For Every Tib and Tom Cat


Cat Alone - 5 -

April 27

After the usual fights in the throng before the entrance to the stadium - with
my numbskull rapscallion (numbskullion?) friends a lot more daring than I, me
behind them, well protected you might say, unscathed in the end, though the
result on their faces nothing to write home about either, the quarrels having
been mostly of the bully and brag kind, with no blood spilled - and after the
extraordinary stunts due (their sheer possibility) to the build of the foreign
arena, with an accessible high terrace from which objects could be thrown
down into a cupola or vault whose roof had swatches of material upon which
everything bounced, and so everything coming down - bottles, purses, knives,
bunches of keys…, and then persons, as if the game were then some sort of
dwarf flinging, their shouts, their arms and legs flopping and flapping, small
persons, either thrown down by playful fiends, or else on a dare, inebriated
show-offish fools sending themselves down, a few of whom collided into the
hard metal ribs that held the bouncing material taut - a recurring calamity:
awful crashes from the raised platform to the rebounding cupola underneath,
some bodies missing the soft part and colliding into the cutting edge of the ribs
that undergirded the whole contraption, bodies severed in two pieces, broken,
maimed, smashed anyway, for otherwise the distance was mighty, at least
seen from the side, probably seen from on top it looked easy and near
enough, who knows, I can’t begin to imagine, too disgusted, and
flabbergasted - sliced bodies everywhere, and worse: the spilling of the guts,
the amusement and the jolly rebounding turned into a nightmare of goo
pouring from cracked crania and bodies ripped apart.

And yet we were amicably received - so we were, once inside the clean
edifice, with shiny kind of marble floors, the walls also polished, the corridors
spacious, the stairs majestic. One of the beadles or rather receptionists came
to me expressly; in an unctuous manner, though squandering not the shadow
of a smile, he invited me into the elevator, and up we went, me thinking he
was going to seat us in the proper place up the incurved bleachers. I think I
remember getting out of the box and being led by the smooth operator, but
then I must have fallen asleep, for otherwise how could I wake up.

I woke up free in a somber, misty, dank laboratory, and what was my surprise
when I lifted my eyes and saw myself up there, stretched out on a kind of
comfy ledge, there on my back, then, a faint smile on my silky face, in a row
where others also lay, all connected by their heads or brains, with conduits
like antennae or feelers going from head to head, nothing too showy nor
spectacular, but anyhow patent, and potent in a way, as if we were being
pumped or something, the brains picked and sorted and rearranged…, and the
weird thing was I wasn’t alone roaming free underneath my body, but they all
were, all the fellows in the row, at least their projections were also around, and
not happy at all to have me there, nasty specters all, the fellows we had
fought against before we entered the stadium, plus other creeps and bullies
like them, plus some of my friends now turned against me also, and yet, who
cared, it was even enjoyable, for they could’nt really move, they could never
reach and touch me, beat me - of course, they were silly spirits only,
remember? - ectoplasmatic teasers, in a fury, an almost laughable
exasperation, and me instead glad that I was over there, ensconced, looking
at my projection going about scot-free, without an added scratch, and hoping
for the best, a dyed-in-the-wool supporter, a winner deep down, stuck
for the moment in that foggy floor of a subterranean amphitheater for
experimental surgery, but anyway, otherwise fine enough.

Dies the male. So Saturday’s been shot. All the males in the house
are moping, useless as big lumbering sick dogs. Despondent mothers hanging
around, a nauseous thing to behold. There’s been a phone call this morning -
my sister saying that uncle Ron’s had a brain attack and is between life and
death in a hospital room over there in the town he resides in with his family.
Now is past midday and the men are themselves morose and bored to death.
A new phone call. I take the phone and go a bit off ways. Ron’s dead. I come
back into the dreary room. “-False alarm. Ron’s fine,” I say with one of
my fake smiles. They all breathe out as a single man reprieved. Without
another word, the five of them rush toward the TV nook, they fall on the sofa in
front of the appliance - they’ve turned it on, there’s the football match already
well underway. They start cheering, they burgeon again, again alive.
Replenished, given a shot of rejuvenating sap, they enjoy life, and what a joy
it is to see them now. They enthuse, they eat and splutter, beer flows in and
out from the punctures of the bloated tires of their faces. But no fear, they
shan’t crash. On the contrary. They are in control of their own beings. They
are the men. I go quietly outside. Into the garden. I kneel by the side of each
flowerbed - I pluck the tiny nascent weeds; with the pincers of my fingers, I
carefully yank the tender unwanted shoots out. One by


Cat Alone -4-

April 26

The wife and I, we are both into stunts. She performs in public.
Her pyramids of eggs attract the crowds and the cameras – thousands of TV
stations from all over the world carry her incredible appearances. Millions
upon millions
of eggs have been smashed on account of her several
record-setting, amply broadcast achievements. For her pyramids of eggs just
grow and grow, level by careful level, until the whole thing collapses. The trick
is to have on record the biggest pyramid still standing. She’s hated by all of
us, meek ovipositors, the snakes, the birds, the tortoises, the platypuses… We
wished she were already dead. To no avail, for she thrives, everyday more

Me, my specialty is humbler, easier, more clownish: I’m just Mr. Knocker, the
one who gets to knock over his own head, the one that smashes his noggin
once and again, just for laughs, of course. My head is always running into
, into rocks, into corners, into pavements – falling, colliding, tumbling,
collapsing higgledy-piggledy down the screes… Cracked like a nut, shattered
into tiny smithereens as the shell of an egg. My stunts are really doomed from
the word go. Here comes his head a-cracking, ha-ha. Splinters of my
fractured cranium penetrating my brains, I nonetheless am still able to come
up with new ways of bashing my shell anew: I’m falling from planes, from
skyscrapers, with faulty rollers into the hard rinks… I’m a window-washer
whose precarious nest tilts and, lo, the flagstones underneath have the pieces
of my skull seasoned with a side dish of peppered brains. I’m moderately
applauded. My act, alas, is not for everyone.

Crocked tentacle, numbed hand in the form of a dulled crook, trying to
fish for memories
– dead little fishes camouflaged in the mud. Through my
ear into the poisoned marsh of my brains, the probing hook. That would be
living. Stopping to fish into each pond of dead water.

And then it snows. Cinders falling. Open your thickened hand that fished
nothing but tiny dead muddy fishes, half rotten. Here, those cinders melting on
the pachydermatous surface are your true experiences of just this jaunt into
the now.


Lucille and Maud (8th)

Blessed lassitude, it works. While creeping unencumbered along the underbelly of the sleeping car, I had lost for a moment the threadbare thread that forced me toward the bright blue light. But now here I was again, in the jittery bowels of the juiceless brains of my accusers, suffering the brunt of their arrows and slings. Your senses, keen again, resurrected, and no longer bothered with pother, here thou art: gone straight to the kernel of what’s perceived. Lewd sex, exactly.

The sowing of the pox. At every deleterious little nook that you could encompass, the ghastly pairings took place. If I understand rightly that awful merging-cum-fissiparous cult, the melting happens first in sticky eagerness, the tearing away in renewed furor follows forthwith. I don’t think anything is gained: another useless endeavor, mysteriously ordained, by helpless all-immerded pupa-puppets sadly performed. The infectious spermous tsunami advances at a tantivy, tantalizingly threatens to engulf even the remote tiny spot wherein somebody (mainly me with the consuetudinary cockroaches) moribundly thrashes and casts. No exit, unless you beat it, scram and scurry to your second life. Maybe not even. Gray mist. At the foot of the rails where their exuviae fell, their fell swearing and screeching is replicated and magnified by the festering swards of the swamp – pullulating swarms of poisoned hairy needles cling to the wheels and indestructibly commence to corrode. A formulaic shiver sends goosebumps all over my grimy swaddle. I want to wipe at least my eyes, but not the wonted lippitudes – a mud of crushed chiggers usually comes out, neatly replaced at once, even before I’ve had leisure to chuck the muck from my stoned, stochastically twitching, fingers. We traverse an adverse country indeed. Felt it in my spongy bones. What I’d give to be taken hostage, mister Chin! Back to the back car, where the innocent freight sees the sun. A carcass full of life, lives. As the flies and their faded children glide down the sliding ramps. Balthus, Delvaux, and I, we all have an eye. Platonic observationalists. Eye and aggie one: the world a crystal on your orbital, orbiting. Alas, though. What’s nice from out the window looking in, ain’t so much so once inside. Pippo’s daughter, Dick she’s called, said it best. The point being that once you are blistering with the flies and their livid infants, the smells attack. Too much stuff tangible and edible at reach, thou art no longer hungry. She found that hunger was precisely a way people outside windows had. The entering itself into the pantry, as it were, shit, took all wish to eat away.

