Wednesday, September 5, 2012


A Wet Nightmare by
(illustration by CASPERIUM)

In my dream, I'm some kind of superhero in the weirdling "master of the mystic arts" mold.
I'm wearing a three-piece suit that holds images within its outline like a screen does.
A dim black static that might be mistaken for flickering tweed by an innocuous bystander who hasn't been following my monthly magazine.
Anima Monday (known to the Unknown as the Orakuloid) is my sassy sidekick/lovely assistant. She's wearing a skintight cinemagick wetsuit with a similar staticky screen effect, zipped up to her jawline. She's wearing rose-tinted macrovision goggles and hypnotech dj gloves.
We could be intimate siblings, if not twins. We both have hair so brightly blonde it looks white in the streetlight, hers in a perfect little bob, mine in a popstar shag.
We're hovering a few feet above Traducity Street, down in the slivered regions of Glasstown. Our bizarre business takes us into this neighborhood with disturbing frequency.
The membranes are thin, here. Real things slip into myth and unreal things slip into substance with every bend and warp in the heavy weather.
Something happened here years and years ago. An astral disaster.

They called it a rainbow bomb.
Not a stone was scratched. There were no recorded fatalities.
But the local physics were thrown out of joint. Ever since, in the slivered regions, almost imperceptible whirlpools tend to open in the flow of forms and moments.
Imperceptible, that is, to the layman.
Through the bevelled lenses of our inbuilt ajna-cams, every curve in the current is an open wound that cannot be stitched. Permanent wormholes. Gaping invitations for strange visitors and utterly alien interlopers whose anatomies and agendas are far too complex for our four dimensions to hold for long without unravelling altogether.
Through the eyes of we who are of the Other, this fractalized ghetto is the last frontier, the living end, the flimsiest fringe of all things linear and solid and sane. This is the part of town where being bleeds into the big beyond.
And sometimes (like tonight, for instance), the beyond bleeds back.
At the end of this crooked avenue (which flexes and coils as if it's about to lunge at its own tail and start swallowing), where the elegant and infamous looking glass hotel should be, (eating up the evening around it and excreting a palpable perfume of wicked mystery, like it does), we're face to facelessness with what appears to be a gigantic, star-studded, howling vagina, as vast as the hotel itself, hovering in empty air.
Its zone of opening is rimmed with a churning eddy of liquid lightning.
Its intricate folds of silver flesh are pierced with ornate, inscrutable technologies. Juices froth and float in undulating globules from its circumference, splashing hither and yon in slo-mo defiance of local gravity and common decency.
Despite the emanations, there is definitely a vacuum effect at work, drawing loose bits of matter and memory into its boiling depths. The suction is gentle... seductive, in its way, but i detect an undercurrent of building urgency in the breath of this fleshy vortex.
This sudden quantum cunt is hungry.
I know this like fanatics know their god of choice, and so does Anima.
Ours is the mischievous telepathy of wise children, lifelong playmates, young lovers, clone farm prototypes, what have you.
From which wavelength of the infinite Other did this hypersnatch erupt? And with what ineffable objective?
Beats me.
But i know a desperate set of genitals when i see one. Our gaping guest will tug and suckle on the fabric of our here and now until it's been sufficiently stimulated and skillfully satisfied.
The fabric of this tapestry of lies we live has been shredded enough as it is.
This whole hovering bubble of dreamstuff the natives here mistake for a universe could implode in one wet moment if we don't contain the strain and feed this unholy orifice.
Who but Otherman Prime and the Orakuloid could improvise a science that will slake the wet hunger of this pandimensional protopussy? I love what we do. Just don't ask me to explain what we do.
Is it sentient? Its mental frequency is similar in tone to the anti-mind of Nancy Nebula, our omniverous gaseous nemesis from issue seven hundred and forty nine.
Does Ms. Monday remember?
No, of course she doesn't.
I go to all the trouble of documenting our dynamic delusions for the teeming waferfolk of flatland, so one disc in a billion will know a sphere when they see one, but she'd rather play video games and party with psychotic teenagers. That's fine.
I'm the words.
She's the music.
That's our nature.
The street that leads to her moist majesty is intensely aromatic. To me, the scent suggests a peach orchard at the bottom of some ancient ocean. With slivers of something else. A hint of what diamonds would smell like if they smelled like anything.
Anima says something like "It's in pain. Junkie pain. "
I'm about to say she'd know better than anyone, but it turns out i've taken a pill or two myself in this incarnation. My Orakuloid's off your head more often than not, but you'll notice i say that with extreme affection. She's a special kind of beautiful when her psyche is fried like ice cream.
I say tomato, she says "trance facilitator".
Her reflex is to chapter-and-verse the manual at me when i tease her. But i know like i know the shape of my face before birth that being cracked and scrambled and lightly salted is part of her job down here. So pop another, Ms. Monday. I will always have your back.
"'Junkie pain', you say?" As we hover, a small crowd of broken people and ghostfolk and criminal types are clustering at the corner, staring with bovine blankness at the obscene paranormal crisis that has slashed their midnight skyline. A few of them can't help but giggle. Wouldn't you? A few are clearly speculating on which godstars we might be.
If any of these degenerates turns out to be a fan i'll pretend we're someone else and seriously re-assess our demographic back at the Glitch-House, once we've fixed this.
As usual, despite her frequency of sustained delirium, Anima's focus on the atrocity at hand is unwavering.
Her cinemagick wetsuit is alive with rotating constellations of collage.
She's tossing screens that stick to the empty air before her.
Diagrams and datastreams and excerpts from various hypnogrimoires.
Arcane taxonomies downloaded from the libraries of various alien earths.
Someone somewhere has seen this thing before.
But she's such an intuitive little Orakuloid. She's looking for the latin names and trivial statistics that pertain to something she knows already.
Her wetsuit sweats a swarm of little documentaries that she can process between heartbeats.
The screens pop like bubbles as she saves their cargo in the virtual museums and hypgnostic nerve networks that are evolving exponentially in her densely microchipped brainmeat.
She's spinning informations as if every discipline, every almanac and pornograph that pertains to this monster is a piece of music.
She fiddles with the speed and shape of data until conflicting rhythms achieve the tightest kind of congruence, tight like a fist then the fist opens and out flies a symphony that sings us everything we need to know.

