by Kevin McIlvoy
A word to Teacher Reptile’s readers and their parents on the occasion of Father’s Day and the anniversary of Teacher Reptile’s release from Eight Gates Correctional Facility
Seekaaa. Seekaaa. Seekaaa!
Once before The End Time was a time Teacher Reptile had served his time. You could hear old woodpusher roll to visit children readers, parents, too, on his Vision longboard. Roll sick, old school, yo!
Seekaaa. Seekaaa! Seekaaa.
Said Teacher Reptile to parents all unrapturable, “Heard you be four down on Death. Heard harsh bail, no heaven. Here be I then, hurry or delay, here come I.”
What can you do? You do not – naturally, you do not Teacher Reptile’s noble visit on half-pipe want. What can you do? He be sent. He your child’s Savior be.
One thing about prison, maximum vert, dear Children, dear Childbearers, crawling out – out of the hole after a face plant by
5-0 – is that you own a wallet, but things in it are not money, pictures are not family, not anymore. You go looking first for cons you know snaked out, out before you, nut-shwankered, rattlers carved off, venom used up, who own cheesy cell phones – is that not funny? – cell phones – with their answering biff, Not here right now…have reached…sorry we missed…leave name, leave message, leave your, we will return your. Wha. Wha. Wha.
You, old cellmate, out Freshly Ground, you will be screened when you make that call, that’s one thing – or Wife, Kids, Sammich, Grambich, Grampich might pick up. If this occurs, Teacher Reptile will say flat out, “I was old dad’s cellmate.” Anything else: pointless. “I’m dad’s old love muffler,” “I’m taking a poll of fellow middle-age pedophiles” – say that, Teacher gets His phone hanged – Teacher Reptile! – a hanged phone! Imagine that. Not that He is or a pedophile was, you wouldn’t take a poll, tell you what.
You could call Him a disc jackey. He scripted. He spinned. The Air He ollied. By The Radio Signal was He transmitted beasty. Shiznaz He endured, dear Childbearers, dear Childbeings. Old equipment lifted He. Bad music laying around the lair was taken, yes, Him Taker Criminal, Him Teacher Reptile, same are, same were.
Teacher murder threatened some, some Burt old mullet rats asking for asphalt hankie. Equipment disappeared. Musics, ever
eezer, absent often around radio station were where said jackey served. Programming FM – twenty-one years service – citizen solid, man model – murder threats aforementioned, some necessary irrecoverable injuring of said Burt mullet rats — otherwise upstanding hesh woodpusher jackey on his manikgreen shaggin wagon – Seekaaa! Seekaaa. Seekaaa. Seekseekseek.
Some sletching you expect, some jacking long-term – am He correct? Am righteous Teacher right again? People act surprised by crime. She surprises she. Long hospital stay be butter snitches never anticipate actually.
Judges, lawyers, parole officers, reporters want remorse expressed.
Not here right now, not reached, not missed, not re-morse, not first morse.
Remorse Ancient Teacher Reptile possesses not.
You Children grown who be reading, reading along (include yourself, you little Jackinocchios, you Jackerellas), readspeedin or cutting muffins in your post-criminal daddy’s or mommy’s chudded-out laps, sidepipe in your PJs, of mad chill wallies dreamin, of stalefishgrab, He write for you.
He write for you. Teacher unrehabilitated might have been your future cellmate – worse if He be cellmate past. Then He bephone you, make you wonder how did He get your number, how, bephoning over, planning to visit unwelcomed!
Seekseekaaaseekaaaseeka! comes Teacher. Word.
Shitshit, say adult parent convicts-ex, no I never mentioned that I knew Teacher, no I didn’t think He could find us – He has! – His message said He wants a callback. He is not a changed man, He said He hasn’t changed. I want a cellcall! said Teacher Reptile.
Teacher’s fame has not Him changed – count – don’t – on that. Just give er. Just give er, eh?
He be your sketchy episode of Ring of Lords, of War Stars epochal reprequels. He offer Wrath for Rapture Generation, Wrath for stick-kicking chestcheckers, Wrathflip for under-twelve bombsuicider P.O.S.E.R. in Wisconsin, Mississippi, Michigan, Florida, Ohio, Kansas, in Texas-Crawford.
Have His wak cell call your cheesy, shizell cell. Call his nom de plume, “Teacher Reptile,” call Him Teacher, what future junior convictettes and convict graduates call Him.
Remorse is one Tweet optimum popsicle!
Ask Grambich, Grampich to get you some. They must His newest book purchase, newest just out, kewl beans, sixth Wrath book in fourteen years, Wrath of Vert Ramp, blurber Laura Bush Lady First Former, printings multiple, translations worldwide. American JK Rowling, noggled youth call Him. That He am, that He am, sixty-nine-year-old-born-again cicada, singing shibby, spooky insect-face-picture back of black-on-black embossed book jacket. Teacher look stellar, see how Him spawn of Silverstein Shel, Dahl Raold, Kafka Franz.
