7 Haiku by George Lucas on The Inspiration for Star Wars

1.

Pewww, Pewww, laser guns--
zzzt, hummm, zzzt, humm, zzzt, lightswords--
Then good conquers evil.

2.

Dagobah bayou.
A mutant inbred midget
Kicks ass. South will rise.

3.

If I didn't know
My sister was my sister
I'd think she was hot.

4.

Like germs, the force is
Invisible but really works.
Spinoza. All one.

Chapter 1 of "Shametrash"

Shame.  After weeks of pissing on old socks, food, cigarette butts, beer and paper trash—I take the trashcan out.  Movement stirs it.  Inflames it.  The smell metastasizes, inflicting boils on the air—indescribable…a tanginess to it, a zest as of ginger, foul, fetid, rancid ginger stuffed inside a deadskunk stuffed inside a sculpture of Ted Bundy made out of POW-shit and capital-raped bones.  Everyone gathers, stares, won’t let it go, if a smell could be let go, incredulous…I’m incredulous too.  Worse, worse, far worse than I thought, and I can’t explain my own laziness, how I ignored it, how I lived with it, its genesis…it’s awful, grows worse.  Who am I?  Can I ignore anything?  This, this thing—this smell—an olfactory genocide, and I let it happen, knew in ways that it was happening, worse than I thought, right, literally, under my nose.  Shame.  I can’t explain it.  This failure…I speak, speak weak, feeling how little it says, how awful, unspeakable I look, stammering, eloquently weak—weak by virtue of eloquence—form without any content, without conviction—as if it was only natural.  & she there…”Did you live in that?”—unspeakable, I can feel her judgment, silencing me, the shame a hollowing beak, emptying me, opening channels of loathing through with attentiveness now sluices…is this awareness? How how how did it happen—who do I confess to—I fell compelled to…if not her??  Who has seen me ugly, naked, selfish, condescending, brute, and absolutely broken, breaking, ejecting death?  It’s as if this time the physicality of this sin—this trash which I had pissed on and let rot thoughtlessly in the crupping ass of summer was too real, real by force of thereness, a physical matter so strong, embiggened by the grotesque naturality of the inevitable, of decay, could only choke, a sandstorm loosed upon the air to dampen any fire of kindness, deference still glowing, guttering out for me…

And now I sit writing.  Feel my name spoken, my face grotesque, defamed, deformed…this is shame then, to know your person is at this mercy of re-evaluation, that your esteemed clay has been remolded, that they are firing your being in a kiln to make of it a villainous idol, a portrait of carelessness, and I am afraid this idol might capture me, might hold my place and mark my presence, leering, careless, capable of vast acts of inconsiderateness, atrocity-rapes of the senses…and yet, only a smell, only trash, for everything I am attentive to, this one I neglected, this one neglect comes to define me—for how long?—work must be done.  Shame. 

Francis Bacon Stars in “Our Bodies Are All The Rage”

A key blister-fits noisily in a grievous lockhole pitted hilarious in my stomach. Let’s have a bottle of yr disgusting giggle. In black trench, obviously intensely personal, a man with a black briefcase of sound effects sits green on an untidy bed, fondles a pillow, buries his face in it, spasms.  Journalists flash and snap him on some stairs in daylight.  A man in whiteytights with one sock rubs his own behind and walks from your vision into an unlighted bathroom.  He breaks later, or earlier, fully clothed through a skylight into a mess of photos and paint.  Horrific montage.  Don’t hump what you can’t kill. Bacon in black licks his lips, offers himself in exchange for anything he wants.  Aspiring to become the upright white guy with the briefcase, shirtless, smoking, postcoital scene.  Is there a sphincter without a secret?  If they’re getting on they’re unhappy, that’s what love is.  Drink for the thirst to come.  Bullfighting, boxing, sex unlock the valves of feeling. 

Many quadrupeds stand upright briefly to assess danger or reach food, evolve postprandial strolls and cakewalks. I have an innocence you wouldn’t recognize if it was jammed up yr ass on the end of my severed fist.  What sort of artist would I be with your shame? 

George, we all have nightmares, they can’t be as horrific as life, to survive, to only make a monument of calculations—powerless to help, I, a compulsive joke that no one knew was funny, watch.  Survival, a monument to all calculations, is dependent upon the repeated failure of courage--out into the gymnasium of the city, to cast my rod into the sewer & see what chomping comes up rounded to no beauty without the wound—obsessive light switching, cracked mirrors, gambling, sometimes a man’s shadow is more in the pooled room than he is—is my lover to be my assassin, or I theirs?

This door don’t work goddamnit, 

falls unhinged.  Such is work, an entropic 

pimple of maintaining maintenance.  

Who dat out dere sayin’ who dat in dere 

evertime I say who dat out dere?  It demands a sacrifice.  

The fistula sweats boxed money like a tree 

berserking the sun babooned.  

Out of lids, the tree of life carefully, cacafuego, 

takes its coffee 2 go, but of course, clearly, it spills 

like smolten ichor all over our fingers which cup ourselves like training bras smelling 

of milk sacrificed to skimming every surface free of pain.  Butthurt the hinges 

become tricycles capable of tattooing the ass-fault with a notion of private property.  We find the body difficult to speak.  If soul may look and body touch, 

which is the more less?  VD is a fancy watch. 

He ties a complicated knot near the bay & watches the gulls spoke 

the invisible wheel of our inherited ability to walk 

down the aisles of the supermarket. Careless, 

stupid, and you’re sorry now too.

Inquiry, gushing, and the thank you.

Real talk, y'all.  Does anyone have footage or recordings or photos from the Reptarz II show at the Athfest Cine show?  Shit, do y'all have footage of Tunabunny?  Shit was fucking mag-fucking-nificent.  They are the best band in town.  In fact, fuck it, I hereby declare TUNABUNNY THE FAVORITE BAND OF THIS BEMUSEMENT PARK.

But, yeah, for real, send us what you have: domesticbemuse1(at)gmail(dot)com.

Also, just a reminder, we still want to write your obit, so send us your info.


PEACE.

P.S. Thanks for all the kind words from y'all who were there regarding the performance and the booklet.  We really do appreciate such remarks, even if we seem incredulous.