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.