Wednesday, April 18, 2007

From Emily

Dear Doug
I want you to know that the eternal and abiding Love that you have for me is more than reciprocated my my own dead self. For me, there was never a man like you and if I was any more than a pile of bones I would probably be Wet - just - thinking about You, My Dear Douglas!
I sometimes do get wet anyway, but that's mainly when it rains.
I have lost a lot of weight since that picture you fooled around with was taken.
Eat your heart out Kirsty Alley - or - whatever your name is.
Actually, I've had my heart eaten out - By worms. Badda bing!
No seriously.

It is a pity that we cannot be together, at least untill next Monday when you will be hit by a Bus - as you try to attend your Composition class at Seattle Central - just Kidding. You are still amazingly Healthy and will live almost forever, at least it will seem like forever without me - won't it?

Actually, as I gaze into the future - my future anyway - metaphorically speaking - I've already had my corporeal future, I see that many Opportunities for women have opened up.
I think that if I could live in your time and share wild nights with you with you with you, I would like to be an Exotic Dancer, or maybe Margaret Thatcher.
Or, what the hell, both.

I wouldn't even care if you saw other women - like maybe your SSO antagonist, I've seen her - she's cute - we could do a threesome - Ah, but I dream in vain.
I know that our souls will always be together - but - If I could only be with you in body, too.

Say - look - If you're ever in Amhurst - drop by and jump my bones sometime. Ha!
-They would never let me get away with this kind of stuff while I was still shuffling
around the old mortal coil-
Hamlet - what a great play. That Ophelia was a bit of a twink - if you know what I mean - Sure - that bad boy "I'm so friggen deep" act of his was a turn-on - but gawd
girl there's lots of good man meat around - but not Doug - hear?
- Oh Doug - Doug - Doug - If I still had a nervous system - every Neuron would Ache for you.
Would that I could be with you body and soul - Heart and soul - face to face - belly to belly.
I guess I'll have to settle for clavical and soul - or maybe sternum.

You don't seriously think your music will have any historical significance - do you?
I'll come to you in your dreams tonight

Love you love you love you OOOOOXXXXXXXXX(And More - O much much More)




Blogger butch said...

Jeez Louise Slick:

This posting should have been labeled "that strange state between sleep and awake." When a stud like you gets a jones for a bag of bones, then one can only assume that your "nap" was fevered, and you woke up drenched in strangeness.

Emily Dickinson was probably a dyke, albeit a poetic one, a passionate one. Sigmond F. would have a heyday, a real ball trying to make heads or tails of your "dreamgirl". When she came to you, was she wearing that white dress she was buried in?

I think you have been reading way too much Eddie Poe, and your sense of humor has come down hard somewhere in Rod Serling country. If I didn't know you as well as I do, I suppose I would be worried about you. But something tells me that you are enjoying the raw outrageous wit that you have pushed out into the current. You understood that this posting would freak most of us out, and weird out the remainder.

You know even a respectable necrophile would only want to have sex with the dead when there was still some flesh left here and there on those old bones. I must admit that while watching all those CSI shows, and they bring in those luscious young "dead" women, and they sling them up on the coroner's slab or autopsy table, some of them, especially the ones that are still warm, and most of their skull is still intact, perhaps deceased secondary to having their throats cut, or from being strangled --sometimes, God forgive me, they look pretty tasty.

What a base creature are we mortals, sir. So sophisticated, and yet still controlled by impulses older than time itself, needs for love, for procreation, for penetration, for domination, for self-fulfillment. Yes, even Lane Savant, protector of the weak, guardian of the geriatrics, can still look back into the past, and pine away for a woman who was probably a man trapped in a woman's body, a woman who wrote poetry like some people doddle; constantly.

Jung would say that your "need" to be loved by the dead is actually your need to be safe. Of course your Emily cracks wise, and has a wicked sense of humor as well, so perhaps in your case it is just self-deprecation, and an overwhelming desire to grab the SSO behemoth by the throat, and give them a good shake; to be the dominant species, to roar, to be seen and heard, to be appreciated --or you just woke up after being exhausted from working on your Honey-Do list, and some real strange shit came spewing out onto the blog. Well, all I can say is I don't "feel free to laugh", man. All that stuff about premonition and precognitive awareness is heavy stuff. If, at any time, you are hit by a bus, and are killed, time will stand still, there will be darkness at noon, and I personally will piss my pants and shed a tear, and shake my fist at the heavens, and toss a sock full of shit at the moon, and grow long hair on my ears, and roam the streets of Seattle looking for that bastard bus driver.

