Hundreds of Stairways of Chaos Walking out of Your Head & Other Works

By Wolf Larsen

Bizarre! Extremely creative! Absurdly unique! Nobody writes like Wolf Larsen absolutely nobody! Wolf writes exciting works of bizarre literature that you just can't put down. You've never read anything like this! In this volume you'll find three of Wolf Larsen's works: Hundreds of Stairways of Chaos Walking Out Of Your Head (short stories), The Jesus Cristo Salva Love Hotel Car Wash Y Discoteca (a novel), and Blood & Semen (a monologue). Get ready for an unforgettable reading experience!

Wolf Larsen is an adventurer, novelist, playwright, and poet who has traveled to over 50 countries. He has lived in Chicago, Wisconsin, New York City, Central America, Brazil, Peru, and India. For nearly 12 years he worked as a seasonal laborer in Alaska. Wolf Larsen's work has been published in literary magazines around the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456732196

Wolf Larsen

Wolf Larsen is an adventurer, novelist, playwright, and poet. He has traveled through 45 countries in Latin America, Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. For nearly twelve years, Wolf Larsen worked as a seasonal laborer in Alaska. Wolf was born and raised on the South Side of Chicago. He left home at the age of eighteen and has lived in Wisconsin, New York City, Ecuador, Alaska, Honduras, Brazil, and Peru. Wolf Larsen has written three novels, four books of poetry, a play, and a screenplay. Wolf Larsen dreamed up the idea of writing a run-on sentence while sitting in a café in Amsterdam, Holland.

Book preview

Other Books by Wolf Larsen

Unalaska, Alaska (An autobiographical novel)

Travel Around the World? Why Not?! (An autobiographical novel)

Pricks, Cunts, & Motherfuckers: the Novel about New York City

Eulogy for the Human Race (Poems)

Pornography (Poems)

Yippee! (Poems in English & Spanish)

Thrust! Lash! Clamor! (A play)

God & the Devil Dancing Through World War 3 Together (A screenplay)

Ten-Thousand Penises in Your Ear (A novel)

Slam! Boom! Crash! (A novel)

The Exclamation Point! (A 70,000 word run-on sentence)

Wolf Larsen’s books are available at Amazon.com

The most exciting author’s site on the World Wide Web: www.WolfLarsen.org

I dedicate this book to myself. I like me!

Table of contents

Other Books by Wolf Larsen

The Wolf Larsen Manifesto

A Giant lizard with Fifty Heads and Hundreds of Eyeballs and Thousands of Mouths Interviews Wolf Larsen

The Jesus Cristo Salva Love Hotel Car Wash Y Discoteca

Blood and Semen

The monologue

Literature: Self Expression

Versus Tradition

An Interview with Wolf Larsen

The Wolf Larsen Manifesto

1. All great Writers should gather at the entrances of the major publishing houses and urinate on their doorsteps!

2. All great Poets should use the pages of the country’s most prestigious literary magazines as toilet paper!

3. All poets that rhyme should be castrated at once!

4. Poetry and prose should be immoral and blasphemous! If your poetry shocks and offends religious extremists, puritanical feminists, politicians, black nationalists, white supremacists, and everybody else than you’re probably doing something right! The paintings of Picasso, the symphonies of Mahler, and the sculptures of Rodin shocked and offended many people too! The last thing the world needs is more boring polite literature!

5. If you write prose just like ten thousand other writers than why bother writing? Garbage men contribute far more to society than writers and poets that write like everybody else! No two authors or poets should read even remotely alike!

6. From this day forward the words Poet, Writer, Sculptor, Playwright, Painter, Composer, and all other Artists should appear in capitals. After all, some guy named god who doesn’t even exist appears in capitals and since Artists are greater than god than words like Poet and Artist should be capitalized.

7. There is no god as written in the bible. Rather, every Human Being that lives on earth is a god because Humans are the most creative animals on the planet. Therefore, Artists are gods!

8. Who cares about the rules of grammar? Take a baseball bat and SMASH the rules of grammar into pieces! Language must obey the wishes of the Writer. The Writer should take language and mold it and reshape it as he sees fit just like a Sculptor.

9. Poets and Writers need to look at the rest of the art world and learn. Poetry and fiction currently appear to be the most backward mediums of the art world. Painting has raced forward like a fast car, jazz music has run forward like a rabbit, even classical music in the last hundred years has left the writing world behind in both innovation and boldness. Writing and poetry are progressing forward at a crawl – just like a snail. All Poets and Writers should think of themselves as wrecking ball operators – we must SMASH the literary world as we know it into bits with a bold and revolutionary writing!