Poor you, your children prise Him from wine-red shelf at mothership chain. This be one book I want! They hug Wrath Volume Sixth to their obeez hearts, sludgehammering ameriyoung, part of the continuing series. They want new Wrath.
Picture that, picture it.
You thought – you hoped – your loved ones He might never meet? That he dissed easy be by you, famous too by far to care like this about you?
He be coming, coming BSLT, firecrackering your stairs.
Seekaaaseekaaa. Seekseekseek. Seekaaa.
Outside out, is it not? God rapturing only swass young. Rabbits with holes in, crocodiles with wooden legs dragging.
End time. God only wolfin young suffering unto broad golden Godapron.
Your virgin oogles thrill to meet Him, admit, admit. You be gone soon enough. End Time! End Time.
Accept.
Accept, at last. Teacher brings you something toobular, photo opportunity even, if you want, if they, if we.
You, after all, were there. Beginning of Teacher Reptile’s career. Remember, dear hamburger toes, he started writing his Wrath books in stir, riding drafts griptaped. Stirring was He, young jedi! Asking questions all imprisoned ask: Yo, who define my sheise demographic?
So many, many prisons, so much slam privatized, so many prisoners’ childrenamerican not reading Rowling, Tolkein, Milne, Berenstain, Lewis, Seuss, JRR, Dr, JK, AA, CS.
You were there, dear cellmates, you were. You could tell Teacher was free-crawling, childway, finding, tasting extreme bliss
tweakage, checkin midge, slammed, stapled, limboed, finally stuck it, He just jimmied, then He jimbo, He technical, He T.B.C. In good time, in once upon, all in good time. He read aloud to you, Randall, John Crowe, John A., Dylan, Delmore, John B, Mark Van, Allen, the hardtime yardschool. His readers’ missing their fatherses, their absent grampiches, shitsnack Michaeljackson grambiches, hardyoung at heart, wanting more Wrath at first and at last from dependable Reptile supplier of Apocalypse.
Inside old school religion be young school. Guess which rabid reading Wrath to whom?
Ancient Teacher Reptile good for stories if you only leave Him snakeskins left by people still in prisons, leave Him deludings, presumings of innocence, scaley bibs and bibstraps offsloughed.
What He do is He put our snake back in your original skin, about ninety-thousand rough bookwords, three revisions to sleeve your thing. He was here, been here boardskating since Eden stoked from slime rose, was primo eel black, lost was, now arrives Happy Meal only for boardskaters in a fire gap. Lazarus having naked left tomb enters fearsome on page one.
Seekaaa. Seekaaa. Seekseekaaa. Skitchin on the Jesus train!
O, men! O, bards mortal in your amen circle at yardtime, your holy infants ask that more Wrath be toss from Teacher Reptile’s
pen. Make He tender your inhuman. Make He mild your silent ones bleeding. Mark He by spirit sign your beast baptizing.
Could you parents kingdom unbarred enter? Your children chosen, but you never?
Read me this but play it loud vile, Teacher once asked cellmate Manberry Dreamjohn. This passage must transport, say He, daily bread at holy hour break, sacred wine drink for your bookriding young. Done, our strangulations, Done, our knife heels biting. Wet blood of words on our cutting blocks.
New readers He ever need. Readers now be sinless young who trust, who trust, who witness trauma firsthand must – plus terror, if possible – second by final second must smell death’s strong cologne weaponized in the grinding shadows Kiplingesque beyond pillows blankets bedsheets pressed just crisp. Justice do not teach remorse. Justices supremely teach it less, dear Crip in crib, dear Republicmother in can, reading this, eh, am He am He your true Reptile Teacher?
Life visiting after death consoling is whenever Department of Corrections returns a Corrected One. So come He to you a sixth time, in eternal volumes more. He that Am am not for thee but for thy children come, The Ancient Teacher Reptile, the
Jamesking 21st century edition, sweet stellar, yo, the bringer of the wicked awesome.
Seekseek. Seekseekseekaaa. Seekaaa.
Seekaaa.
Greetings from Teacher Reptile on the Occasion of Father’s Day and the Publication of the Final Volume of The Wrath Septology
And when the six thunders had uttered their voices, I was to write the seventh. I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, “Teacher Reptile, seal up those things which the six thunders hath uttered and shred not the 7-set.”
Upon the curbs and banks of the kinked firmaments, I kicked: Seekaa. Seekaaa-aaa-aa.
I went to the angel, which had the trumpet, and to whom was given the golden altar, and I said unto him, “Dirtpile me the advance for the seventh vial of Wrath to pour upon the dag, the chode, the donut shop, the BGP, the BGL, the betty and the barrel.” I said unto him, “Serial me the seventh, Servant Abaddon, give unto me the great chain, that I may rule the pit without bottom, the session that hath not end of grind.”
