Bat Flower: Poems, Plays & Other Perversions

By Deborah L. Fruchey

Vampyre Mike Kassel, aka Michael Alan Kassel, was one of the stars of the poetic flowering in the 80s and 90s known as “The Babarian Movement,” after their meeting place at the Cafe Babar in San Francisco. Here is a treausre trove of his unpublished works - cartoons, plays, poems, songs, flyers and posters from that time period, photos, and even an unfinished novel. This is what Vampyre Mike fans have been waiting for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah L. Fruchey
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370030019

Deborah L. Fruchey

Deborah Fruchey was born in California over 50 years ago. Her first novel, The Unwilling Heiress, was chosen as a Best Book by the American Bookseller's Association in 1987. She has attended several colleges just for fun, never earning a degree, and has worked at everything from international banking to selling light bulbs over the phone.In 2005 Deborah married musician Robert Hamaker, and settled in as a full time author. She occasionally does vocals for her husband's meditation music. She also speaks for the National Alliance of Mental Illness in their In Our Own Voice program, as a result of her own experience with Bipolar Disorder.Deborah no longer understands why she ever bothered with anything besides writing.

Book preview

After the First of the Year

After the first of the year

I’m gonna take care of business.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna sweep out my bed.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna erase my novel.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna blowtorch my laundry

Scrub out my liver with Comet

And sandblast my teeth.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna wash out my rubber.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna pay last year’s rent.

After the first of the year

I’m going to vacuum the vomit off the ceiling

Spackle the cigarette holes in the sheets

And defrost grampa’s cryogenic tank.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna take inventory of my bones.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna stop drinking before I’m awake.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna shovel out the drifts of old cigarette smoke

That have accumulated in the corners of my room.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna take my alibi into the shop for repairs.

After the first of the year

I’m going to develop a new tic.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna stop talking to psychos, starting with myself.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna tell Satan he’s gotta find a new place to crash.

After the first of the year

I’m going to learn how to juggle chickens

how to win hearts and minds

how to wean friends and sodomize people

how to be my own co-dependent

and how to bake rain.

After the first of the year

I’m gonna declare myself an autonomous republic

Grant myself diplomatic immunity

And demand war reparations from life itself.

After the first of the year

I’m going in for a species change.

I’m gonna shave my head and plant a rain forest.

I’m gonna become a Supreme Court justice

And declare the law of gravity unconstitutional.

I’m gonna find a way to breathe beer.

I’m gonna develop a vaccine that kills second thoughts.

I’m gonna start issuing indulgences and stamping out heresies.

I’m gonna inaugurate a new ice age.

I’m gonna sue the doctor who brought me into the world

For malpractice and malicious mischief.

I’m gonna declare myself a federal disaster area.

I’m gonna secede from the third dimension.

I’m gonna punch out the ocean.

I’m gonna launch a pre-emptive nuclear first strike against God.

After the first of the year

You’re all in a lot of trouble.

Maybe you should just make it easy on yourselves

And surrender now.

FrouFrou Dog

Oh I wish that I could have

A little froufrou dog

With a cute black button nose

And ribbons in his hair.

I'd keep the thing half starved

So he'd grow up really vicious

And when little blue haired ladies

Would coo, Oh, he's so precious,

And bend down to pet him

They'd come back with one hand less

(Or one glove too many

Depending on how you want to look at it).

And when big construction workers

Would laugh at my froufrou dog

He'd go straight for the groin.

"Fuck you, construction asshole,

Construct yourself another dick,

Because my tiny froufrou dog

Is having yours for lunch."

And when night time rolls around

My tiny froufrou dog

Would lie on his satin pillow

And when burglars broke in

They'd say,

Ha, ha, no problem here.

And my little froufrou dog

With the ribbons in his hair

Would tear out their fucking throats.

And I'd have to burn the bodies

But I'd keep the burglar’s tools because

You never know what will come in handy some day.

Then I'd pat him on the head

With his shredded catcher's mitt

And say

"Good work, froufrou dog,

Now lie down on your pillow

And have a sleepy sleep

Because tomorrow we will visit

With the Reverend

And his snooty fruity wife."

GET A LIFE

Advice from Vampyre Mike

Disclaimer: Vampyre Mike is neither a licensed therapist nor a caring nurturer. In fact, he just likes to laugh at the misfortunes of others. If you are that hard up for a shoulder to cry on, so, you can write him care of this paper. The Western Edition takes no responsibility for any one stupid enough to follow his alleged advice.

