Richard Gessner – Mitchell Pluto

The Hidden Evolution of Racial Epithets Richard Gessner

Before the dawn of language, when all utterance was Gibberish, words had no meaning; the first racial epithets Were born innocently as ancient spidery cave drawings.

Scratchy jagged lines depicting tiny insulting hand gestures; Flagellum tangents of middle fingers flipped between Protozoa and parasite, bacteria and amoeba—

Dramatic strife of microorganisms mushrooming as Intra species slurs amongst the animal kingdom increased.

The colorful bird of paradise calling a common pigeon A dull grey drone— The majestic king cobra, bold and supercilious, calling The humble garter snake a fraying thread from a bankrupt Farmers’ shirt—

The sleek nimble weasel’s smug indifference to the beauty Of the brindle patterns of big cousin wolverines’ coat— Full of potential for expressive hatred and derisive scorn, Smoldering with bad intent; the early racial epithets long Lay dormant; aging poisons fermenting, Larval words

Clustering into round, red lace doilies; a devil’s needle point.

The forbidden words waiting to be introduced into the Vocabularies of developing homo sapiens. The words Finding their true meaning only after cataclysmic world History played out—rivers of bloodshed flooding 7 continents—casualties of endless wars forming a vast Mass grave of victims and victimizers, reaching beyond Our solar system.

It was then, rising above the transient minutiae of life, The epithets were imbued with power, meaning and Context, having the wide ranging capacity to offend, Cause controversy and discord. The taboo words came of age, and men were struck Dead by lighting bolts of name calling.

Gangs of racial epithets; clusters of rolling red lace doilies Stampede like outlaw bikers or rabid hyenas, across a thin Skinned landscape as vulnerable as a newborn bunny.

The leader of the pack, King Slur, flashy flamboyant, So offensive it can’t be spoken, wears its ugly history Like a badge of honor; King Slur seizes the limelight Having the Alpha status of a fighting word, much Envied by lesser less offensive epithets with fragile Egos.

An epithets’ self worth is determined by frequency of use And maximum offense when spoken. Epithets suffer From neglect when for noble reasons they aren’t in Someones vocabulary.

Pity the wimpy slur, bland as tofu or cottage cheese, Which announces itself with a saccharine greeting Card jingle— Pity the declawed neutered slur, unable to offend, Useless as an old work horse sent to the glue factory—

Pity the obscure, antiquated slur uttered at deaf phantoms In a provincial backwater, not heard and dimly understood By the judgmental ears of a damned civilization—

Beware of epithets that get misconstrued as compliments— Beware of moldy tripe past its expiration date— Beware of sunflower seeds laced with tiny razor blades— Beware of sharks as cuddly as kittens—

If someone calls someone a bad word, and atomic bombs Are dropped all over again, take a vacation and sail to Epithet Isle where a pure slur language is spoken by Litigious masses in perpetual offense collapsing in upon Each other as they speak themselves into oblivion and King Slur is smiling and laughing at them vanish.

“The Hidden Evolution of Racial Epithets” (C) Richard Gessner 2023

Before the onslaught of fat and male pattern baldness, Richard Gessner made front page news during an April snow storm, long ago….

Richard Gessner’s fiction has been published in Air Fish: an anthology of speculative work, Rampike, Ice River, Coe Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Happy, The Act, Sein und Werden, Skidrow Penthouse, The Pannus Index, Fiction International and many other magazines. A collection, Excerpts from the Diary of a Neanderthal Dilettante & The Man in the Couch was published by Bomb Shelter Props. Gessner’s drawings and paintings have appeared in Raw Vision, Courier News, Asbury Park Press, Rampike, Skidrow Penthouse, and exhibited at Pleiades Gallery, Hamilton Street Gallery, Cry Baby Gallery, The Court Gallery and the Donald B. Palmer Museum. Richard wrote The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey.

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

Featured photo: Kaulquappen-Vergangenheitsbewaltigung. Richard Gessner

Reptile Fling by Richard Gessner

Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to Actual persons or events is Purely coincidental.

I took Maryellen, a lady of leisure, to every expensive restaurant and high end bar, indulged her with gourmet food, fine wine and droll conversation. I spent a lot of $ on her, as a gentleman always pays for a lady. It was my intention to wear down her defenses and inhibitions, to spend a day and night with her, warming her up to strip naked in a luxurious hotel room with a heart shaped Jacuzzi.

