the writing of john scott ridgway and his mental demons -- gilford tuttle, white male christian, and johnny pain -- punk serial killer with a penchant for vegetible molestation.
jackels gnaw on the hunter's bones
Published on February 24, 2007 By Gilford Tuttle In History
the jackals shake Hunter S Thompson's Bones
in a cup and toss them on a bear skin rug
let them spin the future out randomly

the verdict:
go ahead and leave the masks on the monsters
send them out into the future to kill
again and again
maybe next time they'll feed on your kid


when someone like hunter s Thompson
blows his brains into his orange juice
in another literary death promoting suicide
he dies in the grand old tradition
of secretly prissy old men
lot's of white guys his age kill themselves
when they're famous it's okay
they know their friends will come through for them
toe the party line
give it the Hemingway spin

who wants to piss off the ghost of gonzo?
On the so-slim-as-shit--I-don't-even-want-to-go-there-chance that I run into his ghost,
let me say, not me...
my muse, yes
not me
i would never presume
to even speak
to the gonzo

He drank for a lot of reasons in his life
and one of them seems to have been to stop
being a secretly prissy old man

Hunter let Duke kill him off in the end.
He had always had a thing for murdering old rich white guys
his crafty lawyer was probably egging him on -- thinking legacy
knew he had it in him for a grand literary death
that has nothing to do with the fortiesh man interviewed
during the shooting of where the buffalo roams
who still knew the difference between New Journalism
and that other kind that gets stuck in all the sordid facts between the romantic cocktail party conversation.

the first rule of any religion
or any non religion for that matter
probably should be respect life over any religion
even the one that worships the self
for that reason alone we some will weather it out
even as our very bones dissolve in our bodies
we will teeter calmly to our death
repressing our prissy old man.
We won't ask our loved ones
to wash away our blood.
Our pappa didn't.

She never once
asked you
to wash away her blood.

I hope there is a call to a suicide service
and a migrant worker
who only speaks Spanish
wipes his brains from the kitchen stool
and the sacred and horrid
get all mixed up in her mind.


They Great They
take away their psych pills
with Orwell's 1984
filtered through L. Ron Hubbard
you can bet the scientologists
keep the noble Englishman’s corpse
spinning frenetically in his grave
the bard who inspired me to cook
from reading Down And Out In London And Paris
-- an endeavor he was warning people off,
I have since come to think...
though once
his prose alone
drew me to being a chef like a moth to a flame
in a universe of dark matter

They'll keep some too proud
to take something to keep their wolves at bay
Tell them their faithful delusions are prophecies
Keep them so wrapped up in the hamster on the wheel/self- as-labor equation
that they have to put up signs
in the downtown parks
to try to cut down on suicide by lay off

Why throw all that money at the mentally ill anyways?
Keep that suicide rate up there.
Kills a lot of the bad seeds.
The used up
The defeated
The druggies and the gays
Especially the druggy gays
Untreated and too depressed to see a reason to live,
you can channel the survivors into cults
brain wash em enough they act straight
for maximum worker efficiency
Teach the closeted ones to bounce excitedly on couches
for the best socially perceived mate

when you make yourself laugh
comedy comes from the pain
and the scariest days
are when the laughter leaves
the jokester's all alone
**this is when you have to be watchful


** (how's this for a footnote on a poem?);
This is a stanza that Jonathan Frazen said on BOOKTV
on CSpan. Pretty much...

Okay, poems over.

Am I the only person getting addicted to seeing writers explain their books and answer questions? Not a chance. I imagine writers all across the country are going to one day site it as a major influence. I plan on making an unairable version of this show with The Religious Psycho Killer's Shit List. The name alone will keep this little pipe dream from coming to fruition -- well, you know what I say... fuck em hard in a place they don't like!!! Though I don't know if that would be possible with some of the literary types I know... you'll have to go all Hannibal lecture, I guess? Legally speaking, unless you advertise for someone who wants to be killed and eaten in Germany, this probably won't be legally possible (yes, the Germans jailed him for like five years, but he's a cause Celebes for his act, who will use the proceeds from his popular book and the movie contract to move to some rich play ground in Africa when he gets out, where the laws only apply to people who can't afford a few cops, and he can start advertising over the internet, casting a net large enough to fill his plate for years).
In fact, I bet there are plenty of Japanese guys who would like to have a sushi themed suicide? Hell, they could start a company and probably even get state funds, if they let some family members of the ruling elite on the board of directors? Maybe they could get the empty headed wife of an industrialist with money? A worthless Rockafella who wants to make a name besides Euro trash junkie.

See what good idea's suicide is bringing me?

Hey, kids... I changed my mind... suicide really, really is the writer's best friend!!!! Look, it made this poem? Or maybe that was the weed? Or the ten god zillion million words I have read in my life? Or the classes I slaved in for like ten years of serious writing study? Maybe it was the philosophy or the military intelligence or studying all those cults? Or because my mother started reading to us in the womb and didn't stop until we greedily took the book away to slink off and be alone with our thoughts? Who the fuck cares?

The first rule of any non religion is life is more important than religion. That is my religion... and yes, that confuses me, because I don't really have a religion
and as such, taking things on faith can seem downright odious to me... but here it is,
a maxim.

This is one I pray --yes, me pray -- that I keep. Life is more important than religions. Now, if I can just convince the religious people of this shit!!! I grow sick of preaching to the choir, but when you are as offensive as I can be, you can't expect to be as popular as Mr. Rogers. Did you ever hear that he was in the Special Forces and had seventy three confirmed kills? It's a myth that would have been fucking cool, huh? Oh, well.

No, I didn't really pray. Can't even say that in jest without feeling kind of creepy and dirty. Not that you should care about the level of comfort in my skin -- I got weeds to cure all that... A part of me likes to believe Hunter must have had some pretty shitty weed that day, though another part of me doubts that is possible... who knows? Well, whoever they are, they ain't talking yet. . . if history is any reflection, sooner or later someone will try to use his bones to make theirs, and they'll hack up what was good into tiny little pieces and the future will decide what to keep. So maybe the people who circled the wagons on the documentary about him and extolled the romantic merits of splattering brain matter on the wall of life, had it right... maybe they were just making sure his friend’s got their words in first? Cool. What else would a bunch of loyal stoner buddies do? Thought of history? Or thought of Hunter? If I had known him. I would consider this poem a little sacrilegious. . . as it is, my muse, has to be appeased; I have found women don't like to be ignored, and she is the only one in the apartment, besides me, who firmly believes that writing is an excuse for any and all time demands, expenditures, putting off doing the dishes. . . and of course, of course -- I have to make her up.

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