A writer, a preacher of the heavenly aspects only, a psychomatist... Bibliophile, pedophile. Pederast. Pederast: paidos-erastos: lover of children, like a fly loves its larvae. Never a murderer, a rapist, a corruptor: a preacher of hells – telling you you whistle while you burn – a yam, a potato: hot. Ain’t it cool...? An artist, though, hm. Being an artist is a less safe method of approaching the subject. Minor setbacks... You’ve got to have a minimum of talent – or else a more’n common barefaced gall.

It was from one of her passionate letters to Pippo that the trophy-hunting lame chink inspector extracted one of her hairs... In articulo mortis, an indulgence I’m asking of you, in all humility, chink Chin, mister, sir. Absolution miraculously revived her... Look at her jump inside her too narrow shell: she’ll bust her skull. If I get the chaotic gist of her harebrained tales, all is snowy caps, apocalyptic landscapes, last kisses, imbibed bloods, creampies, blow jobs, high stakes, the stratospheric launching of staunch capped heroes, the shrewd glint in the eye of the yearning sick heroine waiting in the terminal ward, the flunkies devotedly sacrificing themsel­ves for the greater joy of the lovers, the sulky dapper military fag and his shining sabre cutting a swath of destruction amid the shitty opinionated aboriginals, the memory of boredom’s refrain – and hey the very fulsome rest of the known romantic crap.

As the trains roll, she told me, in her parroty lilt: “–Once when I went climbing solo, at the Himalayas, the Everest to be precise, and among the heterogonic appurtenances pertaining to the inveterate climber I had to pack also a flask with this sort of pills look like very small boxes and are consequently yklept capsules, reliable remedy to the lack of oxygen above the clouds by which my agonistic heart was liable to fail.”

It seems that she, Maud, the fucking girl (and she of course was much littler then,) unbeknownst to him had emptied one of the capsules of its vital substance and instead had crammed herself in, thus, the well-wooled, good-willed pederast, though carrying in his backpack the same heft, was nonetheless the unwitting sumpter to a par­ticular­ly murderous and nastily surrep­titious stow-away, namely she. When he was up to less than a mile from the freakingly fabled tip of the Everest and ready to plant on it his miraculous willow stick, another attack subverted his body to such an extent he thought sweet death was upon him, so, yetinous doofus that he was, in articulo mortis, as I say, he fumbled and tugged and wrung amongst the nozzles and eyelets, managing to unknot at last the wincing mocking mouth, and so forthwith he sprayed atop the precipitous ice the heteroclite nagging contents of his mostly useless hump; finally he opened with trembling, profoundly chilblained, almost gangrenous fingers the bottle of his medication and there (oh lucky horror,) there was there a single capsule, which after sundry intents he learned again to grasp and lift to his frozen longing lips, when what did he hear (oh premonitory hallucination of cloying annoying death) but a tiny teeny voice exiting from the pill: “–No, dad, don’t; it’s me, it’s me!” It was she, indeed, wouldn’t you know. “–I’ve stowed away in your pillbox out of Rimbaldian, coldly reasoned love and at any rate to be near you in case something gravely grievous happened to arise, like as if you were to fall prey to bony cannibals with prickly flowering reeds on their scant cocks, and some such, so...” Which it was all very nice and sentimental, but how does one solve now this strangling quandary? Either he swallowed her, namely the pill, the pill that was her, and his life was then safe enough for him to crown at length his life’s peak..., or else he spared her life and damned himself to die choking and yet with no mission accomplished at all, a wasted life indeed in all its meanings.

That we are, all concerned, still around, of course, betrays the sorry fact a solution or other was reached, though with how much loss of face on anyone concerned, and especially mine, anyone can imagine.

Her dad in a rush. Putting the burnoose on. My gun, where’s my night-gun...? In the burnoose’s pocket – a cop’s worse than a thief. Soft-voiced: clicks like the clicks heard when, resilient thread by resilient thread, my waking eyelids sever the nocturnal spider webs. Rank sweat and leather. Ratlos arshloch – tells him. Wo ist der tatort... Mein feingeisterest kind, vögeln wir muss, nun verloren du muss, du muss weg sein... The cop’s thick fingers touched her bald cunt – prodded, probed. Her dad was holding fast to his gun inside the pocket of his blue burnoose – vanquishing barely the urge to wipe off the smirk plus the scowl, only a creep as a cop can manage this – gives me the evil eye; wittol as I am, I’m not too keen: with such salient features, or withal otherwise disturbed; disturbed people disturb me, I’m so upset and upside-downed “–I can’t fix on par­ticulars, let alone loan my undivided attention to paltry nimieties such as, sir, his sex or facial and constitutional irregularities such as lameness and harelipnesses, sir!”

The doe-eyed watchfulness stopped much earlier. Didn’t pass that keen-alertness, littlest-noise-triggered, four-legged litmus test – frightened out of my scant wits “–I’ve remained, from the word ruckus, sir, tight-lidded plus anus-throbbing much as a headless female half-buried: heartthrob of an ostrich sworn forever after to hold, of necessity and by the higher imperatives of nature and the nature of the visible, since married to fear, her peace.” “–You mean...” “–Exactly, sir! By the extreme heebie-jeebies extremely distressed; I saw, you might say, sir, about zip.” “–Colored?” “–Wait, there’s a spark in me mind, the bloke was tawny-skinned...? A lit detail feints about the motley duds my pithy brain conjures up from scratch, as if among the pullulating hoi polloi of larvae a more vivacious, jumpy grub were grabbing for attention... Got it: He wore a Titian white shirt...” And the big gudgeon taking notes. “–Yes, sir, your honor; that’s etched on me bipolar brain, alright; though let me be true, sir, and honestly equivocate as to what the phrase must mean, wish I knew, sir, I tell you...! Does it refer to a white Titian shirt, or conversely to a shirt in Titian white...? I’ve no idea, sir. Either Titian painted in a sort of white especial to him, or he used to paint some especially cut and fashioned type of shirt, whatever the color and striping, or else yet, of course, there’s the “xiripous,” serendipitous chance of the none of the above. Ha! Go figure, sir, tricks of my proven schizophrenia, my wife will no doubt tell and expand on it. Anyway...
sir!” “–Relax, I’m just a copper, not an army general; though it is true I take after the best.” “–Yes sir, your honor, if that’s your pleasure sir!” “–You’ll probably be called, for a line-up surveying over, you cappish...?” “–I’m delightfully afraid my burnoose is gaping and something untoward is cheekily peeping...” “–Well, never mind. I think I’ll go now. Thanks.” “–My wife will show you out, sir.” “–That won’t be necessary.” “–Oh, but I insist, respectfully, your honor, sir. And please feel free to, ahem, partake of her leisures – it’s been written, you’ve gotta covet your proximate, come on, encore an effort, otherwise all’s fucked, whole societal mess, no bastards to make cops out off of... Of course, the husband’s always the first to know; more often than not, he actually knows before it happens... And she...? Classically: She says yes, ok, she will, ok, yes. Yes, yes... Alone, fakely distraught, at the foot of the Brueghel bridge, where hissing hurried fuckings take place, I cry at her infidelity, pro infiducia sua, lachrymulam: I let gush and roll...” Only that, like all copsters he wouldn’t get it, he couldn’t – i.q. of a fly on my fly – he looked lost: another sorely mistaken flower-bee caught in a turd.

“–Or if you prefer, sir, head to her drawing room and question her, she’ll confess, probably knows much more’n I, at least she knows how to explain it much better. It was her after all who... Her, the veg lady at the store, saw the terrible assault by the spiggoty creep, sir.” Well, and good night, it’s been a pleasure, I hope now you take yours. Indeed, here’s the burning burnoose (Nisus’s nightgown all over again) undone: my little pricklet at attention, showing in all its proud majesty, no ailing eel tonight. Fucking slatternly wife. Fucked by such a savage. And don’t she quite deserve it...! Afterwards inspecting her hickeys – sucker, betrayed by her own blood...! Everyone’s acquainted with her quaint one – fit for an army of barbarians (sounds scratchy, tautological – can an army be less than barbarian, etc...?)

