To the Artist's Page               To our home page

To Bill Berry's previous piece     To Bill Berry's next piece

Imagine

Hair is the Medusa of the world. This was the problem with the 60’s—too many women were burning flags and not taking care of their hair. This is an inherent feminist possibility, that all failings of our culture revolve around murder and parasitic manifestations of pillage and plunder immigration and feminism. Is there a difference? The shot heard round the world was the start of the revolution number three and divided by the cluster fuck called time bombing the babies of American visage and carnage and like giants fell to the Earth our natural born killers killed from within the bowels of the intestine known as faith. These were the hippies of the time that reconstructed the moment and the vision of the bra burning flags. This bra, the support of our troops and our mother’s troops and her mother’s mother’s troops that murder with a single bullet into space and time from a paper cup that spills in the form of a whore. The geisha called herself life. In red lips of blood mask of death face of white, the feet of a babe bound into the umbilical birthright of her murderess whoring, she plotted to destroy the art of patriarchy by renouncing the Americana. Death could only.

If it is this, then let it be that. If it is. It is this. This is what it is, again and again with what it is the same that it is over and over. There is no repetition of meaning, it is only the unique interpretation of differences that causes similarity to understand the stain of skin into which it is trapped, this time and place again with the same and out with the old is into with the new again. If it is this, then let it be that. If it is. It is this. This is what it is, again and again the same old song and dance, my friend. It’s the same old rhythm and blues. It’s the same old shoes—let’s dance. If it is this, then let it be all that is and over and over again with the again and the eternal turning of the story—the single unique perspective that twists and invites the audience to, please have a seat and make yourself comfortable because here it comes again. Here is one more time. Here it is, if it is. There is no repetition of meaning, it is only the unique interpretation of differences that causes similarity to understand the bondage in which it is, like tiny boxes of rope pulled tight into the fleshy tendrils of the soul, again and again it is this story—the single archetype that forever never and ever forever dance in blues and rhythm with shoes that clackity click like the snap of a beat that repeats and beats like the drum of the heat. It is this story that tells itself again and again of love and loss and strength of the cursive forgiveness of grace and wisdom through drop by drop of repeating the beat of flesh that allows the fragrance of life to shiver and flower and flow outward and beyond into the universe.

Paul McCartney Speaks on VH-1

Like a paper cup could spill coffee onto the table of our collective consciousness. It was the day the shot heard round the world. It was the start of the revolution.

Barbara Walters Interjects:

More than half a century ago now it began. Bugs crawled out of the lack of INS soldiers at the border to stop the infestation of disease and vermin from spreading their germs in our land, our nation, our faith, our god, our flag, our hope, our freedom, our prison, our oppression, our faces, our churches, our eyes, our mouths, our noses, our ears, our INS lacking borders let roaches crawl through the desert in the heat of the night to come into our palace and corrupt our migrant workers into believing that they, like natural born citizens, are killers just like cops. There is no brutality in the face of the oppressed; there is only the oppressed in the face of brutality. More than half a century ago it was released into this land, these roaches, these leaches, the termites, these ants, these boys, these people, these things that only in mind’s heart and only in knowledge of hearing and knowing in hear of soul that should it come to pass that white men and Asian woman should breed together to form the superior race, then all should perish in the ghoulish intestine of lust and all that is unclean in the heart of our homeland, mother of us all. And still, because of the faithless and the polluted, the murderers and the fornicators, the idolaters and the liars, they came. They came from within and sought that which was without. With out. Out. Once they were let in, they could not be let out. It was a biological warfare that totally unnoticed went from within the without. It was biological. It was warfare. It was unnoticed. It was from within. It was without. It was logical.

Paul McCartney Continues:

Murder is to the world as a misogynist is to a woman. What the hypothesis of anarchy has taught us is that make up and fashion are an artistic expression of meaning in order to further distract and retract statements of intent from becoming actually moments of movements and bowels that shift in the gurgle of darkness like dawn. This is the enemy, that making is embellished in the genitals of a woman are nothing but malnourished turds and require a misogynistic interpretation of abortion politics and third world economic crisis that brings us to this: The middle east is a hot bed of fine art, cuisine, and homosexual expression. Gucci handbags choke the life out of more democratic target markets that masquerade as choice for the blinded proletariat. The more choice you have, the more democratic it will be. Except in this. Confusion is the controlling vaccination that a society has lost the archetype of the past and the hysteria of the future because now demands our attention so selfishly that selflessness has fled in the wake of a burning desire to be free. Why isn’t it legal for a sixteen-year old Asian to fuck for profit and loss, net gain? When feet represent the oppression of a people and not being able to walk is the representation of honor and dignity, this is the bloom that those who know don’t and those who do don’t.

Barbara Walters interjects

Geisha turned her body over in the wild night of loving. She on her pregnant belly that was emptied by the wound of murder let her legs part open like the sea of Moses. Scud missiles invaded her abortion clinic, moaning there way into ground troops and back up force. Her breasts were round like lumps of coal black powder of chocolate syrup. Only in these moments, when she was most available for her victim, did she truly embrace the gun up her ass and moving double penetration fantasy video of rapid invasion, moaning ground troops to free the POW of her loins. Geisha turned her body over in the wild night of murder.

Paul McCartney continues

Geisha turned her body over in the wild night of murder. Her face was super imposed and transposed onto the lips of a news reporter whose air control force was seen in the background of his own bravery for reporting to the glued eyeball of headless nods of yes that this vagina could even be considered as the source of all war. How could the murderessness shift her weight from one leg to another to enforce motion as if it were a natural law of physics? Television is the batting eye of a whore seduced by a nation of millions to open her pussy and let freedom ring.

