Just love whoever you want, anyway you like.
Every harlot was a virgin once, and the progress of every rake makes for him a hell.
But if the harlot and the rake should meet and marry, then all is forgiven,
and all is well. ;)
Christ of the Shipwreck, or Drowned Jesus with Mermaids and Marine Escort.
(many brave hearts are asleep in the deep, so beware…)
My latest completely finished over and done with painting. it went on for some time before I found the end of it.
Thank you for the lovely orgy.
(Rejected, without explanation, by Hallmark and several other greeting card companies.)
One moonlit night in the Dry Tortugas, aboard a sand schooner of my own design, I set my mind to be a painter, and my sails for a broad reach toward Erewhon.
When something bugs me, I paint about it. Paint is my religion. I will be a missionary for Paint, after I retire from my job as an Ambulatory Conveyor of Epistolary Communication, in a year or two, or when my legs fall off, whichever comes first.
I think it might be time to explain again just where my inspirations come from. I am often asked this.
“Where DO you get those crazy ideas for your paintings?”, they ask. And I tell them, “There are secret channels on my television set.”
They always want to know what channels I’m talking about.
“Can I see these secret channels?”, they want to know.
And I have to explain that these secret television channels can only be received by a set (like mine) that is out of whack; that is, damaged in a certain, special way.
And besides the uniquely broken TV, you also need rabbit-ear antennae with heavy-duty aluminium foil crumpled in fractals around the tips, forming carefully tuned traps for weak signals that arrive from the depths of interstellar space.
I have never been able to decode the messages, if they are messages; for all I know, the signals I receive are only adverts for products I could never use. But their very strangeness makes them compelling, so I just grab a loaded paintbrush and sketch what I see.
Ants on a piece of bread is a kind of entertainment unappreciated by many who have been seduced by cable television into believing that “vampires” and not insects are the master species of our planet. Watch ants at work and war, and know what cowardly little wastrels men are. Vampires indeed! If ants were the size of dogs, there would be no dogs. And only the atom bomb could save mankind from the ravages of the formidable Formicidae. The fire ants have taken over my homestead. All is lost if I don’t get nuclear weapons soon.
I have laid a minefield of venus flytraps around my tipi to keep the ants at bay. Insectivorous plants are your friend.
We have recruited and are now training an army of G. gallus domesticus. These fowl mercenaries will show no mercy to the invading hordes of Solenopsis invicta. Death to the RIFA!
By Jacqueline Applebee
(Previously printed in Bisexual Community News. Free to repost with author credit)