Dear Vamp,

My wife keeps nagging me about my smoking in bed. She claims it is dangerous and offensive. I maintain that a man’s gotta smoke where a man's gotta smoke. What do you think?

Marlboro man

Dear MM,

According to state law, one's own bed is the last place where it is still legal to smoke in California. Therefore, lie down for your rights. If the little woman gives you any slack, divorce her. (P. S. Can I be the new beneficiary of your life insurance policy?)

Dear Vampyre Mike,

All the other girls in my high school are talking about French kissing. What exactly is French kissing and does it lead to harder stuff?

Confused Carrie

Dear CC,

French kissing is when your partner pins a medal on your chest and kisses you on both cheeks. It is best indulged in before your lover removes your blouse. Or maybe not. Tell ya what, try it both ways and then get back to me on this.

Oh Exalted One,

How can I, as a pedestrian, get even with reckless drivers who run red lights or turn on red without stopping, forcing me to leap for my life?

Shell-Shocked in SF

Dear SS,

Do what I do. After you leap, fall to the pavement, screaming My back! My back! Experience has proved that one in five reckless drivers actually will stop and check you out. When they do, give 'em a vicious kick in the groin. When they hit the ground, run to their car, put it in neutral, and push it down the hill into oncoming traffic. Believe me, they'll get the message.

What I’ve Got in My Backpack

Three Pogues tapes.

A Walkman that likes to turn itself on and sing to itself in the still watches of the night.

A six-pack of batteries for the bastard.

A bottle of water purification tablets whose expiration date is 1988.

A book of Julia Vinograd’s poetry to read in the john.

Three pairs of unwashed women’s panties for me to sniff when I get lonely.

A plastic battery-powered Star Trek type phaser with 8 different sound effects so I can Vaporize yuppies and street beggars to my heart’s content without having to go to jail.

Last month’s Poetry Flash with all the real boffo punchlines highlighted in yellow.

A triple X hard-core stroke mag that I like to look at on the bus and draw mustaches on

all the women.

A tall can of Bud.

Half a burrito covered in lint.

A set of aluminum brass knuckles.

A dead man’s keys.

Two warm shirts.

Vitamin pills, Tylenol, and cayenne capsules.

Five ribbed lubricated Trojans – extra thin for total sensation.

An army-issued pocket Bible.

A mugwort charm.

Two Femo goddesses.

A jar of bugs.

A can of shaving cream for assholes in bars.

A tag that says, inspected by number 38.

A spiked dog collar with a clump of blonde pubic hair caught in the clasp.

A bag of salt and vinegar potato chip dust.

A disarmed WWII hand grenade – I never miss my stop on an overcrowded bus.

A Delphic serpent who’s my familiar and who likes to

goose girls at the Babar who stand over my backpack.

A set of wind chimes and a warm summer breeze.

A piece of brick from the Ishtar gate.

A piece of the true cross inscribed with the graffiti, Judas rules.

A poem I can’t read because it would hurt too many people’s feelings.

A poem I can’t read because it wouldn’t hurt enough people’s feelings.

A poem, in pencil scrawl, that I can’t read, period.

A hand of glory.

An old milk carton with my picture on it.

A canister of Iraqi poison gas.

The west coast of Brazil.

The good old days.

Jimmy Hoffa.

Your share of the American dream.

The one last hope for all mankind.

Harpo Marx’s coat.

A piece of kryptonite.

All of the angels, their dance shoes, and pins.

The 378 sacred names of Allah.

Truth, Justice, and the American way.

Twelve days of Christmas.

99 bottles of beer on the wall.

1001 Arabian nights.

The entire universe in its ever-expanding and infinite glory.

And three smashed M&M’s.

Now

Aren’t you sorry you asked?

Exorcism

I woke up yet again

With depression coating my mouth like plaster dust.

Another one of those dreams.

Not the nightmare, I can ride that

All the way through the caverns of scream

Through the dead twisted forest of the night

Straight to the cold-sweat sheet–gnashing finale.

No problem.

It’s the depressing "You coulda done better

- It’s too late now"

Dreams I can’t handle.

I can even handle those

If they come in the middle of the night.

It’s cute

Sitting up in bed sucking cigarettes

At fourteen o’clock in the morning

Fighting off the shadows

Listening to the wolves howling in my mind

Biting back the screams out of consideration for the neighbors.

No problem. Well, nothing I can’t handle.

