Thursday, March 25, 2021

FAKE NOVEL excerpt (Chapter 13: Best in Show)


Chapter Thirteen: Best in Show

(In which a bunch of bribed politicians shoot up a high school in Florida)


AKA Seventeen Corpses

(A Western remake starring Ronnie Raygun and Jane Russell’s tits in a tight sweater)



The Drumpfster, a soft and soggy insufficiently bullied draft-dodging teenager, hides out in the bowels of his Mafioso father’s golden tower. He contemplates revenge on his high school for the insult of algebra. (That and the fact that almost every other student in the school is smarter and poorer than he is.) He combs his hair over his bald spot until he sees a troubled teen in the mirror. He regrows his acne and his ears stick out like the ferret-man who runs the Department of Justice. (Klansman Sessions is one of Dr. Moreau’s less successful creations—he still bites, but prefers dark meat.)

            Better yet: the teenage Drumpfster hides the effects of radiation on his thinning hair with a red MAGA (My Attorney Got Arrested) cap and contemplates just how to make Trumpistan great again. He decides that teenage Jews are the biggest threat to his dictatorship and the Trumpistani way of life. Going to a high school and gunning down as many Jews as possible will be a good start to white Christian greatness—and the Rapture. He will march to South Florida and shoot his way to freedom from algebra, alcohol, almanacs, alfalfa, Ali Baba, Al Capone, and all of the other Semitic plots undermining the greatest white trash redneck shithole country on Earth.

            He spends a few hours practicing a Nazi salute in the mirror before putting on his makeup, getting into the hairspray, and heading out to do God’s work.


Donald Duck Drumpf received $30.3 million directly from the National Rifle Association in campaign contributions—perhaps much, much more through PACS and Super PACS—much of this money reportedly coming from Russian oligarchs and merely laundered through the NRA.

Good dog! Stay—no, stay-y-y-y. OK, stand on your hind legs and beg.



Paul Ryan sits in his parents’ home polishing his saber, oiling his rod, jerking off to NAMBLA porn—gazing at his own white face in the mirror with a great deal of affection. He prays for the strength to carry out the orders of his superiors. He will be Superman (a real/fake man, that is to say, a brainless killer), Batman (avenging his white parents against the ethnic scum who murdered them), Thor (a real/fake purebred Aryan), Captain America (that unique combination of exploitable loyalty and rabid racism in a leotard), Wonder Woman (a token dose of sensitivity in her big-chested, motherly violence), Black Panther (a politically correct token), Silver Surfer (he’s not a nerd, he’s cool!) and even Deadpool (Reaganite irony destroying empathy through smug cynicism).[1]

            Paul Ryan—his Eddie Munster’s puppy-dog face erased in this palimpsest of superhero lore—loads his AR-57.


Paul Ryan has received $49,650 directly from the NRA in campaign contributions over the last twenty years, probably much more through hidden channels.

Here’s a treat. Beg—now beg-g-g-g.



Marco Rubio climbs into his mom’s SUV to give his gun a lift to school. Along the way talk radio (Rush Limbaugh) tells him that illegal Mexicans are killing innocent blond Trumpistani girls on piers in evil queer sanctuary city San Francisco; that all liberals are sneaky idiot/geniuses who hate his freedom and want to take away his penis/gun/right to be an asshole racist; that evil Jews in suits in banks are helping us Christians arrive at our much-desired Armageddon but that we should hate their shifty lawyer ways anyway; that feminists are all hairy-legged lesbians aimed at cutting off his still flaccid penis, one painful slice at a time; that feminism is a communist plot against his ever getting hard or having the pleasure of dominating some bitch and turning her from a whore into a mother with his theoretically hard cock; that the police only shoot blacks because they resist God’s law (arrest); that the only thing utterly against divine law is saying no to a white man; that Millennials are pampered snowflakes in need of a good war to toughen them up; that filthy Muslim commie Taliban goat-fuckers resist bowing down to our warlord flag in Afghanistan and Iraq; that Iran can’t be trusted; that only a dumb black man with a Muslim name like Barack Hussein Obama would trust those Middle Eastern scum—so we need to nuke ‘em behind their backs, the sneaky rag-head bastards; that Russia is our best ally now that they’ve adopted our own mafia-style economic system (and are also the only other sensible white nation left in the world[2]); and that in the new New World Order we two white nations will rule over all of the darkie shithole countries together.

