Megalodon
REMINGTON GRAVES
Countless tears fall from empty heavens cutting through the code, the nexus ripped and shredded, its invisible ribbons drape above my watery ceiling and sink hanging heavy, swinging right then left imitating the immortal jellyfish
Graciously gravid and gargantuan in the choking gulps of a million depths under the sea, I approach with crashing cymbals and thrashing thunder—The O Fucktuna—nightmarish scenic cantata composed of medieval chants in bombastic brutality; whilst lacerating other lesser life forms, I fuck the fickleness of fortune and waste the wastrel who only dreams of wealth, the ephemeral noxious nature of a dwindling life, jubilant in the joy that may come in the return of Spring
Great Whites see themselves in me
I see old almost forgotten me in Great Whites
And I summon thy pleasures unknown, lost pugilistic perils with placid guise in the draining shapes of gluttonous gambling to distract the mortal mind from the luxury of lust
I will not lament the wounds that Fortune deals for Fortune deals not for me
Dance instead on the severed heads of all my foes and feigning friends
My thoughts like spies on land like Maenads among the forest flowers
Trampling past villages and chewing through men and seething inside a frantic fire
Once I swam in lakes and more than once
In the shape of a thin calm and quiet brown boy
Naked along snakes
Past dead rodents Past human debris Away from just another brick in the walls and homes and paved streets
With eyes of cool and hard white like marble statuesque chiseled and charged, I vibrated in the macrocosm universe that was my human vessel, my veins all roads like dormant whores that lead my puerile heart to Rome
Emperor of the world
Pale monarch within
Sovereign seraph
Allies sidewinding slightly behind, vigilant, venal and vindictive—fierce notes in the opus of the mechanism that is the symphonic organ of oblivion
Imperial guards
Fiends of shared philosophy
I no longer remember the boy
I hardly think of the Great White
Except for when I’m hungry
and out for a swim
∞
Smooth Operators
REMINGTON GRAVES
“My fellow Americans…As your very handsome and capable President, I hereby have some groundbreaking news to share with you this beautiful and blessed morning.
Play the music, will you, darling,” he said as a tall skinny blonde in faux Fendi pointed a remote control to the corner of the room behind him, and Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No.14 in C-Sharp Minor ensued.
“Last night, for reasons beyond our greatest and educated minds, extraterrestrials chose the White House to make their first contact with the human race. It is no surprise they chose here, since America is the greatest goddamned country in the world, pardon my French, but hell, I’d land here too. I mean, c’mon, folks…the House is White, for crying out loud. Now, they have travelled all this way, for eons, they claim, to provide us with a very special gift. I know I am live at the moment. So, all of you in your automobiles, I implore you, please pull over safely and continue to keep watching this very important world-wide message—if you are watching this broadcast on a device of some kind. This gift may come as a real shocker to you folks at home, or wherever you may be. These Otherworldly fellows claimed that it would be devastating at first, due to our simple minds, but with decades, or centuries perhaps, we would understand the magnitude of this priceless gift. And the gift is this, my beloved Americans…and the rest of you out there in lesser countries:
I want you to, very slowly now, undo your trousers. And look inside, if you will. Go ahead, don’t be shy, this affects us all, now. There is no more need for shyness. Now, now, don’t panic! I said, don’t panic now.
As you can see, there ain’t nothing dooown there. They’ve made us smooth like Barbie dolls…how the hell we are supposed to operate, is beyond me. I don’t get it myself, don’t see how this is a gift, since I liked using it from time to time—provided my prescription dose was met. They did mention that we’d find a way to reproduce without the pipe work, soon enough. Too many people on this damn planet already, If you ask me.
I remember as a young man, and sometimes now, where I would dress well and exercise only for the approval of the opposite sex. My success was ultimately to have power which let to my pickings of the best women out there. I don’t know much about women, but maybe makeup sales will drop now, that you don’t need to attract a mate. And how the hell you gonna get anyone to spoon you now?Look at me, getting ahead of myself. What on earth are we gonna talk about now amongst each other—the weather?! Only time will tell, I suppose.
This is the President of the best gosh darn country in the world…signing off. And remember, folks, there is a big world out there, with lots of people and lots of places. Keep yourselves and each other safe. Have a blessed day.”
∞
On Going Bald
REMINGTON GRAVES
It’s been a mortifying matter of a multitude of years, this falling out of love between my locks and I; I noticed the shiny, shitty spot on my scalp as I ran the comb through my hair as it collected clumps of polishing pomade. The ceiling fan caused a break in the gleam and summoned a ghastly grunt within. My Lucky filterless hung suspended by a bit of saliva on my lower lip as I squinted from the smoke and beheld the baldness in my dirty restroom mirror…I knew in my heart of hearts, that I wasn’t so lucky and that my head…it was toasted. But the days turned into months and the months to years, and out of sight, out of mind, I had heard people say, and so it went that awful way—for quite some time. Women came in and out of my life; they pulled and yanked and never said a word. Never did I consider that one day I would become part of the fucking Follicly Challenged Club.Within the epoch of less-than-epic denial, bald men, after many an action film—after a stack or two of high-end magazine models, became sexy to me and I relished in the many voiced opinions of the mass of vixens who posited that chrome-domed polished-headed men were provocative. From vengeful hitmen, daring drivers, and yippie-ki-yayed motherfuckers, to bloated Buddhas, all had their place in the planet and some in the loins of lionesses. But no, not me…no way, no how, how could this be?