On a serious note though, I am still reeling with the image of Margaret Thatcher strutting her bad self at FOXES, clinging to her chrome pole, and struggling to get our of her queen-sized panty hose.

When you get to Amherst, to the West Cemetary of Hampshire County, Massachusetts, look up the Belle and pin some fresh violets to her collar, and give her a lip lock on that bony skull for me, sir. That is of course after you exhume her bones, and place them in a Wal Mart bag, and rush off to the woods for some much need privacy.
And thanks for giving us a reference to Mieghan, and for that Slam on Willie Shakingknife's bad boy, Hamlet. But hell, did you have to get in a dig at Ms. Ophelia? Leave that poor demented bitch alone. Hamlet drove her bonkers. If he had only nailed her along the way, she would never have drown herself from neglect, from loneliness. Personally I think Hamlet had a thing for Horatio, and that's why they were constant companions. Perhaps the Hamlet analogy came about midst your fever because you were thinking of the gravedigger scenes, and Hamlet talking about kissing those dead lips of the skull he palmed and caressed.

For some reason reading your epilogue as Emily croons her love ache for Dougie, it reminds me of that calypso rock ballad popular in the late 50's while we were still in high school:
Back to back,
Belly to belly,
At the zombie jamboree!

Christ, now you've got me doing it! Actually as I sat down to respond to your incredible posting, I wondered what I might say, what I could say in the face, in the teeth of such dark humor, such virilent and lean imagery, such sad and sick and wonderful prose. I did not have a clue. I still don't.

5:51 AM  
Blogger butch said...


Lane Savant, in full superhero regala, wearing his pieplate helmet, and Alcoa wrap armor, and carrying his folded up Lance of Liberty, was discovered loitering on the public sidewalk within 100 yards of Beneroya Hall yesterday. When challenged by the SSO security men, he uttered several unprintable epithets, and unfolded his Lance. They called for back up, and 37 security personnel surrounded him while holding back the hordes of horrified onlookers who were out for their lunchbreak. They rushed him ill-advisedly, and he swung that Lance willy-nilly knocking out 17 of them, and bruising and injuring several more. Finally they pinned him down and used 15 tazer guns on him as seven women screamed from the crowd. Someone call the real cops the crowd yelled. Back! Back! the SSO Gestapo bellered, and they seemed to mean business. The gargoyles atop the Hall screetched in ungodly chorus, and the crowd dispersed, leaving Lane Savant pinned to the concrete. Two squad cards of the Seattle Police Force showed up and took Savant into custody. The armored crusader was carrying a Wal Mart bag. When the bad was inspected it was found to contain bones, dozens of bleached white bones. When questioned about his need to carry around those artifacts, Savant said,"That is my Emily! Keep your *&^%$ greasy SSO Nazi fascist constabulary hands off her!" One hour later, after a social worker filling in for the police psychologist, who was still on his extended lunch break, reported that Savant admitted that the bones were actually not really the bones of Emily Dickinson, who he had a jones for, but were more specifically the bone of Spike, his dead Rotweiller. He had let them bleach in the backyard, and he would talk to them. He left them there next to the dog dish and the dog chain for 6 years. "I don't quite know how it all happened today. I worked too hard, and was exhausted, and took a nap, and my Emily came to me in midst of my fevered dreams, and when I awoke, Spike's remains became her remains, and I felt the overwhelming urge to carry her down to the Hall, and let her meet with my SSO friends. I am so sorry. I will never make such a spectacle of myself again." Savant was released at 4:06pm on his own recognizance. He was last seen boarding a city bus headed to the village of Rainier Beach.


6:49 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Who said i was talking about M?
I meant the other one.

11:53 AM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

Emily, thank you so much for your message. Our love is a pure love and will last forever, and though you have strayed off, somewhere away off, I will always remember you.

12:03 PM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

The spirit world, man, the internet, the ethernet, the cosmos, the mind, the imagination, were're all in it together.
"Jones for a bag of bones" love it!
The bones are irrelevant
The body? So what?
It's the spirit, man, the soul.
That, and a pint O'Guinness and Ford's in his flivver and Bob's your mother's brother.
Think META phor

12:04 PM  

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