After Rubio blows apart seventeen teenage bodies at the school, the radio personalities quoted above will blame video games, bullying, and mental illness for the deaths—anything but guns, white male anything, Drumpf’s incendiary speeches, or their own fear-mongering.


Marco Rubio received a paltry $5,000 directly from the NRA in contributions to his first campaign, but an additional million when he ran for reelection—after proving that he was an obedient pup. He’s such a kiss-ass he would have done everything they wanted him to do for much less.

Who’s a good boy? You are! You’re a goo-oo-oo-d boy!



Rob Portman pulls into the parking lot of the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, stoned out of his mind on talk radio, red baseball caps, Drumpf rallies, and comic book heroes. Trumpistan teaches young white men mostly only one thing: violence will solve all of your problems.

Today Robbie Portman’s going hunting. The more Jew kids he shoots in the next half hour, the greater Trumpistan will be in the morning.

            Little Robbie carries his erect assault rifle through the glass doors and into the school. His actual, fleshy penis is a shriveled and useless lump in the pants he’s about to wet in excitement and fear. (Yeah, this is all about hating mommy—his teachers and Hillary Clinton. Guns are the anti-mommy erect steel cocks to which envious male white babies cling; they signify the coward’s dream of uniting sex and supremacy through bloodletting.) Little Robbie’ll show ‘em what it means for a boy to become a man: it means killing bad guys. Ronnie Raygun killed bad guys in Hollywood movies. Well, actually it was John Wayne—but, by 1980, Wayne was no longer available to be cast as president of the New World Order. Trumpistan settled for the B-movie version. Trumpistan always prefers remakes to originals.

            “Ronald Reagan is my avatar of white masculinity and though I walk through the valley of the liberal media and gun-hating hippies I shall not want for bullets to smite the fuck out of anybody who gets in my way, Jack,” Portman mumbles before opening fire.


Robert Portman received $29,455 from the NRA for his first campaign and an additional $731,400 toward reelection.

Pee on the paper: down, boy! Do-o-o-own! Now pee on the paper while we all watch.



Inside the school, gun raised and cocked, Ted Cruz lets the bullets fly in sweet relief, thrill-pee pulsing down his thighs. There’s almost no kickback from the compliant gun (just like a real/fake Christian woman). The flesh, brains, blood, and bone spurs of children fly about the classrooms like confetti at a birthday party. Amid the hysterical screaming of those not yet dead, children run in circles around traumas that will brand them, their DNA, and their descendants for eternity. It’s nothing personal, just our way of life in action, business as usual in Washington, DC. It’s the price you pay for believing in democracy, for trusting the rich, for the indifference you have to force yourself to feel to support all of the Human Centipede administration’s attacks on human rights—from Aleppo to Tuskegee, from Saigon to the homeless encampments of Los Angeles. (Behind every great fortune, a greater crime.) You’ll never take away little Teddie’s freedom to spurt bullets, to smirk at you from your TV screen, to feel infinitely superior to the sheeple, to laugh at you and your liberal bullshit. Nobody tells little Teddie what to do with his pee-pee gun.

            Superman’s Kryptonite cum rips through these kids’ clothes and skin with hands of steel. Children’s bodies tear like paper in his superhero grasp, heads bouncing around the gym like deflated footballs. Gore rains on the wounded and terrified faces on the linoleum, as their parents and teachers, as Trumpistan, its military and its police, have taught them to do. This is the position of the patriot, face down on the floor, ass up for whatever an authority figure wants to shove in it.

            Trump/Reagan/B-movie cowboy/superhero/NRA-bought Senator boy then stomps on the shivering, writhing, and still bodies—the still living playing dead, fighting back their screams—the corpses rapidly cooling to room temperature. He stomps ‘em good with his leather boots and cowboy spurs, grinding their bones to chalk against the orange linoleum. (Even this is useless as chalk has long been replaced by disposable markers in Trumpistan’s “schools”—they pollute better, cost less, and make industrialists richer faster than chalk ever did.)