It’s the dream you have last

When you have to pack up your ID in an old kit bag

And get on off to work

And pretend you’re sane

Like the rest of the damned spirits on the bus

Locking their screams behind booze and barbed wire.

It’s the last dream that gets me

Tingeing the day like tuberculosis.

And, of course, I dreamed of you

Why?

I don’t know.

I’ve scalpelled you out of my life

Surgically removed every particle of you from my existence.

The doctors say there’s no chance of relapse.

Even my friends don’t remember your name.

But there you are

A smirking apparition of hopelessness

Dancing through my dreamscape like

You owned the damned thing

Constantly reminding me of things that never happened.

Begone! Take a hike! Go play in someone else’s

Graveyard!

No good.

I’ve tried it all.

Inverted crucifixes, unholy waters, suicide

No good.

You’re like herpes of the mind

lying low in the backwaters of my nervous system

like a lazy dozing gator

until I’m fool enough to mistake you for a log

I’ve got half a mind to buy a pound of methamphetamine

and stay awake forever

whittling myself down to death

until we both dry up and blow away.

It would serve you right

whoever the fuck you are

What I Want for My Birthday

What do you want for your birthday? she asked.

I want

Two 16-year-old hookers and a shoebox full of cocaine.

The head of your brain–damaged cat on a silver platter with

His dick in his mouth.

A gallon of 151 proof rum and a rubber suit.

I want

World peace, universal love, and a fully armed Trident missile.

I want to sodomize Debbie Gibson live on MTV.

I want a leopardskin El Dorado, a $600 Wilkes Bashford suit,

And a trunk full of food stamps.

I want to get a $300 dinner at the finest French restaurant in town

And pour ketchup over everything.

I want the biggest ghetto blaster you can find,

A tape of Alvin and the Chipmunks Singing the Beatles

And a Fast Pass.

I want a case of plastique and directions to the Bay Bridge.

I want head from a crocodile.

A blowgun and some curare.

A boneless chicken ranch.

I want

Un–recognition

An indulgence from the church

A pardon from the governor

And diplomatic immunity.

I wanna be Pope.

I want

A free ride

A backstage pass

A blank check

And a line of credit.

I want an FCC license so I can set up a 24-hour no-Led-Zeppelin radio station.

I want a Lear jet full of crack heads.

I want a crane on every corner and an army of alcoholics.

I want LSD in the reservoirs, Spanish fly in the Tampax, and tanker trucks of lube.

I want to buy up all the nicotine gum companies,

Shut them down,

And watch Bennett crawl on national TV.

I want St. Patrick’s Cathedral rededicated to Chuck Berry.

I want James Brown for attorney general.

I want to be able to rotate my dick.

I want a stealth bomber and an aerial map of Disneyland.

I want the celebration of Christmas to be a capital crime.

I want cases of Thunderbird to smuggle into the Tenderloin.

I want 10 Penthouse Pets and a dogsled.

I want the national anthem changed to Louie Louie.

I want a pound of plutonium and Khadafy’s phone number.

I want godhood, human sacrifice, ritual flagellation

And sacred prostitutes.

And I want all this stuff gift wrapped with a 10 year guarantee and I want it yesterday

and if you can’t deliver the goods, you’re no damned good and I don’t ever want

to see you again, you fair-weather, summertime patriot, two-faced, so-called friend!

Hey, what can I say?

When you get old,

You get cranky

I'm Your Friend

I'm your friend.

I'm not like the others.

I'll never tell you that

Everything's going to be alright.

I've got your blood type printed

On the roof of my mouth.

I've got a piece of your shadow in my pocket.

I'm the one who sanded off your fingerprints

Last night while you were sleeping.

I'm your friend.

You can trust me.

I know what key you scream in.

I know all the girls who turned you down.

We get together some nights and laugh at you.

I know all your ex-lovers, too.

They're all gay now, you know, and they blame it all on you.

They're very grateful.

I know where you pack your shiv

And what you call your teddy bear.

I published all your favorite stroke books.

I know what you like.

I'm every wrong number you ever dialed

Every asshole who ever cut you off in traffic

Every priest you ever plea bargained with.

I'm not God,

Just a concerned party

Who thinks you aren't wasting your life fast enough.

I saw the results of your pre-school aptitude tests.

You're not living up to your potential.

Here's a bag of nightmares - catch!

Here's another doomed relationship - fetch!