10. The system we live under has nothing to offer but endless wars, prisons, poverty, homophobia, racial and gender discrimination, class oppression, anti-sex puritanism, and human extinction from nuclear war. The literary establishment has nothing to offer us but airport novels, censorship (in the form of political correctness), pretentious literary magazines filled with hack poetry that sometimes even rhymes, and the never ending boring banal well-polished well-crafted literary fiction whose main purpose seems to be to help insomniacs fall asleep. Bartok’s symphonies don’t help people fall asleep! Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring caused a riot when it was first played! Jackson Pollock’s paintings can hardly be considered sleepy! Poetry and literature must become explosive, chaotic, alive, exciting, dynamic, etc. – just like the times we live in!

11. More than anything else remember there is no one else like you on the entire planet! So why should you write like everybody else? Write like nobody else writes! If you’re not creative than why should future generations bother reading your writing? Every Writer should be his own literary movement! Every Writer should be his own literary revolution!

A Giant lizard with Fifty Heads and Hundreds of Eyeballs and Thousands of Mouths Interviews Wolf Larsen

The Giant Lizard: So why do you jump from the earth to the moon and then into outer space?

Wolf Larsen: It’s like writing tidal waves of imagery all over the walls of the world.

The Giant Lizard: Each page is crashing and the sky is crashing and the world is crashing?

Wolf: The words fly off the page like flocks of birds. Each phrase is hordes of screaming cannibals devouring the reader’s mind – every reader should be delicious!

The Giant Lizard: So you enjoy devouring the reader?

Wolf: Grab sledgehammers and attack the moon! Ride all the tornadoes laughing and laughing in your brains! All the emotions and wars and lusts and violence of the human race splashing out of your pen! Each page is oceans of humanity all having an orgy together!

The Giant Lizard: Is it like words smashing through the sky and crashing into the earth all around you?

Wolf: Tornadoes are fun! Riding a tornado around and around the room and the earth and the universe! It’s like rolling the words up into a canvas and smoking the canvas while you’re eating all the magical sculptures that are growing out of the walls!

Wolf and the Giant Lizard together: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

The Giant Lizard: I see, and what about all the p*ssies floating in the air?

Wolf: That’s more like bashing and bashing all your thoughts and the planets and all the cities together into a huge violent peace that breathes on the page – because all pages should breath!

The Giant Lizard: Wow! Whoopee! Hurricanes!

Wolf: Well, it’s like you’re trying to fight your way out of a painting, and then you’re stabbing and slashing at all the hallucinations eating through the walls of your house! And then some woman’s gigantic p*ssy swallows you and you’re trying to find your way out of her body but the inside of her body is a labyrinth of staircases through different levels of hell, and well, you’re trapped!

The Giant Lizard: But why do you swallow the sky?

Wolf: Well, it’s because yesterday I’m Chinese, today I’m white, and tomorrow I’m black.

The Giant Lizard: Oh. That makes sense. And bashing the words together into delirious-hollering sculptures?

Wolf: It’s sort of like breakfast. The human race runs out of your breakfast cereal and all the politicians are screaming She’s hiding weapons of mass destruction in her p*ssy! Let’s invade! Invade! Invade! and everything is the slow quiet peacefulness of a violent now while we wait for the madmen in the White House to push the atomic button. But World War III probably won’t happen for another decade or two – maybe even three – so there’s still plenty of time to have fun!

The Giant Lizard: Yippee! Let’s have fun!

Wolf: So in the summer when all the breasts are frolicking and laughing up and down the street and all the phalluses and anuses and vaginas are an entangled sculpture walking out of a canvas – do you kiss all the planets and stars?"

Wolf and the Giant Lizard together: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

The Giant Lizard: Well, that’s when I climb inside my own anus and play the harmonica.

Wolf: Oh wow! WHERE’S THE P.C LIBERAL CENSORSHIP?! LET’S SLAUGHTER EACH OTHER AND DEVOUR EACH OTHER ON THE EVENING OF WORLD WAR III!

The Giant Lizard: Yes of course. After I eat all the paintings in my head. I was wondering, do you jump off the sky and land on an asteroid shooting into the poem?

Wolf: Well, poems are to be eaten. The dialogues of plays are meant to be spoken with a saxophone. Of course, the saxophone is a big phallus which spurts poetry all over the audience.