Maryellen was a glamorous, statuesque beauty, with creamy platinum blonde shoulder length hair, pale pink lipstick and nail polish. She wore a demure antique white designer dress, shimmering nude nylon stockings, and strappy high heels. Her ample breasts, curvaceous shape and nice ass, were her most noticeable feminine assets.

Maryellen was the kept woman of a film producer who was her sugar daddy. She was useful as eye candy at public events, and made the producer look good. She lived rent free and got a generous allowance for other “services” too shadowy to mention.

Maryellen was a precocious sugar baby, adept at sucking the blood of men with deep pockets. I was also friendly with the film producer who owned two summer homes and drove a Jaguar and a Mercedes. I had business dealings with the film producer of an artistic nature. But having no loyalty to him, I jumped at the opportunity to get his girl if I was lucky.

By chance, I met up with Maryellen, while passing through the producer’s neighborhood, and it was then that she went on several surreptitious dinner dates with me. She welcomed time away from her master who was overbearing, controlling and played power games with money. Threatening to withhold funds from her when he didn’t feel sexually satisfied. But Maryellen was successful at twisting the producer’s arm to buy her a new high end designer purse, not some cheap fake discount.

A giant alligator sex toy swallowed Maryellen whole and pooped her out its butt into the Florida heat, designer handbag and all. A giant alligator sex toy swallowed Maryellen whole pooping her out its butt, soiling her designer clothes, making her sad. A giant alligator sex toy swallowed Maryellen whole, she found spiritual enlightenment in the alligator’s digestive tract, emerging naked from the reptiles’ butt, and in her nakedness, she was most comfortable in the Florida heat.

All erotic, exotic and grotesque epiphanies aside, after many expensive dinner and bar dates, I finally got Maryellen to spend a day and night with me in a luxurious hotel room with a heart shaped Jacuzzi. After she took off her demure designer dress, stockings and heels, I helped her out of her panties and unhooked her brassiere, then she lay naked on the bed and I rubbed eucalyptus oil on her body. Then we entered the Jacuzzi together, in the warm water she blissfully felt my stiff erect phallus entering the prime real estate between her legs.

Richard Gessner’s work is published in Black Scat Review 24, Sulfur Surreal Jungle, Fiction International, Skidrow Penthouse, Seinundwerden, Another Chicago Magazine, Air Fish et al.

Richard wrote The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy. He lives in Montclair, New Jersey.

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

Piebald Pandora and the Phantom Self

Piebald Pandora

Multi hued Glory

Sloth Shark face

Palomino woman bites us

and hangs with us

upside down at dawn

selling our souls to 4 legged

Majesty Lemurs on Madagascar….

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

self fee of a phantom self. oil/collage Mitchell Pluto

Afterword

We believe we are conscious but we are continuously unconscious.

The eye is the window to the brain and there sits the optic chiasm. A cross current chessboard of visual information. In ancient China, King Wen changed three lines into six lines to form 64 hexagrams in his book called The Book of Changes. Ironically there are 64 arrangements in DNA and 64 squares on the chessboard.

Synchronicity?

Jesus, all the time I spent believing in a historical Laoz and come to find out there’s no historical race either.

these our the last days of being a primate. Don’t worry we still have cuspids

Everything must be uploaded|

…creating a record print of a finger swipe from phone screen| CHECK

…the gesticulation wavelengths of our voice from phone calls| CHECK

…iris scan captured from viewing screen| CHECK

tell us what’s on your mind| CHECK

This device and artificial Intelligence will marginalize the future of man’s ego. After all man is an animal guided by objects, why not be a primate whose experience is organized and interrupted by the phone?

isn’t it working already?

Who is on the other side of the screen?

A narcissistic shark that feeds remotely on a colony of brains and uses the appearance of a woman as a lure

Now A Word From Our Sponsor

We would like to salute our patron Walt and his 1958 Disney film White Wilderness who graciously staged and contrived the impression of a massive lemming suicide. Now back to our show.

I would like to thank my friend, Richard Gessner for collaborating and creating some writing to interpret my painting

School Chump Memories by Richard Gessner

His mother had a very long pregnancy, gestation period spanning out across decades. Nino was finally born full grown, taking his first breath well into middle age.