Ted Cruz received $11,900 from the NRA during his first campaign, plus another $65,000 for his 2012 Senate bid.

Speak! Now Speak! Tell the people about the price of freedom, then go sit in your basket until I call you again.



When feeding time is over, Wayne LaPierre locks the gate and walks away from the kennel as the barking subsides to the reluctant silence of a neglected kennel.


 *          *          *


Good guys always kill more people than bad guys—that’s how they get to be called “good guys.” They win the war by killing more people than the bad guys. Then, once they’ve won the war, their historians write that they were the good guys, that they were on the right side, the winning side, the side that killed the most people, took power, and kept it—at least until the time when those history books got written.

[1] It’s obvious that the author of this fake novel holds superhero mythology in disdain and has never read any of these comics—therefore this passage is more religious than aesthetic, insomuch as it represents the kind of pure prejudice most of this novel attacks. You don’t like it? It’s contradictory? Fuck off and read a Dan Brown novel.

[2] Read: not socialist.







Wednesday, March 3, 2021

Waitin’ for the Vaccine Blues


As if in auto-

Citation, San Francisco

Calls up some wind

And a little fog



                        My mind

Wanders in empty fields

Of Covid time, end-

Less and finite

As a lost dog.


                        I walk

Where the traffic lights

Bid me and Alamo Square

Is where I sit


And where San Francisco

Writes itself

Into my note-



                        Half a million

American souls

Know it’s true.





                                    Alamo Square, SF



Friday, July 24, 2020

The Last Bitter Coffee

The last bitter coffee
in Naples, the last sip
of this life I live
vicariously, a traveller’s
life, denizen of cities
lived like dreams
,one at a time,
everything in the moment,
but soon forgotten.

And, like a miracle
of San Gennaro himself,
this is the best coffee
of them all, and a fitting
postscript to the sweetest
dream I have dreamt.

O, how good it tastes,
How strong and jittery it makes me
For the train ride to come,
for tomorrow
and tomorrow
and all the tomorrows
to come.


"The Last Romantics." Seen in Forcella, Naples.

Wednesday, July 22, 2020

Worse than Ozymandias

Nothing says fuck you
quite like a castle.
it stands there
daring you
to fuck with it,
to assail
its unassailable heights
,its unreachable ramparts,
but no matter
how many castellani
you manage to kill,
the castle remains.
And when it’s yours,
your own conquered
fuck you
rising from the earth or the sea
as far into the sky
as any human construction,
you’re trapped in it
until the next barbarian
comes along
,takes it from you,
and locks himself
in its dank


Castel Sant'Elmo in Naples. Angevin, built around 1275.

Tuesday, July 21, 2020

Hymn to Partenope

Partenope, predatory
as any earthly creature
,who all must eat,
omnivorous and unable
to fish—her bird wings got in the way
of the wire—created the art
of singing. To snare a man. Any man.
Not for loving—
she sang of other matters
of poverty perhaps, or camaraderie,
or the moonlight on the turbulent sea
—anything but romance, anything but love.

For she and her two sisters
had grown tired of poking their beaks
into the dirt, of grubbing
for scraps, and the island
was too rocky to plant. Anthropologists
confirm civilization impossible
under such circumstances.

            Not even Circe’s
Resources—a hut, a stall,
or the power of magic
to protect them, the sirens
did all that they could do.

Until Odysseus undid it all.
This is how my city was born in blood
And death and singing.



Thursday, May 21, 2020

Here is chapter Nine of the Fake Novel, performed by yours, truly and talented musician Robert English (50% of the band Nominal State) with some neat visuals. The novel was published on May 1st, 2020, International Worker's Day, just before all hell broke loose. It's a savage literary punk rock anarchist satire of all things Trump as well as politics and capitalism in general. The narrative pretty successfully combines the humor and horror genres. It uses the F-word a lot (4 times in the book trailer alone!) And yet it yearns for a peaceful revolution and a saner future for this world of bullies and pretend victims on TV.

Wake up, sheeple.  Fake is the new real.  The false must be told.

You can order the novel from your local bookshop or directly from the author (paypal $15 or 15 Euro to for US, Canada, Europe and UK including postage), or online bookstores--but please avoid Amazon and other predatory capitalists.

Play this as loud as your computer goes.