Fiction and Poetry 3am Magazine Contact Links Submission Guidelines
Literature
Arts
Politics
Nonfiction
Music
Buzzwords logo

BUZZWORDS

PEDDLING MIND PORN TO THE
CHATTERING CLASSES SINCE 2000
by Andrew Gallix and Utahna Faith

email correspondence to andrew@3ammagazine.com

Buzzwords home
Copyright © 3:AM Magazine 2005
   BritLitBlogs.com

3:AM linkroll

Recently
  • 3:AM TOP 5: PETE JONES
  • THE NOVEL OF NOVELS
  • 3:AM MAGAZINE XMAS BASH 2006
  • FLASH FICTION BY LEN JOY: ROCKY POINT CRABS - 1978
  • NATIONAL PHONE IN SICK DAY
  • REMAINDER ON RESONANCE
  • LIST MANIA
  • REPORTS FROM THE FRONTLINE
  • STRANGE BUT TRUE
  • HIJACKING DENNIS COOPER

  • complete archives:

    3:AM links
     Buzzwords 2000-O5
     3:AM MySpace
     3:AM Magazine Pix
     Ambit
     Arete
     Bad Idea
     The Barcelona Review
     The Believer
     Blatt
     Bookmunch
     BritLitBlogs
     The Chap
     Complete Review
     Daniel Battams Fan Club
     Dreams That Money Can Buy
     The Enthusiast
     Exquisite Corpse
     Falling Into Fancy Fragments
     Full Moon Empty Sportsbag
     Laura Hird
     Identity Theory
     The Idler
     KGBBarLit
     Litro
     McSweeney's
     MetaxuCafe
     Nerve
     n+1
     Nude Magazine
     Paris Bitter Hearts Pit
     Pornlit
     Pulp.net
     ReadySteadyBook
     Salon
     Slate
     Slow Toe
     Smoke
     Smokelong Quarterly
     Spike
     STML
     Strange Attractor
     SuicideGirls
     Swink
     Trebuchet
     Underneath the Bunker
     Wild Strawberries
     wood s lot
     Word Riot

    Recent tags

      [4.12.06] [3:AM]
    SUPPORT THE TROOPS BY GIVING THEM POSTHUMOUS BONERS
    Leftward-leaning Prot-priestess gets overexcited at Marine hero's funeral, causing all true red American blood to seethe

    by Tom Bradley

    "Behold this bleeding breast of mine
    Gashed with the sacramental sign.
    I stanch the blood, the wafer soaks,
    High Priestess moistened death invokes.
    This Bread I gorge, this Oath I swear
    As I enflame myself with prayer."
    --Aleister Crowley, Mass of the Phoenix

    Distinguished, decorated, not much longer corporeal Corporal, trenchered out piecemeal in our laps, your bronze whatzit with fig leaf clusters or almond clusters, or whatever, pinned on your thorax, reamed-out, stainless steel-stanted, don't you fret, my handsome boy.

    We promise not to tattle to absentee Pa that you, literally gutless, failed to complete your eighth stop-lossed tour of duty, way over there in Eye-rack, running interference for Halliburton's pricey mercenaries.

    Not from us will ex-pregnant-teen Ma hear that you unmetaphorically crapped out before she could hold a bake sale for E-Bay body armor, your penultimate birthday-boy surprise.
    Meanwhile, allow me to hoist the hem of my pastoral cassock, climb on the casket rim, and squat, knickerless, like Greer over her mirror. Pucker up, youngster. Don't pout. We intend to give you every benefit of the doubt.

    Nourished from infancy on meat and sugar, you brat of an illiterate slag, reared in the roar of televised blood and shit and sperm, numbed to your neurons by the fumes of Ma's kitchenette meth lab, capable of only a bored child's-eye video-view of the manifested universe, blood addict, insane with black hate-spleen.

    You popped a chubby in the middle of a pep rally back in hi-skool a few months ago, got called a homo by jocks, jeered by cheerleaders. You said to yourself (back when you had tongue and lips that were something more than ash primped with jizz-colored mortuary wax), "Gol-dang, I need some o' that -- what-d'-you-call-it -- dissy-plin in m' life. I better enlist, yup-yup-yup."

    Are you retarded enough to reckon that was an actual decision on your part? You were part of the plan all along, Corporal Corpse. Your nation was methodically over-lawyered in preparation for your nativity, divorce was facilitated, your generation well-farmed, incubated in broken homes, corn-fed golem oafs too heart- and brain-damaged to do more than rampage in a proxy war on behalf of that boa-constricting entity which I, your priestess, for self preservation's sake, even here in this Christian sanctuary, must euphemize, in a whisper, as "the Trans-national Corporatocracy."

    Their pet execs in the recording industry soaked your existence, in-utero onward, with perpetual grunting decibels, drumming monotony, aural steroids. You obediently i-podded it straight into the side of your learning-disabled head while slogging through Fallujah's scab-clogged gutters.

    Just following orders, carrying out YHWH's immemorial injunction from on high, as we find in today's reading from the second and third verses of the fifteenth chapter of the First Book of You-Know-Who (with wet thighs I mount the lectern, pry apart the Good Book's buttocks, and declaim):

    Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy
    all that they have, and spare them not;
    but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling,
    ox and sheep, camel and ass.


    Such a useful runt. I brim with affection for you, my boy-toy. We need to breed whole fleets of Bradley Urban Assault Vehicles jam-full of lovely, drooly, bristly, backward-bending hard-ons like you.

    That other military empire, Grand Assyria, whose ashes you made mud with your shit and blood, had the right idea. High on the ramparts they impaled any teen Ma, any unpatriotic hussy, who sought to procure miscarriage.

    Speaking of writhing on a spike, with my sacerdotal labia majora I now squeeze your jar head. Here's a trigger for you to pull, kissy-boy. I twist your muscled neck to wring a final requiescat stiffy.

    Ten-hut. Support them troops.

    ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
    Tom Bradley's latest book, Killer Serial, has been launched multimedia-style by the Queen of the True Crime Writers, Sondra London. His next book, Fission Among The Fanatics, will soon be published by the great Spuyten Duyvil (NYC).

    [permalink] | [7 comments]



    fiction and poetry | literature | arts | politics | music | nonfiction
    links | offers | contact | guidelines | advertise | webmasters

    Copyright © 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 3 AM Publishing. All Rights Reserved.