Wilfree Pepperduck was borned in the canteloupe antelope hotel. His eyes are dead seeds that willnt sprout no matter the number of times you say hello and kiss his outstretching hand. Them and those who kiss his outstretching hand must be dreaming dreams that fall off the planet, because their lips are burning forever with pulp acid. Now they stand on bone scaffolds way above the hotel, firemouths scorching his songs that rip through their heads like cabbagewire.
You dinna know what that is? Well, Ima Knot going to tell you. Why you look disappointed?
"OBSERVERS OF MR. PEPPERDUCK! THE CABBAGEWIRE IS AN ETERNAL RAZOR REEL OF WRATH AND ILL WISHES, THE UNCOILED SHADEBRAINS OF STUFFED ORPHANS, THE IRE BEHIND BUTTON EYES THAT GLISTEN AT NIGHT - SHRIEKING SCREAMING TO FRANCIS XAVIER 'WHY YOU TATTOO MY CLOTH ASS AND PUT ME IN BOX AND SELL ME TO THE STORE AND THEN the children! WE WILL GIVE YOU DIMPLES WITH NAILS!'" says Ima Knot
See, I told you Ima Knot going to tell you.
You keep on watching Wilfree Pepperduck. The petroleumfall winkles its coming in the dark part of his deadseed eyes. You got plenty to see.
Limerick bimmerick
There once was a drunkard named Charlie
Who tried to go swimming in barley
When he inhaled his first breath
Dumb bastard choked to death
And naught a soul in town is sorry
Who tried to go swimming in barley
When he inhaled his first breath
Dumb bastard choked to death
And naught a soul in town is sorry
Rant of an Oilman's Son
Rant of an Oilman’s Son
My father is an oilman. I grew up in Texas, going out to the derricks with him. When I saw a puddle of that dark stuff ooze up from a newly-vacant cavity in the earth, I wanted to jump into its tarry center, to breathe it in, sucking all that ancient, ancient fat into my lungs until I was as dead as those animals from which the stuff comes.
You want me to repeat that? Yes, animals. Oil is a tangent shadow of faraway death. Ages ago, when smarter, murderous monkeys like my father hadn't yet stood up to shake their fists at God, a troglodyte died and began to decompose. Much later, an abandoned infant brachiasaurus collapsed from starvation in the same place, decomposition adding to the soup. The thick stew accumulated over eons until men like my father dug a hole and found it, sucking it out of an enormous cave to fuel trucks that shipped cancerous vegetables to people in South Carolina and South Korea, giving them stunted energy enough to fill up their own vehicles with old animal soup to buy more food to eat, shit and die.
But the hatred of my father didn't spawn from the discovery that he got rich on the world's reliance on the spoils of history. We are all babies suckling at the corpulent breasts of that which came before us, suckling with blind, feverish pleasure and need.
At some point, even babies must be sated and open their eyes.
I hate my father for not understanding that he continues to empty the cavities of the Earth. The world loves both the life and death of its children. Life moves upon the surface of the Earth like a smile or grimace upon the face of a loving mother, and when that life has ended, it sinks down to her heart, into hidden pockets of rich memories guarded and held secure. These are the memories of the physical world; she cannot pursue the future without this petroleum past.
My father steals the memories of the world in order to accelerate the movements of men, movements ridiculous and shameful in such a canyon of time. Soon, the caves of the world's remembrances will be hollow, as dry and abandoned as ice sifting forgotten through the far corners of the incomprehensible universe.
This hollowness, this world with an interior of devoured memories, cannot support the weight of men and women and children upon the surface.
Soon, the ground will collapse beneath my boots. I cannot convince my father that he is wrong. I cannot replenish the deposits of history.
My father is an oilman. I grew up in Texas, going out to the derricks with him. When I saw a puddle of that dark stuff ooze up from a newly-vacant cavity in the earth, I wanted to jump into its tarry center, to breathe it in, sucking all that ancient, ancient fat into my lungs until I was as dead as those animals from which the stuff comes.
You want me to repeat that? Yes, animals. Oil is a tangent shadow of faraway death. Ages ago, when smarter, murderous monkeys like my father hadn't yet stood up to shake their fists at God, a troglodyte died and began to decompose. Much later, an abandoned infant brachiasaurus collapsed from starvation in the same place, decomposition adding to the soup. The thick stew accumulated over eons until men like my father dug a hole and found it, sucking it out of an enormous cave to fuel trucks that shipped cancerous vegetables to people in South Carolina and South Korea, giving them stunted energy enough to fill up their own vehicles with old animal soup to buy more food to eat, shit and die.
But the hatred of my father didn't spawn from the discovery that he got rich on the world's reliance on the spoils of history. We are all babies suckling at the corpulent breasts of that which came before us, suckling with blind, feverish pleasure and need.
At some point, even babies must be sated and open their eyes.
I hate my father for not understanding that he continues to empty the cavities of the Earth. The world loves both the life and death of its children. Life moves upon the surface of the Earth like a smile or grimace upon the face of a loving mother, and when that life has ended, it sinks down to her heart, into hidden pockets of rich memories guarded and held secure. These are the memories of the physical world; she cannot pursue the future without this petroleum past.
My father steals the memories of the world in order to accelerate the movements of men, movements ridiculous and shameful in such a canyon of time. Soon, the caves of the world's remembrances will be hollow, as dry and abandoned as ice sifting forgotten through the far corners of the incomprehensible universe.
This hollowness, this world with an interior of devoured memories, cannot support the weight of men and women and children upon the surface.
Soon, the ground will collapse beneath my boots. I cannot convince my father that he is wrong. I cannot replenish the deposits of history.
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