Hence he had no childhood, no growth, no puberty, no maturity, he didn’t age. Always a spanking newly minted coin of a boy man with a diminished box of a body.

He couldn’t aspire to being castrati, because he was born without balls to cut off. He didn’t salivate for girls and no girls salivated for him.

Nino bore the distinction of being the prized pet rock traded amongst Egyptian pharaohs, the doorstop of mighty dictators, a paperweight for architects of the timeless eunuchs of future generations.

Baby giants used him for shot put practice. Redefining the lowest level of the pecking order, Nino had been the valet of humble bait boys carrying buckets of worms, following in servitude behind jaunty fishermen.

Some neighborhood Italians, sanded down the four corners of the box boy, playing Bocce ball with him in a local park. The sanded corners grew back, Nino reverting to his box shape when the game was done.

Once, I passed Nino on the street, reflecting that over 40 years ago in school we had sat next to each other in Mrs. Parks’ Spanish class, further reflecting that he’d had the coordination of a stalwart slug on barbiturates in gym class, and that to pin him in a full nelson in the wrestling room was no challenge. That I’d rather shoot fawns with a pea shooter. Or paint phantom polka dots on plastic daisies.

Nino reared up on one corner of his box, self righteously exclaiming

“Richard! You’re living in the past! You have to be a contemporary guy like me!”

The town rock star’s fame cast a very long shadow, a wedge of darkness with a Bermuda Triangle wherein dwelled the rock star’s younger brother castrated and erased by the rock star’s fame.

It was here the unearned “specialness” of being born into rock royalty festered into a canker sore of obnoxiousness, pretense and over compensation. Afflicted with the curse of being ordinary, the rock star’s younger brother asserted his uniqueness by spelling his very common name in a very uncommon way, so you’d never forget he was a rare bird of paradise.

After school, at 4 o’clock, groups of us passed a marijuana cigarette between us, and the rock star’s younger brother, in a haze of smoke, summoned the visage of his famous brother, his fame eclipsing the heads on Mount Rushmore the shining sphinx, the grandiose heads of state in eternity, a mummy of the first hominid preserved at the earth’s core.

Gleaming scalpel in hand, dew drop envy, casually diced up his crucified dissecting frog in biology class. Vandal meat for which he’d receive a D on his report card. Energetically, dew drop envy proclaimed his ambitions to become a pimp or an assassin if he never graduated from High School.

Dew drop envy, a poor kid, who gravitated toward rich kids, is often remembered lounging in lawn chairs, sipping strawberry daiquiris at posh suburban pool parties. On occasion, He’d get lucky with the soft and pliable girls of the upper class shedding their clothes with ease to swim in the moonlit pools of stately mansions.

The mirage of a giant, multicolored phosphorescent dung beetle rainbow appeared on the horizon of my home town. The huge hind legs of the dung beetle forever rolling up a mediocre saxophonist wearing his high school marching band coat in late middle age—a regressive laughingstock—held in limbo for generations, the dung beetles’ hind legs gripping him firmly never letting go as he spins him in circles; an intergenerational curse which can’t be broken as he performs gauche acts, bringing outside food into restaurants, playing tawdry music for chump change.

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

Featured photo: Dung Beetle of fate catching up with nefarious classmate. Richard Gessner

Greek in the wind By Richard Gessner

A Pan-Hellenic trinket, designed to mollify the curious, was given to me by a shadowy agency of relatives of the unknown passing in the night.

The trinket is a translucent diorama of my grandfathers’ Diner, 2’’ long, 1’’ wide, to fit on a key chain or small novelty display shelf.

As if under a microscope, the chronological history of Panayiotis Konstantinos Stratigakis is visible through the roof of the miniature diner. Doric pillars on rows of coffee cups vanish in the horizon of countertop covered with displays of spanakopita, kalamata olive feta cheese salads and baklava.

When I shake the diner in my fist, tiny figurines of my grandfather light up, linking arms in a sirtaki dance accompanied by the sounds of a tiny red bazouki player. Valiantly flashing neon lights of blue and white striped patterns of the Greek flag move up and down. The diner, highlighting his personal and national history.