ANIMA: "She's some kind of orgone monster. an undying, wandering fragment from a sentient universe that was dismembered from within.
The pieces of whatever she was are floating in the milky abyss between the worlds like gerbil-bits in an aquarium. She enters a wavelength through the apocalyptic emptiness of her orgasms.
She comes and goes but if she doesn't come she's going nowhere.
This visit is an accident. she wants a loose and loony universe within which to take route and pleasure herself in perpetuity, but this cosmos fits her far too tightly.
The physics are constrictive. She can't relax. She can't fuck herself into elsewhere.
When she's stuck in a certain bubble, she panics and starts eating all the orgone until all that is in whichever everywhere she's in becomes a kind of dust that disperses in the Other and frees her to find some other alley of the omniverse to get busy in.
First there'll be a rippling radius of psychic plague.
Outbreaks of obsessive and increasingly violent psychosexual behavior. then the sim we're in will attempt to regulate the flow and suppress its case of alien sex cancer by making a eunuch of itself and growing an aeon of neurotic monasticism.
This "hypersnatch", as you put it, will feast on the thwarted orgone, festering grey molecules of junk love that will keep it uncomfortably alive until everything that ever was or will be rots into a world-sized funeral flower of cracked atoms and ash, simultaneously blooming and disintegrating in the oceanic milk of eternity.
Then she's swimming in the Other.
Macromonsters and angelic organisms tend to climax on contact with the White Darkness. She wakes from wet nightmare into wet revelation. The timeless time she knew wholeness in. The infinitude she'd forgotten in her numb hunger and her spasmodic feasting."

