelter? What do we stand for here, where the news memorized is the news reborn?

A day to be alive, a day to Stand outside and listen still as Monitors harmonize the Fall.

Abandon all to the Wyrm.

Now to our celebrity correspondent in the sagging hatred of the scalped horizons, Judy Caesar.

Her methods may be peculiar, but Judy Caesar nuzzles a scoop from millennia abroad. 

Thank you, Gossamer Smith. Lots to follow in the celebrity spectrum, let me tell you.
Constant erosion and erection, sopping mess.
Just hope I can hold it altogether to the end of these Interview-scabies-Skittles!

Ann Remora-HU is a householding name, the faucets agree. She phlegms the wet-willy anon.
Everywhere following her. We see Ann took her hose and shoved it into her ear, "pump up the volume," she says to Walt. Patience like the surveillance dawn.

Walt has two hands on an Elaine, one inside and one underside her new belt of Blonde and Saccharine, like a silky miracle of Pulp, the primordial piano all syrup. Some haunt the teeth of Elaine, Invisiline but of Human Motion. Tesserect's the new Black, they in the LATTER DAY SHOW say.
"No Walt could compare", she, dearest Elaine, sighs to Camera D, "to the Walt in my Jelco-Jerrify: how Terrifying does your Morning Gurgle sound?"

Tyler Stasis_ta_Coulard has been coming and coming on Simon Djinnpinter for days, his face sands away at the eyes all blood, all being focused in the groin incandescent, pink tips, foamskin heaving barely cut, then sew dawn. Horizon vaccinated by this Color of his goose-silk sac, ahem, foie-gras the focus: ahem, but rarefied cutlet the Curve. Tyler Stasis_ta_Coulard! O, what won't he Do NOW??? Simon lapping up the reservoir faster faster faster like dog chasing some googly tail of marshmallowed muscle and sweat.

Dog in giggly cell. ALL SIP AT DOG IN HIS VOICE.

Fans lately have been flocking to the Britney halides, such that Ann has lost all sense of progress when faced with Asshollow Peers. Tracking shot: Ann at the cafe, ordering her noontide doses. Passing once-worn friends, glittery countertops, tables so like other tables. Ann with sun-burnt thoughts. Ann with freeze-dried flickerings.

Emotions from so far off. Close-up: Ann has violet eyes. Close up within a close-up: Ann violated in edges and lines. She bakes the fudge all the same, as US WEEKLY say. Many have found her face-down on the street, soul-spent from meticulous counting out of her 'four globes': no grain waylaid. Now Ann in a mirror, now Ann in a pool of her own suction. Now Ann in red. Now Ann in gold. O, Ann, what will become of you? Where do you really sleep tonight?

Resonant figures have the touch that turns us to Spiral, that's why I infern myself with Lacred Lux.

Walt admitted at a recent conference in Zambia, scents of the asshole have over the hypnogogic regions of the All-Rush. "Even so," concedes Walt, "only an aggrondizing moron mistakes boyass for a woman's fingernail Almonds." His comments left the populace in a state of furious awe, shortly before processing him into Plaza, exuberantly hued mulch, like rainbow in curved light. Furious into the depleted noise, he seems to have uttered some lyrical comment on the state of the abdominal cortex. More on this as it vibrates forth.

But even despite the enormous, irrevocable popularity of the Britney halides, Tyler and Simon still at it, win the attention of vertices and nadir cross the screaming Rose, switching off rock-paper-scissors bursts to vales of cum or cumulonimbus urkish goggly-chords, reflex moan BLOOOD, more and more cancer; elongated pincers, Scyther like the emerald pandemic called Mulek, scary-face blurbs X tasty zoning in out each in others, others in each, budding plateau, musical chairs Tibetan_Samsara style but in meat, truly this spiritualized meat will be the next big thing. Next big thing. next. thing thing thing.

All this reporter has to say in response to these gossipract sights?
ChickaChickaboomboom will there be enough zoom?
Back to you, Smith.

And, O, how Judy Caesar ascends.

This is the Wyrm.
Abandon all to the Wyrm.

More on the split-sun-scoop:
The 1264 leading out of the downtown Mestodian sector is clogged today with a terrorist faction, known as the 'Posh Cuticle,' forcing small highly sweetened gateways down the throats of unexpecting virtual drivers and virtual driven, inciting instant diabetes. Diabetic sun gums a fickle victory.