Rubber lady, hallowed institution, coming attraction, servicing one, another, soon proving able sutler to the whole thoughtless warring lot, from the recently hazed down to the pampered equally incapable royals. But wait. Here they march in, the tripping impis, hi-ho, hi-ho, the fearful armies, the helmeted hails and hells mete-outers, the bromide-eaters, the strongly insigniaed, the seminally cordoned, the poorly chosen, the uniformed, the festooned, the marinated, the ranked, the obsolete, the disarmed, the dimwitted, the drunk, the clogged gook-geeks, the cornballs, the rednecks, the plateau-ed, the dumbstruck, the fucking death-defying squadrons, the platooning plain goons, and the parachutists falling en masse, caroming, bricoling, like maggots – how cute...! – and all of them all but nailing the target, wider and wider with every fuck passing, the whole scowling parade, so decorated, so decep­tively queer, pride of all decorators no doubt, the laces, the plumes, the buttons, the furbelows and panaches, the garters, the ribbons, the sabers, the shining bootees, the golden trimmings, you know, the hanging medallions, the ap­pendages, tiny and huge, far as there’s room enough there, and what will thou wear, for the wear’s all, touch the fabric, tan­talizingly heavenly, don’t you opine, and with this garish undergirth of knots and baubles, I feel so fabulously explicit, forest fairies wouldn’t be uncannier nor showier, my precious, ok? The spangles, the skirts, queasing, puerile. Refulgent niggets comparing the sheen of pipings, the finish of hems. And the hatties, the coloring badges, the frills, the high heels – here they stagger in indeed, the womanly, the overdressed, the impish trippers, hi-whore, hi-whore, we’ve come to tuck you in, hi-whore, hi-whore, to stick our own we’ve come...

Object, object of quasi-unanimous universal desire, the wife: recumbent, splayed, a big hole like the headless mouth of the well of all what’s vilest – bilious, bibulous, starved old boys, too long no see a squaw, quite...? Quit the scuffles, you’ll never learn, and there’s twat for everyone. You always pay for it, anyway, especially when it’s free – unhelpable drive, though, don’t I know, you soft-willed made-up eggshells, but hey, pals, it’s what I mollifyingly say, and welcome, you bet: “–Do as if at home, help yourself, ensure your disease of choice, pullulating yeasts, gelatinous smegmas housing myriads, tenuous unsteady tenements for the lousiest viruses, a word suffices: the cunt as sump – and the one you marry makes you pay the hardest.”

“–Where’s your moth?” – he’d ask, back from killing a few of the plucked bedraggled wretches they had in for questioning; I’d answer maybe like them, “–Search me,” or “–Da hell eye no.” “–Has she been alone?” – the questioning, a drug you can never do without; “–Da hell.” “–Hear something...? Moaning, screaming, orgasms, the such...?” – too near to stand the sickening smog boiling up from his animal’s lungs; “–D.”

Nonetheless, and with a deeper shrug yet; here he pounds: “–From such whore such whoreson, hairy misshapen runt!” – gong! – a crushing blow to the nape, followed by the con­suetudinary litany: “–She must be humping again!” – one, groggily and all, can’t help but thinking: So ugly a drag, fucking all that as all that...?

Whereupon he replies unenticed, unabatedly unbaited, the bullish linebacker: “–The ugly also hump. Actually, hump much oftener than the others; tight dirty whores have to spend most of their time primping up.” Thanks a lot, sentimental education, wet behind the ears and all, but couldn’t ever ask for a better one. “–Can’t forgive her.” The asshole, tacitly acquiescing to the savage torturing of his nutcase – dis­ciplinarian cop of a husband – failed, prick-broken, suicidal and heavily armed. Cruel beast, I knew my face would explode any instant, agonizing toothache, swollen cavity-induced infection – bullet scars, silly girl frightened of everything, and his perfect cures: Against fear of darkness – he’d close me hermetically inside an inner room, no windows, nothing but darkness the whole night, and yet I could see all kinds of specters. Fear of insects, when I saw the enormous shadows the single bulb hanging from the ceiling at suppertime cast on the walls, moths, tipulae, skeeters, geckoes, cockroaches, and once or twice he hunted them down, bittles, geckoes, and smashed them on my plate – and everyone was laughing: my broth, my girl cousin, and himself above all: “–Eat, eat...!” Had to eat the bugs among the loud shrieking railleries: whole, still twitching cockroaches, spiky legs and all, they tasted like vomit. Worst of all still: fear of lightning, fate of the downtrodden. Emperor Prepucius jumping to his death. Me kneeling and praying in a frenzy and wanting to be dead, praying to christ and his fellow supperers for instant delivering death instead of so much suffering – a par­ticular night, resentful after I had become champion of the household over him at devil among tailors, a knack for ball-swiveling and at knocking off pins on the switchboard above the table, he got up screaming like a tricked whore and tied me outside to the flag pole during a raging crazy storm, under the fucking rag, fluttering like disaster, and the end of the world in brimsmoke and no stone unturned, and now no wonder these dirty asswipers (in the meantime become objects of abject cult among the elidible morons) provoke such repugnance – seeing one and hawking up a gleaming oyster which I aim with deadly accuracy at its rot-inspiring core is the one and same thing, besides the sudden healthy rampages when I burn the lot in a whole street or hammer away in a row of monuments, eyesore continuous, conspicuous and ubiquitous above any other one, I never need go too far to blow my steam...

From blows or anguish or the scant shit..., that’s the result: I was fed rotten molars from my own mouth more’n two years in a row: ten-twelve verminous grinders, shot. Couldn’t grind shit for years, fed actual pap, on top of the virtuous devotional honorable venerable slops infants are served down the fodder-funnel – and the concerned citizens treading desperately at the wide end of the funnel as though employed by the wineries of hell – not in order to ripen this much short of unadulterated rot the (also metaphorically goosed, buggered) children’s unfortunate liver, but alas yet a more, afterwards, useless and disabled organ: the brain.

And thus all told rejected universally – plus a couple of spine-rattling scars, same bullet opens a hole up me flopping jowl (waggly wattle is more like it,) and another hole smack in the middle of me puffy cheek: smashed to smithereens a few teeth, others left, though jaggedly nipped – a k.k. bullet, namely keister to kisser, entered me ass, exited me skull, well-punished by some well-armed healthy criminal shooting from downstairs up. Ten years later, another bullet (this time around not self-send) put paid on his and me hurt – our remaining teeth, brother, wouldn’t bother us again.

Fang senior pretended my face would burst like his: swelling of the cavities’ infection out of control: the head a bomb. With every toothache, I’m waiting for my face to burst all over and no recess – the several abscesses reaching their concurrent excruciating apexes. We all so damned jealous, and of whom for decency’s sake, of a ramshackle bone grid with the usual few scruffy pelts hanging there to dry of an awfully ugly and decrepit veg- and fish-monger no less – not that many fish stink fetishists lost about, let me certify. Moreover they’ve put her at the back of the (maxi)store, gouging fishes, gauging weights and prices, never facing the grievously repelled public – she’d it seems been relatively glossy once but now, con­sumed from the insides, the slack of her skins had become all lousy creases and pleats, hairy and allopecic by jumps and starts in patches opposite to what you’d expect, hirsute tits plus balding nape type of distributive attributes kind of berserk organism set-up – she’d hit the parched deadly skids and no way out, hooked from a meathook, it rather looked like, rather I mean than on the customary poisons the frettingly mad rely in order to try to assuage the tortures they go through: pills, smokes, booze or who knows the horrid injectables, but I fear, more accurately, hooked after all in his asphyxiating fists and fits of unwarranted rage, a riot of anguish profligately running both ways, from body to body, from ruin to wrecker, linked blood siblings, raveled in knots of narrowing and snapping veins, wasting away down the quagmire of despair, heartache and turmoil.

And no salvation on sight, neither bestowed by fate nor apportioned by one’s own hands – too frail a constitution, too frail a mind, here’s the rub, too frail a world outlook, where there’s only extant a sure mutual condescension toward the hells of the afterlives, and no other hope available as decreed by the powers that fucking be.