A tear of pure mercury trickles from the corner of my left eye.
With exposition like that, who needs poetry?
"That's very sweet", I say, "I hope the giant angel pussy finds a homeworld it can safely keegle in. Since this dimension isn't sexy enough (present company excluded, of course), is there a way we can facilitate its cosmic quest to comfortably get its rocks off WITHOUT turning all that is into dust down here on the wavelength we are paid very handsomely to nourish and protect and conduct into the pentecostal fever of upgrade?"
Ms. Monday grins lasciviously like we've been dancing and she likes my moves.
We're very "into" each other. Mutually infatuated.
Is that why every other living thing on this cursed earth seems to find us insufferable? Baffling, at best. Fuck em. They can buy the magazine if they want an exegesis. We have a job to do.
"A game to play", Ms. Monday says, not quite correcting me.
We shuffle filters and worldviews and contexts like gypsies shuffle tarot cards (random 5d autopsies of your everywhen, icon-clusters sucking you in while their gamine ninjaquick daughters steal your wallet). just because m.a.j.i.k. works doesn't mean it isn't a hustle, too.
"What's our next issue?", she asks me, adjusting the goggles, pushing hovering holographic buttons and manipulating projected spectral keyboards, her fingers a blur, dense little collages unfolding in the design of her complicated catsuit.
A wetsuit fit for the beatifically bitchy mercury minx of myth and legend, the twisted little simspinning sphinx of hypno, the sound and the feel and the logic of tomorrow, mine today to play with and behold.
"Nine hundred and ninety-nine, as a matter of fact." hmmm.
She tosses forth a cube from within the wetsuit's menagerie of miracles.
It frames her briefly, then she and it go 2d. Then this hovering rectangular living photograph of her starts vibrating and generating copies of itself with audible pop after pop pop pop.
There are seventeen of her before the process stops.
Animated phantom zone reproductions of my partner in thoughtkrime.
Suitable for framing...or folding...or wrapping around oneself, like a blanket.
Then another pop for every Anima and they're all 3d and cubed again. At 17, the cubes are clearly composed of a transparent liquid that holds the shape without being in the least bit gelatinous. the cubes ripple, in fact then they lose their structure and splash onto the steaming pussyslick pavement, joining the soup of juices unknown to esrthly science.
"Here's the cover story", say three of her. they're all accruing some altitude. I rise a little more slowly, leaisurely, a little theatrically, despite the hungry vagina-shaped sex cancer from beyond that's infecting and consuming the fundamental energies of all life (of life ITSELF) just at the end of this street here. Why worry?
I can't help savoring the sight and sensation of seventeen swarming sidekicks, an entourage of Orakuloids, each as strange and lovely as the next, arming their wetsuits for hardcore cinemagick combat.
Like a fetish armageddon, but sexier than anything in the bible.
And the great satan in my bible seems to be a godzilla-sized vampiric alien coochie.
And the righteous may not make it. And the faithful who have gathered to bear witness are probably hoping we'll get killed because they're missing a morgue's worth of season premeieres on the snuff channel. Or they're thinking about their mothers. Whatever.
Bottom line: why worry?
On a certain scale of seeing and being, I already wrote this. And it turns out to be one of our strangest adventures(though it is a bit cryptic and abbreviated, like all our dreams). Happy endings for me and my shadow. AND the hypersnatch. AND the pitiful, compulsively tridimensional mutated monkeyfolk who were born in this nowhere.
But i digress in my rapture.
Seventeen of her. seventeen orakuloids. seventeen animas. seventeen mondays.
I hope all her sweet refractions make it back to the glitch-house, when we're done here.
We could have a slumber party and re-enact the slaking of the hypersnatch in miniature, from various angles, testing different strategies of soothing the untamed cunt in case the macrosnatch comes back all horny in an issue of us that is yet unwritten.
I ramble amidst the careening orakuloids, who are advancing like lovebugs on the soft circuitries of our unfulfilled invader.
Some of Her are growing prehensile tendrils with vibrating tips.
Some of Her are spewing gallons of lubricational vibrating sex jelly around the rim of our slurping, suppurating foe.
Every Anima is engaged in this grand operation except the Anima who hovers by my side, supervising, remembering every nuance of this unsettling spectacle for the memoirs, which i suspect i'll be ghostwriting anyway.

OTHERMAN: "Issue 999" .

ANIMA: "Isn't that the number of the Beast with three backs."

OTHERMAN:"I suppose. Why do you ask?"

ANIMA: "Your cover story, silly. We're living it. Can't you see the words floating, forming paragraphs that fly apart like a flock of pigeons then reconfigure again in new shapes, new tapestries of nuance and image and dialogue and dream? This dream is made of your voice."

OTHERMAN: "What about your voice, Ms. Monday?"

ANIMA:"Notice my lips never move. I'm the rhythm you write to. I'm the glitch-milk you swim in."

OTHERMAN:"What's this story called?"

ANIMA: " hmmmm. well, you know me. something pulpy and oldschool, with a slow-acting sting in its tail..."


ANIMA: "post-perfect. such a cunning linguist, you are."

OTHERMAN: "and that's our plan, the payoff, the ridiculous action sequence that costs as much as a flock of hospitals?"

ANIMA: "yes. my little twins will pleasure the vortex to the strains of my symphony. to the music i make when you play me."

OTHERMAN: "as above..."

ANIMA: "so...below..."