I am Forty years old now and just recently got tired of combing my hair this direction and that one, only to live daily in self-deceit. Man, I put up a fight, and can’t call it “the good fight” since, I finally admitted defeat and decided to shave it all off. Most people tried talking me out of it—bless their kind hearts, but I knew, like all men know, when it’s time to give up the jig.
‘Liberated’ was the word that came to mind when I stood up from the Salon chair under the buzzer of a bouncy, blimpy bimbo who also tried selling me the lie. So she could continue to cut my unthinkably thinning hair, no doubt. Can’t blame her, I imagine that Juicy Couture and Pink wardrobe do not come cheap for a girl in her early twenties.
When I arrived home after the drive from the Salon, flashes of the diaphanously discarded mane penetrated my mind in a hot shower as I rubbed my scalp. The water hit my skin and I dug the delightful sensation. Regret was now beginning to hold my confidence in ransom. I stepped out, dried myself, and stared in the mirror…I was a fucking god, I thought to myself, and even if my head fell off, I’d be a decapitated deity—I knew it then, for the burning black flame, which is my incendiary confidence, kicked in and commenced with a ruling roar. I had survived homeless in a Third World country at the age of eight during the eighties, there was no way this was gonna trip me up.
My apprehension almost apprehended me, but as the hours went by, my superego set its fists at its waist line while its red cape flowed…and I started to love my new look.
So, for all you men struggling with this balding battle of bruised ego, just let go, baby…just let go. Embrace the truth. Accept the older, wiser, sexier you. And carry on, my wayward, balding sons.
∞
”Engage.”
—Luc-Picard
Notable Films
GLEN LUCHFORD / ALESSANDRO MICHELE
Beautiful short film directed by Glen Luchford which follows a guest into a dance party in a villa outside Florence. The film captures the contemporary essence of Alessandro Michele’s Cruise 2016 Collection.
And a version of Joy Division’s “She Lost Control” by Greek Minimal Wave band Alive She Died.
When all else fails, dance.
∞
Ishtarmani
REMINGTON GRAVES
The matriarch was ushered in by a band of utter morons, as usual. The domicile, which she so humbly decided to speak, was a desirous locale centered amongst the beleaguered and the bourgeoisie, dull as exposed brick and banal the likes of exfoliating femmes. Disparagingly, she delved into the drivel that so often fed the daunting droves; initiating a dissonant dissent among the natives was her sole and indomitable approach—Valentino and Balenciaga—sparkling diamonds and that constant slow motion laugh, in rare form, like usual.
”Madame, madame, over here!”
”Yes, you,” she hissed slowly while adjusting her left earring, “what is it?”
”How do you feel about being with us once again here in New York?”
”The stench is pungent and the people hardly interest me enough to make me sick.”
”Countess, Countess…”
”Yes, you, the peasant with the atrociously thin eyebrows.”
”Will we say you at any of the upcoming balls this year?”
”One can hope and pray—so, you may want to get on your knees—the sooner, the better.”
”Your Majesty…”
”You, young lady with the electronic device disgustingly attached to your hand.”
”Will you ever create a social media account for all your adoring fans?”
”When pigs fly. Keep an eye on your children—they may grow wings.”
”Madame Ishtar, over here, I worship the ground you walk on!”
”Of course you do! What is your question? And don’t waste my time and squander your greatest moment with mediocrity, young man.”
”Will you ever marry?”
”Finally, a relevant question. I have found a worthy husband after so many decades. I am aware you have pleaded for such a union…well, dream no longer, I shall introduce him here today.”
The crowd approached a little closer. The smell of steaming designer wear filled the room. The sound of high heels scraped and coupled with flashing bulbs and cameras clicking and people showing and grunting and crying out the name,” Ishtar…Ishtar…Ishtar…”
The Countess caressed her clavicle with thin pale fingers as she lost her self for a short moment staring at the glorious chandelier that appeared to be slightly spinning. Her right foot almost gave out from excitement and then she cried, “Yeshua, bring out the groom-to-be, will you, darling?”
And so the bloated, bearded man disappeared to the side of the stage for a few moments while the Madame demanded silence. Gasps and small shrieks filled the room as he returned with a lion on a chain—his collar encrusted with diamonds of all sizes. The beautiful beast gently pawed his way to her and rested at her feet.
The Madame extended her long arms arrayed in long silk pearl-white gloves and said, “I present you: Togar!”
∞