What Sport does spring in the Fields? Do you see the Golden Fawn?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.
What Creek does chill in the Woods? Do you see the Silver Doe?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.
What Mouth does fall in the Lap? Do you see the Bird of Fire?
For it is laughing and it is laughing and it is laughing.

What laughter in the Meadows that for so long were grown for Chew and Scream.
What laughter in the Houses that do shake with Gardens Mean and Strange.
What laughter in the Roads that were dense with Noise of Metal and of Carne.

Do you see the Skinless and the Sapless? The Sipless and the Shrillless?
For it is laughing too. And it is laughing. And then it's laughter.

This is the Wyrm.

Opening sometime in Late MAY, Khildrens Kare Kenter will host all sorts of Thick Sweets and Frail Limits!

Now an announcement from our cultural analysis flambeau, Our Lady of the Teratoma.

Thank you, Gossamer Smith.

((Look into your hearts, my friends, realize this speaking from the inside-out.))

All meals, summer unusually soft, cares of the clouds each humid wrinkle, citrus rinded belly blanketing down (never lime or orange), taken on the balcony. People were watched walking up and down, new species of ice cached the eyes. Planes were missed but not forgotten. Passed over, like the brights colors of fallen flowers on the paths tanlining the road. So many things could've been done. We could've followed those people, accosted them, tore off everything so only the eyes were left and mothered those like trophies. But we sat, my boy and I. Watching, tickling, and eating squish.

Each meal was unique, handpicked by the kid. Each of his fingers, another dirty scratch. The colors he took so long selecting. Rubbing belly, pink with toes. But then most chromatic brilliance the sun humiliated. Drain, chopped into bland, ulraviolet bliss. So he kept a series of tubes to protect the colors, each shred of food banded zigzag thick like a labyrinth hamsterized and wet. His meal never easy.

Nothing much else, other than periodic rinsing of our form: his eyes had to be scraped up first and sometimes severely. They collect a musky residue, purple, coughdrift.

No one ever spoke to us, but all the same they made their laughter and lost it again in their other mouths. Again and again it was a movie they played in the hallways. "Listen to it, Mimi."
The kid would crawl into the corner of pepsiblue walls, his only toy a horse made from the coathangers. Things were said, talking spread in the cracks below his feet and trailed under him in a loud pond, squeaky with breathyrust. "you like the movies?" The kid stares outside, rain loosens cloud.

To wake up and see the kid in the morning. Those shirts, outsized with so many arms and odd attachments. "I make them for when I'm cold." It was very cold in the morning, but I had nothing to give my kid but the meals and the pleasure of the slaughtering battery, our sun. But as each day passed, it was noted that less did shine through.

The movies were growing and those walking were all on close-up even as they ran away. Each evening we pet each other, the kids hands smelly with crisco and penny. I gargled them all the same. He called them his truffle-puffs. Often that seemed to be the only word for them.

One morning the kid sat on the balcony, all the food had dried up and so he folded it into airships. Odd breadweird zeppelins, tethers and sails of vegetable tracing. Just before they set off over the street, they would turn back, mixtures gold satin worry. We sat, with no more food, but probably with no more hunger, watching as they traveled away, crossing over cloud. I held his feet in my mouth, so happy all at once for some reason. "just don't eat them up," he whispered, patting my on the head, even as I growled doggish. Waiting for our day to begin.

Resigned to the Structures of their Hold, the Fallen Man shall know no Rest. 

This is the Wyrm.

All of us here would like you our listeners to remember:

No one is immune to foodborne illness. However, some people get sick more easily than others, or may be affected more severely if they do get sick. These easily-affected people are called Highly-Susceptible Populations, and they're divided into four groups. You can remember the groups that make up Highly-Susceptible Populations with acronym YOPI:

Y stands for people YOUNGER than five years old.
O stands for people OLDER than 65 years old.
P stands for PREGNANT women.
I stands for people who are Immune-compromised (this could be due to certain medications, underlying health conditions, or illness like AIDS, diabetes, or cancer).

Studies show, the Horse giveth and so the Horse taketh away. 

Abandon all to the Wyrm.

figure in a landscape

No more vents, so we press ibuprofen

like snapdragons, seething linen.

Bleach rides the stairway, folding 

cantaloupe worn with meat steps.

Flipping each other over. My turn.

You’ll get to it. Hold down. Try? 

Less bones in tender zoo, eggs

squint under cheap eye substance. 

