X

Mok Panther’s Sex Drive…Engines of Desire…Pneumatic Nothings in the Night

by: Jennifer Robin

It was a ramshackle manse full of party debris and cat scents. These were the origins of Mok Panther.

How far he’s come! Dominating Ballboard’s Top Forty Sex Songs—each one will transfer Mok Panther’s sexual energy into your flaccid apparatus:

Look at this one preserved as a virgin in artificial animation to warble sweet moon-songs of obscure and abject longing for something she cannot name…

She needs Mok Panther, he found her on the video phone Mok-Mok where art thou only face games!

Mok Panther keeps a sleepless night writing video vocals for the abject wallflower warbling moonsongs

They’ve never met face to face

They never will

His jet will not transport her to Barbados on the Hill

Mok Panther expends his excess energy designing Black Label Caca Quartz Private Reserve
Cologne and trying to solve the alchemical issue of missing undergarments

Watch: He transforms his fecal matter to diamonds

He holds them in the sun

He powers a crystal radio with his funeral excrescence

It plays his number one from long ago

Before he knew of stepdaughter virgins abject wallflower warblings

Harken to me, eat my memory, whispers the carrion call of the crystal radio

Playing Mok Panther Moonbeams

Twenty floors above the castoff arcade worker drones

Or should we say two thousand floors

It’s a mental trick where you are really the trick is to believe you can go somewhere else
or else you never will

abject moon song bum beam warmer

wallflower deluxe as the worker drones swarm around her cask to the ether to unskin

Flay it off now baby for the new apparatus calls you

will you be Mok Panther tonight or something more organic like the Bunker Hut Hootchie

play a ditty for the sweat slide

pronto!

Tunneling internal teams pinpoint the data banks across the City State they will siphon off the droppings of Mok

a steady state evasion

I am only a lonely one refusing to drink of the dipper of Mok cries the ornery albino

all he drinks is plankton all he reads is Albanian lingo

stuff like we shall overcome in the quantum

odes to anti-matter catechism of the hollow

He wears spider knee socks and stalks his ex girlfriends who have turned to Mok (and the followers of Mok)

He will not get a job

He writes a manifesto and bribes the convenience store clerk into wearing the uniforms

the caterer’s aprons the room service trays

they are out to euthanize Mok

nab the plans son It’s all inorganic, this display

no need for emotion now, your quarks won’t betray you in your moment of

contagion

Ding-ding the deco digits ring

Resplendent in crisp smoking jackets with alizarin crimson trim,

the Plankton Assassin and convenience store lackey-job rise

the Plankton Assassin twiddles his thumbs, and does his best to project a steely gaze of absolute

ennui to the sliding burnished chrome doors,

His every pore is on fire

His underarms fill with monsoons

He swears that the moisture will burst through the jute of his jacket and show up on the camera, ethereal

The walls will give cat scans to his crannies

There is no room for debate no room for breath

sink or swim as the old ballplayer said

On the four hundred forty third floor they emerge like clockwork, the hall is vacuum packed with the stale scent of cinnamon potpourri

The Plankton Assassin doesn’t remember the last time he wrote a song all he knows is that Mok Panther is a phony

Mok Panther was a trust fund baby

Mok Panther sang about being homeless but he always had a credit card with an upper limit of five million even while in swaddling cloths

Goddamnit the Plankton Assassin roils, the muscles in his chest constrict it feels like his left lung has collapsed with the tension

Mok Panther doesn’t deserve to sing the BLUES!

I have been down son

I have been on down the hall

I have seen the sunset rise from a park bench

I have ridden the rails with corpses

and You, Mok!

What’s the toughest thing you ever did besides wrestle open a carton of milk with your bare hands

before you had maids

Mok Panther. With your fake black accent and your twelve inch cock,

you will not sing the blues, not any more!

Sing about your accountant baby

Sing about the groupie who gave you a knife wound…Sing about the plagiarism suit and the mother you never had because she was off in Milan with the Monaco Prince!

But damn you Mok Panther, only I can sing the blues and I shall take your place!