Why didn’t they kill each other, or at least whichever one the other – couldn’t, duh, that’s what; couple of sorry dubs unable to manage even that one, the commonest of roads to deliverance – pity ‘tis, sucker whores, the moral, will-constraining grotesque calisthenics they are obliged to perform at the footpace of the enthroned, and thus imbibe some of the sick giblets-sweat they putrefactively secrete – too ingrained in their indoctrinated consciousnesses the swills of the fathers.

Not here, though. Emancipated, you bet, reincarnating whomever I please. Chugchugs the train to freedom and back. And the contrary of jealous: unjealous all the way – and a wittol withal – paradigmatical­ly so, pushing the full of spite envelope to the other side of the tube instead: don’t ever touch me, go and nag somebody else, whoever, how many you are able to fancy and service, couldn’t care less...

The compartment, the car, the whole contraption full – and the fool listens to me full of tomfoolery. He’s making a full-mooned face like he’d swallow anything: dicksucking wittol, eh. “–Quaint barnacle, strange sieve, fully wrong-headed slush machine. Foully biased, prone to sputter, and unspeakably mean. Only lets across to the free warm new islands of swing... The runt, the unseemly, the disinherited, the unclean!”

The vast elation, greatest so far alive, following news of his demise – the wild celebration in my unfettered brain – even going so far as spending the dear buck and calling the moth long distance. Exulting to her priggish ear such conventionalities as... Now you are free! Go on a cruise. Diddle the steward’s brains off. Or the cabin-boy’s, I hear they are a smidge cheaper. Suspend all intimations of mortality. Spend yourself blind, blow his insurance – must be double – a creep’s bonus for getting his due while fucking the rest of humanity in a fell binge, in a tomb-caving bloody orgy of epic proportions. He died mimicking his parrots as they died. Died laughing and repeatedly orgasming. And now who’s left...? After so fucking long, who’s counting! By the way, his slab and hero’s shingle or saburral plaque, or whatever the fetid fake little faggish patch of cheap sanctimonious nimieties they stick on his paltry headstone, wherever the hell will they plant it, I’ll profane it, I’ll crap on it as often and unsuspectedly as means allow... Parrot master most dilectus. Happiest day on our lives, congratulations all around, tell Vangong, his doughy assy head’s still too yeasty and vaginally discharging, but no matter, let’s tell him often also, I know he ekes a great sustentation for a while after he’s reminded of the notion. The buck’s worth about over. Clang, clang, clang – something fell – a coin – to my coing. Scant payment – blind bard.

After the lull, for the as yet unadapted eye would be wavering, I’d follow meekly the beautiful proceedings, even, if unnoticed, I’d pick from the breeze-swept floor the slimy spent ball of gum the queen would spit away with a thick scummy oyster attached to it for good measure – and what a delicious relish wouldn’t it be in my slow sucking mouth, I’d eat it whole, never having tasted food so glorious, almost fainting of pleasure and all. And chewing the ambrosia, all my senses alert, my peepee erect, still nobody’d catch me in my orgasm; outwardly so casual, son of nature, almost jaded. Yes, I’m again a backstreet dirty little boy, idly prying maybe the dry blood off his scabs. The transfer now completed, I can safely contemplate how the chief Transferor is summoned to the summary justice of the railway officials. He sought with all his might (so he avers) to extricate the cause of such a sieve kind of escape hole in his cellars. He concludes that: it must be a hobo secret sort of mischief doing, a hidden disappearing scrim, a transforming chrysalis case sort of thing, uh, their gathering sump, their voodooing paddock, their intimate hell – they intrude, bore unseen, and, once installed, labor like maggots or ants, bettering (while trapped) the common cavity. Everybody knows that. Unsuspected hanky-pankious chambers are laid where you’d never smell ‘em – ubi­quitous – if one, a dozen – penny each, cheaper.

Fondling with full tongue and gums the palatable kernel of alien saliva, bothering away the while, my raking nails still reeking of the privy, I pry at the just newly dried blood watching the queen dryly brood – which shall it be, a spectacular straightforward, or perchance a subdued, more subtle, refined chink-torture sort of punishment...? The waiting shall be worth; shivery with an­ticipation, the bunch of us, and not one strag­gler, stray or dud amongst us, the selective creep platoon of the whole train, the dusty row of spurned witlings, dopey clods, egg-faced clots lately disabled and forsworn, ropy gores at the chiasms, buccal commissures, coffin-styled doodles stuck at one penumbral end, gamy derelicts, echoingly engaged in an almost in­conspicuous albeit sappy little underhanded rhythm, quietly dis­sembling, as if not quite there, with two fingers through the pockets, each his own scant stick to direct his own soft-bean choreography, static ballerinas where only their softnessess beat – what do they, I mean we, do – indeed what else – jerk off do we. The secularly unrewarded, the peren­nially tarred, the sempiternally postponed are paying themselves something back, if only a little paltry handsel. And some day soon... Retribution’s at hand, its bloody hour won’t tarry, the cleavers of its clock-hands are about to clang... Matters are being taken care of into our own hands. Dormant doormats up until now, but festering underneath, a bunch of downtrodden confounded dust-lapping creeps indeed, but from the dullest of which the all-heroic Doorman awake he shall (heil, Turmann!) stalwart and brisk, aroused arise he will, and with such an alacrity and blatant disregard for the fat manners of the vanquishing profiteers, those ingrainedly indoctrinated and now inveterate and unmendable, too used to mock, exploit and kick around the ugly underlings, that his untiring deeds (Turmanns rastlose Tätigkeit) shall put flowers to the waste, and to waste the spurious flower beds where the heaven-assured-cum-insured camply wrecked and fickle-wickedly fudged with, and always fucked and shat at their hearts’ content through all of their worthless state-worshiping days – there is only the curvy grounds at Arlington for a more feraciously manured cemetery pomposity.

Nobody who shouldn’t scores now by the Doorman – the Doorman unhooks the meshes which the stormy winds mistake for banners, everybody passes but the formerly so self-righteous straight-backed: whom, by the cutting steel sheets of his helix-like arms, get all ineluctably shortened at the neck roughly by a head...

Restless activity, angst amongst the jury, from a watchtower the queen, whose stoic plasma brooks neither vertigoes nor piffles akin, having let fallen amongst their midst the brunt of the eclipse. Erst basking, now flabbergasted, their nostrils narrowing to hairy slits where the nonagenarian maidenheads stew still, as if the earth or the train, aloft, stood still, all are discombobulatingly trying to deal with the verdict. What she whickered and mumbled, while a film of morbid jam enveloped the lek where the phony specter of war roared, and odd sudden haired zonae peppered the walls of this cage now without windows, gaseous, stifling, without exits, without lifts nor shunts, without breathing interstices whatsoever, frenzied zoo where both skins and perches parched and fried under the unremitting waves of shame, was, if I recall aright...