At the front entrance of the diner, stands the rocky terrain Of the Pelloponnesian peninsula where my ancestors have lived for thousands of years. There’s 400 years of Ottoman rule, subjugation and bloodshed between Greek and Turk. A Greek ancestors’ gold sword slashing the carotid artery of an Ottoman overlord glows like a beacon of hope, heralding the victory of the Greek war of Independence. The port of Piraeus, from where my grandfather sailed to America is then visible, followed by a heroic image of my grandfather as a tall handsome young man setting foot on American soil for the first time. His rapid rise in socioeconomic class represented by the the elite prep schools where he sent his promising sons. An honorable image of Panayiotis in middle age as a pillar of the community, a leader in the Greek Orthodox
Church glows, emitting rays of light in the middle of the diner.

Suddenly I notice there’s evidence of tampering in the diner diorama. Tiny diagonal fissures crisscross the clear lucite windows and roof, where significant parts of my grandfathers’ history had been removed. Paid off micro vandals with precision saws cut out slices of his life, hushed up buried secrets were blurred, then erased. Walls of shame pancaked on top of each other, horrid character flaws were sugar coated and thus rendered innocuous. The inflamed canker sores jutting from my grandfathers’ conscience, were filed down with chisels then surgically excised. The crater scars remaining were spackled over with dreamy blue tourist’ brochure views of the Aegean Sea.

I attempt to return my pan Hellenic trinket to the agency of unknown relatives, to show them the evidence of tampering, to retrieve the missing slices of my grandfathers’ life, to get a refund or replacement diner diorama, however the agency of unknown relatives were nowhere to be found.

But soon in the gray dawn of an early spring morning, the missing slices of my grandfathers’ life were revealed. Over the cooing of a sandalwood morning dove, could be heard the voice of my grandfather anglicizing his last name to Sherwood because Stratigakis sounded too much like Streptococcus. “Streptogakis” had associations which were not good for business. Or he was hiding, and wanted to vanish without a trace. Elusive and transient as the wind. In the lucidity of the first light of the day, floating on the breeze, was a vision of my grandfathers’ swarthy muscular body enveloping my pale 15 year old grandmother, a non-Greek girl. It was mere sport to take the girls’ virginity, but when she got pregnant, my grandfather vanished and was never heard from ever again. My teenaged grandmother was burdened with an illegitimate child she never wanted. My mother had Greek features, swarthy skin, dark eyes and hair, like her father. She grew up fatherless in poverty.

Then it occurred to me to ask Panayiotis Stratigakis

“where was your democracy then?”

And to ask

“how do you reconcile being a pillar of your community with being a deadbeat and statutory rapist?”

But my grandfather was long gone like my mother into the eternal beyond.

Someone had to bear witness for my mother, because no-one else cared or remembered. And I realized that I was Greek by ill gotten gains. A grandfather who didn’t acknowledge his own daughter, my mother.

As I was the grandson of a statutory rapist, son of a bastard, the dishonor Panayiotis cast on my mother was too much to bear. In a misguided attempt at rectification, I got between many macho Greeks and their wives and daughters, provoking them to “fight me like a man”

But the dishonor Panayiotis cast on my mother and her memory, still lingered.

The Pan-Hellenic trinket felt infinitely light on my key chain. But it was heavy with my mothers’ unresolved conflicts. I felt burdened by the weight of it.

The trinket was a family heirloom, something as rare as a comet that passes by only every 10,000 years. But I had the need to be rid of it, it didn’t mollify my curiosity as the agency of unknown relatives had intended.

To break free of the curse afflicting my family, restore my mothers’ honor and undo the defilement of my own blood, I cupped the trinket in my left hand and cast it with all my might, high into the sky, the trinket traveling far, vanishing from sight over the Peloponnesian peninsula in Greece where my ancestors have lived for thousands of years.

“Greek in the wind” (C) 2020
By Richard Gessner

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

Voyeur Rising by Richard Gessner

When I read Richard Gessner’s Voyeur Rising I imagined the story as an adult cartoon with liminal existential qualities. Voyeur Rising reminds me of Vladimir Nabokov’s use of an unreliable narrator who is found in most current social media video and reels. This collective trick usually deceives the viewer with a decoy. This is the place where Gessner’s work lurks, to induce the peripheral mind while feeding the predatory eye. Here we see the ultimate conflict and fantasy of the Freudian id haunting the masculine mind. A pleasure principle with an intrusive desire to poach voluptuous women without any commitment- but to squirt sperm, to clone more succulent women so they are everywhere. The fantasy has boundaries in Gessner’s character who is aware of his masculine delusion, that every women he find’s attractive isn’t a possession but an unfulfilled wish. All this takes place by the primordial ocean, a surface alive with waves.
-Mitchell Pluto

Strategically positioning his beach chair, pretending to be reading a daily newspaper, Joey Genauski, nonchalant, invisible, just by chance, settles in a tight rectangle of sand bordering the burgundy beach towels of two 19 year old college girls the age of his granddaughter.

