UNDRESSING GOD
 an electronic chapbook by
 CHRIS MANSEL                            
 
  UNDRESSING  GOD  
 
 
  In the queer land of unmistakable misses shoulders are considered currency
 in sweatshops.
 
   Asphyxiations of the nude toilet and the symmetrical proliferations of neon
 subterraneans who championed the first amendment were accidentally swallowed
 under the fragmented scrutiny of the tattooed and inbred disciples of the
 late Lester Bangs.
 
    Alleviate the permissiveness of the victim, shit fuck the exemptions of
 the Nursing Home Mantra. Burst occult intimidations and their insatiable
 torments, there is no anesthetic for public readings. Vultures that are used
 as intelligence in Loas Alamos are learning their subservient roles in
 expatriate fetishes of infanticide. They bleed the bone marrow of habitual
 cannibalism.
 
     The condensation up the ass of a starving child will be used to fill the
 baptistery of hired assassins. The baptism of dismemberment is a sacred right
 in the profession.
 
      Morphine for Jesus, cocaine for the love of Christ. The junkie laments
 as he awakes to the purity of revulsion...he cuts his hair with his teeth.
 
       Who was it that gave patients of malaria peyote for their bisexuality?
 Who but the brujo, who in his tenacity tinted windows with vertigo.
 
        Buttocks slip the phallic God an injection of transliterated despair.
 Skin graph erections narrow the cheekbones. Rummaging the arched vertebrae of
 those convulsively blind. The shithouse boy lacks precise measurement so he
 embeds himself knuckle deep in their Urethra's as he seeks to reinvent
 himself in confrontation of blasphemy.
 
         Convalescing in the disappearing and hushed midnight air after
 collapsed appetite of intimacy in sight of Penitentiary windows. Hoping to
 expedite cryptic paranoid concentration in sanitarium stanzas of apomorphine.
 Spending much time re-considering transmissions to the Ninth Lab, utilizing
 material spent in fragments; written in blood. Mistaking foot powder for
 cocaine and pacing for miles in my head.
 
          While wire-tapping Bannisteria Caapi I heard a woman that was being
 sodomized screaming.  I was eviscerated on parole for hypochondria from the
 lime pits of chloroform, reformed from self-flagellation I develop needles
 for hemophiliacs who match blood like pennies.
 
           The crucifix eyeballs of worm hydraulics in amputated notations
 design paraplegic drenched mandalas of cerebral palsy.
 
            The lesbian vernacular bred on wheelchair vomit leads its
 stripmined anatomy cracks of a hermaphrodites fertility of leeches.
 
             A thousand milligram hollowpoint seismic sculpture writhed inch
 by inch through the Islamic  mosque which doubled as a mausoleum for the
 growing sphincter movement.
 
              The room shakes of shudders; the internal vacuum of decay that
 operates through a havoc of blood, a discord of chaos, the weakness of abuse,
 the fumes of souls rapt in the semen sensualism of the guillotine, the
 imprisoned discipline of undulating concrete chambers, the red light
 following the interrogation of the jowels of disobedience through its tense
 origins of Blake the internal vacuum of decay believes in the shelter of the
 womb. These references remain alive.
 
               Conducting exorcisms of vomiting collapse, hysterical
 multicides, illiterate pornographic ashes of horrors take place inside the
 lamp that never burns. The flame singes but never returns, what will you make
 of the light.
 
                The shortcut to treachery is enlightenment, or so says the
 cutting edge of denim curiosity.
 
                 In remembrance of your clit I've masturbated to the point
 that an orgasm could not distinguish  or reform the inexplicable moment of
 sadness; even when you assisted or simply watched.  Forever peel off your
 clothes and walk in the coldness of the fire that is sexuality.
 Plunge the collapse rapidly into your ferocious pussy that tightens and never
 dries.  Burn brightly crosswise across my ailment and heal its inequities
 with your own.  Take the enormous head by your fingertips and never grow
 despondent in its presence, always love it in its infancy, and demonstrate in
 museums for its image to be shown projected upon the floor.
 
                 The asshole that smiled with a hint of pre-cum trailing down
 from her lips resolved her faint Christianity with a lewd and perverse
 stroking of her thighs.
 
                  Preaching from musical handicaps.  My hands are tone deaf.
  My hips cannot pray.  I love you with my eyes,my mouth is already there.
 
                  The Ninth Lab has recently  published research into the
 phenomena of cattle vomiting.  Details that were previously unknown to the
 general public due to the textbook  prohibition enforced by the death squads
 of the religious right.  Within these new findings there are detailed
 accounts of sexual regurgitation that seems to fuel the perversion of many
 animal lovers.
                  The process is simple.  First you must make the cow ill.
  Second depending upon the individual you can make an incision and violate
 the bowels, and rotate the stomach pouch violently.  When the cow begins to
 vomit you simply use the vomit as a lubricant and insert what have you until
 you hear a crackling of cartilage.
                The udders  are  tied directly to the brain through an
 elaborate array of jagged and fringed nerve ends, these stimuli are best
 secreted by utilizing a cerebral mammogram.  To prepare the brain for the
 process you must electrify the ear canal with a cattle  prod to ensure a
 clear picture.  What is left are vials of physiological dialectic sprays of
 tumors.  Somewhere between the cross currents illuminated and the hybrid
 characteristics of behavioral rape are the results resembling to an animal
 lover,  especially cattle lovers a DNAesque Playboy Centerfold.
 
                 Panhandling hallucinations of aphid delirium.  Exhaling gusts
 of Khmer Rouge humanity besmeared with  my own excrement all of the lurid
 grisly nightmarish transliterations exploited through  the details of the
 atrocities exceeding fifty pages that vicariously chronicle my last will and
 testament excluding the holographic denotations of linguistic  Dostoevskian
 analyses.  This genesis of feeling, this illicit murderous illusion that
 manipulates my soul into obscure voluptuous screams of uncircumsised breasts.
  Torturers of unborn babies howl the trembling infants uterus into hilarious
 pistol whipping  euphoria .
 
                  Motivations hypnotized, surrounded; inches away.....their
 diminutive naturalness occurs in precarious epileptic fits of convulsive and
 unresentful abuse induced by the climax of victimization .  Reverence of
 punishments are wielded precisely by the probabilities of bestiality
 practiced by the very angels of GOD that kill writers in their sleep.  God is
 nothing more than an impressionable autistic pedophile who cuts his teeth on
 the scalding ridicule of his own hypochondria.  He is approximate cruelty.
 
                   Shortwave insects circle the earth. Underground where
 insect pilgrimages send burning tremors of cerebral hepatitis into the
 languages of the world, the Urethran Council bleeds opium of its larvae.
                   Sterile vandals rake the ceiling with an abstract
 stethoscope their molars humming electrolysis, their ankles of expletive a
 greasy neurology mixed with shit blood.
 
                    Did you see the grieving young child fist fuck herself
 into cranial submission for money?
 
                                                                          -
 Chris Mansel
     4-27-96