“–Is it stuffy? I’d say! Necrologically so, and just you wait... Sloven yellow-beakers, scuttlebutt embryos, you touted yourselves as the roughest old hawks of riders, and behold, instead you’ve been ridden again by a sodden soiled little dot (meaning me perhaps, whereupon I swelled like a tick fed on bloods of tainted phantasy) – the paltriest lousiest dottiest dottie from the whole immense stipple of the unnoticed, the dun, the gray and the tamed... Not only the head inspector but also each one of thee subservient chippies art guilty as charged in having busted again the wrong specimen... The case is that you as an investigative terrorist unit were charged with the saving task to crack the case by nailing at least one of the maverick old dog filthy barkers who every night, impunely working beneath the clangor and clatter of our unwieldy contraptions, spike the waters of our ceremonial crucible with nauseous brews of lawn run-offs and plenty of other germinous varieties of puny but deadly flues – everyone, especially the car-worshipping, crap-addicted subur­banites, public eyesoring nuisances all, with their crappy dogs, crappy horses, crappy boats, and their chemical lawns and their untidy moronic cavalry attacking each blade, their brain-splitting tractor mowers, their clouds of exhaust and of mephitic methane trailing from their bursting bowels where together rot their tobaccos, beers and sundry fats and smoked meats, the maddening inter­minable fart of their leaf-blowers, crowning glory of betrayed insanity, everyone, not only those dregs of flamboyantly disguised humanity, each fellow, his ugly erogations (lleigs erogueigs) rife: he spits or pisses or intrudes with boogers, fleas, chiggers, moths, and lice the foods of others, everyone pokes in their frazzled frassy nails, everyone slips into the pot the odd maggoty chunk, everyone stirs it with handles of plungers and such – hey, ok, all that’s commonplace and commonly accepted and kosher, but we are talking something else much graver, that plague of ours is plain deathly polluting, that, unlike life itself, is no joke – faithful hallowed superan­nuated, and wet-eared light-headed more expendable railway clerks are nonetheless indistinctly dying by the shovelful, and those of us on the know suffer yet the most – our sweethearts miss our former feisty selves, our moms fret all day, our strop­ping leathers wither and melt, our mettle likewise, our asses bleedingly shorn, our mustaches singed, consequently our braggadocios close to done forever for, our private casks brim with soots, toads, slugs, wyverns, newts and opinicuses, our aprons don’t approve of any of all that alien flagrant muck, and also (much as our uncod­dled ticks unfed fall off) of themselves fed up fall off, our dogs have lost their souls to the barkers and disenchantedly emigrate to the dismal vicinities, lured until, at cheapos’ paradise, chinatown, malignant ant-heap, teeming masses of grubs stercoraceous, their tired bones collapse in a piss-sulfurating corner among many as superabound in those baleful chink so-called grubbing venues, where inside the unbearable stink, thick as the most unpalatable gravy, they are forthwith suppressed, our pet rabbits likewise, mangy as our cunts, but melancholy and pestiferous for an added bane, once they flew the coop, disheveled magpies having forgotten their vocabulary, their manners, their savoir-faire, hungry gypsies scooped them up and swallowed them raw, there’s destiny for you, but no matter, each crook to his loot, the point: that, in a gypsy trick mirror image, we fare not at all better, see us distortedly run, the repeated outbreaks of cholera and other cases of the runs run amuck amongst us, our sucking cup same as our commode runneth indeed full, already en­docrinologically obtuse, now more upset, our system – afflicted with pietism cum priapism (whether appropriate or not,) where the ithyphal­licness makes us still more monkey-like, and in our uncalled-for prognathism (too cruel, trying too hard by half,) we look like as if already extinct, and, jeeze-wheeze, if only could we stop for a second in trying to placate our gratuitous, unwarranted proudnessess and foreignly-made-urgent bodily necessities, if we stopped (for only a second) the mating, the jerking off and the defecating, then maybe could we invest some of the energy now liberating trapping one, one piddling one of the boisterous dark culprits – it is too much to ask...? – getting along with the pest one dies of it – no, but a consummate scavenger follows the scent of his prey, is that so hard...? Is that so freaking aitch, accounting for the smelly piffle they trail up until our cauldron and back...? – Our system sucks. And the anguished sucking noise it makes differs extremely from the crystalline guffaws of our sworn foes the razor-wielding shit-toting tramps. Short of languishing to death our hermetic ministry as a whole is anyway doomed; lest we should valiantly fight, tooth and nails, and petrified cunt-flaps, and probably even if we do, seeing what we’ve got, as effectives and effectivities go, we are ig­nominiously ready for the headslab, where if something is inscribed it shan’t be nice at all, I’ll warrant it, it’ll be a glacial taunt more like: They fought the runs running against the poisoned grains of their ingrained migraine, and went nowhere but latrineward, to hide where no grain, chemically disabled, would ever grow... – facetious, jaunty, jeering, monstrous stuff no railway staff will ever again, without dying of shame, be able to live up to. And yet the clues are ubiquitous – should be easier than that, don’t you think? – Which mandrake or root of evil corrupts the trade is a quandary we can only conjecture about, in fact a waste of scant resources – after all, our vittles, by the nocturnal noisemakers fracidized and mickeyfinned, has got nonetheless to be exhausted, consumed, else we loose the remaining oomph that keeps us and the whole sacralized system running on – and yet again its same ingestion renders us unstintedly unstimulated, restrained, nothing honky-doried, in fact totally heartbroken and flued – in a word, floored, rail-warped, sabotaged, phase-outable, quite useless, and clunked – that’s why your nightly, more addled brains are incapable of lathing out, out of the gross splurgy night matter, the ethereous, deletereous, mephitic, malefic (no doubt as common as common is, and non-descript as non-descript go) simple joe, a everyday shape of one, if ever only one, one, one, but one, only one, of ‘em skillfullest of underhanded frauds. But got it? Were thou listening? Ordinary-looking, thou blockhead! Each one listen, each thee of yourn do that now: Wipe the ass of thy slate clean, and flush with new courage this heart of thine, and indeedy start anew. Turn over thy sphincterous wound a new poison-ivied leaf. Alas, and do I hear oops? Somebody gives more’n two hoots? And who whereabouts is calling boobs? Nobody bids a timely suicide? And who shoots for shits? He stoops to newts? Some boldly one pledges un­mitigated unfor­givable stupidity? Won’t do, though, none fills the bill, got to ask for more, gotta reserve the big prize. The guy bamboozles daily the lot of you, he operates freely under your noses not cut obviously for the finer track­ings, he’s smoother than any of you could’ve ever speculated on your sorry piddling own. He’s the golfer, the captain, the pastor, the preacher, the boss, eek, he’s anyone, actually he’s so well-adapted (or is he a she, a slick vegetable one, a leek, a scorzonera, a suppository-type of a one working at the pharmacy, but no, impossible, hers are not the martyrs’ field of so much filthy devising,) he’s a model citizen, in short, and fashionable, and clear-cut, and elegant, and as the doctor-ordered, and as the authorities-disposed and as the clerics-fostered, and as the cops-asslicked... The joke’s on us, the creampie’s on our shit-eating faces (tastes better taken with capers,) of course: Of course! He’s kicking our chops in for us every day, and with a bleeding smile, pathetically, we take eager turns to greet, and compliment, and thank-you him no end. By his charm we’ve been swept off our feet, by his underhanded return in kind meanwhile he makes sure we never rise again, we are the repeatedly trod-upon dog shit splattered underneath his spiky boots. So quit wheedling and cajoling: the potential murderers are thriving on the fermenting shadows you cast while kowtowing; no, upright, stand up, off now the unhinged vulture vibrators from your lazy recta, and back to real tight-balled coldhearted work. I say! Put them all in line and pitch your stirrupy onslaught. You’ll find them for sure among the customarily well-to-do, all those disgustingly willowy and portly swells, the throaty, the deep-chested-voiced, the professorial, the sermonizers, the long-winded, the direc­torial, the dictatorial, the versatile, the crisp, line ‘em all up and shoot, damn both your eyes, you faltering shrimps, and if any’s a smoker, there thou art, add to the fire, definitely a creep. ‘Tis a cinch, these are the criminals, the most citizen-like, superiorly smiley, uppity wrathy, obstreperously fripperous, highbrowy bored, offensively kind, dismissively lacy, advisory matronly, codedly behaved, fuckingly scouty, the least suspectable, trashy, disagreeable, disrespectuous, crotchety, crippled, malodorous, vernacular and ugly, and all of them with perfectly current valid tokens!”

When the jaundiced hobgoblin finally shut her troubled trap up, I saw, behind the mirroring darkness of my sun specks, the worthless cursory bunch disperse, each a hagbag on his head, none poor-mouthing, none begging to disagree, all aggrieved sumpters carrying nonetheless the added suttle of hideous disappointment to the rusted tare of their cuddling long-ensconced guilt.

Lamely, and in crutches withal. No matter, for I’m still unfound. The new wind sighs. From my hiding-place, near the counted sleepers, the contraption moves. Unwadable lacunae of the excised chapters excepted, a whole miscellanies of anecdotes could be recounted regarding the en­counter with the variegated assets underneath. A meeting with a Brueghelian check­ered soldier beetle, its showy apiarian trichomes that otherwise prey on maggots preying mistakenly on me should perchance be a jovial whirligiggy novelty kind of tip-off, par­ticularly if I suggested that the maggot in case was my one par excellence.