Gristle down heroin-bright legs.

Swan pudding. Tip our fingers,

rank with bearded luck and chest

weekly heather, drops like road

syrup, brown palace condoms win.

Pale bridges of ceiling. Call it snow. 

Limp days. No more vodka fruit,

no more throats. Squirm noose hips,

spider bites held up by crown-coke

paste, scales off the cleaning Sea Dead. 

White animals come back our swollen

wrists, waffle the limpid bird yolks.

Stop bleeding already, it's boring!

Rinse your cut. Soft. Suck. Repeat.

Graph pillows, the blue lights over

nylon street bars. Ass tastes dry

of grill panic, shit plates teeth in sprawl

comfort. Swans wink a reel miss.

Remember the toilet melody, the pray.

No more blankets, no more cage.

Love the sing iron in our fist,

flipping me over as your cry skunks.

Of course we're losers! Stroke it first.

Sigh. Now again. Weird: these maggots taste

avocado-ish. That’s nothing, wetted cringe.

Let it settle the fit, diverge our code.

Animals door for our braided meal.

Your turn is coming. Better! More light.

Look at your loosen face, oh, prim?

That’s nothing, just suck. Yes, suck on.

And try to shake your born. Hot, right. 

We’ll get the hang of it. Blonde krills future. 

Know it will work out, pustule stitch.

Every one of your nipples a constellation

in itself. If only the white would leave.

No one’s perfect. Oh no. NO. My turn lives. 

Rintrah, who wanders sweet on the hill

I always forget how much Oris bites me. 

in the mirror, up and down my neck like deep-sea tulips, yogurtdrown. full of blood am I; dawn dosed with all the skin, bone, mouth of just another person in thick, other rims. look at my hand, o, look where the lines of distance and child ghost me, red vein and blue. 

by tonight, the sky will have heard all it needs to; but I shall, under the palm fronds, silent maw; somewhere, shaking, counting, figures under the bridges; throughout the hollow meadow.  

no one can tell, but I’m such laughter. 

⦿

over Lucky Charms, I bring up the sounds of this street. where do they come from: a mean dog after heartbird and sports etcetera; swingsets, sticky laughter; rich, subtle fireworks. Oris strokes my ankle, eyes open at mine but reluctant. 

as if to recite glow, for some reason, was all his fever: he takes out my cock; two fingers, up in pink, red bumpy, ridges follicle; then flesh and morning white, he hums with it deep. we wait afterwards, needing cigarettes that respond, stagnant, patient, mutant forgiveness. 

and where does the dog noise stir?

he smells like apples left out too long. he kisses like one too many bitter lap pools. his hair reminds me of the heather. his eyes reel with crystal tension. we have nothing in common but our breath, spit, blood from time to time. 

still, it’s more hygienic this way. 

⦿

not too long ago I watched a girl chew through her wrist, l knew she’d only make it halfway before asking for my help. what she really needs, more help? more heights? more hold? I couldn’t tell, this was behind a 7-11 lit all fluorescent, wild with sea grape. she sat out on a pokemonflavored mattress, just begging for it, whatever she pointed. whatever gives out first. I waited for her awhile, soles of her feet sneaking out like shaved mice ripples. 

somehow I ended up seeing her a year later right before the bathroom at IHOP, talking edge of her face, empty booth, pale wonder of her starving, her crusted-off thought.

⦿

Oris told me he has a large stock of dresses, shiny texture to them, like aluminum foil he mentions. I want to see him in every single one; mauve cradle stroked pink.

I like the Belle dress the most, I always like that flush of ballroom on the cartoon. 

his toes cut into the skin surrounding my neck, his neck lithe; my nipples, his eyelashes scorched with even just the dawn. I like how he’s been planning nothing but different dresses all day, he doesnt ask about the noises I regret even before they really get going. 

⦿

whenever his sister Aurelia used to live here with him was when I was really falling apart, like no segue from dream to wake. immediate, gnawing force of air, wind scraping out a little cove for vision.

