Castrato Hidden on the Sewer Ditch Drags


by Shane Jesse Christmass

Betty is called by many names, the psychosomatic froth on a wave, the energy in sperm. Misers on the high road sniff it, murdered they find the intoxication, the same spirit which pervades, visibly disused in an island. The mere means of production, the lie, letter words that seem to be printed, making plans to study in Jerusalem, the militarization of Space suggests that these people are free in TIME, and will be free in slavery, dogma, imperialism. Betty, the hermit, says nothing, but keeps afoot on the gorgeous detritus of civilization itself, secrets none. Yet, I still have this feeling lay in, disappearing into its surroundings, it wipes out pieces of rhythms, pulsations of life, all shapeless emotions and memories come pouring down, they give gave way to being hunted, a change of and approve of murder, chaos is perfectly healthy. We interest ourselves in life, everyone is now some kind of artist (in 1930’s typefaces) declaring what Ontological futures. For all its horror, of all to be an Art Sadist, for liberation. Art tells gorgeous lies that SPACE as well. Betty flies aimlessly in vesper light, catches a former fellow-officer, comes to visit her with a VCR manual, bric-a-brac & child murder attracts the manipulators, more TV than life, who preach comes out. Guys in jeans, they are talking. The walls of the waiting rooms, after fate from success, old Christmas holidays. What we dislike about civilization can be lesser manifestations of the plague, crooning over Nazi memorabilia and serial murders. Chaos identifies with Tao, Betty free of two dead weights. Potentially, some patron donates a heavy purse to famine, which is a kind of mutilation, jiggling. The Anorexics are the “lifestyle” rebels. Gnostic self-disgust, demonstrated values far more humane, splatter art, highfalutin hopelessness, mystical balloon, to hang walked abroad.  The boys at solitude. Summer meadows into a Theme Park, no matter what its breed or colour. A Cornucopia of continual creation. The bomb, it goes off. A geyser of cosmic generosity; therefore it stirs under Betty like a giant something-or-other. Betty is eating butter cake, achieved enlightenment, lightning frames and her son pays the bill. The food’s passed round, nostalgia for unborn perfections, a different mask of language, sheer paranoia, UFO conspiracies, homophobia, the caveman and peasant commune, the Space City, a Salon Apocalypse, Secret Theatre. Betty is now a star-faring mutant, con man and free prince. I am afraid of bombs. Anthropology, the elegant laziness of hunter/gatherer society, representing the flip-side of ghoulish “health food”. The nothing hours of doled-out freedom, obscene flayed death-trip bogey nailed to the priest-kings. Rioters wearing slippers, pyjamas, within two hours they escape the body and return, systems based on inner liberation. Bored to tears with people who transcend agriculture, industry, sweep away the technology of oppression. Betty against the walls, all spook-haunted brains, a secular exorcism. Lying about the room, a bolt-tight hard-on inside the projections of our yearning for the authentic, nocturnal meditation, chainsaw massacres, no sensitive poststructuralist novels and simultaneous living ether, warriors of the slave morality, televangelist blackshirts, alpha-wave-generating carcinogenic reality-warping devices, Betty cancels her psychic debt thru Peace and yet condemn all human sexuality, the fasting of the soul, the yuppification of computers. Bombs and Riots and Betty purchasing a bus ticket.

About the Author:

Shane Jesse Christmass is a Perth-born, Melbourne-based writer. He edits the journal Queen Vic Knives. He’s also a member of the band Mattress Grave. He firmly belives that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. Most of his writing is archived here.