In the foetid floral pink zone, three Orakuloids are twisting the elastic physics of this region to employ a strength far beyond the scope of their muscle mass.
They're lifting the clitoral hood as a fourth Her hoses down the underneath with a cleansing aphrodisiac.
A fifth Anima conjures a flock of flying tongues that slip and lide and slither across the expanse of silver-streaked smegma-coated flesh like slugs with the hearts of hummingbirds.
A sixth Her conducts the tempo of their licking and their replication.
I imagine , for our vast vaginal visitor, it's like noticing that your panties are full of maggots.
But they're cute and they glow in the dark and they want to pleasure you and it feels like they've always belonged there.
Five more orakuloids are growing waggling black tendrils anywhere and everywhere.
Some of Her (or should i say her sudden sisters? does she feel like there's one Her with all these bodies to move in, or are all of these Animas really strangers to each other? do they remember who the original Anima was? can any Anima claim to be the original? does it matter?) , i said SOME of Her, are lightly but provocatively tugging at the macropussy's strange piercings.
Some of Her are excreting a sheen of tingling sex jam and She sluices through the folds of this Hypersnatch like it's a ride in some ancient fabled themepark at the apex of Macrobabylon's epic decadence, just before the fall and the beginning of history as we know it. It's more and more like a pornoplasmic zero-G ballet.
Three of Her are girl-sized, acting as waif-shaped naked sponges, circling the the inner rim of It, very slowly. Another Anima grows six more arms to softly stroke the diamond-hard tantratech clitoris.
It's as big as a car. It's lined with a network of electric nerves.
Sparks fly but they feel like bolts of alien reiki as Anima licks the clit-head and give its throbbing roundness a wilting bouquet of her patented panting pixie kisses.
One is enough to make an earthboy come for forty minutes solid. It's how she pays the fanatical hypnokids that assist you at your gigs.
Trouble is that fairy-cakes unsuit you for human food. the Orakuloid's consolation kiss is as good as any gift will ever get for those mixed-up memeoids, and a cult of Anima Monday is forming already. Like it always does.
We can't stand still for fifteen minutes on any given wavelength without hypno forming of its own accord to welcome us. Isn't nature funny that way?
Subcultures are as dense and complex and variegated in their particulars as any ecology outside the city. But raw nature does have a splendor all its own.
I'm hovering a hundred feet in the air, holding hands with my girl Monday, bearing witness to the building bliss of a hot pink zero from outside space and time, its gratitude gushing forth from a web of soft circuitry, Its depths, Its folds, Its swollen clitoris, It's g-spot dreamhouse where Animas drill deep like machine elves at work on the pulpy rim of timespace.
Its velvety pudenda.
The slick silver abyss of the Goddess-Gash who came down amongst us to get off at the expense of all living things.
You know me. I'm all about the love. In this line of work, I have to be.
Ms Monday's holy of holies can get pretty hungry itself sometimes. And her clones won't shrivel til dawn.  But i do pause and ponder and actually scratch my actual head when she asks me, in the aftermath...

ANIMA: "Should we have been figuring out a way to kill it?"

OTHERMAN: "Hell, no. You know the drill. it's like we said. like we always say, because it explains so much, like the best beads of blurbism..."As above, below."
we have tussled with the primordial chaotic hunger of the archetypal vagina, the fundamental platonic idea of quim in borrowed flesh it grew from the meat of the living, wounded world we live in, and i certainly don't want rancid cosmic karma affecting my interactions with pussy on any scale of being... "

The laughter of our studio audience takes five million years to reach us.
The closing credits contain the slavenames and secret pseudonyms of everyone who ever lived. you're in there somewhere. so is Anima (on all seven sides of the ajnakam).
So am i. i'm the third person psycho, like harry lime, a voice growing music and feeling and form in the white darkness, where Othermen swim invisibly, in mystery schools.
i'm the most unreliable narrator you'll ever catch telling the story of your life. and i rewrite on the fly. i'm maing all your yesterdays and tomorrows up as i go.
your "now" is what i sound like. the pussyflesh curtains are closing on our logo.
activate your decoder rings.
read the piece you live in and grow some scissors and glue and fever from its alphabets.
cut the fucker up until it matches the mindspace of the monster in your mirror.
now the big send-off. the molting Ms. Monday clones need some soap. and i need to fuck each Her gently into bubbles of ecstatic oblivion. we're professionals.
she knows the drill. and it knows her holes in turn. good night, puny humans.
(bathnoises. noises you might hear dictionaries making if they had sex with a hovering reservoir of sentient champagne)
slow fade to an expanding, faintly undulating cloud of inky black.

OTHERMAN: "Somewhere, out there in the endless Other, there's a disembodied god-cock raping galaxies as it goes, slithering like some tiamatic, original eel through the subtle gradations of the void to end all voids.
Sooner or later or everywhen or always, this fundamental peg will find and fit like fate in the fundamental hole. And, in that moment  (which might feel like generations to the macrobes that hatch and blossom and disintegrate around the rim of this wet fusion), someone boring will wake up from all of this, having dreamed the life of every single one of us, all at once, in the space of a single evening's aneurysm. Amen."

offertory time.

tampons and ladybugs and ben-wa balls in the basket, please.

nocturnal emissions are accepted...and encouraged.

support your oneiric evangelist.

he's here to turn you on.

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