Lucille and Maud (7th)

Plight of everyone: dying in the middle of the just started project of living. Thus puked zerotrustable. She has a bunch of “parroties” like this one – and (here’s the question) is she even capable of thinking outside of parroty-land...? (Parroties: parrot parodies.) Emperor Prepucius wrote long ago: “–Sicut erat in prepucius...” And created his world. Emperor Prepucius, a parlous parrot indeed, scantly if ever platitudinous. I harbored one of those stereotypical little crushes at his encounter. That night where his first hazing thunderstorm brought him flying higgledy-piggledy to my baffled, daunted arms as my lids were closing in bed. How to harmonize the presence of a bird that insist afresh and afresh on self-effacing itself inside my chaste crotch...? Alluring mimic, shrinks into a plumed dildolet. I heard a tiny snap of a little noise. A broken walking stick prefiguring impending death... I’ve got in a box my dead father’s hidden moneys, his dead son’s more momentous drawings... A pervasive sadness, not to be shirked. Death – conform to its possession. More to the heart of what’s ailing. Emperor Prepucius was at last a man liberated, freed from the slavery of aimless non-seeing – the unseeing accident-prone roving eye that crashed by itself (I only in reluctant tow) at all the wrong turns...

No, we were done. I broke the windowpane with my robed elbow, the weenis unscathed. Through the jagged hole down went the emperor and his broken tiny filament of a neck. Done with the wing of bad luck, finished the base dreams of broken windows and dark tatty clothes – now I could brace along with the firmest, breeze with the showiest, compose my pieces barefaced, not in the smutty half-life of hardly lit death­watches where I thought maggots were fucking, but in the clean open air, valiant, dandified, to the nines, not even afraid to crack in public those snaky affairs, a brace of too-obvious suspenders...

The storm made him do it.

For a few days I felt like the sheriff, but... But I couldn’t forget either the awful, driven hours of skinned-alive moonstruck victimhood, pitifully disguised as a predator, nose-wings aflutter, a lather of rabid spit at the corners of my car­nivorous mouth, eye uncorked and through it the lymph of my tumultuous soul gushing – the whole night crackpottedly in search of a burning-red recently-mangled unsuspecting twat of a bird, its soul, its umbra, its shadow, its intuited presence, the owner already yawning, putting off the meager taper, acrid smoke, while teary I retreat, if my mojo responds, to a new battlefield...

No, those fixings of the seen, those freezings of what was eyed for a split second before the bulb burst or the curtain fell, those burnings-up of the fleeting impressions in the available cells of my discombobulated brain, they serve me well now, all were only preparations for the real mccoy: The wounding for the healing, the thimble for the cupola, the copulation for the ascension, the humblepie for the spiraling pride, the fake dueling scar for the world-weary wisdom of the retired samurai – from the deadly experience to its rightful application, from the starry forehead to full steam ahead for the stars, from the momentous to the steady, from terminal turbulence to fair leveling..., and home free, Maudy girl, no longer moldy, maudlin, mousy, mangy, enjoy the warrior’s horizontal gleamings, hack-hack, yes! Hale, healed, say hail: shout your progery of prodigies, hail to the one who con­quered herself, she quit shooting at her foot, and loving the hurt – unlike the dumb beast that eats at its wounded leg and want to tear it apart in order to hurt and spite the pain – loving the hurt, start, instead, shooting for the mountainous range, a mounty, and some day over the rain­bowish afterlife being loved for it, a heart-throb of the summits of the arts, contributor to the splendorous future, mail chain to deliverance and back, one of the carriers of the key that spread to the forty-odd winds the signal penetralia, the explanation’s at hand, quasi-visible when you strain like this... Jaw-drawn, no qualms, having an edge on misfortune, the whole fold of insights in hand, ad nauseam, even in her deathbed, in agony’s rattle, the desperate fading hope to ripping clarity of purpose, ah precious pernicious Prepucius, blast it, mix the fulsome soup of elliptical pigments: gamboge, umber, potash..., all like a horde of stampeding Lilliputians: frenzied. Painting an anachronistic tableau, erst painted by a fogey roué and now forged by her rancorous daughter, to whom it rankles still the bah, humbug of so many elaborate explanations.

I’m sure the rotting kea is parodying somebody when she says: “–Sometimes I want to play the child and make love like one: childishly, tenderly, playfully, openly, matter-of-factly, without shame, nor heat, nor trepidation... Sometimes, I want to climb up to the last rung and plainly be seen on the glasses of the massive door. Fanciful, snappy, magnificently cut out, summoned to great accomplishments, aren’t we...? So we are. Hitched unstitchedly together, same ideographs projected on the shingle, same shadow burined on the jambs, a ponderous chimera trying to hatch an eggstar of a picture unimpaired and without simile, wheels and oxen, bowery lads, goatherds, and mahouts and all..., over bridges, over arches, over the gloaming horizon, and twilight-of-the-godsly gone.

Sidestep the damned bloody keening crowds, though, thereabouts as often as not congregating for the preliminaries of another fucking burial – shameful ceremony officiated by and intended for addled full-of-crappers – as an exercise in ludicrous futility beats the whole deck. And nimble here, never touch any of them creepy mourners, jinxes alive, a-whirl in the spiraling trap of the their scared next-in-line feeling, but be smart in dodging those phantom malodourous bodies, outlaw their seriously compromised existence, disregard any type of enticement, don’t be sucked into their underworld of dismayed and crumbly wraiths furiously trying to graze your heart with the hate-bullets of their discom­bobulated gazing.

No to worry, though. I’m imper­vious to their shriveling babble; never listen to the drivel the masses spew, I don’t hear shit of what they quack, or rather: that’s the ony sound I softly perceive issuing from their unsychronized septic-tank openings: shit, shit, shit, shit..., the soothing lovely sound terribly at odds with their spastic, wildly knotted lips..., but ignore the klutzy dubbing, the point’s that hearing detracts from seeing, and you gotta better see the moronic faces to guess right their bothering intentions and criminal stances; they’ll ransack your brain, needle your lungs, split your drums – braggart to hell, they’ll kill you all of a sudden and for less than no in­ducement. And that’s a known fact.

So, as chaste Fifth Claudia, the gray ashen liver-tearing pet of uncle Nerotxo, victorious after the ordeal, safely at the other bank of the river of the walking unburied, through thin and the piled-up thick, breathes up: We find oursel­ves again, huh...? Tightly taut, not a bit drowsy, firm like the unshaken rock. Collected, artistic, alive; frank and unscathed from the hormonal demons – wrong memories of dead yesteryears, wringing their horns in. Done. Easily bringing in the Catalonian (Anatolian? Babylonian?) Great Mom: Cybele – only a ribbon to pull the vessel out of the mud, the creation clay – her chastity a big help, her virtue all the strength; no hickeys in her fanny, her slit not red and overused. Blue Stone, enigmatic. Sometimes I want to play the child, and talk English: Traa...! Ta, love...! Fiddlesticks, me lolling about after me gloves has brought such a giggly deterioration to me dwindling reputation, I’m ready, chastised, to lumping the slime mood on the edge of the worthless bile and whirl dervishly towards the surface where the moon shines.

The kea unravels her rant: rebound the eery channelings: stabbed throats, and a legacy of trashed scraps: the reprisal of the macabre eunuchs, the itty swirling clouds from a meltdown, the plummeting cinders – radioactive, you bet, love – stockpiled, seamlessly, the hecklers, their evil blepharospasms, their sickening ear-splitting murmurs now packed, gathering dust, in camphor and anti-moth pellets, waiting for next attack; caught unawares by the smell of opiates and mindbogglers the gowned criminal spray about, we fell for a frail instant... But enough, here’s Van­gong.

Though while I reel, I ought to conjure up... – bizarre images – let’s see: my moth, for mother, my “broth” for brother – nice, ain’t I – parrot-like with a speach impediment – and while I’m uttering the pricky words with the interdental dee, guess what, I’m thinking them with the other, lamer, faggier, speech-chal­lenged-like tee-aitch sound, the silly one goes with “both”, ok? – and it becomes them to a tee, like a reused condom and so on, for her tendency to discomfit me and nibble annoyingly at my threadbare fabric for the whole of my youth and early adulthood – till I was forty-six and half to be precise, when with the character-builder alacrity of the selfborn I discovered that at the unraveling rag of my ancestorless substance I still could stitch the towering per­sonality of my long-lost forerunner...

