Sunday, October 26, 2003

Unspeakably filthy the dreams that Fu Manchu can put in your head for Fu Manchu controls all the secrets gleaned in the evil experimentations of the dusky blooded shamanistic societies which inhabit the treacerous margins of Civilization. Wheras your average citizen of Chinese lineage is as innocent and fastidious as any, through the conspiratorial mergings that bind the Si-Fan with the woolly headed and bird skull adorned Maguses of Etne Voodoo Fu Manchu is apprised of the physiological effects of the Mulliganwai Root. A powder will be applied you know where. Complete submission to the maniacal Oriental Doctor's dark whim can be your only response. You will be filled with that fatalistic lassitude in the face of fate that characterises a godless mysticism perversely initiated. Your flesh will slide into an impersonal and hateful enjoyment... "Whoa," you'll say... Fu Manchu rode the range in the 'The Yellow Claw of Fu Manchu' (1940) which was the story being serialized (way after it had appeared in the cities) in the local paper that Harvey will glance through, looking for Fighting Possum News and Opinion, after Sammy finishes his haircut. The Yellow Claw belongs to the unbelievably ancient parrot Fu Manchu sends on a dastardly desert mission - a parrot whose lifespan has been diabolically extended by that elixer upon which rests the Evil Doctor's own unnatural longevity. The wicked (and foul mouthed) Chinese Parrot carries messages that are written in a secret code, but it is not the same secret code as that which can be discovered with the use of the decoder ring that Burt the Dentist's Son wears. That decoder ring came in a package of Charleston's Chewy Caramels. It can be used only to decipher the messages sent by the nefarious (Southern) Mandarin to the Red Martian Girl. 5:47:38 PM    comment []

Fu Manchu has the face of Lucifer and the voice of Cardinal Newman and he ties up girls in French Lingerie and holds them captive in places as unspeakably filthy as the living space of the English painter Francis Bacon. He has beaten Death and possesses all the knowlege Western Institutions can inculate as well as all the secret and mysterious lore of the East so that he can make you like it even when you know it is horrible and disgusting the way he traces his diabolical plans with a long nailed finger around your neck and ears, down along your spine, into the crevice of your bottom cheeks.... He is cool and devious the way he plays with your mind and your flesh seeking what fresh level of depravity he might push you to this time.... "White girl," he says, "your Medical Culture admits to only one kind of orgasm or maybe two, they are so iffy and ambivalent, blinded with moralities they are embarrassed even to claim. I have isolated seven occurring naturally but have amplified that number through my own researches and tinkerings." "Oh save me..." you'll moan. Weakly. 2:47:56 PM    comment []

q. discovers that he has apparently garbled the succession of british kings in his head for maybe the last ten years for he had constructed a theory upon the fiction which he remebers telling his brother matthew, who was obviously confused. certainly if q. gambols on the scholastic stage it shall be in motley. q. goes to the bookstore. eek. he resolves to write even less. the book of pictures of bacon's place is sort of reassuring. that louisiana painter pushes that blue dog still successfully - with a flocked cover even! in the bargain section next to a book of french lingerie which is of course what q. actually opens. q. wanders from bookstore to library to thrift store, the organs of the upper east side's literary digestion. no edgar rice burroughs or jules verne neither for the pennies which q. has to spend. the 'housing works' thrift store has rotten books but incredibly attractive boys and girls on both sides of the counter. q. has waited in line and spent money (though admittedly rarely) to visit rooms not nearly so beautiful. one of the party dressed cash register girls is, q. realizes focussing, actually a boy. art is junk, and junk exerts an aphrodisiacal and dionysian pull upon souls unhappy and uncomfortable in their given barcode. (?). q. returns home to practise his Radio Voice reading aloud fielding's 'shamela'. he begins to get the 'death be not proud' sonnet fixed in his head. every morning, every single morning, q. rises horrified at the futile shambles he has wreaked of his life but now he has a new donne soundtrack he plays under the horror which he had not a week and a day ago. whoop tee doo. 1:52:57 PM    comment []

"Fu Manchu," says J. Evardd Herman, in the one interview with him I have been able to discover, "was able to tie up boys and girls whenever he wanted and make them do whatever he wanted through the powers of hypnotic suggestion. And he wasn't White. Of course he was my God." 12:19:52 PM    comment []