My current coherency to tell of totally, sometimes tubular, true stories about a past that never existed within a realm as still so rightly remembered as a raw reality.
Beneath me burrows were beheld and beckoned me to go belly down, in dirt below.
Like the viewing of children’s ant farms within thin glass confines of verticality.
My small human hands held lower hanging hemispheres of himness in fondling and fear.
Not only that I knew something was odd, but I knew I knew something was odd,
so, Homo Sapiens Sapiens, that knowing knower.
An anxious residue still of being lost in a labyrinthian sub-lair while still in walk in life.
But my certain cerebellum required recall of previous examples that matched my current condition to move steadily downward from gopherlike dug desire.
Fear found and go happy of heart,
with the truly impossible, maintained mission in memory.
As Sumerian terracotta tablets told, man was created to tunnel, to mine for gold for gods.
Sometimes silver.
The similar inner workings of the pyramids to seek within a passage from there in the landscape layout showing the exacting place of Orion of 10,500 years past.
With a lion facing east with a replaced, misfit (miniature) face, a terrestrial clock depicting one time, forever.
And the Sphinx spoke.
A lonely dark, directed destiny downward within to understand the heaven’s upwardness.
Shafts of starlight to see where you were going
Or seeing a serious look at Sirius.
A preparedness of understanding time within a polished limestone pyramid to take magic measure of oneself, the majesty without mental meander.
This telling of a techngnosis I called reality, made of things remembered “that cannot be regarded as real.”
Preordained now as a period everlasting sixty-seven years.
An encounter of the me within the metamorphic makeup of mankind
A tadpolian tale.
In search for some Ekimmu, an underground vampire of the Sumer looking for improperly buried others, a reptilian relic, a careful child’s life was in play, not at play.
As somehow a sickly first-born son in 1956,
(foetal) X-rayed within a once warm womb, twice in one week and one day before being badly birthed, “barely breathing”.
The wonder and wickedness of all things Aryan’ atomic.
A small shovel with red ribbon hung on the homestead door.
Printed profound proof of poor practice in extra-large X-ray format.
Felt for foreverville.
Mother of forty-five years was sedated, Herr Doctor knew Annabelle best, he put her “out for the count.”
She saw veterinarian’ ketamine as vundabar, all environmental expanses experienced as very pink and green.
An irradiated infant condemned to lack of cognitive cohesion and immense immune suppression sustained.
And I can only radium remember what I remember.
I slept with a knife under pillow and was tagged with, “knife happy” from the youngest age.
They are still sharp at my side.
Fortunately, what I’ve forgot is maybe better forgotten, although I persist in remembrance, the raucous returning.
In a high colored fever, I found a brown burrow lying concealed behind every day worn wooden furniture for a then followed pathway downward under partially movable ponderosa pine floors, punctuated with mahogany pegging and formidable fear without (yet) an image.
A crawling to a calling.
Being drawn without graphite, down.
The flu of the fireplace led down to destinations described here.
Wearing entrance wounds and wonder of ways to escape a world of worry in a landscape of gluttonous giants, and a loudly, drunkenly, laughing Fascist’ father of intoxicating magnetism.
father of intoxicating magnetism.
Brutality by the boasting, quarter ton Brutus, an unforgivable, unlivable life for a little one with balletic’ hopefulness.
The opposite of creative is imitative,
and the little boy tried and tried to be better, tougher than the father.
And a perfect Betty Crocker’ mother without nurture, a devout Lutheran, having knelt on knees morning, noon, and night, without my felt plight.
In love with owls which coincide with wonders in the sky.
While this woman was watching a four-foot tall “owl” on the dark driveway ten feet from her, the owl was hit by lightning, knocking her fifteen feet backwards breaking her right wrist and putting a hole in the ground “you could fit a five-gallon bucket in”.
Made from solid German stock like Himmler’s homespun hopefulness.
This exact place where I was sent out to “get the mail” at age ten, witnessed an unmoving ship right overhead and lost two hours’ time and received a scolding and had bloody noses for years.
