Spectrum Frontpage | Spectrum Editorials
I’ve combined the last two articles together as they seem equally cryptic. If anyone has a clue about their meaning, you probably have lots of crypto coin and good luck with that.
By John Wood
Well into dark Friday night’s soiree on Mai Fete Island, parachuted creature out of chalky sky and entered out midst. Incredible, we met PEACE FROG!
PEACE FROG reclusively played with egg shells by waves and talked up CHERRY COLA. I am “Waiting for the Sun,” with blade he drew in the sand and then cut finger, before CHERRY COLA gushed out body his.
Close behind, U.F.O. colored Chrystal Ship drove on in from Space and soft landed on silica swashed shore.
Our eyes stitched there, without hearing slurp, slurp, slurp, we’d not have noticed that (slouching and sneaking rearward), a bloodmobile (who had sniffed out the red juice), wassidling up to us in order to suck up CHERRY COLA like a mutant Amazon Leech, the CHERRY COLA was up to our ankles!
Though bloodmobile took we in stride, in new light of evening, became we rather distracted and wondered, “what could mission be of lacustrine lozenge from outer space?”
Zing Zing in answer the emarbled doors of Chrystal Ship opened to three little white buddies who played orange fanfare to our eyes.
On the deck, a brooding man named Jim called through his bullhorn: “Here, PEACE FROG! People, strip! I’ll find him!
With angelic starts near his calico headband, Jimi the Great Other Fellow waved purple yellow FEAK FLAG above worshipping crowd to attract PEACE FROG and tossed “Magic Sam’s Laughing Dice,” but having a couple of numbers wished, “If six were nine…” and shed jelly from his eyes.
The third little white buddy, Third Eye in hand, worked via Khoutek in order to effect PEACH FROG’S location.
“Blood on the Streets” dripping from his lips, PEACE FROG hopped to silver leash which he chinked to delectable leg – his.
In our ecstasy, we lewdly twisted Junior Mince, a trip band straight up from Chicago, and we did a “little loose jam” under the wavering willowy trees.
When, HEAVENLY BLUE, a song stopped midway into a riff, we stopped dancing, for someone had pulled the plugs!
The fuzz were to blame, the dang fuzz!
To make arrests, they flew out of their Red Cross Trojan Horse like a pack of honeybees heading for marigolds, and Bang! Bang! Bang! they shot and stung as they buzzed around us!
In the forefront, they showed us cop’s star, glared through mirror shades, and lines us up.
While all this was going on, the funky roady kept his head and punched the juice, so Junior Mince could play, which they did.
Naturally, they played loud azure feedback, and so to our pleasure, the luscious notes bent and cruised about the air.
Hearing the vibrato peaked, packed up bloodmobile and sped away as if in a dream – the dang fuzz.
To celebrate, we gathered by Jimi, burned our clothes in lighter fluid, laughed at the red flames, and fried each marshmallow that Kohoutek Child tossed into the crowd brown and puffy.
As we had fun, the moon pull was getting stronger, if we could tell, because the waves on Lyman Lakes were rushing on the shore like freaks on methedrine – rapidly and with the intensity of pure LSD.
To quell worried cries over PEACE FROG from Morrison the Paranoid, we loaded the toad, but he balked on the ramp like a sow afraid to March or June to the slaughterhouse. He reared, slammed into the coke machine (which we had heisted and stashed for our convenience by the liquid trees on the island island), and bashed it once more for good measure.
To calm him drowsy, some joker jacked 80 cc’s of warm milk into his latex veins with a bloody steel hypodermic needle.
At 4 a.m., PEACH FROG inside lozenge, others at controls, rockets fired up.
In the lunacy of the moon near Dawn, we stood upon glittering chips of metal and glass from coke machine to watch visitors resume their trek through cosmos in search of home for PEACE FROG (in light of fact that Earth formerly showed black and red hostility to both the FROG himself and CHERRY COLA).
When last seen, toward Pluto Chrystal Ship zoomed from Earthlings!
By Douglas Lefton
A dripping fog. Slick grass. Mud. Mist in slow-motion whirlwinds. A hoof sinks in the mire. A rider’s leg.
He closed the plate glass door behind him and hung his poncho on a peg in the cloakroom.
Hooves slip on an incline. Their legs bent underneath them.
-Any calls, Miss -? he asked.
Heavy work going uphill. Horse sounds. Cool damp air.
-Yes sir. About a loan application…
Clouds of warm horse breath.
Anything else? he asked.
Mist thins at the top. Slouching silhouettes lean forward in the saddle. Dead grey cotton below. A muffled phrase.
He walked to his desk.
Downhill into the grey-white buff.
-Hello Mr-? he said. About the loan,…
A stream below. Horses slosh through, clacking on the slate. Clear water. Damp. Damp air. Cloudy.
-I’m sorry, We can only…
Hooves and legs trample alongside the stream.
-Thank you, Mr.- . He hung up.
Neatly cut tracks in wet sand.
An automobile horn sounded in the street. Mist and drizzle in beads on the front window. Poor day for driving.
The stream meets the bridge. Horse hooves scuff the spongy embankment.
The customers stood in line for the tellers,
Five shadows on the road to Northfield. Five horsemen on the way to Northfield.
He pulled a handful of manilla files from his desk drawer.
The horses walk.
-Telephone on line- she said.
The outskirts of town.
Thank you for calling, Mr – He hung up.
Horses group together for a last minute conference.
-For your checking or savings account? she asked. A brochure describing the different accounts is on the table behind –
Glimpses of horses. Five galloping horses hidden in patches of fog.
He opened the next folder.
Hooves kick up splotches of mud. The fog streams along the flanks and twirls about the legs and is whisked by the tails. A store owner hears.
-Have you got a roll of quarters? Said one teller to another.
The store owner and his wife watch the shapes of five horsemen waft by.
Rain pattered on the sidewalk outside the front window.
Horsemen at the bank. They slide from their saddles. The mist follows them through the door.
He looked up from his desk. Something strange. Moist air. Chilly.
Bold spurs cut the floor.
He looked up again. The door was open. Car headlights shone in the fog and drizzle.
Wisps of the damp outside blew into the room.
They rifle the cash boxes and safe.
Papers rustled in the damp breeze. He shivered.
The horsemen flee the bank.
The breeze swung the door shut. Warm air hummed from the ventilators. Calculators clacked. The telephone rang. He answered it.
Mounted shadows on shadow horses. Spinning clumps of mud, kicked puddles splash.
Outside a policeman spotted it. His windshield wipers worked like fins.
People spill from the bank. The muffled roar of shots and cries.
Police car turned towards the river.
Hooves thunder on hollow wood. Full river below. A horseman falls into the mist.
Policeman stopped at the riverbank. A gliding river mist gathered around the remaining timber piles of the old bridge.
