Letters from an Alien

Content and art used with explicit permission from the author, 51 Phonehome. No other use or distribution is allowed, excepting a link to this post and where it has already been published. This is the first of many, enjoy!



The Old Mind Fuck

I see humans fucking the planet, preparing for war, these fools fucking their way, on multiple fronts, spraying nerve gas inside the deleted folders of Yahoo customers who couldn't pay the rent on time, smashed and beaten customers heading towards a speedy death on CNN, the arena of the oil kings, fucking butt live on NBC where the lords of military industry pick-up the defecit forecasts left-over by the CEOs of Chase Manhatten bank who tax the nation for the costs of SDI, while Osama bin-Laden waits for his tax-cut of oil and silicon, a savings account of monsterous trillions filling the TV screens with images of hopeless galaxies that poke the gross domestic product with these psychic fingers of infected conspiracies, the mind-fuck that falls off the world trade center, these big breasts dying in the private sector of Oklahoma, the place where Columbine kids go for their appeals, in the federal district court near the pyramids that steam-whistle in the deep mists of North Korea, a power that slinks to Bagdhad quietly in a symbolic gutter, drinking Jack Daniels in Teheran's slums,

a battle in the desert capital of Persepolis where Moloch's mouth dumped a dead body and Ramakrishna breathed solitary fire in Iraq as he danced with Padmasambhava in the dispute of the final phase, on top of the retreating skyscrapers here on the American earth, friends from a past-life in Atlantis forgotten frozen deep in silent ice stones, O Ramakrishna, where is this Vivekenanda, where are those inevitable technologies that will make life on earth a Marxist paradise, tell the state department, before the next alien war, july the fourth, tell friends of Teilhard that I'm on the planet, tell the U.S. troops that nifty quantum vacuums will liberate the planet, tell Iraq it's cheap and clean, tell the white house that zero gravity will soon arrive with its blissful fangs and beady eyes, a public front of giant propulsions, tell Dan Rather that his anthrax breath will cease strip-mining our collective psyche, that the government will stop selling us this shit in cheap wine glasses, that the hungry assholes in Jerusalem will stop their private police force which seeks imaginary enemies under every naked rug, which makes these unnecessary wars and shoots slaves to the moon, to Jupiter where the gladiators swill their vengeful beer in the fog and toke their rural dream weed in the marshes of basra, where Abraham spied for the aliens near horrifying Mount Sinai, tell Teilhard that I'm on the planet with brother Allen who sits in the interrogator's chair refusing to believe this shit, this wicked merger of an artificial unity.