Son, one day all of this will be yours, legs splayed open like a whore’s lying in repose, after she’s peeled off all her clothes behind a rose-red door. And as a client she abhors sweats as he saunters close, she leaves her body like a spore and makes for secret doors that no one knows.

This place has been soft for so long, I don’t know where to begin…Picture an old apple rotting, then peel back the skin, and if the dappled flesh spotting suits you…aww, but sometimes even I need a full quart of gin and a granny’s full prescription purse to bite in, cause we’re a long long way from original sin.

Oh, and it shows! It's fit for crows.

And no one knows, or seems to know that this is Candyland -- and you are the candyman. And where the candyman goes, the atrophied and the old can scarcely rattle their dicks before the hydrochloric acid that the candyman spits. And all around there’s a gumdrop glow from all the sweet little seeds that the candyman sows. They drink their candy-coated liquors with a twist, and they don’t close in the Kingdom of Kitsch.

Are you up for it?

Now why so sullen – won’t you come into my home? The fabric of this story’s already been sewn. Each thread is by the other overthrown.

I saw a thing I’d never seen before – I saw an old, old apple, rotten to the core and still hung on the tree (just like Christ the King when Mary M went to work on his thing!), a refugee from last century’s spring. I plucked it so tenderly, like a work of art, and as the time-blasted layers of the skin fell apart like so many burnt paper sheaves, I thought of a human heart, and I thought of the leaves, and I was quite right well fucking far from grief. I put the ashes in my mouth. I thought they tasted sweet. I was reminded of me, in the offhand way of these things.

Oh, the things that grow where no one knows! The things that grow that no one knows!

I was born on an abandoned wharf. My father was a fat, retarded, misbegotten dwarf; for all the fuck I know, my mother was a corpse, so understand that what I have is what I took by force. I took a little Steiff dog off a Swedish girl in a café in Prague, and then I took her curls. I took the city walls and held them my hand just like a glass of grog, just like a single pearl. I took the cutting edge right out of Dusseldorf. I took all the lollipops that fit into a Porsche. I took the Balkans' daughters, and I took their borscht. I took the entire notion of the second course to its logical extreme – I’d be a pedagogical wet dream, a walking seminar on the grotesque and the obscene. But this ain’t your art school in Manhattan – no, this ain’t Tisch. You’re on your own in the Kingdom of Kitsch.

Are you up for it?

What are you mulling? Pray, make your intentions known. Don’t cling to conventions like a little garden gnome. There is a culling in each yard and home when the family tree’s overgrown.

Son, one day all of this will be yours, arms wide open like a war’s – need I mention ores? Don't stand there like a BOOR! Oh MY, you're looking SORE! My, you're looking sore...

Now for the sake of sportsmanship, or whatever, I’m going to tell you how this works! You pick your instrument – I think I chose a spork (I liked to savor all the flavor of the little torques) – and you’re gonna give it your all. I want you to feed me my balls like a newlywed dinner after work: a pair of pillow mints, and you're the hotel clerk. And I won’t call you a sinner, I won’t call you a jerk – I’m gonna call you a winner, and I’ll call it a perk. I’ll call it the most golden of all symmetries – what I did unto my daddy, so will you unto me. (You’re gonna wanna grow to like the taste of baby meat, if you don’t want to leave this world while it's tasting sweet.) And if you wanna make pain, you’re gonna have to get hurt; you’re gonna wanna hang on to your dessert! If you wanna dig graves, you’re gonna have to lick dirt. You’re gonnna wanna hang on to your dessert. Even an asshole wrapped in satin still feels that itch! They had you parceled up and fattened – oh, it's a bitch! Picture a barstool that you shat in just for kicks, and that’s your throne in the Kingdom of Kitsch.

ARE YOU UP FOR IT?