The Giant Lizard: Oh, that’s so sexist, because there’s sex in it! You should censor that! And the children – oh my god – they might figure out they didn’t come from no motherf*ckin’ stork! Oh no! Let’s make some immaculate conception together – whoopppeeeeeeee! We should sing! Sing to the grizzly bears! Sing to the sun and the planets! Sing with your genitals!

Wolf: Yes! Sing! Sing! Sing! In the last century, when I spent thousands of years living in a painting, and I was screaming sculptures at all the passerby on the street. The passerby’s faces where notes in a jazz song played by millions of madmen that are all standing on different planets that are floating through your mind.

The Giant Lizard: Oh yes, that happens to me all the time when I grind my poetry into coffee and it tastes like World Wars I, II, & III on my lips.

Wolf: Yes definitely. It’s like riding your own spermatozoa through the poem into the play and out of the novel.

The Giant Lizard: You know… I can’t ask the next question because I can’t find my head! I think my head has become a planet revolving around a different sun in a galaxy of raspberries!

Wolf: Look, while you run around the universe searching for your head I’ll just chisel naked sculptures into the sky and write my poetry all over the future generations and my plays will drip out of everybody’s penis as they walk from poem to poem.

The Giant Lizard: Oh look! There’s my head! I found it! Let me look inside my head – oh look – there’s the Andes mountains and the Sahara Desert inside my head – oh there’s the North American continent inside my head too – everybody in North America inside my head is waving at me!

Wolf: Yeah, sometimes I jump on one of the question marks floating through the air and I float to worlds of exclamation points where all the people are naked and all the naked people write the rivers of poetry gently flowing across the landscape and they bath naked in poetry they throw their arms up and create skies of poetry and the naked people make poetry together as the sun shines poetry all over them.

The Giant Lizard: Yeeeeaaaah… that’s like grabbing all the buildings and streets and people and throwing them into a bowl and as you smoke all the buildings and streets and people Genghis Kahn and his invading whores – I mean hordes – are having a Brazilian carnival on the streets of the South Side of Chicago.

Wolf: Yeah, I had an experience like that last month! But all the huge gargoyles growing out the mirror where all screaming WORLD WAR III IS COMING! THE WORLD’S RULERS ARE VIOLENT WAR-MONGERS! so I ran off to a phrase of poetry and me and the phrase of poetry made beautiful love together.

The Giant Lizard: Hmmmmnn… You have to watch out! All those P.C. liberals and religious conservatives keep erecting watchtowers and barbed wire and searchlights in our minds and in the streets and all over the sky!

Wolf: Yeah, pretty soon even defecating will be illegal.

The Giant Lizard: Defecation! Oh my god! Everybody who defecates is considered a terrorist now that they passed the Patriot Act! And the Dixiecrats voted for it!

Wolf: It’s more like falling off of Alaska and melting all over New York City while thousands of your eyeballs are bouncing and bouncing all over a phrase of poetry that runs and runs around the sun for millions of years.

The Giant Lizard: I disagree. It’s more like we take our laughter and we build our laughter into thousand story plays – and each brick in that play is a poem – and every window in that thousand story play is a open view into your mind that’s stretching and streeeeetchiiing across the cosmos.

The Jesus Cristo Salva Love Hotel Car Wash Y Discoteca

A Novel

by Wolf Larsen

Dedicated to the Marquis de Sade

The Jesus Cristo Salva Love Hotel Car Wash Y Discoteca

A Novel

by Wolf Larsen

You’re suddenly inside a tornado! The tornado is made out of millions of flying razor blades slashing through everyone’s skin! The tornado is SCREAMING, EVERYONE’S PENIS IS THE JOY OF BLISS! EVERYONE’S PUSSY IS THE JOY OF LANGUAGE! WHOOOPEEEE!!

Yippeeeee! The joy of bliss! The joy of language! You fall out of the tornado and land in a subway train! The subway train flies out of New York City & straight into a man’s anus & up his throat & out of his mouth & then the subway train zooooms back into New York.

Welcome to the man reader!

The man? asks the reader.

Yes, the man is the principal character in this novel.

So the man is taking an escalator to a sky made of red wine. And now he’s taking thousands of different escalators to all the stars. The stars are floating in his soup & floating in his testicles & floating down the Hudson River…

The man grabs the Hudson River and with his hands and he twists & curves the river across the North American continent. So You grab the entire North American continent in your hands and you begin eating it. Yuuum! After you eat the entire North American continent you begin singing the songs of schizophrenia. Sing reader! Sing right now! You’re singing, "Lightning & avalanches & earthquakes are walking into your living room! Your living room is being carried away by the wind!!"