I never knew how far I went. soft, smooth tits, she raised me up all the stairs and I couldn't help she smelled like words closer. stretched across her or she on top of me, those nipples so so soft in them cute puddles of veiny pinkwhite like zebra cakes made by tumorous means. then melted in turbine-ginger, she sat on the steps outside the house sometimes.talking to herself or whatever it was she between white and red of the evening cars.

she always wore a little flower in her eye socket, right eye scooped out years back: “when the Daddy-faces decided I could make me a good prophet,” she told me once when I was licking it around. we liked to put anything we could find in that pit, but the little flowers were so fragrant, so much anything all at once. 

they grow somewhere in the backyard and I never knew anything else about them, glistening minnow-like in the dawn like now they do. always at the foot of their stalks I found odd, four-inch long humanoids, babies with eyes like seven or so worms woven into ornament; their skin blue but like the iridescent shimmer of light caught over pigeons' necks. always dead or crying little polleny death-rattles. 

⦿

I watch them as he gets things ready. not much, there’s not much in this old place to fiddle. noises have started up, I know already he’ll want to drop me off somewhere. when the noises get in me, he looks at me frozen, parts of him frozen far off. not looking back as I wave, as I always whisper my Hellos, afflicted with the Silence I see.

Im told in Africa there's a whole land devoted to Silence where the clouds do not move, where children ride upon the hovering vessels made from baleen and unicornbreath. Im told like toyland you can never return; but when still, under the immobility and flat but not stale wind, velvet saps into your spine and you become cradled with all the flavors of some strange empire of plasma. Of lake like atmosphere dark on chlorophyll, beets, the heart of Six-Headed Antelope. 

I chew through the dresses but perk up right at the end, he says to me sudden:“I don’t want to be here... can you.” he points to the zipper but doesn’t exactly ask. his hand is so white, blotchy, he’s been at the bleach again for giggling. I almost break his neck, but resist. I do resist. 

⦿

when Oris steps outside, I can finally see it.

lines scattered, scratching back age of his face; violet stains of tear, eyes sallow, lids swelling; sweet fires of iris in bright fog; hatred of blue skin, cut pink, translucent; for me this was the closest I’ve come to butchery, just the daily stark, screech of cloud. 

I used to know Oris just like a little thing I kept away somewhere, his sister and him, diamond parenthesis in a cellar full with fade. 

“will Aurelia need anything?”

he looks down towards the lavender trunks of dead eucalyptus, face of confused pomeranian sucking out sports plastic. 

“she hasn’t called me today. you know, she’s been so... I don’t know.”

when did I last touch her? her hand maybe, bougainvillea, the exhaust amid taillights. 

“she’s just being Aurelia, living wherever, eating some.”

Oris tears a leaf off a hibiscus shrub, stuffs it slowly into purse, bit by bit. 

“we’ll all have a big feast soon, I like doing that: I know this tricky pumpkin dish that you especially will go crazy for,” and he strokes my shoulder and I feel him sick.

but looking down at the houses so far, I count the panels on the doorways. for some reason, all these are dosed with some bend in Oris’ back; like shingles, facets, flickering welts; froth crippled in the blue, lost over his web, shrill; if I only could hold him longer, somehow; his lips never pull enough away, my body so cut and still tall. 

⦿

I motion to the gutter, lick his neck, scream so; for I am a thing of blood. fur spiking, milk filling my ears; instead of noise more and more milk, like Splashing Violin's viscous mammalian strings; sparkle, the little flowers which grow so much, everywhere, meat in the settling cloudst; sweating out rich ospreys of blood, sticky eyelashes. 

"Do you hear that? those noises... like sirens in the distance," Oris looks at me and smiles, blinking so much I can barely stop myself from crying. I know the gravity stiff in a single look, like his eyes deep in blue flesh. Cut wildly into blinding stars.  

he looks off into the distance, "you don't even know what you've done." swallows, then the air, measure of azimuth; serrated, deep violet.

"you don't even know what you've really done, do you?"

have only the glistening of crystal, of shattered chimes but vigilant ones. somehow the iris forms enough flesh to make sails from. Oris leaves me.

I notice him going but I stay and listen to my hands scraping against my head. 

⦿

see the little boys that sit outside my window, they sing top 40s singles and plant succulents. ever smell them, pink powdery musk, like new left in arctic hush.

and like the wind, trickling into the pine, shelter rabid and white. never knowing what felt, then yellow on the sky. bright star of Venus pours, siren tense and rich. vermillion into me, otherwise the hole of color. 

finger the holes in my neck and chest, where so much gone Slurpee. never cold enough, never so distant as the first time. when I first kissed the down of some place, and some birds stuck between my fingernails start ringing. 

for the Sirens don’t need us here, they need the space for echoes and that alone. 

Andrew Marvell's The Garden