Mok Panther’s Sex Drive…Engines of Desire…Pneumatic Nothings in the Night
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
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
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
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
When will you give me the truth
My video phone
No much love so much love no other love
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
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