Dedicated to culture and critical thought since 1998
9/17/2 Poe + Pro: untitled


Untitled by Elizabeth Mourant

Than Yankee Snuff. Than Hollywood Snuff. The guy that had been on Howard Stern for his delicate recordings of slight atmospheric patterns and ozone cracks, leaks, and creases saying "off the record: I like to take women apart to put them back together again."

There were three of these particular shadows. Not snow angels...they will not have scene of the crime silhouettes and yellow police tape. They are not silhouettes. They are clandestine recordings of a group in Columbia called "Farq" so similar to our Yankee "Fuck." But was it the left wing guerillas or the right wing paramilitary groups. What if the truth is as close as the word Fuck, three letters away (Buy a Vowel)...

It was 9mm weaponry that blew the three intelligent Yankee peaceniks away. Three like the Magi. Ingrid, Terry, and Gay. 8mm is released in the United States. Three leaf clovers are more common. Three, two women and one man like "Three's Company" only the women were mature 39, 41, and the man was a 24 year old boy. They were bound, tortured, they'd been kidnapped and the group that took their lives added just one millimeter to the equation.

A shooting: Filming fake blood capsules, a woman's visceral screams, vile violent rape. Chicanery. Leonard Nimoy's "In Search of: The Snuff Movie."

A shooting: The three were dragged with seed bags over their heads across the border from the U'wa tribal lands they'd been rallying for against the oil conglomerates-- "run don't walk from the blob."

The communiqué picked up by Columbian government army radio, operators elbow themselves listening in, eating frijoles, their enemies, bumbling with the gringa's tits and asses "shit they didn't say a woman" the garbled kidnapper complained while a Columbian trooper surveyed the situation saying "Mierda" laughing members of the military pushing platanos around, dragging them through salsa like small eels, the oldest one toyed with his regulation zipper "I'd know what to do with two women!" Laughing white teeth. "Two regulation zippers." In fact, there were two. Two "indigenous" women who had probably read "I, Rigoberta Menchu"

The young boy from Santa Cruz whose "Day to Day Columbian Spanish" had been hard earned and praised. Was anyone listening to the impeccable nature of his cries while they tortured and shot him? The sky couldn't lie. The constellations began changing. Venus was bound and dragged through the sky by some rogue constellation decorating Orion's belt with sharp lethal looking sadistic studs. "This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no fooling around." The Sadist told the three "This is no furnace, and you ain't Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednago. You've been used like piñatas." 8mm. 9mm. One. Two. Tres.

They slung them like sandbags and piled them on the Venezuelan side. An old woman in big crusty boots feet sinking in the marsh found them at night, the bodies.

When she opened her lantern three moths were seen to fly

out of the flame.