Chanan Ate the Monster









Chanan Ate the Monster

The Monster did not eat Her




Once she tied the knot, the knot became a noose and nearly a toe tag.  Chanan became an escapee from the Chiffon Jungle.

His skeleton key let the bones out of the closet. Sadly not just hers but his also.  Insanity’s Scion. He wearied down Chanan’s dreams and gas-lighted her plans.  Except her artwork.  Chanan’s Artwork made him look good.  There is prestige in being married to an up and coming Artist.

No sooner than the ink was dry on the marriage license all hell broke loose.  Chanan was only 5 feet tall  and barely 115 lbs soaking wet.  He was over 6 feet 5 and over 225 lbs.

Easily enraged over what he saw as the slightest provocation…He shook her violently like she was a rag doll. Threw her up against the walls of his mansion. He slapped and punched her leaving her face swollen. Her body battered and bruised.  Before storming out of the estate he told Chanan, “The next time you defy me. I’ll snap your neck like a twig!”


He would grab her by the wrists and arms. Fling her across the room but he would avoid crushing her hands.  Those gifted fingers produced artwork that made them the toast of the town.  He needed her hands.

Here said Him as he flung a bag of frozen peas at Chanan. “Put that on your shoulders and upper arms.  I need you back in that art studio tomorrow.  Sooner rather than later.”  Chanan knew her artists smock would cover any bruises just in case unexpected visitors happened by.

This was a male boil filled with psychic pus which periodically burst sending it’s contents all over his world. Saturating her universe with poison infection spores.

The Emerald green choker gleamed and glowed in response to her warm golden skin. Blue sapphires pierced the moonlit night.

Cafe Society.  Such a Bizarre Bazaar of freaks and fools.

She a mere Bistro Barista delivered by He ~~ To The Manner Born. That was his thinking.  The Him hated “Those People” yet he had married one of them.  She was so bright, bubbly and beautiful that people were drawn to her.  Hers was the magnet he needed to overcome his inbred repellent nature.

“Midnight. Such an odd stupid time to pick up artwork but Chanan said it was easier to do so after dark.  After the Galleries had closed.  He walked briskly towards the entrance. Him always hated that long road walk.  Those gardens populated by Garden Gargoyles.  Chanan called them Protectors and Revengers.  He never understood most of her idiot terms. To him she was just a Golden Goose laying golden eggs. Replenishing his barren bank account wasted through his drinking, whoring and gambling.  Women artists he snorted!  Celebrated just for being female!  Bah!

Then he heard a sound. He stopped. Listened. Looked around him. It seemed like those gargoyles adorning various garden flower plots, facing the entrances and exits were now facing him.  His imagination.  That last whiskey sour. He continued on. Speeding up when he heard a clack, clack, boom slam screech…  He speeded up but he was not fast enough.

Fearsome stone sentries watch over those who care for them.

Diprosopus ~~  Two Faces. Now one is gone.

Objects in the Mirror are Mountains in mad pursuit.

Gargoyles in the Garden.  Weed the negative. Fertilize the Positive.

Come my puppies. Come to Momma. come get your evening meal.

Chanan giggled at the sounds and sights of them crunching, snorting, slurping, smacking of lips, breaking of bones.  His bones.

Psycho profilers are harbingers of hindsight, fortunetellers of the past. But as much brains as a baseball bat.  Revenge is sweet like a Banana Split Sundae.


Behind the Wall – Tracy Chapman




Fallen Cinders ~~ A Halloween Poem


Fallen Cinders

Don’t know if there were other beings. So far no one I’ve queried has dyed-in-the-wool knowledge of their existence.

The Doors – People Are Strange

Measuring about 4’8” they had gray-green eyes and a snarled mess of teal blue hair that fell from their heads to their ankles.  A race of Cousin Its who had escaped from the Addams Family and mated with Smurfette.  Every so often there would be a great divide within these walking haystacks when tentacles would emerge, grasp the being nearest to them all the while emitting spores that enabled them to engage in a type of conjugal bliss harmonizing their universe and populating future cosmos.  Egg donors pushed out womb offerings for the spores’ consummation.

You must allow the bed to take you. It’s the only way. Pollination. Germination. Fruit.  Appendages.

Steles push up granite flowers. Stone Flowers. Stillborn. Alien stillborns cry out for vindication.

He’s just a middle-aged painted Lolita straining to call forth the waiting semen amidst a garden of extraterrestrial after-births.

The Beatles – The Fool On The Hill

Sulky gargoyles indulged in the meadow.

State bed

State bed

Date: ca. 1698

Culture: British

Medium: Wood, covered in blue silk damask

Dimensions: 12 ft. × 6 ft. 6 in. × 6 ft. (365.8 × 198.1 × 152.4 cm)

Sometimes I would watch as they chased and caught smaller humanoid beings decapitating them with a lassoed tentacle tug then planting their tiny heads as seeds with the promise of a shrunken head springtime crop during the moon’s 6th ellipses. Tasty. Delicious. Like brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil.

Gathering at the ceremonial castle they marched in sync howling chanting:

Babbling Bitches have me in stitches.

The Babble of the rabble gives rise to bewitches.

On and on a series of feet stampeding through Wonderland. Wheelers keeping an uneven but steady tempo.

Aristocratic corpses shimmer in glee.

A dead Mariachi Band Member dances for filthy lucre.

The Cyclist body lay crumpled between sighing posts. Mangled beyond recognition. His bike wheels spinning waiting for its riders return. He was the color of repose.

Ahhh…. Look at All the Lonely People. Where do they come from? Where do they all belong?

Beatles- Eleanor Rigby

Somebody needs to check to see if Elvis is in the alligator. For there is an umbrella that will take you to the 13th floor.

We come from a long line of Firestarters, feeling nostalgic for another self but knowing that those above gather the fallen cinders.

The Old Castle

The Old Castle

Artist: Emanuel Murant (Dutch, Amsterdam 1622–1700 Leeuwarden)

Medium: Oil on wood