Now available is Josie Malinowski's book West of Pure Evil (Oyster Moon) (available through Lulu and strongly recommended). There is no such a thing as an octopodiphilic sect and Josie Malinowski is not its high priestess. In order not to try to metonymically characterise the book through an allegedly representative quote of its quantitatively dominant sinister tales (o what a storyteller) and perverse nursery rhymes, we'll cite a seemingly traditionally surrealist poem:
A few years of the wasteland
She wouldn’t testify to the homicide but she did categorise my fish:
The ephemeral fish, a-wandering through the desert plains,
bleating like lost souls trying to find meaning in food.
‘If he has some, I’m having a canvas-bag full of horse shit’ one
and in agreement another leapt up and smacked a boy on the buttocks.
The boy stared on in pure bewilderment.
His mother, seeing the cacophony of evil brewing beneath the smiles
of merchant’s pimpled faces,
hauled his ruddy backside up and threw him in his cage
(shared with pet marsupials).
A trumpet sounded and the race began.
Thirty thousand eggs jumped on the backs of cockerels
and whipped them till a thick layer of cockroach skins
plastered the floor and made for poor footing.
Disappointed, three men clad in Hawaiian shirts took out their machetes
and started lopping off limbs at random.
The third, the cruellest and most arbitrary,
started with his own foot to show how serious he was,
and not more than three decades later the area known as Legland
was a haven for the more daring tourists
or those with a penchant for absolute schadenfreude:
pleasure at seeing one’s companion’s arm lopped off
as she holds out a peseta to a starving child.
The moon shone down orange on a beaten up tramp enjoying the
from a disused army bunker where he stored jars of blood
and nail clippings to sell to scientists for a small sum;
he was saving to buy a razor blade to slit his wrists
and jump into the nearby lake where they said paradise awaited those
who gave up their earthly bodies to it.
Having achieved his goal several weeks later the tramp,
far from the paradise he craved, was raised up on a dais on the sand,
pulled along by snakes driven by fire and fury,
destined to spin forever in a cloudy night.
It was 3 ‘o’ clock.
A haggard child crawled by on its belly calling ‘slaughter! slaughter!’
After this, nothing else was known – except that a few greasy slabs of
were seen with a priest, fuelling the next great scandal,
which I’ll tell you about after supper.