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The Mary Marry knows more and see’s more ruin from policy than disease or miss-use. Silly ones wander aimlessly about the stained alters of the others false idols. A soundtrack from the ages old – screams – an echo in the visage – chiseled in stone – faces of that other red letter day where the winner goes 23 sacrificial steps to the pyramid steep.

A crumbling decay – the ravages of time; the abuses of nature and theft. Prehistory recorded in alien forms slapping and fluttering on open reels and parchment. Monstrous aliens decapitated and dedicated to idolize the icons and interwoven genetics.

Altered transmissions – Mary Mary reads from the book of Amduat – that which is in the underworld. Memphis; Tennessee or Egypt. No matter can only get to one from here. The Mary Mary watches from the cliffs edge disgusted and disturbed. Hordes of rampaging archeologists tearing up the dusty and freshly exposed chambers of Deir el-Bahari. Mentuhotep would shed a tear if he wasn’t on display in a Cairo Starbucks. Speed Kills spoken into the ears from spectral passers by as the fast talking men place their cappuccino’s on the cursed case. That’s respect and gratitude for you as the busy drop dead into their latte` foam.

Bus loads of mummified and purified archaeology exhibits sit around display cases as make-shift coffee tables. Jabbing poking prodding the royal remains, as drool forms at corners of mouths – talk too fast – no time to breathe – must make a point before someone interjects. Redneck manager appears to clean up the mess of coffee stains crumbs and drool. Spit makes a slick painting on terrazzo floors. Archaeologist types sue and sell canopic jars to make up for funding shortfalls – gotta keep an eye on them always making a disturbance so they can slip one into a valise.


Mary Mary Morning glory. Glory gloriana –

say the sacraments of false gods and idols – clumsy locals look at/in the book – words remembered by rote, syllables roll musically from wagging lolling tongues. Sit stand again controlled by the puppet master.

Shove the right poles into the right holes.


The symphony plays a requiem for dusty lost then found jars on the Tustin council estates. Banging and blowing against type – from Old Kent road to Layton Burroughs – bones and ribbons packed since the white cliffs and lightening strikes. Life and death have become parodies played out for the amusement of passing motorists debating the validity of Art over Sport. Art will always loose – Too much thinking and not enough drinking.


Mary Mary curates the post-Modernist worlds fair in a hookah bar under the banner of Better Living through Benzedrine. Dream Machine spins in in the corner by the old battered espresso machine. This is the Keif and kidnap crowd. Always on the lookout for an easy mark, PhD’s with fresh funding will do. If not whats a little more blood for the desert to absorb. The Pilgrimage progression of Bedouin in blue watching the drunk on cheap local . Too fucked up to make too much fuss. It’s a cheap laugh as they stumble out into a black mamba nest. Oh well so much for them as they run about foaming at the mouth, yelping like a rabid dog. A post-modernist apocalyptic tango. It’s a fucked up world baby blue. Mary Mary tells the crowd waiting for an encore but, were fresh out of PhD’s.