The Chicken a la Peyote.
Thursday, 27 March 2003
By FrankBlues
Anyone can start a religion. This is how I started mine. The Chicken a la Peyote. Wanderin’ the desert one night with my mate Bill after a night with the senoritas. Got lost for days. No food. Then Bill tumbled down the hill… ‘Blah blah etc etc this hallowed eve is only the drawing card for the audience as it should be. The solitary moon, the dead man on the ground, and Frank on his grateful knees. I'll say that Frank is not about to surrender to the temptation of christ, but by Christ he'll end up like him. Tip toeing down from the hill he did, with a fistful of diamonds and only he alone to eat them. Sprucing the thigh with the garnish he spreads his tiny hands across what was now only a crumpled heap of a man. It flows on till later on he did what he could and cried out for a tiny bit more, but it's not his fault that the other is dead and the surrounding hills and stone would tell his story if they only could. Fleeing injustice? Not this sonofabitch, he was fleeing the prize winnings of a career in kissing asses from one end of town to the other, and no more is no more. His smile is dead, like the eyes upon him, and to be eaten is all they can see. But christ what else was he to do, here they were 1 man alive 1 man dead, with his flesh only wast-ing away. I can't carry the cross for the bastard but if any excuse was needed then obviously this poor soul had them all. Tied tight to his shoulder was the satchel of garlic leaves the cloves of parsley and the tithe of peyote that helped him on his way, just as the sun went down and the big fat moon came over the hill, in time to witness the last morsel of food passing his lips. Of course there was no one and no thing except for rocks and stone and cacti and rolling bushes, and the big fat will of the deceased espousing the crap that had followed the other millions on their way to rosary heaven, kissin' with the quick upon their neck and a big fat wallet up their rear end. Splendid regalia for a bride of Solomon, and he crossed the bastard's hands just so "...they won't burn un-evenly..." I wonder what they will say at the Bogdania 277th? Probably place the laurel upon his invisible shoulders and for his wife the big fat cheque received at the end of each fucking week. Still there ain't much better than a whiskey moon and now that Frank had untied his bootlaces and slipped the great luggers off, he was content to let the cunt lie there and rot. But as one picture fades another appears; the last curtain rang down over the other's head means a new show for our friend. Lecherous Bill was his name, and now he lie there like he never did, stiff.
For Frank it was a mean picture show.'
Lost in the desert a solitary man. His companion dead. Engages in cannibalism. To flavour the flesh, tithes of peyote. Let me tell you of the visions.
First the sun went down. Cactus surrounds the field of view. Ever gazed without gazing. The tingle at the base of the spin. Have you ever tripped before? Kept looking and finally they appear. The befeathered sprouting words of wisdom. Those beady eyes. Those pecking beaks. Chatting. Groups of 2 or 3 stand together, discussing portents, revealing entrails. Finally to Frank they say "We've got no messages, we've got the truth!"
I've noticed their scratching claws.
