Here, from Bedside Nonsense (see the last post), is the beginning of a story about Deucalion, the Greek equivalent of the Jewish Noah. He had to contend with all those hybrids, and it wasn’t easy.

DEUCALION’S ARK

Deucalion had different problems than Noah’s, since he had to stock his ark in the Greek mythopoetic part of the plexiverse. Noah was in the Hebraic one, based on Berashith, or vice versa, which says that like produces like, so he could just take two of every animal, except of course for the aquatic ones, which were better off where they were. But the Greek system was full of hybrids, all those harpies, satyrs, and griffins, all made by different species mating, and all sterile besides, because even though chromosomes were different enough to allow hybrids from such distantly related species in that string of the quasiverse, they weren’t different enough to make them fertile, although that did happen sometimes, just as we sometimes get fertile mules in our particular cosmopoesis, no one knows why. So Deucalion couldn’t just round up two centaurs, because if you wanted centaurs, and many people did, as did the centaurs themselves, who were very social, you needed a horse and a human. But you couldn’t use a woman and a stallion, since the fetus would be too big for the poor lady’s uterus, so you’d have to get a man and a mare. There too, you couldn’t take any man and any mare, because most men can’t just fuck a horse, even if they agreed to it when they knew the alternative was dying in the deluge that Zeus poured onto humanity because he was so angry about that one human sacrifice, which seems unfair, but Zeus was harsh back then…

Bedside Nonsense is now available from Black Scat Books! This anthology, edited by Norman Conquest, offers a dizzying array of approaches to the nonsensical, by a lively group of writers and artists. I contributed “Amerigo and Isabella” (verses about the misadventures of Amerigo Vespucci and Queen Isabella) and “Deucalion’s Ark” (a story about the Greek Noah’s troubles in stocking his ark). The other distinguished contributors are Mark Axelrod, Tom Barrett, Angie Brenner, Ken Brown, Norman Conquest, Caroline Crépiat, Haley Dahl,  Farewell Debut, Paul Forristal, Ryan Forsythe, Penelope Goddard, Jean-Jacques Grandville, Simon Hanes, Rhys Hughes, Alexei Kalinchuk, KKUURRTT, Rick Krieger, David Moscovich, Jason E. Rolfe, Paul Rosheim, Bob Rucker, Thaddeus Rutkowski, Terry Southern, Yuriy Tarnawsky, Tom Whalen, and Carla M. Wilson. You can pick up a copy on Amazon, and then read it from cover to cover.

The nightingale is obviously a loser, since it makes no money from its song. Let’s all join in and ridicule it. The complete song can be found in The Doug Skinner Songbook.

Pink and Apple-Green is now available from Black Scat Books! By Alphonse Allais, translated, introduced, and annotated by Doug Skinner! This is the first English translation, and the first annotated edition in any language. It’s 261 pages: 44 stories, plus 5 extra stories. You can get one on Amazon.

Alphonse Allais (1854-1905) was France’s greatest humorist. His elegance, scientific curiosity, preoccupation with language and logic, wordplay, and flashes of cruelty inspired Alfred Jarry, as well as succeeding generations of Surrealists, Pataphysicians, and Oulipians. As Paul Verlaine said, “Who is fresh? Allais.”

A song on the drawbacks of having to sleep. I often performed this with a viola obbligato, played by either Carol Benner or David Gold.

We have here a song about urban life. When confronted with something unpleasant, simply close your eyes and make a wish. I don’t know if it works, but you might as well. It can be found on That Regrettable Weekend and in The Doug Skinner Songbook.

There has been so much art and literature celebrating the human body. Here, for variety, if nothing else, is a song expressing disgust for it.

This story appears in Black Scat Review 19. Owen has rather a difficult time in it. Here’s how it begins:

UP TO THE SUMMIT

Owen slipped, and fell 25,000 feet to the jagged rocks below. Fortunately, he was unharmed.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, as he staggered to his feet. “I’d better be more careful.”
A tall lean man arose from a dense thicket. He was dressed top to toe in bottle green, and wore a cap with his own photo pinned to it.
“Oh, it’s you again,” said Owen.
“It’s me again,” he chuckled. “Still trying to climb that mountain?”
“I am indeed,” said Owen, “if it’s any of your business.”
“Oh, it’s none of my business,” the man replied. “I was just being neighborly. You have the stupidest face I’ve ever seen.”
“Do you call that neighborly?” snapped Owen.
“Well, someone should tell you,” the man said.
“Many people have,” Owen replied. “I can’t help the way I look.”
“It would help if you didn’t keep your mouth hanging open,” the man observed.
“At least I don’t wear a hat with my picture on it,” said Owen.
“Wear one with mine,” the man suggested. “Give people something nicer to look at than your gaping pie-hole.”
“Fuck off,” barked Owen.
“There’s no call to be rude,” the man observed.
“Fuck off,” repeated Owen, but his interlocutor had already sunk again into the shrubbery. Owen kicked aside the bleached bones of his predecessors, and began his ascent…

The 19th issue of Black Scat Review is now available! This issue’s theme is “ecstasy.” I contributed “Two and One” (a story about a love triangle, told entirely in three-letter words), “Up to the Summit” (in which Owen’s daily mountain climbing is interrupted by his mother’s sudden wedding), and “C11H13NO2” (an alliterative consideration of a certain hallucinogen). Other contributors include Peter Ruric, Yuriy Tarnawsky, Eurydice, Catherine D’Avis, Galya Kerns, Tom Whalen, Bob McNeil, Nicole Scherer, Tom Bussmann, Paul Rosheim, William Minor, Norman Conquest, Adam Matson, Dynamic Wang, Alexandr Ivanov, Jim McMenamin, Rhys Hughes, Amy Kurman, and Emiliano Vittoriosi.

It’s available on Amazon, and there’s more info at Black Scat Books.

Here’s the beginning of a short story to appear, or so I’m told, in the next issue of Black Scat Review. It’s a rollicking tale of a love triangle. Although rather bawdy in spots, it uses no four-letter words.

TWO AND ONE

Ivy was the one for Ira, and Ira was the one for Ivy. “It’s tea for two ’til the two get old and die,” he’d vow. And she did too.
But one day, Max saw Ivy. And who was Max, you may ask? For now, all I’ll say was Max was the man who saw Ivy. And who did say, “Wow! Dig her red lip and doe eye! Her tan bod and dye job! I’ll nab the fox!” And Max was not shy, not one bit.
“Hey, sis!” Max did cry.
Ivy did eye the big lug, and was not put off. Max was her own age—not fit, yet not too fat. You can see she set the bar low. But she was coy, was our Ivy…