Death-calling spectral insect, how I longed to crush it during the eternal lonely cold nights vainly pursuing window dreams, door-crack apparitions, key-hole revelations, lovely and gory, macabre and astoundingly, salivatingly filthy, only that now the hour of release approaches, alleluia, hey hey. Hey.

As for him, muddling potty of a head, “broth” couldn’t suit him more, utterly deserved, for his tendency to stain with greasy messes and worse, and thus cheapen and spoil everything he touches.

“–Hold your breath till you’ve gone to a higher level.” “–You mean during like ninety seconds, doctor?” “–Boy, not rather; more like ninety minutes, duh; come on, you can do it; we can’t measure the brain’s gamma-hooch-betta-ching wave lenghts unless you reach that top garret plateau with a lusty sustained will-push that should put to shame even those bashful troopers: the pudgy whales that mimick submarines and other pesky contraptions that soak down the parched ocean floors for months at a time brooding over bombs or other disgusting budding absurdities, like eggs, or legs, or square round pegs... Are you fainted yet...? You’ll be one of the risen for sure: take heart!” “–But the reason for what...? Is there really a reason for my carcass to live on...?” “–What...? Not the reason; the risen, damn you, after you’re like reborn...?”

While skipping the aisles, behind each door ajar a cartoonish horror slide passes his litigating eye – would you believe, but would you. “–So what a-are you t-telling me with today’s menu; s-spiffy, eh...?” “–Not too bad this tennis balls soup.” “–Not too bad! Our chef’s pride de maison!” “–The balls taste a bit too much like live toads.” “–Oh, thanks, but why the outrageous pandering, I wonder, tricky Sam. I’ll tell him how grateful and congratulatory you were withal, and no feigning here, you said toads, didn’t you, meaning truffles, of course...” The jokey surgeon putting ‘em up, having his rubber gloves powdered by a typical cutish-brutish fuck-ready nurse, the sick desfigured patient sprawled on the table, eager to vanish, scared to death, fakely amused. Just close-by, next gurney up the corridor, enigmatic costly blue stones appearing under the skin all over the victim’s carcass of a rotting body. One could pierce and bury his finest brush in, and voilà: apt for a virgin’s robe.

After the powdering jokes, the nurse says something sillier still: “–Would you like me to buffer the syringe a little bit more, doctor?” “–Baby, would I! Hark-hark-hark! You catch me busy, though, with my pants securely and prophylactically up, hark-hark; luckily I’m a fast operator, I’ll be done in a thrice, let’s get rid of the stiff before the anesthetics wear off, he never was too sharp to begin with, but who’ll risk another brain-damaged zombie telling then on us, hark-hark...”

Hagborn, his gleamings, a sick hawk’s.

Me broth, that’s what he does, he’s the muck boss of the whole hospital, he empties every chamberpot or every bedpan – a pishiss, I’m told they call it here – all kinds, he’s an expert, earthen­ware and plastic, yellowed and purple, shiny, and cracked, moldy, with verdet and stuck with infections galore – spot him sponging the shits off the sheets... “–It’s only a piece of shit, bro, you are not frightenend of a piece of shit!” Well, but I also am, almost as much as of insects, bowels, organs, bullies, gods, bolts from the blue, shit’s brimming with evil digger bugs, both micros­copic and eye-poppers, both leggy and maggoty, both smooth and hirsute, I’ve studied shit all my life, very carefully, I must be the foremost shit connoisseur of this and the surrounding neighborhoods – by the way, Vangong, he’s an idiot, sponge on him: hock, hog a meal, that’s the main reason I visit, my friend... Perversely snared to slops, again straight to the blennorrheal trough, glimmering hawk eye, crummy repast; cadge a meal, weasel me, some crumbs – hawk me a regulation grub – while hawking, I’ll grab and hawk it – a gleaming hospital luncheon – not your common sorner, though; while munching, some elbow-room, with some elbow-oil – vomity pickles and dumplings, soggy, tacky, fracid – now for the same consistency on my discourse – the congeries of swills of my moth more or less anthropomorphical – to the hopeless ward or (in a bit of harmless word-play) to the mush room (every dying hostage in his casketlike bed gone irretrievably mushy from the wuthering tumors hissing from his frameless organism of a fast morphing body, each much as the one any decaying grostesquely-shaped soft mushroom would randomly take) – emetic – becomes the supreme emunctory hole – a notch below, coming up, other ejaculates, plus fecal daities assorted, and now for the bear-it-if-thou-canst dish, worst of all – visit your dying great mom, Cybele, Lucille, and blaringly loud: I’ll be blunt – skeletal ghoul-ravaged diseased carcasses – saprogenous slime – vortex of her navel – hot frizzy juice boils from... in and our of tubes, oozes without – E. Coli in all its specialities plus other cabbaggey brews – down the hatch – “–Trustkin sends his love.”

Deadly cestus of my (hard-rock orange?) – with a fell blow of my cestus – apotheosis of oranges and lips. Hospital: where the creepiest humans congregate to deal with their salivous perversions, exchanging at cut rates and fumbling nonstop with all kinds of dozy lumps, disgusting infected fleshes, and other viscous lymphs. And always keening and bewailing absurdly in the presence of the excrements. Terminal ward: senile patient being finished off realm of the pussy wizen denizens trolly froggy – stuffed cloakbag of dropsies, gooey blain – dead in the stagnant waters of the bed – battleground for all hospital critters and worse: the more virulent hospital viricides: bestill thy silent innuendo – fucking hag-pap for old hags, witches, women: fiendish gills more patent with every passing repast or lunch hour – I come pro forma and in hunger to spend – criminal nereid at the foot of the fountains of my aestrus, tentacular meduse, the evil muse of my vilest musings, the counterinspiration, the a-lyricist.

Back to work: me parroty customers crave me learning. Craftman athlete of the pen and pencil of the brain – draughtsmanship: sketch drawing, I’m painting that world erst created with a colorless mud: ashen kea, yeah, insistent: eating at your prometheic liver, mushy brain, too good I am, “sheepish” the word.

Sort out the rotting and bletted items if you have to burrow a little among the flies and their maggots. Sure thing, mac; and go suck on a slug’s blubber, your sister’s clit’s a greedy leech, your asstube’s clogged with limpets, your batty mother suckles raving hyenas, or viceversa, and whatever.

I systematically and instinctually hate and fear all kind of masters of the purse strings, and if, by one of these siderally improbable, incredible bricoles of destiny, I ever become one, well, I’ll loathe and resent myself also. Lucille the usurprix, the usurix...? No name for women criminals...? Quaint. Usurper, usurer, are always male. Thus I was musing, being of two minds again, and the while (how metaphorical, symbolic and apppropiate) smashing with my arthritic fingers a few handful blood-suckers, who for a change were sucking on the thick bubbling rust of my vegetables, or else they were eating each other, winged and larvatic, all drunk and entrapped in the moldering quagmires, when behold near the blinding entrance the scarecrowish unfortunate shouting above the further deadening loudspeakers...

A grimacing spastic baboon ass of a mandrill mug, your typical crazy murderous glint in his eye, everything was there, the face, the feces, a wonder he wasn’t behind bars for obscene exposure to even the least of aesthetic minds, pigeonholable from the mangey crown to the slimy ribbons tripping his excrement-bespattered moccassins and trailing from the grimy seat of his chaps, his colors and his choice of never fashionable duds making him the pimp painted by num­bers, the robber (not the robberix,) I mean, he looked despicable, understand, insulted a go-go by life and its brownnosed acolytes.

Black fellah, frowsy beard, ugly as hellion, surely deranged, spoke some type or other of spic, swollen tongued, with a mouth full of cotton balls. Repeating: “–Nineny-nine, nineny-nine...; I wah o de money on the bah” – meaning he wanted everybody to go fast, 99 miles per hour flat filling his plastic bag with all the moneys from the proceedings so far today.