The girls, an ash blonde, and a brunette with auburn highlights, have soft buttery skin, shapely, wide hipped—all curvaceous splendor—

Perfect brown bodies striped with pale tan lines sharply outlining pale pink asses and naturally large breasts jiggling slightly in the warm breeze of early summer.

The tan lines form a pale faded triangle V of panty line extending upwards. From butt crack to lower back, panty lines curving around thighs to below belly buttons—traces of cast of bikini no longer worn.

Gradations of pale pink skin merging to olive, cinnamon, golden brown, pale breasts encircled with D cup outlines of frilly brassieres. Burnt Sienna areoles and nipples a darker shade of brown than their overall tans.

Crisp yellow and gold designer bikinis, light summer dresses, brassieres. And panties are strewn across towels covered with tubes of sun screen, Purses, car keys, fruit, sandwiches cold drinks, a paperback of classic 19th century literature and a current glossy fashion magazine glistening in the sun.

Furtively, through dark sunglasses, Joey Genauski gazes longingly towards the girls’ spread open legs. Their Smoothly shaven vaginas, A reddish salmon pink, are soothed with cooling aloe vera. Blue and white beach umbrellas with a swordfish logo line the beach Landscape. Its a Saturday afternoon in early June, the weekend crowds work to Joey’s advantage, giving him an excuse to sit close to single women without being obvious about it. The crowds camouflaging his true intentions, allowing him to move frequently, unnoticed by the morally reproving beach patrol seeking to squelch his habit of constantly wandering the beach in quest of a perfect view.

Other voyeurs, Joey’s competition, watch the beach entrance from a distance, waiting for the arrival of young ladies, single or in groups. Approaching the ladies after they have gotten naked under their beach umbrellas.

Most women strip naked, but some keep their bikini bottoms on. Some wear Brazilian string bikinis, flesh toned thongs, almost nude, but not quite. Pale maidens wiggle out of floral print summer dresses, shorts, and candy striped one piece bathing suits.

Voluptuous brown girls peel off demure, white see-through-when-wet suits, revealing all to bulging male eyes, looking, gawking, looking away— Diaphanous mesh panties slide down svelte hips, falling to sand. Brightly colored, fancy brassieres pop off as delicate fingers reach behind unhooking clasps shining in the sun, catching the eye of a seagull flying in blue skies above.

Secret cameramen get up in the nooks and crannies of spread eagled women half asleep in the sun. Joey leaves the two girls, vanishing into thick masses of beach regulars, middle aged, tanned and leathery, marking their territory with windscreens, coolers and little plastic flags poked in the sand.

In Joey’s absence, competing beach voyeurs, some bold, well hung, smooth talkers, will succeed in engaging the ash blonde and brunette with auburn highlights in a lively conversation. Mastering bare body language a virile stud will advance to slow massage, rubbing baby oil of their perfect bodies glistening in the sun.

Slick voyeurs who remain at the top of the food chain will return to the beach, summer after summer, appearing like clockwork as in the legendary return of swallows to Mission San Juan Capistrano—

Their pick up routines with the ladies will remain similar and predictable year after year, decade after decade. Enticing the girls with superficial big talk of financial conquest, fancy cookies and little airplane bottles of alcohol.

In the tidal pools of voyeur nursery school, untested new generations of voyeurs emerge like baby sea turtle hatchlings making a mad dash seaward—

climbing the slippery slope of a succulent female ass just over the horizon,

Joey Genauski wanders into a gaggle of girls taking it all off for the first time-

In the distance, randy couples frolic in the surf, avoiding the June Jellyfish in the waves, out at sea, fishing boats come in close to shore, catching a panoramic eyeful of skin.

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible

_{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}

Olfactory Inversion by Richard Gessner

The Left Handed Artist Richard Gessner’s short story, paintings and drawings

A man’s sense of smell is reversed so fragrances smell like stenches and vice versa.