And so spoketh my angel servant, “It is done. Though your front truck take lip, ledge, coping, rail, ye shall not be schralped, no ass knife shall cometh nor letter in the mailbox.” He said unto me, “Take it up and eat it. And it shall be hammer, banger and radical; and in thy mouth ill diamondz sweet as honey. And righteous airfeet you shall ollie.”
“This you have carried to me from the sealed chambers?” I asked. “This you have delivered from the eternal?”
His eyes chrysolite, the angel servant’s understanding reaching beyond the cunning thermal, he said, “It is done, Father Teacher Reptile Master. It is done.”
The habitation of, the hold of, and the hateful cage of, the mellow varial and bitter belly of wrath I have madeth for them, for readers grommet and juvenile, for pavement kickers global madeth I the 6,156 pages in seven print and seven vook volumes, 77 translations worldwide, 76 movie hours, Teacher Reptile 1067th richest earth-person, 16 degrees honorary, commencings 7, medals conferred by President Romney Mitford Willard. Let him that hath understanding count the number, for it is the number of a man.
From the womb was I delivered to the cauldron; in the cauldron was my meat simmered down so that even as an infant I became boiled root, ribbed leather handle, maw tipping a rope of gristle. Except that I was formed thus how could I have been else than Serpent Convict Alpha Icon Literary, more Father to your child than Dad and Grandad, more real than God spiritual, their holiest home-school mentor? How am Teacher Reptile the author of your children’s rapture, how am I in their every aciddrop tech dog skater dream? How do they hear the sound of my K-grind and hard pop?
Seek. Seek. Seekaaa.
I was immaculate conceived for devising and publishing the six hells. Myself a seventh now have made steezy. And live there no longer, and tomorrow return to prison. (Author fathers, I advise against tapping criminally those who have you criminally tapped.) There, in the stall that has often been my tranny funbox home, my consecutive sentences will be maximum: the next multi-volume phenomenon will I begin. And your ripening clusters of skater children I will once more delam who have in Christian cribs instead of cauldrons grown, have human been and raised, have had fathering to make of them wheelbiters of loathing. And, lo, my books and the concordances for and dictionaries of they
will love against your helpless rage. You from whose ooze I have formed my testimony cannot halt them entering my serpent mouth, open book of six- hundred-threescore-and-six abominations.
My own father off-fucked at my birth, my mother a nussed, hamburgered piss-pedaler, living dead-girl on-the-hook-street-pusher, bailed, mongo, brought me trashed boardbeast the first at six, my papaboard. And brought me the second scud at nine, and beastdaddy the third at eleven. And at eleven sold me by the hour, the nOOb fruit she could bringeth to the poser saved who savored that darkslide. The same, the same helped her return me when to lesser hells I ran. After partaking of me and her, the same pastor devourer prayed over child and mother.
Bless us, O Lord, for these thy poisons that answer the prayers of the child learning murder. On my birth-morning twelfth that was her last, I asked her would she go with me to the lot to check my one mad skill. She brought the pastor who dealt us as a pair. She watched. She had never seen.
“What is that?” she asked me, her son, bait, juicy steak. “What is that where you go up and…?” And she and pastor wolf-laughing howled when I told them.
“Ollie. Tic Tac. Nollie.”
Later in that morning cameth I to she who pierceth me and cause me to wail. I fed the mother serpent the last portion.
Her eyes like unto the furnaces of torment she showeth me them the light eaten out, and I saw her suspect, no grindage, trick-sketchy, mobbed, plagued-mad and hamster-fetus homeless dead by my twelfth.
After the nose bonk, the sack-it focus, cometh the blunt. After the snakerun rail cometh the o-vert, the air boneless.
Out of my mouth into her grave goeth a sharp sword: “The great whore has fallen and is reaped and has borne into revert the voice with the seven horns, the seven heads, the seven plagues of hail, the clouds of locusts the shape of seven black tongues.”
And after these cries, I heard a dementer on the bank say to me from the lake of fire, “This is the second death,” and “Here there shall be more pain,” and “Here more pain and sorrow where the former torments are passed away,” and “This is the first book.”
His raiments shone like unto an apostle of the Lamb, and he said unto me, “Write. The fountain will flow freely.”
He who was bloodkindred old school gave me roll-in. Uncle the suit called himself whose gate made the sound of feeblegrind – and I was fear-singing against it – and whose white car crossed the signs of warning—and in that car I was hissing my brain’s shove-its and popshove-its of self-losing – while I was thrashing through my fears’ waxmarks and thrilled by the passages of thrashing – and his headlights halogened the cyclone security beam flooding above – and during all that driving I was in the open mouth of my own instrument, I was storying the other coming towards, and I was in and through the pipe – then miles of woods private – I was storying the other leaving, in the sealed upholstered Cadillac chamber where I was my own arriving first sound. And the tires crunched the steep traverses up. And through an iron arch came I to his home, and he took me into a wing.