And then the wind carries away the world & the solar system & the universe… And now the world has collapsed into a poem! Dazzling! The poem is millions of maggots eating up the man’s body. The man is shooting at the reader and the reader is running away from the bullets. Zing! The reader runs into the land of millions of toilets growing out of a poem that rhymes.

As the reader runs & runs the reader is SHOUTING, I’M RUNNING FROM A BIG OBSCENE LOGIC INTO A CITY COMPLETELY MADE OUT OF FANTASIES AND THIS CITY KEEPS APPEARING & DISAPPEARING IN FRONT OF MY EYES! AND NOW I’M SWIRLING AROUND A CHESS GAME AND IT’S ALL VERY ENORMOUS!

Very enormous! The reader’s decapitated head is bouncing down the steps of a place in thousands of people’s minds…

Your decapitated head! Bouncing bouncing! Pornographic radiance! So you find your decapitated head and you screw it back on and you run straight into hell. In hell the reader is partying for eternity with all the happy-delirious-yelling-singing-fornicating-drinking-drugging-hysterical-people! Party in hell reader – Yippeeee!

In hell there are thousands of rivers of semen. The women like to bathe in the rivers and rub the semen into their pussies. Radiant! The reader’s semen is thousands of gods floating down the rivers of celestial goodness into the man’s butthole. Falling out of the man’s butthole is Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, & Manhattan – thus the man has just created New York City! Victory! The man is running through New York & Tokyo & Brazil & Africa until he reaches uptown doing a diagonal with the king’s sovereignty. The Kings sovereignty?

All readers are made out of the man’s spermatozoa. The man’s spermatozoa? Who is the man?!? asks the reader.

I’m not telling you who ‘the man’ is! laughs the writer. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! All the poems that have ever been written begin devouring the man! The man screams out all the symphonies of a suffering human race!

Suffering! Everybody suffer now! Yahoooo! The man is playing your 5000 anuses with a music of splendorous ceremony. The splendorous ceremony becomes a maze of dozens & hundreds & thousands of wars all stacked on top of each other. WAR IS THE MUSIC OF BLOOD! SCREAMS your refrigerator.

Hey reader! Duck! Watch out for the phrase of poetry! Crash! The phrase of poetry becomes a flock of birds in the sky… The flock of birds fly into the man’s asshole. At the end of the man’s asshole is the gateway to heaven. Euphoria! At the gateway to heaven thousands of homosexual Jesus Christs and lesbian Virgin Marys are singing beautiful stained-glass pornography onto the walls of heaven…

The man is standing at the gateway to heaven alongside of thousands of homosexual Jesus Christs. Wow! All the thousands of homosexual Jesus Christs are singing a beautiful chorus of anal sex utopia to you…

The man jumps out of the novel and onto a flying saucer. Raving! The flying saucer is made out of millions of salt shakers. This is all occurring in a diner that’s circling around the solar system. The solar system is made out of the man’s thoughts. The man’s thoughts are stairways of ideology & waterfalls of mazes & rivers of spermatozoa flowing into you…

Conquer & massacre & destroy!

The man then begins creating millions of clones of himself. Berserk! Millions of the man’s clones are running through your head and SCREAMING, A TOILET IS SWALLOWING YOUR BUILDING! THE BUILDING REAPPEARS AGAIN! (This complicates your housing situation.)

Now you’re giving the man a blow job as you sit on the writer’s face. Yippee! I’m tasting the reader’s delicious pussy juices! The writer’s face is made up of thousands of the man’s clones all eating through your pussy. Intoxicating! Your pussy is having a volcano with the present tense somewhere on the continent of Australia – but you live inside a cage in the zoo somewhere left of the Bronx in New York City…

The man is a noun that was born in the future. The man does not know how he became a noun in a novel. He knows that he has been killed & eaten by the writer. Together the man & the reader watch amputated human limbs crawling out of the novel. Stunning! The pages of the novel have bloodstains & cum stains all over them. But the man & the reader do not know why they are floating above the continent of Africa…

The man becomes the electric current flowing through millions of brains & out of into the hemispheres & through the stratospheres and into outer space…

Feverish!

Suddenly the devil smashes through your floor and smiles at you and says, The man is drinking the diagonal-up-&-down-walls of mental illness! The man is riding the winds of majesty to the worlds of sexual penetrations. The man’s face is oozing a blues song all over you…

Suddenly the man dashes off into a sentence of construction sites. Clacking! Whacking! Inside the man’s head is a song of everything irrational that never ends, because everything is an eternal mirror, because the sentence is devouring the man…

As the reader watches the sentence devour the man the reader laughs & laughs & laughs… HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! The reader is laughing up a zigzaged wall of black & white races slicing the sky up into a monologue of walls.