A homeland of the giant’s screaming and yelling, scalenes seen, and thrown objects from furry forearm to ham fist to flight.
Windowpanes perished predictably from the intoxicated, furious father returning home from whores while careening with car.
I was upended into orbit effortlessly.
Alcohol aided aerobics.
Rooms were wrecked, glassware was held within curtain confines till noon of the next dawn of day.
A consistent alcoholic dissemblance, insanity.
Just to travel down dark tunnels dug with frail fingers or fortunately just “found” to reach oddities of beasts beheld below, far better than the reality above and the sickness in situate at the surface where telephones still had no dials.
Nail biting obedience to contend with
a formidable (fatherly) fear.
Obsessive war watching (still), reading of, drawing of, from age three showing tunnelling under, in search for something within my world of labyrinthian leagues under the ground and battles held beneath against behemoths.
Living life in foraging fantasy below bedrock and of sub- terranean territory even with all its mold and untold, unknown high temperature terrors.
In search of bi-pedal (many) monsters of mine.
The constant fevers of Christmastime, the visiting viruses, the boy’s out of bodying, the boy scouting.
The theory of (re)submergence from conforming cave confines of warily wandering back into the warmth was not withheld from me.
Having “built” entrances in belief below substrate during estivation in soft sienna, damp sand with found toads held in hands and minor mushroom (not magic) moments.
Flashlights and knives in finger’s felt as a phallic practicum for perfection, never achieved.
A Roman double-edged dagger held with right little hand for a defense against a giant, greenish dragon man.
And (in reality) under houses, in low concrete crawl spaces having lairs for lying down lined with mother’s stolen, holey blankets and torn towels, continuously comforting candles with found warm pink erasers left by little white bellied, furry other mothers as sole careless company.
I may have invited others.
Masturbatory antics held under wooden floor joists where I was thrown down basement staircases and locked away (below) to “sweat” out my sentences
A bruised, bent boy by himself, licking his wounds without end.
And I fully feared the fisticuffs of my more than formidable father, and this later found a life for me in homage to him for my extreme fighter’s future.
And the mixing of martial mayhem. The will to be who I was not and the intensity to deny defeat, however bitter the taste became in my minor mouth.
The paw of a want to be pugilist as his accomplished granduncle John was as a boxer/owner of a Golden Gloves title.
The iron in blood, in my nose especially after losing time, time and time again as a tiny ten-year-old and younger.
A Germanic connection of Vrilian’ elevation.
Decades of dedication and devotion with decrepitude duly deserved and delivered.
Now owed and barely operating.
Concussions can grow cerebral cobwebs.
Longing for serenity while punished in corners for the punitive amusement of parents and duly, drunken, dinner company
Dressed in little sailor suits soaked with saline and blood.
Father, a fascist and mother, a second generation National Socialist.
The “greatest generation” in fearless, fermentation formation.
Being slapped across boomerang chairs and asymmetrical lime green carpet, then belted on the behind on my small bunk bed.
A bunk bed for an only child.
Knocked out of home orbit as NASA pretended to walk on the hollow, mechanical moon on the giant box, tiny screen TV with Alcoa’ coated antennae.
I, like the moon, wasn’t always there,
before being birthed in Bethpage, New York.
A reoccurring dream in dark, greasy, graphited, distant, rounded (edged) rooms of gigantic grinding gears, so slowly, so silently moving as in an ancient super Sumer’ chronograph and I owning/wearing double winged Facinus to be found fodder for some sort of sacrifice or extra-terrestrial ejaculatory entertainment in an enormous, iron-esk submarine of slippery intestinal sorts.
All this rivet-less in Raven’s black background.
A felt float without final fall.
A semi-sexual squashing of my so slender naked, slippery, nervous self.
A substantial scream without sudden or sustained sound.
A held back horror of an accordion’ wail from a minor mouth without movement or molars.
There were other children watching, wearing onesies.
This a dream in dread repeated for decades in discomfort, accompanied by daily increased acuity.
A burden buried within my bowels to view all with distrust.
