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An excerpt from the novel TEN THOUSAND PENISES IN YOUR EAR
Wolf Larsen

Warning: Written Under the Influence of Anton Webern, Schoenberg, & Coffee!

(Please note: This is NOT a sex novel.)

AIDS begiNs riNgiNg youR doOrbelL. You look through the peephole and see AIDS smoking a cigarette waiting for you to open the door. (The walls of your apartment suddenly become the great lakes of the Midwest. Cargo ships begin plowing through your floors.) AIDS is iNceSsaNtLy rinGinG and rinGinG your dOorbEll aGain and aGian as you watCh him thrOugh the peEphOle. He tells you to hurry up and open the door because he has a lot of people to visit.

That’s when the pope walks through your walls followed by a delegation of crack-heads. On your ceilings Michelangelo is painting little children being sexually molested by priests. And then millions and millions of black people begin calling you on the telephone. Thousands of white people are floating outside your windows smiling at you and waving hello. Your roommate begins poisoning your food. The Virgin Mary walks in through the ceiling and stands above your wife and I. She begins reciting the world’s most beautiful poem. The poem begins with man’s evolution from the other primates and - squeeze? - ends with the invention of the nuclear bomb. dizzy-dizzy-dizzy? The dead cow says –

“uneAsy! lEEr! hoLleriNg! brOkeN!”

- and you’re happy. You’re happy like dizziness! HapPy-haPpy-HapPy like somebody eating a river of hot lava steel!

Your houSe aNd the ciTy hAvE suDdenLy disApPeaRed. You’re standing in the middle of your grave. A procession of ten-thousand black Christs walk by. Each of them is carrying an atomic bomb. They are smiling at you like miles and miles of dead people crawling out of the pages of this book. One of them hands you a ripped up empty can of beer. No wait, they offer you a bowl of your own castrated genitals in a bowl of ice cream. The African people, in thousands of cities across the ocean all turn in your direction and start waving at you. You can see them all. They smile like hurricanes and tranquility. As a result, all of the literary editors have hear t attacks, the dead literary editors say “hello! heLLo-!-helLO-!-hEllo!

On the subway home a brain-infested person was sitting in the next seat and an upside-down person was sitting across from you STARE-ING-AT-YOU-STARE-ING-AT-YOU-STARE-ING-AT-YOU. Everyone on the subway was holding a gun to somebody else’s head. The blaCk peoPle werE screaMing lightNing stoRms and sEas crasHing at thE whiTe peoplE. The whitE peopLe stAred at thE blaCk peOple with reEling visiOns in their eyeS. A church choir got up and sang –

“coLLa!psing! cola!P!sing! raDi!ance!”

- and then they began painting the ten commandments all over their naked bodies. So all the people living in Brooklyn that night were arrested for the crime of living in Brooklyn. To relieve prison overcrowding the entire country was declared a penitentiary.

When you woke up this morning the cars where as big as ants and the people were as big as skyscrapers and the music was summer and summer having sex. You poured yourself a radio of whiskey. The whole world is falling on you.

A woman became a goat. She offered you a subway train but your penis suddenly turned into the rings of saturn. Then JackSon PollOck waLked inTo the rooM and staRted to haNg clocks and mOre clockS on your waLls and floOrs and ceilingS. Your window was a continuous scene of mass executions outside. The corpses laying on the ground were constructing egyptian pyramids with their thoughts. Suddenly, everything in the world turned red. Jackson Pollock said:

“Kandinsky is like an airplane through the stomach of a church”

Picasso said “Pollock is like an ant running three hundred miles an hour and puking thousands of buildings out unto the world every minute!”

A young George Grosz and a middle aged George Grosz and an old George Grosz were all standing upside-down on your ceiling SHOUTING: “we are all cockroaches eating the sun. Soon the sun will only be a pool of lice”

saLvadOr daLi witH his arm choPped off bY Wolf Larsen was coNtiniously re-arRanging the furnitUre in yOur rooM night and daY. TweNty-ninE vOlcanoes erupteD iNside yOu in a sinGle houR. Your fenCe ran awaY to chiLe and sudDenly you werE walking doWn the maricOn (seA promaNade) in guaYaquil, eCuador. All the ecuaToriaNs werE in the philLippines thaT day so the couNtry was eMpty except for a couPle of antS under a deaf suN. ExcePt it waS raining. When the eCuatorians caMe back they mOved the countrY to AfriCa. the ecuatoriaNs built guayaQuil oVer and oveR again acroSs the worlD until evEry inCh of the planeT earth was gUayaquiL. The millions and millions of Ecuatorians a-L-L da-nced aNd sShOuted and SCREAMED-

“subMerGe! roll ? smOther?”

and the chair in your living room responded: “plEase fill mY casket wiTh hierOnymUs bosCh mOnsterS”

- sO everYone in thE world heLped builD the biggEst mosT gigaNticness beD ever aNd suddenLy thEre waS an oRgy of bilLions aNd billionS.

- and iT was a bEautiful FridaY evening wiTh musSels in butter sauCe and croWds and crOwds of enRagEd muRderiNg peOple and spLinTering pEople and hoWling scrEamiNg peoPle passing bY. People wEre droWning withiN all the everYthingness of theMselves. MediEval-faCes-imPreSioNsiSt-fAcEs-fauVist-Faces all bUrsting ouT of apartmeNts-stores-reStaurants-highriSes-factOries all juMbled on tOp of eaCh otheR like a biG pLate of liNguini.
Everyone was sitting down in sidewalk cafes and talking myriads of empty rooms and hallways to each other and their faces were a moving flesh dance of expressions and their eyes were planets jumping everywhere at the whole glop of humanity pouring like floods around them and all the faces in all the windows surrounding us were watchtowers into our sprouting thoughts, it was like painting naked bodies and orgies and neon genitals up and down all the walls and ceilings and hallways of the city, and the cars were all driving up into the sky and speeding down a blade of grass and you said:

“Let’s all begin turning our brains into constant paintings. Let’s pour gravestones into our beds. Let’s have a big orgy of eight million new yorkers now!”

Copyright 2004 by Wolf Larsen

I give you all a novel as bizarre as the world we live in. I do not engage in political preaching in my prose and poetry, but there is no such thing as normal. The economic/political system we live under is not normal. The U.S. and much of the world today is characterized by endless wars and poverty, huge stockpiles of nuclear weapons (in the U.S. and Russia), racist lynching (in the form of the death penalty), domestic violence, the oppression of minorities, immigrants, and women, homophobia, union busting and strike breaking and I could go on and on. There is no such thing as “normal”. Why should writing be “normal”?

(I also wrote this under the influence of… coffee, Schoenberg and Anton Webern.)