Mylene d Ouellette, (Fredericton )sent me something Martin Warren wrote, in winter of 1994. Martin Warren is a canadian writer, musician, based in Ottawa.
VOODOO CIGARETTE Martin Warren (Copyright (C) thru SOCAN) I HAVE NO TEETH, and I do not wear dentures. Every night, strangers have mad sex cravings in my bed. This is what I come home to. Last evening, I was having a good rotten sandwich on my front step, and Mildred from the corner store turned the edge on the old walkway out front. She said that she needed some rest, so I gave her the remainder of my sandwich, and she ate it while walking the vile cat-piss red carpet stairway to my room. I have a good life. I respect my differences with such people. Am not egocentric. Never talk of myself except in introduction. Still, I do not think it beyond my sphere of concern and consternation to object to eighty-five-year-old women creaming my sheets. She had removed the telescopic antennae from my television set, and said that she was doing some "channelling". Her voice was so meek. Goddam Island Music. Red mud calypso. So it's come to this...TAO! The laundromat was a bore, so I let the attendant do all the dirty work for me while I went to an Anglican Church with a good solid hangover and a few barbiturates. Sitting through the entire service holding up one of those little spades that you comb through flowerpots with. The minister was this beautiful little dwarf wench who spoke Love and Love and Love. I was in an obnoxious mode, so I ripped the Doxology out of the hymnal, and started singing it very loudly in the middle of her sermon. I would think that she would have been grateful to me for waking up the inattentive, but Her Holiness ran up to me and kicked me in the balls. As I had made such a mockery of the New Jerusalem Dream, I was not at all expecting to be meeting flesh with her on a worn-out Afghan at sunup. Life has a funny way of working out. Here she is with me as I convey my massage, her tongue in my ear and her fuzzy brown chemotherapy fuzz comforting my malaise. Naked is the greatest. She wears a kimono once in a while. Very exotic. She's really British, and made a good blood pudding last night. MMMMMMM! I love her. Yes, and she wants a word with you, brothers and sisters: "Stop hurting each other! The world is meant for all of us...young and old, black and white, rich and poor, weak and strong. God built this planet from the power of his will. It is up to us to face the challenge of living up to the gift He has bestowed upon us. Let us arise, and meet Him with joyful noises. Jesus says: yea..." JESUS SAYS YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! VERY-LEE! And you can see very clearly that my sweet baby has been giv'n the power of eloquent speech and the love of peace, so 'xcuse me while I love my piece... "yheh,oh,mmmmm,uh,over,mmmmm,so good,yheh,harder..." TV IN BACKGROUND GETS LOUDER: "...and the Pentagon says that they will soon be dealing a death blow to the forces of General Aidid, and to the instability which has racked the poor nation of Somalia for the last two years..." ***fade out*** I fully realize that this amounts to an admission that I am, in fact, ill, but my encounters with Gloria have made my body change shape. Now I am more completely aware that the "funny feeling" which took hold of me just after we made sweet love was only the phenomenon of going "rectangular". Let me explain, dear reader. At birth, the human frame is blessed with fatty tissue, which lends a certain incongruity and softness of shape to specific sections of that frame. Sex burns off the fatty tissue, and leaves perfectly parallel and perpendicular relations between these specific bone conglomerations. As a result, many of my friends were reduced to almost anorexic states of being after particularly vigorous contact with one or another lover. As I did mention at the outset of my discourse here, I have no teeth. This is my illness. I hope that by having enough sex, I will eventually get my teeth back. Now and then, when the urge strikes me, I go for long, scenic drives in the country. I have a little knapsack filled with tasty liquor nestled in a hollowed-out gourd, which resembles a friend of mine. Manchester Nellie sometimes comes along, and she brings her own packaging. There are tall grasslands and steep hills illuminated by the sun, and escaped housedogs who would bite you...hurt you badly. Every pretty picture has a bit of blood. Anyway, there's this old gentleman who invites us in for warm soup on occasion. We give him our complete trust, and I do also admire the deer heads which gaze down on us knowingly, when Nellie and I get the solitude which fucking begs of us. Someday, we will move to the country and commune with the creatures of the forest. For the moment, I will share with the innermost self in my possession the pleasure of mutual gratification by the fireplace. In short, I will fuck with Nellie, by the fireplace. Do take pictures. Do publish them. You, my reader and my lord, shall witness greater miracles than you previously thought possible. You shall invite mushroom gardens to sprout on the curves of bald heads, and share in the bounty which shall spring from their fertility. The gradual growth of snakes under rocks will become apparent to you as you scrutinize our surroundings. We do not learn these things from books, and indulge ourselves in second-hand knowledge thereby. We motivate ourselves through self-help tapes of a subliminal nature. Tapes which allow for the full expression of the personal will through systematic stupidity. You can watch Nellie and I having sex, after the picnic. Sit down, dammit. Worms of jelly wrapped around the prongs of a fork. Masques forbidden to all, excepting only the permanent residents of Easter Island...who are, after all, the remnants of the true Atlanteans. Blue angel spinning webs of sacrifice with an uncorked canister of whipped cream. Whooping it up at the catacomb with a Mother Theresa impersonator who loves you. Groggy, you awake. The writing on your wall to the left says "GINSENG WHORE", and remember you loved Petunia once upon a golden shower in the dawn. But, no, you are watching Nellie and I fuck. Stand by your remote control. Keep the picture on and fast-forward through the landscape. Pause...there you see how she and I stand there looking very bony at the end of it all. The rain is coming down. Remember sappy soap operas with candles and vaseline lenses? They want you now they do want you to frolic for them they do. They equip you with the necessary rudiments...the ceiling suspension unit with rubber slings for your arms and legs. The camera on the wall, which exhibits you to guests in the lobby. The electrical mannequin with foldback ears and twitching nipples. Nellie and I are just a short drive out of the city now. Buy our home improvement series. Get it on with your favourite pets. The warm soup is ready. Nellie and I the perfect portrait of domestic bliss; blithely naked in the presence of those whom we have created. We hold hands and sip tomato soup from our spoons, which we occasionally dip into our white, round, porcelain bowls. This is our discussion time, our time of quiet repose. In such moments, our thought is elevated to a level of purity challenged only by the crystalline waters of the nearby stream. Here, we gain some insight into God's contemplation of his creation (i.e. washrooms on acid), as was so comprehensive, complete, and thorough on the seventh day. We, in all practicality, actually TOUCH the light of the new morn', as gentle shadows creep away from our valley. Also, I again have my tongue in her ear, and she has emptied her soupbowl on my head. Some friendly cockroach crawls around in my armpit hairs. Fugi the talking dog is causing me some problems. Lisa shot him yesterday, and his body is dead, but he still talks some. Nellie and I awoke one morning, dear reader, to find him next to the bed, pretending to be Satan. He had commandeered some of the Halloween costumes which I had been saving for Christmas. Unfortunately, he combined them so that the little boy blue was a dog who claimed to be, as I said before, Satan. Satan spoke: "get out of bed, have a voodoo cigarette do what I said, have a voodoo cigarette ain't no better reason to get on down ain't no better time to be hellbound you got to have a voodoo cigarette said, you got to have a voodoo cigarette" With this, the dog's head spun around hundreds of times, bleeding profusely after finally coming unscrewed. I tried to pry the upright canine body from my nightstand, but it turned to plaster and stayed there in memory of the head. I woke back up to Nellie reading me passages out of the TV Guide. On channel fifty- six, I found an interesting array of test patterns.