An unchanging felt/heard film in 8mm memory and Magnavox’ magnitude.
And other times seeing serious standing (oddly clothed) Shinto’ or Sumerian serpents sent from up from the sand soil, their holey haven, their scaley origin story of Mesopotamian Hades. A reptilian related inferno lying due south as possible, under the “pillar”, the very center, “the navel” of this deep, where (resting on a tortoise) there is no shadow shown or echo ever sounding.
The Garden of Martian’ Eden, now covered in glacial ice .
And again another.
Once a wolfen’ (Enkian) upright robbed figure wandered unhurried around a closed Macy’s department store at night, at Christmas time amidst brand new Schwinn bicycles after I had emerged from under/behind an artificial terracotta brick, cardboard fireplace to the expanse and now holiday’ present, target rich, (possibly rewarding) flickering, florescent environment.
Having taken a tunnel from a low lacquered bookshelf with a louvered wooden door in my bedroom with a (stolen) Stanley’ stainless steel flashlight held in left hand, folding knife in right.
A last freedom glance at the closed door and a most deliberate down crawl into the cabinet,
always closed behind.
always closed behind.
A congested (with myself) conglomerate concrete corridor delivering depth in descent unlike a polished pyramid of Pythagorean ascent.
The smelling concrete florescence, then suddenly seeing…
His fur’ snout, a Lupercalian’ left face in profile, muzzle protruding well past his black cloth, hooded camisole.
The now where of a ‘wolfman’, without requiring a Roman’ festival.
His legs naked, brindle fur covered and bending backwards with enormous tan testicles in sway, as if no penis present.
I thought I completely evaded him as an Apache in deerskin moccasins by immobility and Reindeer display’ defilade, camouflaged by current Christmas creations and Elfin’ ears.
His nose rose and he consumed the air with out-stretched tongue as if tasting snowfall under hanging mistle toe from above asbestos tiles.
My blue eyes and “O” negative blood were fast frozen.
He finally turned left and stepped once right in bounce as if not quite gravity bound.
A tall, red eyed, tailless werewolf was evidently sole store security.
Holiday happenings held horror and high (undiagnosable) fever for me.
This “dream” took myself to shop in store when closed, without the worry of crowds.
His head tilted as dogs do.
Love was not in the air conditioning.
A dread dreaming of once, an inharmony.
I awoke in an ice bath in uncontrollable tremble.
All the time (I knew now) I had spent underground, I had to be (at least) momentarily missed by my German mother of one.
Could have all these occurred during dream alone, mountains of repetitive but divergent moments?
These messages from the middle (earth) have been meshed into the timelessness of me.
An Atlantic/Pacific’ lost land(s) of lizard/Martian’ men laying around in lost realm that’s been burrowed beneath us from before told time, a then time of nuclear like war between saline skerry locations in different oceans, now concealed continents, followed by famous floods.
“Wonder weapons” from eons before Sumer’s bearded giants flew with wings as the first (found) written language has been terracotta told.
When “lights brighter than a thousand suns” shown and
landmasses were lost and some somehow selected left early to start instantaneous, but precedent civilizations in fertile valleys, where pyramids had spoken about precession since Thoth had thought of building them.
Where under that select centrality lies a revered river, a whirlpool of myth to the center of the earth, held by the antarctical darkness.
My also unnatural, deftly devoted destinations newly frozen for you in font as an arachnid from before in Baltic’ amber.
Two inhabited continents of contrasting cultures and divergent Vitruvian forms fought for dominance of digging gold and the meat of men and the wanted wombs of wonderous women
Those diverse brethren breeding of different slave’ types for export to time/space.
The real reason for racism in this almost round realm.
A time before dinosaurs had been imported.
When disobedient giants, sons of the gods did the hard, darker work.
As Baalbek was quarried and built with eight-hundred-ton stone blocks of granite and exported bullion and bodies to far, far away.
A place that made early Roman’s wonder in its walk and not talk about why the big builders “were doomed”.