These thoughts fill the Plankton Assassin

Like snow, like ice filling mouth, a wind that takes away breath

the Plankton Assassin is only two doors away from the honeymoon suite assigned to Mok

A door opens

the door before Mok Panther’s

Old old crepe and young young Mafioso

wheeze on by, walk slowly now my lovelies

her legs can barely move, her lungs can barely take in air. Her face is parched, only the eyeballs,

like the eyeballs of the old, look childlike and bewildered to be nestled in such a skein of lines

Her lips are pursed like an athlete

Her eyes on the elevator door

It is all she can do to stay upright to get there

The deco numbers glow

The vacuum sealed hall absorbs the footsteps

Haywire haywire ahhhhhh the Plankton Assassin grips the rolling tea cart he can barely stand

upright himself. Under the thick silver dome of the cake tray is the gun rigged to look like a crystal radio.

This’ll teach you to sing the blues, Mok Panther

They ring and nobody answers

For a long time.

Isolation tank liquids quiver Nutravital Jellae

is the name of the phytochemical jamboree

Mok Panther floats in

He is going through a karmic reverie

visiting past lives as princes and priests

He thinks highly of himself it cannot be denied

After all, everything has come to him

As if fame itself was guided by an unseen hand onto

his aqualine mantle.

Mok knows the secrets of feral fluidity

He has risen to the fourth level of the tenth house of the aquavelvet realm where truth is osmotic and all you need to do is vibrate your wishes to the world like a plant undergoing a Kirlian photo shoot

Oh Mok Panther is profound and profoundly in need of a woman but he knows that even he has

limits so he tenderly sees to his princely phallus for the fourth time of the hour.

He has a good thing going on baby

After this he will sleep like Jesus in a satin sack.

When the buzzer repeatedly fills his sophisticated sensorium with its wasplike tones

Mok Panther at first decides to ignore it

But the urgency…suppose it is Marcy using her feminine wiles to get past lobby security

suppose it is Callie Agrippa with her tantric dream apparatus ready to string him up
again…suppose it is Nicky the Minx finally run off that commune for the last time

They wouldn’t even let her eat a lousy tangerine

Pronounced her unworthy

And now she has finally come to him

This is dangerous…making decisions in the isolation tank

the Nutrivital Jellae has psychotropic properties

Dreams feel so real

and memories so solid

And everything in between starts pressing on his groin Oh god he must expose himself to whoever, whatever is at that door.

Dripping with Nutrivital Jellae, Mok Panther lurches out of the isolation tank, haphazardly wraps his lurid sinews in four ply Egyptian cotton and trembles,

expectantly, in the copal incense haze which fills the living room.

He pushes a button and the video cam

shows

room service – not a lady at all!

An albino nebbish and some zone-out speed casualty with a wrench tattooed on his neck.

These guys are room service? Hard to believe –

But whatever they are, the Copal Prince,

Lordly Mok Panther, is in a rangy expansive mood, and opens the door…to his future.

As Mok Panther’s hand reaches for the knob, a chime sounds

the chime of his video phone

Video Phone

Video Phone

When will you give me the truth

My video phone

No much love so much love no other love

is enough

Oh no Oh no

It is the vestal virgin the moonsung nun

Just when he had successfully put her out of his mind she shows her face again

Her voice sounds like a trash compactor

her lips look like preschool desserts

What does this moonsung nun want with him now?

she ran away from him and his phone and his

two dozen island getaways

his London tube-suit his catacomb eyelash

For what?

To work in a leper colony!

Oh goddamn moon-juice if only you’d shave off your face so I wouldn’t care about you,

He mumbles to the unanswered video chime

And in a violent frenzy

swings open the Door

Mok Panther moonbeam and his crystal radio

I don’t want sidekicks

I don’t want sideshows he thinks

‘You sing the blues!’ shouts the whiny albino

with a voice like a whisky sour

and knuckles like a low tide atrocity

‘Fuck you Mok Panther’

Bang bang goes the crystal radio

Turning Mok Panther’s diamonds to shit

Alchemical treatise on nothingness

and the elevator shuts down

Assassin trapped runs into the apartment and dives in Mok Panther’s isolation tank

Splash splash phytoplankton Nutrivital Jellae

My eyes have only diamonds for

Can’t take hallucinations

gets up and answers the video phone

The Plankton Assassin is face to face with the moonbeam nun.

She smiles, confusion, curiosity

he sings her a song, his life is over

her face is wide as the sky and he sings

her a song