Kill?

The man takes a train to somebody’s autobiography. The autobiography is doing a Jimi Hendrix tune with a subway train that’s rolling up & down the sky. Dementia! Then the man jumps on the fly and goes to the zigzags of car alarms and the whirls of intoxications… The man rides a phrase of poetry to a star in the sky, and there he urinates blue skies over the poetry…

The man runs through thousands of cyclones. He devours the body of Jesus Christ. Millions of Jesus Christs are squirming out of the man’s body like a wiggling cesspool of worms. Shriek! The wiggling cesspool of worms devour the man’s body as he screams with a smile, and then the man dances an orchestra into your hundreds of heads. Your hundreds of heads are watching the man run across a giant keyboard the size of the South American continent.

The man runs across thousands of years of a violent human race. Your millions of fingers are touching & touching the man’s naked body. Lightning & whispers! The man shoots out a river of spermatozoa filled with the hundreds of decapitated heads of Jesus Christ all screaming & screaming…

The man jumps on an airplane and flies off to billions of suicides spilling across the earth… The music of billions of suicides becomes a soft corridor melting under your feet…

Then a dream of berserking sounds begin attacking the man & the reader. The man & the reader begin devouring each other. Panic! Everything tastes like a piano having a cannibal feast with sleazy adjectives.

The man begins crawling on his hands & knees across the landscape of grotesque laughter. The landscape of grotesque laughter is made out of all the machines inside the reader.

Charge!

The reader is a turd in the man’s colon. Oh no! Get ready for your next adventure reader! The man’s colon stretches across the hurricanes of rage & into the skies of syrup & down into the symphonies of obscenities. As the man’s diarrhea rains over Chicago the violins play the streets of Chicago rolling across the Sahara Desert…

Everyone on the streets of Chicago begins dancing to the chainsaws of the Amazon rainforest tumbling down. r-r-Roar! The man jumps off the moon & falls down over the streets of Chicago & into the Pacific Ocean… In the Pacific Ocean the currents carry the man away to all the solar systems of the galaxy… Then the man jumps out of your glass of water and shakes your hand.

You say to the man, Sirens! I like to commit suicide every morning. I like to put all my feces & urine into jars and give them to my neighbors. I like to put bombs in my head and feel them explode…

The man responds, It’s a sunny day of truck stops!

Your wife takes off her clothes and her lips on the man’s penis is like the end of the world smoking crack-cocaine with thousands of laughing animals in the zoo. The man’s tongue in your wife’s pussy is like a swaggering highway having a Congo dance with the end of the century. Meanwhile, a jazz band stands around your wife & the man and plays dozens of motorcycles speeding out of the man’s tongue and into your wife’s pussy…

The man jumps into your wife’s belly button and then the two halves of the man fall out of your wife’s ears. Then the two halves of the man jump back together and the man runs off into the Nuclear Armageddon. Exodus!

The Nuclear Armageddon kisses the human race like an angel kissing your death. The man runs out of the Nuclear Armageddon and gets on his hands & knees before the Poet and begins praying to him. The Poet is made out of thousands of tidal waves & exclamation points & smiling bullets. Furious!

The reader jumps into the man’s head. Thousands of transvestites with humongous penises also jump into the man’s head and begin chasing the reader. Trample?

The reader runs through the hundreds of cities in the man’s head screaming perversions & screaming lightning flashes & screaming miles of barbed wire. The thousands of transvestites with humongous penises continue chasing after the reader for hundreds of years. Fear! As they chase you the transvestites scream riots & they scream fevers & they scream happy knives.

All around you inside the man’s head are millions of naked men & women dancing. Some of the dancing people are singing, Your wife’s pussy smells like used condoms and other men‘s semen. Your wife’s semenfilledpussysmells like musical notes sailing out of the miracles of plane crashes. Others are singing, "An insect is carrying a rainstorm across the earth!" And still others are singing, "Your mind is growing into thousands of worlds…" Everyone around you is naked & dancing & singing all different kinds of insults at you as you run & run away from all the transvestites with humongous penises.

Then thousands of clones of the man jump into the man’s head and all the clones are writing prowling-feverish-calligraphy all over the walls of the man’s head in beautiful storms of bizarre languages.

The man paints a bus. The man jumps in front