His nose has dyslexia.

To skip through a field of lilacs in early spring is equivalent to being tethered to a corpse during the high heat of summer.

The aroma of freshly baked bread is like the effluvia from an army’s combat boots after marching through swamps for several weeks without stopping.

*Lollipop Squiggle Tango* Randall Bass Collection

When the nose has dyslexia, the conventions of clean and dirty mutate amuck-

Nightmares of being dunked in vats of perfume become the norm-

Social status disintegrates and intimacy with a skunk brings joy-

The man burrows into remote dung heaps further and further away from the tyrannies of soap-

When the nose has dyslexia, predictable roles and behavior are scrambled anew-

Musk entrenched supermen get stampeded by berserk fawns in heat-

Germ-Phobics fondle dung beetles whom with freshly molested vigor, do hind leg roll ups of squeeky clean solid citizens-

A prudish school marm finds a hidden rabid snapping turtle in her soul after being bitten by rotten apples given jaws by the teacher’s pet gone astray-

When the nose has dyslexia, rampant desire surpasses grandiose expectation.

A wart on a baboon’s ass blossoms into a more fragrant-than-thou perfume garden berry infecting a bestial psychopath who then penetrates with valor the furious posteriors of mandrills shimmying with profane delight

Eager vines of algae growing up from centuries of neglected teeth, climb greedily towards the fortune of a fresh breath heiress-

Gooey-Pollyannas wash their mouths out with soap before reciting mantras of bland nicety to contrite career criminals gnawing on clean conscience bunions jutting from angel’s feet-

When the nose has dyslexia, sacred values of societal dust are sculpted into new poisons by the playful rogue nostril metastasizing-

The Outhouse-Leper becomes a vengeful king, skinning the pillars of communities, turning the hides into outhouse doormats-

Blind Peeping Toms suddenly regain their sight munching on outhouse-doormat brittle–thus seeing and tasting time honored models of proper conduct-

Yeast Infected Vaginas curtsy with hypnotic finesse, flirting with clownish tumescent yam jam giraffes, spurting forth voyeurs turning into martyrs, turning into manic surgeons whittling skunky joy toys in a sleepless scalpel trance-

*Doric Pillar, Wolverhedgehog* Gregory Geis collection

When the nose has dyslexia, the lightning of childhood memory strikes unlikely victims–oceans of crystallized feelings awaken from deep sleeps re-inventing the heart-

A hardened Loan Shark gets entangled, softened and diced up by the frail sadnesses evoked by the rubbery wet scent of his baby sister’s favorite dolly lost in a distant rainstorm-

A loud mouthed schoolyard bully becomes a mute wise old sage, transcending all utterance, ruminating inwardly, building shrines of cookie crumb folly from the remnants of desserts the bully once coerced from the trembling hands of weaklings entombed in the bowels of forgotten grammar school lunch rooms-

The cold stares of ultra strict baby sitters, soberly stretch a whiny little brat’s dirty diapers into an almighty circus tent tundra sheltering cleaner than clean orphans sired by soap bubbles popping-

When the nose has dyslexia, embarrassment lurks in excess.

The man narrowly escapes the lewd clutches of Germ-Phobics hiding in lairs of undigested corn kernels waiting to leap out and fondle him.

He burrows inexorably deeper into remote dung heaps further and further away from the tyrannies of soap, eventually reaching paradise, where fragrant nirvana is sweetest, and stench lost its voice to the carrion bird who sings dirty in reverse.

*Durchschnitt Zwillings Tiere* Gregory Geis Collection

The man enters The-Nose-Has-Dyslexia restaurant, ordering a Skunky-Joy-Toy kiss smothered in freshly molested dung beetle sauce.

As frail diced up cubes of sensitive Loan Shark say grace, crowds of manic surgeons saddened by lost wet dollies, serve the meal in a sleepless scalpel trance-

The man tastes paradise, blessed by the voice of stench stolen by the carrion bird who sings dirty in reverse.

Suddenly The-Outhouse-Leper-Turned-Vengeful-King appears, interrupting the man eating, pedantically assailing him with correct table manner etiquette, forcing a squeeky clean knife and fork into his dungy hands…

“The Amazing Richard Gessner,
Wizard of the word, and Alchemist of the image”
-Vincent Czyz
May 24, 2022

_{^{THIS WRITING IS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT}}

Full moon in Capricorn, Erotic Drawings by Richard Gessner

Limulus, is my favorite arthropod, it’s the oldest species on the planet.

