American Book of the Dead: Turn Century (a Disturbing Dream)

Watchin’ the Detectives nit-pick Albion’s gold locks; flaxen tresses frizzed and tangled with alien seed. Tears. Growth unchecked unwashed, in regions unnameable, hatch dark unmentionables.

“We must burn the bad cells before they metastasize…”

Holmes and Watson combing creepy streets of London. Watson’s trusty revolver in his pocket.

Britannia’s oily hair (foggy nit-pluck; expert sleuth wit; agon, night). Bad eggs absorb osmotic protein corse of Empire. Shit maggots.

Regions dark ineffable…

Holmes and Watson scour London, neutralize unspeakable (moribund virile). If only Heroes knew…Houdini’s War: no escape not even for celebrities (Apollinaire and Conan Doyle’s son lost to all that).

Holmes and Watson door to door like salesmen.

Contain, control, codify wounds West incurred when company men broke native hearts…

PS: the horror the horror.

Watson, Holmes, Freud, Nietzsche, slumped in smoky studies contemplate Americans on couches eying soldiers, cops, American Idols singing “Karen Carpenter’s Blues,” that doleful ditty, in cut-throat competition. Winner take all.

That is no place for logic! That is no place for bold men! That is no place for Monk, Columbo, Clousseau, Scooby-Doo bumbling through ritual deduction when the only course is force.

Brute Terminator and Lethal Weapons born to Die Hard time and again prove box office morgue receipts…

Heaven collapsed on Marx’s head; disciples — rich, famous — stated the obvious “hell is other people from this there is no exit; huis closed. PS: the horror, the horror etc.”

New TV Detectives stir WASP nests in Washington, seek answers to rhetorical Arlington’s unmarked tombs, pits, graves, the painted warriors beneath – you’re standing on them now.

Beau Cephalus, Writer-in-Residence at /dev/null, is not afraid to speak the Truth to Power. So long as there's a viable exit-strategy. Read other articles by Beau.