MAJUSCULE CAPITAL LETTER
BY SCOTT BRYAN WILSON
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Weep not, o illiterate catarrh sufferers. O dream not of a better tomorrow thou nescient myrmidons. Do not lie awake fearing the ultimate correction. Do not scream o orgulous branch managers, as you fustigate tyros, for you too will be judged. By thine own hand for peccadilloes thou wilt be smitten. Divagating nomads cast out from those whom you saw as your brothers and sisters, feel no sadness as your brothers and sisters in christ are here to massage your weary, strong nomadic muscles and ease you into a more comfortable life of poverty and sacrifice, though you too shall be judged. As will satanic ritualists, scatological hedonists, choking deglutitionists, obsequious sesquipedalians, those of dark complexion and with hair of wool, the flatulent politicos, the so-called intellectuals with tastes in art bordering on the blankiest extremes, the towering siblings, the underling yesmen, the comicbook enthusiasts, the heterosexual as well as the homosexual, the overweight. The roorbacks, the samizdats, the dead hand. The moving eyes in the stately portrait. The guttering candles. Spics. A dusty secret stairwell. Cry not intrepid explorers of the daedal simian mind, for your punishment is at hand, as is that of the innocent simian, sentient yet not, as well as the ursine, the bovine, the equine, the murine, the colubrine. The marsupial with the dragging dugs, the filth of the earth dried to the teats with leaking milk, undrunk by unwanted offspring, would-be abortions. O abortionists you too shall feel the wrath, the hand, the seizing at the neck, the bracing of the heart, the bolstering of the kidneys. The implosion of the rectum. Rapists thou art not exempt. Nor are the diabetic stick-up men, the homeless pepperspray victims, the jew with his rocking and his dress. The brutal disgruntled food poisoners, thou art not exempt, those who have peed in the lemonade or smeared their semen in the salad, those who have blown mucus on the sandwich, those who have tossed dingleberries in soup. Public bathroom befoulers thou art not exempt. Paint-besmeared avant-gardists thou art especially not exempt, nor, i shall say, forgiven. Shameful wretch, analphabetic astigmatic, tracheotomy recipient smoking through a stoma, wheezing asthmatic, electronic voice. The cross at the neck, the eating disorder, the overweight. You look like a gorilla with your deepset eyes and squat obesity. O o o foulmouthed drill team participants, pregnant baton twirlers, frowzy maladroit waitress, wipe the smegma from thine lips and allow the light of the lord to shine on thy greasy face, lest ye shall surely burn in hell for all eternity, or longer. O erstwhile blankger hashslingers of america, fear not. Fear not, prosthetic face. Fag basher. Rock baser. Be scared not of the swollen rectum, the amputated arms, the bone scraper, the jagged catheter, the sharpened nailfile, the constant drip, the cuff rash, the sanded glans, for these are the tools of retribution and peace, the tools of justice and circumspection, the tools of dignity and vanity. Honor and sacrifice. Stand up. Wave that captured flag. Those who dig through trash, licking cold gristle off paper plates. Those who crack knuckles, all of them. Those who smell vaguely or strongly of fecal smears. Those who stand proudly at the head of the auditorium, and take what’s coming to them, like a man. Unlike you. Take what’s coming to them like a sadist relishing reciprocation. Take what’s coming to them like government-created biological diseases designed to destroy the blacks and the orientals and all the other immigrants, with their misspelled signs and and and and their foreign rhythms. The scalded feet. The horse with its back broken. The painful breathing. The shard in the chest. Those with one-quarter of their skulls and brains missing yet are functioning miraculously, it’s a miracle, amen. And all the misnumbered and hirsute and bedridden said amen. The shut-ins with their telephone and credit card. The slapped forehead. The fainting. The praise jesus the miracle. The prurient. The lecherous. The obscene. The pedophile. The stroke-book. The jag-off. The i got your r e s p e c t swingin. The slack jaw. The face without a nose. The ol switcheroo. The narcotics hidden in the kangaroo’s pouch. The refugee hidden in the dead cow’s stomach. The lack of apostrophes. The dawn of time. The cliché. The wild west. The lariat. The hanged man. The carrion. Judge ye not for who art thou to judge? The lord loves you except for when you blank up. Craven mendicants clawing suppurating abscesses, paranoid seafarers beady-eyed at watch, twisted veterinarians with their sick experiments. The unworthy. The blamed. The sinister. The malevolent. The perverse. The abstract. The sesquipedalian. The violent. Dost thou feel the wrath, the fire? The burning water? The sheen of blood atop the water like a dead exploded jellyfish? The festering germs. The sickness. The hurt. Bear thee down and brace up thou unrepentant slovenly pockmarked lothario, with thine eyes thou wilt find sinful arousal, with thine mind thou wilt commit infractions, with thou heart thou shalt omit. The microbes and the oozing wound. The synapses and the two-headed turtle. Voices in the head saying no dessert until your eat your vegetables. The snap of the belt, the crushing blows, the pillow on the hard chair. The licentious dance. The mysterious book bound in human skin. The pusillanimous mugger. The cliches the cliches. The endless threat of mediocrity, and the endless delivered promise of same. The compound sentence. The gushing blackhead. The lint. The fever. The nausea. The rolling swells of the sea, matey. Scissors in a toilet. A bold, tasteful font. The funny pages. The adventures and the further adventures. The blank-blanks with their agenda, the blanks parading back and forth with their signs and their chants, the cleancut blankholes with their argyle ties condescending to everyone, the dead pelicans stinking in an alley. The smirking spies and the listening devices. Handwringing autistics loved by overprotective sisters, the lord will smite you down. Save yourself by your own hand, coward. [Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/sbwangel.html] |
B R A V E S O U L S R E C E I V E
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Archive of Recent Activities - Advice for Submitters
Enhanced Navigational Coherency - Long-Ass List of Contributors
Super Lo-Tech Slideshow - Four Years Ago, Maybe - Three Years Ago Today
Two Years Ago Today - Last Year Today
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ME MUERO DE AMOR PARA TODO ABAJO
pboz #5 is available for preorders! - hobart #4 is now available - boom #1 is available (and it's beautiful!)
david barringer's terminally curious - charles ullmann's strategies for modern living
randall devallance's dive - incidents of egotourism in the temporary world
submissions are being accepted and declined for:
the duck & herring co. - hobart's special baseball issue
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SPECIAL DOWN-LOW NOTICE ABOUT PHOTOFICTION & SEATTLE
Mr. Scott Bryan Wilson's contribution was inspired by the image
above sent to him by the eyeshot editor in an effort to sort of do
something we'll call "photofiction" for now, wherein a writer
writes EXACTLY 1000 words in response to a picture,
as per the adage about words and pictures. More
of such things will be appearing in the future.
For the next two weeks, we will be in the
Seattle area, so there won't be
new updates to the site
all that much.
Sorry!
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(Thanks again to Daniel Alarcon for letting us post those notes from South America)