I’m thinking about sex 24/7. Raging hormonal beach Paradises stretch on infinitely into horny horizons. The sight of beautiful fertility Goddesses is always more pleasant to behold than old men covered with craters of acne scars, or Syphlytic doomsday warthogs with copper sulfate tusks!!

Naked ladies have a storied history in the history of art. From Boucher, Bouguereau, Anders Zorn, Mel Ramos, Eric Fischl, pin up art of Elvgren and Driben….Like Brooke Burke and 10 thousand other Brunettes. Hans Bellmer is a favorite. Independent from art, the naked lady in public viewed by the salivating Voyeur since time immemorial is inspirational.

Hans Bellmer appeals to me because it’s Life itself. What beauties can be viewed spontaneously in the street. It is bizarre and an otherworldly ethereal quality that I like.

written by Richard Gessner

**Richard Gessner** at Studio Montclair, Leach Gallery 641 Bloomfield Avenue
Montclair, NJ

**Artist and Short Story Writer Richard Gessner**

more art and info on Richard Gessner can be found at

The Hamilton Street Gallery

Morphing Whimsy with Richard Gessner

Reading Richard Gessner’s book The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy was like drawing a tarot card out of a magical deck. Reading it triggered a rare recollection of sensations into a neural pattern of synesthesia. These infrequent and unusual bits of writing guides the reader into a dream time, a metamorphosis that operates in harmony while under the influence of an autoscopic hallucination. An illusion of observing selves. There is a hypnagogic arrangement that dissolves once you fully notice your in a dream but with Gessner’s work the afterimage stays for a long visit. It doesn’t evaporate. I enjoy the metaphorical compounds in Gessner’s visual work, it’s an erotic and tantric iconography. Gessner builds a unique mythology. His graphic representation of aquatic fantasies are arranged in the formula of deep unexposed thought waves, waves we glide on in abbreviated gestures.

Richard Gessner is a Left-handed, self taught Visionary writer and artist. In the visual work he often packs dense interconnected imagery into tight spaces.

“I am a left-handed, self taught Artist. I pack dense, interconnected imagery into small spaces. I have an ongoing epic series of the Surf Goddess and the Strongmann that evokes a timeless world of iconic Man & Woman acting out romantic flirtatious dances with the mercurial forces of nature.”

Surf Goddesses, Strongmenn, Sirens, Vixens and other Burlesqueness

*Offshore Drilling* 18in X 24in color pencil pilot pen

The Strongmann is semiaquatic, cerulean blue, with flipper feet and king crab like arms and hands, expressing the raw forces of the instinctual Freudian Id. He shifts from heroic to rapacious, from crude to chivalrous in a moment’s notice. Sometimes he’s an alpha at the top of the food chain, only to be usurped by rubber ducks or Sirens he romantically courts in the waves of an endless sea.

*Octo-Telson Horseplay Crab GoGo Round* 18inX24in mixed media

*Morphing Strongmenn* color pencil, pen. SOLD.

*Strongmann & Surf Goddess* 2021 Acrylic on canvas

*Fire Water Funnel Sirens* 18in X 24in water color color pencil pen

*The Matadors Reprieve* 18in X 24in water color color pencil pilot pen.

4 a.m. Drawings

***Omniscient Left Hand 4 a.m. drawing***

*Manta Ray Hatchling Dance 4 a.m*. **Drawing**

Female Nudes

The Fool

A fool, fat sluggish and smug, was turned into a bowling ball by a gang of husky drooling village idiots.

With pontifical glee, the fool had waddled onto the idiots’ grassy flatland turf, making the fateful mistake of underestimating their strength and ability.

The fool felt superior to the idiots, and feared not the clumsy thrusts of their silly toy swords slicing off his blubbery arms and legs becoming an instant set of bowling pins…

Read more from the online journal of arts and letters Sein und Werden

Gessner’s speculative fantasy fiction has been published in literary magazines since the 1980’s. He clarifies his drawings and paintings do not illustrate his stories.

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Paperback

The Conduit and Other Visionary Tales of Morphing Whimsy Audible