Gardening For The Insane Made Easy

Stolen Poems/Get Thee Behind Me Satan

That nymphet's beauty lay less on her bones,

Than in her name's proclaimed two allophones.

A boned veracity slow to be found,

In all the channels of recorded sound.

Souvent femme varie,

Bien fol est qui s'y fie!

Une femme souvent

N'est qu'une plume au vent.

L'autre soir un air froid d'opéra m'alita:

Son félé – bien fol est qui s'y fie!

Il neige, le décor s'écroule, Ekaterina!

Ekaterina, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie?

Ne manqué pas de dire à ton amant Chiméne, comme le lac est beau car il faut qu'il t'y mène. Et moi qui t'offrais mon genie! Soyons logiques, garçon.

Dying, dying, Elena Plaze,

Of hate and remorse, I'm dying.

And again my hairy fist I raise,

And again I hear you crying.

Officer, officer, there they go –

In the rain, where that lighted store is!

And her socks are white, and I love her so,

And her name is Plaze, Elena Burgess.

Au revoir, les enfants,

À ma sœur, ou grosse fille

À ma sœur, un cœur de pirate

Le chat, un garcon, un femme.

U menya vsyo ochen' horosho. Za tvoyo zdoroviye!

Every morning, I either go outside in the cold cockcrow air, taking a little jog around the newly rebuilt town park, or tending my vegetables in the garden, weeding and watering my plants which have foundations built on already parched mounds of soil and crushed, afterwards powderized eggshells that I heard would be great in helping your flowers flourish. The two activities might not seem related, especially if you don't know me personally. How, you might ask, are the two related? Well, to be perfectly honest, they're not just related, in fact they are one and the same. Two peas in the same mutated pod. During both, I exercise my daily routine of imagining the most horrendous things, acts that can guarantee someone a nice piece of a scorched residential lot in one of hell's circles, rather subdivisions, fully furnished with ash-covered pots and pans, dining tables, velveteen sofas, television sets with the most sonorous audio systems, inverse refrigeration, although every house in hell might come with a flame bill, same as you would if you had bought a house on earth. Despite the freedom from buying an electric stove or anything that produces heat, it is a hard sell, choosing between hell and heaven, which I hear is basically like living your previous life – except there's clouds and gods and fire and all that shit. Oh, and it's always hot too.

For example, when I go jogging, I always encounter these children on the streets, sometimes adolescents, but you never know how old they really are unless you get a hold of their birth certificates – I have seen some that look about sixty years old, but are in fact around thirty to forty years old. I go around the park's quadrilateral outline, putting my left foot ahead of my right foot repeatedly for about two thousand times, when suddenly, I get the urge to beat the shit out of those dirty fucks. Eventually, I'll feel tired, like my heart's been flooded with hydrogen peroxide, bubbling, and usually I'd sit on the black marble-topped benches scattered all around the park's central fountain. I would look at them for a couple of minutes, visualizing what their life was like before they succumbed to either laziness or lack of money or whatever reason. I always pondered: does anybody care if they live or die? Will there be someone to claim the body, give it a nice little funeral, with coffee and cake and sunflower seeds for the mourners to nibble on when they die? Am I going to suffer any consequence if I bring one of them home with me, take them down to my basement and slowly begin to manually vivisect them starting from between the collarbones and ending a few inches below the navel? That might sound real grisly, but I don't always plan on hurting them or wounding them or let alone, vivisect them.