And inside, another wonder: a room he said was mine.
He called it mine, my Uncle tapping my back so that my body drew in the stars of heaven where storying, storying, storying, my mind had brought forth the little cell. I had framed it up, the room, my room, mine, and I had furnished it, gave it the scritching wall-shadows and the closed-door closet of, the rattling windows of, the revolving milling floor and countervailing ceiling-fan of a father’s voice.
And Uncle gave me keys, my own, and, he said I could climb in, and I did without undressing even my feet, the metal teeth of the things still in my fist, I was, was I asleep already when he said – he could not have – could not have – he said, his starry tie swinging, its trillion soothing tips brushing me – “There is in the seven-storey tunnel under your room, a vast realm, and with these keys you will go down.” And he left. The closing door clicked.
I put the seven keys to my lips, and sucked each one.
The next life. Mine in the storying, already mine.
From that hour, the tree of life, which bear seven manner of fruit, yielded its fruits. I had table, board, food, board, bed, board, friends technical. Every several gate was of one pearl, each pearl full of eyes within: the books. The books – the books! – the dream-ramps, the books, the brain-noggles, the books like daddy-lap, daddy-arms the books, the airwalk grabs – the books and the books! – the paradises of sets to bust. The books the torpedo-quiet when-you’re-sleeping kisses. The splenic traumas leaping in, leaping out louder than bombs, the hunting-for-me books, the blood-on-their jowls books. They opened unto me the strangeways, the garageland.
Seekaaa. Seekaaa. Seekaaaaaaa.
Then Uncle, mother’s tricktionary John, he street-oil-sub-baron, said, “Give me the little volume of my own account so I may open the purse that openeth and no man shutteth.”
And came the Godhound buses and in them friends, ams upon ams in throngs, their boards embracing, hips and shoulders winding, arms in the aisles, hands gliding the floor, pickin up change.
At Magogwrath Academy were my pages turned; at Gogwrath were they become transparent glass. Here, said they, the 360, here the 180, the boogie, the 50-50. Look, said they who saw how my heart faced left, look, said they, a goofy-foot yob. And they judged me not, put me vert, poured in idea gasoline. Here is more, said they, as were I their son.
Seekaaa—aaa-aa! Seeekaaa!
What city is like unto this great city!
What righteous citizens! VFM, Uke, Ask Panic, Morris, Shank, Sheila Remoan, Click Track, Hey This, Synth, Suffer, Pizzle, Crap Cut. We nicked our names from Clash and Smiths, we were live show and hollow hatful, skating shibby through pipe and inside concrete empty gut and the combat way out.
We called the lifting ‘ticketing’ and did it slappy, fakie, tweaked the method, and retweaked.
And I and my tribe overcometh the learning wall great and high, we openeth the twelve gates, our names written thereon, on the east three gates, on the north three gates, on the south three gates, and on the west three. “Dropping!” we cried nailing hip ollie, dog piss, Christ air, Bigspin, Casperflip.
“Dropping! Dropping! Dropping!”
Burly, we departed from that holy city that lieth foursquare, the length as large as the breadth.
Bless us, O Lord, for these thy holy cities of freedom. Bless us for thy prisons in which Teacher Reptile has incarcerated been and in which, at nineteen, all seven of his volumes he outlined in his first four hours of cell-time. Bless us for the nine-year first fraud conviction, and for the release from prison at twenty-eight. Bless us for the seven Wraths visited upon the world in the sixteen rapturing years following. For the old crimes, the incorrigible new, for the second sentence, the second verdict, for the beginning of the long-term without-parole time federal, bless us. Bless us for the return to prison until the Teacher Reptile shall be not less than one-hundred and four.
For my kindling is the world border to border, noble barn to noble barn, and I have set afire the amazons and the paper-millions. Wrath-fires I have madeth for the Bible-clinging hands. And produced them bigger Wrath volume greater, longer and more fundamental as they have grown older. And made each book a closer as their minds have sealed closed. The Wrathmore website, launched sacred-glue-psychotic two-oh-one-two, reveals, quoth webwrathmaster, “Teacher Reptile is the only band that matters, the writer for The Malennial Age and for all ages evo-delusional developmentally arrested cometh he, and for their unsaved fathers. Unquietly he cometh. And quickly.”
Seekaa. Seekaa. Seekseek. Seekseek. Seekseek. Seekseek. Seekaaa.
If you would like to read a glossary for the skater terminology freely used and misused in these pieces, please request it from kevin.mcilvoy@gmail.com