Here's a new and interesting vice that you really should hoist up on your shoulders

and trot once around the block.

I am your oldest friend.

I was the slap that made you draw breath.

I am your death wish

The only voice you really listen to

And I'm getting tired of standing in the shadows

And governing from behind the veil.

So push over

I'm driving, now.

Let's get this show

On the road.

The Autobiography of Vampyre Mike

Vampyre Mike was born at an early age, and spent his formative years close to his mother. At the age of five he was kidnapped by gypsies who subsequently bounced him out of the caravan once they’d gotten a good look at him. Abandoned on the Russian steppes without even a step ladder or stepmother to help him muddle through, he was adopted and raised by wolves. A precocious lad, he quickly mastered the hidden and forbidden secrets of the demonic cult of Thuggee, and spent his tender adolescent years infiltrating caravans and slaughtering and robbing innocent wayfarers in the name of the death goddess Kali.

Coming to a man’s estate, he put away such childish things, and concentrated on acquiring a well-rounded education. He graduated Cumma Scream Loudly from Miskatonic University with a Master’s Degree in Transactional Necromancy. Representing Latveria in that summer’s Winter Olympics, he won the silver medal in the epithet hurling event.

An eminent philologist and effluvient, he was invited to Jerusalem to join the team that was studying the Dead Sea Scrolls. After much study of these remarkable documents, he was able to prove conclusively that Shakespeare’s plays were really written by Neil Simon. This prodigious achievement won him the Nobel Prize for Quantum Prevarification and a one-way ticket to Bosnia, where he opened up an ethnic restaurant called It Serbs You Right. After being run out of the country by partisans of all three sides, he washed up on the shores of Italy, being unable to afford the shower at the Y.

It was there that he met the one great love of his life, the bewitching and passionate Countess Belladonna DeMedici. The toast of three continents, she gave up a life of butter and marmalade to settle down with him at her villa overlooking the Caspian Sea. How anyone could overlook a body of water that size might seem bewildering to a layman. But we must remember that they were young and in love and probably overlooked a great many things. Their passionate tempestuous relationship rocked the continent. Some of these rocks are on display to the public at the Museum of Hysterical Artifacts in Vienna.

Despite the stormy nature of their relationship, Vampyre Mike, clad in macintosh and waders, was able to put the time to good use, writing three chapbooks of poetry, one book of short stories, and the definitive Swedish translation of The Necronomicon. Their on-again off-again relationship (I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole) came to an end shortly thereafter when the Countess attempted to give the gifted young writer a vasectomy with a gasoline powered chainsaw. Reluctantly, our hero took his leave of the beauteous Belladonna, never to see her again, but she is remembered fondly in such poems as Gonorrhea, I’m Not Mad, and If They’re All Like You, I’m Sticking to Sheep.

Dejected, dispirited, and giddy with joy, he headed off to fight in the Greek revolution. Discovering on his arrival that the revolution had been over for 100 years, he choked on the bitter irony of it all, and turned up next on the shores of Africa, traversing the width and breadth of the dark continent selling night lights. He eventually settled down on the banks of the Congo with a Pygmy woman and wrote a scathing rebuttal of the theories of Rousseau entitled, As Rousseau, So Shall Ye Reap.

Eventually tiring of the life of primeval splendor, he took his leave of the now slightly better lit continent and travelled to Australia where he rode the range, waltzed his Matilda, and boxed kangaroos. Finding absolutely no market for boxed kangaroo, he returned to Europe, a bitter and disillusioned man.

It was at this low point in his life that he threw away the last tattered remnants of bourgeois respectability to start a new career as Europe’s most daring and notorious cat burglar. He dazzled and terrified the continent for ten years before settling down in a château in the South of France. Surrounded by thousands of purloined felines, he commenced to pen the works for which we still have not forgiven him to this day. These include the 300 page epic poem, roses are red, violets are blue, and a historic novel chronicling one Roman Emperor’s quest for deification, Nero my God to be, and the searing autobiographical rome on auclair, to have and to throw up.

Erroneously known as the man they could not hang, he is survived by three children, Hela, Fenris, and Jorgunmund.

Why I Don’t Have Anything New to Read

I tried, I really did.

I started four pieces and ripped them up because I understood them.

My typewriter was at the cleaners and they put starch in the ribbon again.

I fell in love and asked her to break my heart so I could write something nasty

about her, but she said she had to wash her hair.

I did actually have something new to read but the dog ate it and then the cat

ate the dog and