Sunday, January 29, 2017

Moooshbrain: An Excerpt

Words by Steven Hughes Purkey
Art by Robert Hand Ferry
  As the dancing summer light draws to an end & autumn begins to awaken, Moooshbrain, the raucously frenetic split zine between our very own Steven Hughes Purkey & the splendidly name-droppable beatnik of feral bedlam, Sir Robert Hand Ferry, is now available to awaken your spirit & send you soaring. It's Steven's petulantly dazzling perzine. It's Robert's fantastically nouveau-psycho art zine. Together? It's the most entertaining trip of the year! Read on, dancing jackelopes - you're in for a special treat! Below? Just one passage from the deliciously delinquent & poisoned eye-candy of a zine. Read on & teleport yourself into the realm of orderly chaos, into Steven & Robert's land of otherworldly voyages & into their world. Their worlds. Otherworldly is right: beware.

Message From the Other Side


 A Study On the Pecking Order In

A Little.Town On the Edge Of 

Society, Its Mouth As.Big As Its 

Suspicions, & Henceforth Known 

Only As ‘Control Group Z’

The crows run this town. They’re huge, noir, squawking, & ever present… They run in packs of 7-l2 birds, dive bombing the locals & terrorizing entire neighborhoods… Most dogs fear their wrath.

You know, a gang of crows is called a “murder”? How fucked up is that? It says quite a bit, actually, about the nature of this winged village menace… To say that these fuckers rule the roost would not be fair to you, my intensely intrigued dear zine reader…nor to the very crows in which we speak. No, to reveal their inherited secrets - to really get to the bottom of their extraterrestrial prowess, that ornithological domination we so admire - to have an understanding of these less than graceful flying vermin of the heavens, on a somewhat even keel, we’ve got to really get in there & see beyond the shine of the established veneer. We must stare the beast in its little beady & glazed over, smooth, inky black void of an eyeball…& look deep into its barren essence de nuit et sans joie de vivre, et merde et merde et merde… So this requires us to analyze what we see inside ourselves, in our own souls - fully lost in the abyss. The troubles of this godforsaken world, reflecting back into the universal subconscious, expressed in this light as a singular & wholly original thought pattern as per the individual person’s mind. Et voila! “This is lift off, asshole…”

Now we open our eyes to the massive influence & actual authority that these ballsy birds have over their human counterpart. Watching them over the past few months, & more importantly, ~listening~ to their otherworldly message…well, I have noticed quite the eerie & downright macabre aura, which makes itself known, more & more so with each & every interaction I have with these noisy blackbirds.

Unseen, they sit atop fence posts…at the Community Garden built by the local Rotary Club some time back, seemingly the gossipy hot spot - for all the town’s a rumor mill just a waitin’ that one explosive spark to set the whole shit house a blaze. I say, burn baby burn. I smell a riot comin’ on…motherfuckin nature & shit. It’s violent.

And these flighty monsters scream demonic at us passing by, mostly ignored...their pleas absentmindedly dismissed. For the lack of imagination & passionless day to day drivel - the kind of zoned out existence brought on by meaningless routine or too many hours plopped down, basking in the warm, sweet, Dopamine-addled daze… & like a glowing vibrant blue enemy combatant, the friendly television opens fire on the tattered psyche, pummeling those weaker minds into a defeated slouch kind of portrayal of the self. One gets the feeling that no one around here is truly ~alive~. By choice or chance, nothing is ever fully heard, digested, or allowed to simmer completely into a well rounded & deeply understood idea. So, the crows’ barbaric calls go unnoticed…the real becomes blasphemy & the illusionary fa├žade deceives, diverts, & distorts all Universal truths by which the very nature of reality is built. Entire existences become lies. Up becomes down & forward, backward…contradictory & cryptic dimensions are hidden in the linear madness for all the townfolk to deny. It is their God given right, after all…so be it!

But me, I’ve been listening…been paying attention. And just what have these filthy fucking downright dirty rotten no good no good damn it all to hell straight up awful offensive winged disease bringers, been saying this whole time? What’s been their goddamned secret coded message all along? It comes in as a breezy whisper…low, yet clear as day. “Get the fuck outta Dodge!”

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