Geisha Speaks

We were living out in West Hollywood when the Hollywood strangler was strangling women all over town. I didn’t want anyone to know that it was only another projection of myself is not myself into the otherness of identity that is no longer a part of the project strewn across my face in the form of lipstick that Lennon loved to lick off my labia. He would dress up as a clown and pretend to dance over me while I strangled the lifelessness out of virgin women and children in the form of terror and disease. I watched the crumbling of fire and the buildings that burst into nothing but a memory of hatred and suspicion. I wiggled with the ecstasy of John’s tongue on my clitoral hood that cloaked the veiled head of my shaft. I watched with the eyes of a thousand years his throbbing cock jut in and out of my clown faced pussy until he could but last no more into the oblivion of my death. And I would laugh as he ejaculated his name into my heart. He thought I was in love, but I just wanted a recording contract. There was nothing real about imagining there was no heaven—I had captured that soul and taped it deep inside my womb. I keep it there till this day, my geisha heart in the form of a stone that falls into the sea and splashes the tapestry of goodness with the knowledge of time and space, my breathing life. I was his savior. He was christed unto me.

So I continued to kill these women until it came a time when I think that John began to suspect that the whole band were up in my twat because I wanted them all to remember their names were trapped in the sourdough of my fleshy pulp. It was then that we moved to New York, just in time to evade the nazi concentration camps that invaded the west and would have locked me into dog cages of freedom for my own safety and I would have been only allowed the bread and water of my own fingers inside of myself is not myself is trapped in between the words of this stranger than fiction memory of fallen angels and gods and stars that are rock n roll artists gone wild. Breasts were everywhere in those days, bouncing up and down like the weave of snoop doggy-dog. To see so many fires in the loins of women, and the hearts of men so crushed with the fear of war and age. It was a time that strangling women for the hell of it just made sense to everyone, not just.

New York after Andy Warhol was a better place. The mean-streets of desire were uprooted by a lack of public transportation and hallucinogenic visions of what it felt like for a girl all-open to the cock of time were only a predicament of the courts. It was a paradise if only because Mexican children were sold to lawyers for ten cents a dozen. Meanwhile, the war raged on and I strangled women because I loved them so much. John was so clueless about these things. I felt sorry for him, really. That’s why he died. He was pitiful. That’s why he died. I pitied him.

Pity is the sword of death. When pity invades a country, bombs are broken into waves of retreating cowards’ hearts—vive la France! Revolution number six. When pity invades a country, it becomes the sword of death. Pity was all John Lennon had in his heart, and his cock found its way into the belly of the screechy Asian whore.

John Lennon pays to have sex:

The death of the cause is the cause of the death. Death is the only truth that life contains. It is with death that all things are possible. Even this cause, the cause that is no longer a cause, but was once the cause of many causes. It is this past that entangles its web around the neck of the present, personified in the body of an Asian whore, as it strangles not life but the sound of life from the womb of perception. This caused the screaming that neighbors said went on for days and days and no one knew what to make of it because everyone thought that it was just good sex, like the orgies that caused the black-outs of sixty-eight. In these times when questions are lies that stampede the light and assassins are the whispers of delegates and moguls of light that spin discs of vinyl on scratch-post claw marks, this is the degradation of social inbreeds. The privilege of the upper class is only the oil that machines this running of nature. We the people, we the proletariat, we the spectators of sports events and musicals. We the people. There is only she, death’s angel with wings of three octaves and light of burnt out suns. It is she, this past that reminds us all of how fortunate this political booby trap has become for we the people.

The Asian whore opened her lips as if to sing, but only the squelching light of decay dribbled down her chin. She had feltched her master and slave into becoming naked with his sin that sinned the sin of sinning against she who is but a hair’s breath of light away from the garden of love. Love is the mother of her womb in the loins of mutual masturbation. If sex were the politic of the people, then sex workers are the guardians of the past and all the truth contained there in. It is this revision that collides with the present day uncause to decay the loins of her reverberation. She was stilted in the web of now, only to fund the abortion of out politics and relieve the hunger of pain from the tumor of our we the people souls. In order to form perfection, we have established the guardians of this over throw to imperfect our impassioned plea and revive, in the shriek of a light, the idea that art, for the sake of art, is a waste of proliferation and tax dollars that could best be spent subjugating verbs and declining moral adverbs. Outside of language, the body politics are only rhetorical. The whore was only a world of skin in which her existence was atomic, like the atom bomb of time that imploded her bikini line into perfectly smoothness and bushed her palace into silky smoothness. It was her loins, from which her lips of her loins lined her silken smoothness and created this strangulation that was her dream of him in the web of what she could no longer control, her love of we the people simply could not formulate a thesis strong enough to validate the eruption of atomic energy that pushed her face into stardust and called upon her to vengeance the death of her people. This was the remember the time when we fell in love that the Asian whore who for political reasons and to avoid serious implications by the INS has remained embedded in the loins of her web—strangling the present we the people with nothingness but dust of doom of knowledge and knowledge upon knowledge upon knowledge upon know good. She laughed.

When she laughed, the venom she spat was blinded by the burst of fire that corrupted. Her legs split open and seeds of melon flanked the carpet. He found himself uncontrollable before her, licking the embellished truth of her politic up into his mouth and chewing the placenta after birth of her spider embrace. AT+T laughed. Abortion politics became the coat hangers of closets everywhere. He had, in that moment, lived too long to remorse, too long to tumor, too long to wrap five fingers around the web and yank, pull hard and burst creamy silkiness into all the above becomes the stars powder that encrusted the lips of her pale white face.

To the top of this page