Tasked with untold toil and got in terrible trouble, and I also took on this type telling of tumultuous toil through time,
without prior knowledge of any worldly past.
A boy who understood little about
“When the world took fire” or any talking about anomalies in the air in the house
And as a thirty-two-year-old while travelling east from NYC I told a girl of the location of my tunnels when I was a boy while in point across her face south.
I pulled off to the shoulder from traffic, a total discombobulation, a lightning bolt to my before brain of now beguiling belief to question well, everything.
The upwelling of wet from the beginnings of blood shot blues lasted for doubtful days.
A year of hypnosis yielded a violent interruption, a haunting tale telling while watching the room below.
These midnight meanderings and maniacal manifestations repeated sometimes in sequence and others stoic.
All the underworld melted and was mourned more in moments within me.
A (d)evolution of ‘experience’ dissolved instantly, the cognitive differing leaving leagues of lurid liquid to drown at demented depth, under.
A viscous visitation somehow intravenously sent.
I as offspring had lived not of this (my) told world.
And how were these many formulaic descents, these downward fantasies so long forgotten?
The rug of time had run out, the insulation felt forever frayed and a new fear found in the amphoras again.
I recall at ten even stealing select perfect pine from construction sites at night to form up surrounding soil from within.
Once entering a lumber yard where all wood stood upright and a cryptic, mystical, vertical writing of sorts was in black brushstrokes, only forty years later when I moved to Japan did I understand the depth of the dream.
I knew nothing of Erdstalls, souterrains, slip passages, slide slopes or the concealing of rock entranceways with shrub.
Wooden kegs stolen and rolled with the Cosmolined’ common nail contents sold in pennies as size.
The hefting of all manner of hammers held in hand so tight I thought.
Small shovels collected still.
Tight spaces spent sublime.
Lucid dreams that I could change directions at want or will,
and it was done.
One of such determined detail I’ll haunt you here…
There is a waking, walking to place under a precipice, a short stepped rotund route right around a found grass covered mound.
Under this handsome hill the size of a two-story structure there was a hidden under dark, dank earth an entrance of triangle granite so small, so tight to prohibit all person’s penetration except a forty-pound, ten-year young of willful want
of unknown what.
A bigger Buster Brown boy who could “live in a shoe”.
Maybe for treasure or homeless horror.
There was an un-recollectable serpent sound, a pulling to hiss, a breathing below deeper down, My small human hands held lower hanging
and I later led others into this lonely labyrinth.
And the false Facebook reality found today was no match for this spelunk.
I was not alone, deep down in this dim was a demon, a deliverable reptilian I knew
The initial entrance was vertical and was witnessed by vermin and worm alike.
I did also say, “I could see” in this select chimneys slender.
An upside-down crawling deliverance and gravity assistance for ten feet to a wooden trap door under face.
A Freudian deliverance down fallopian’ follows.
There was an initial roaming, lost passageways requiring rearward returning.
As if each turn required deliberation and memorization.
This dream grew in distance longer with time.
Increased nitrogen (I now know) made breathing labored.
A horizontal hallway of guano covered white, a choking concoction of a Vespertilionid, vertical depository.
The dusty grayish talc clung to the sweaty youngster.
I only now recall my nudity.
The bareness and even the shoelessness may saddle me to some as simply the retrogression towards the boy within.
But there were shafts, silos and underwaters and the lure of finding the haunting under the skin.
A distant house where when visiting as a man I would fall asleep upon entering.
A residue of unrest.
And caves still call.
John Perretti
And why did that boy want to also go down often to the safety of the dark?
Such time spent on solitary, special spelunking under cold ponds, behind falling farm barns, and under nursery Netherlands.
Entering an abandoned home with a not working elevator that wasn’t extant two days prior where a big black rat snake once coiled around used Penthouse’ pornography that “hunters” had held in one handsome hand.
A dick dragging in the dirt down cavernous, continuous, confines like some solitary spotted skunk.
Passing hibernatory’ reptiles reposing, a tippy toed kenning.
The colossalness of these invented confines confused my brain,
and I am still sending myself somewhere.