We hid behind the big melons – melons, bananas, the smell, the shape of them, bell-peppers, aubergines, cauliflowers, strange penetrating fungosities, malignant vegetations, monstrous growths, give me travails, awake my suspicion, worse: make me drowsy as hell if too near my face – and yet I’ve got my angry nose stuck to a pile of ‘em, our big heads are too valuable. My shift-fellow, Dick Ratsheart, his battery-belt always on hand, sundry lethal rot-gouging implements hanging there but no prick to speak of, and still less courage; can’t even approach, can’t even smell the butchers’ horror side of the store, where the repungnant state of corruption gets multiplied by plenty, many bleeding fold. Bruises busting, worms pooped, crud-swallowing beetles raucously carousing, dead horses as circuses where the spiky-legged chitinous easily skunk the morbidly shaven, curs climaxing, ­­­vixens disem­boweled, cats skinned, ganders and drakes flying headless, spraying loathsome substances at which a few debouched cleaver-wielders indulge, hands suddenly lost, some taken-ill, vomiting wholesalers, falling into the grinding vats, goaded beasts from outside and smuggled road-kill, all become daintily-packed fetid mincemeat, freaked-out scales-technicians mistaken for fleeing as shrewdly disguised game, slain on the spot, im­mediately turned into cutlets, hocks, sweetbreads, and rumpy choice bits sold to peeved puppet women, fashionable, perfumed and made-up, waiting for the latest and juiciest at the door, summoned second-sighters and the other edgy crazies unheard of since this fateful crossing, and more adventurous or deluded­ly snared patrons by now amnesic and turned themselves too into grubs feasting with the live hogs, showers of shit and tainted lymphatic blood now and then overwhel­ming the place amid the jeers and joy, fake and true, of the orgiastic miscegenating swarm, among which you’ll maybe distinguish, as the most keenly affectionate in their sanguinary endeavors, as the most sedulously and sweetly employed of the entire chiggery bulk, hey, as the more-the-merrier exulting, and merrier and most ornate in tripes, the girdled sadists chiefs of maneuvers, in cheap pride chewing, not gum, just raw livers, slashing the while left and right, spilling the festering guts of the nearest more or less bulky organism they meet on their putrefying-earth path, whoever they’d be, and I point with filmed-over eyes at the sorely stung, pudgy rubes taking their pleasures where and whenever they find ‘em, and running with them, and giving back as good as they get, unrestricted evil caroming no end, fucking butchers, damned hole, ass of hell, most repulsive ever affair all over, that’s the upshot, into which tease us as they may we’ll never plunge, we humble unjaded dealers with the tamer blood of vegs. “–Hate blood, that’s why I always say: hang ‘em!” Bear with him a while, hear him out – better to sip some than to be a sap. He’s never arrived at the frosty realization that the fucking shop he so much loves is nothing of ours, but that alas and alack we are of it.

Obsequious shiteater for expediency’s sake. Splattered brains: pretty picture for you buffs of the rubbishy arts. All that has to have upset her no end, Dick Ratsheart, must comfort her; sentimental sap, let’s me and you elope; elope with me slithery shadow through the as yet unsealed back door – the cops about to rush in and guns blazing – out of the shambolic whirliwiggy wiggly whorl spins off a clear clean plume of independence: yours, meaning mine.

Rear door, allows me, on account of dying moth – avoid the cops and all their incoming shit – the scene is nothing interesting, not our compositional style at all. Ssplattered brains, squealing, extremly uglified females (their animality comes to the fore with the least grief, the anguished lineaments look like they’ve been stenciled with a hor­rifying deathmask, a specter superimposes itself on their face, a corpse of let’s say six to eight months,) what a picture amounts to, all that? No even a good still life, the greedy maggots not excepted, you bet.

Head of fruits, rub him right he’s pretty ammenable – careful here, though; aggresive disgruntledness always an almost sure-fire option, witness the rate of suicide: is very high among super­market workers – all day in contact with rotting stuff, caged in stinks, a routine fit only for stiffs, the bloody pointlessness of it all. We are not some kind of sublimated grocer, quite the contrary, rather. Pure degenerates. No dealings to speak of with just people, customers, loiterers, bulkers, retailers, unloaders and stevedores, salesmen and sundry product and produce represen­tatives, indeed a spate of peasants: county growers, local farmers, tiny cottage industrialists, do-it-yourselfers and their work-saving contraptions, and, concomitantly, a dispiriting plague of shadier specimens: cutthroats and, worse, the cops and “prote­ctors” organized against them and their lone wolves, rogue elephants, pack ravagers and syndicates, and then machinists and handymen, fractional repair guys, smooth-talkers and underhanders, chiselers, gypsies, in­novators, extortionists, wheed­lers, cheaters, debtors’ list en­demicals, shoplifters, food inspec­tors, and the lot, plus other maniacs and bribees, the whole floralia, and we, instead, not smelling exactly like live roses, for, when all’s said and done, apart on colliding with the rest of us zombies, damned nest of ants, short constantly the whole can of worms of going berserk, mistaking for the pervasive stink of rot our own pheromones, and getting at each other’s necks with our creature tweezers and earwig scissors, or alter­natively with our vegetable parers, whittlers and cleavers, and sharper box gouges, we deal only and shake hands with, or our fist at, fast decaying or for that matter already dead and long dead dead matter, at any rate with the wrong unsalable kind of commodity already feasting on and in it, meaning saprophytic life, naturally, not the resulting foodstuffs anyhow anybody’d care to crutch his way into the inimical lairs we loathsomely buzz around in for hours on end day out day in, and everyday with more incitements to sin, the cutting and mincing tools of the trade, the headache spheres of turning lights, the replicating udders of the gamy dowagers, fondling the items to soggy shreds, plus the yelling spoiled-rotten row after row of rowdy monkeys they carry, atop the blaring announ­cements, add the refrigerators’ din and the iron grids, much worse yet: the feathers, the guillotined heads, the bowels, the fracid meats, the liquefied matter slithering its way to the escaping holes, open impromptu sewers where all kind of hooves skid, the spontaneous fires burning my brain from all sides, resulting in a zoo consistently about to stampede, at any moment now, well, and that’s the nature of nature in its natural state, and it’s the nature alas of our accursed line of work... So put up with it we do, but shaky, ashen, menacing, and armed, always armed, reentering the ebb, batedly loathing ourselves, but swearing revenge next time we are up, and the locksmith flounders and the metal gives, or the metal melts, and our mettle explodes and our gouges arise and no locks barred and everybody pays, the fucking zoo goes to bat to commence with, so, to sum up, take us with tenterhooks and fluffs of cotton, we are fragile, we are tinder-like, we must be treated nothing glib and obliviously matter-of-fact, you handle us nicely, with all the world’s tact, like I do with that frightening numbskull Dick Ratsheart.

Hey, the key to what I am comes with my a.k.a. – Dahell Juno. Ms. Dahell Juno – meaning, loud and clear, “–The shit you know,” got your number backwards and front and anywhich way, I’m wise to you, I’m on to you, I know what you know, and you know shit, though you don’t even know you don’t even know shit. Most people talk, write, read, perorate, parrot and repeat whatever the shit happens to cross and sparkle for a sec the rot of their minds, and, by golly, they take a fancy to the notion, isn’t it spiffy, and snippy, and deep, and here it goes, here it sputters, plenty of pyrotechnics very often, and they stutter and utter it forthwith, as though relieving themsel­ves... But they know shit about it, all your drivel-selling profes­sors, and sermon-spewers, and the endearing slobberers: the tip-giving tip-getters, the cogitating under­takers, the flighty welkin-renters, the zealots and other gematriot with all the complicating abridgers toward the sanctorums where their mummified supremes keep a whole kettle of nothing, the silly-songsters turned bridgers upon the frightening skids, the eerie miracle-workers slipping thee another mickey of good-sense, the multipar­turient, their truisms the same as those babbled with the knifings on the side by pimps fighting for turf (actually for the cunts bovine that graze on that turf,) let’s not forget the slithering after-you-joint-our-sect lagniappers, the sinister out-of-jointers, the everlasters, the hooded besmirchers, the looming new-worlders, the presumptuous antiquarians, procurers of the profuse, the ponderous, the unwieldy, the farty vent-givers to hermeneutical diarrheas, would-be slave-masters all, the pervasively insane, the elucidators and interpreters of the finer points of sundry liturgies, the dogmatic commen­tators, and cur­riculum educators, and rabble-arousers, the bible-thumping, bib-wiping, asshole-spelunking, and ferula-wielding, all the pap-delivering soapboxers, the sop-spooners, the bleeding-heart flaggers, and father-figures, the sentimentaloid, the hominoid, the whole Babylonian hairdressing punditry, eek, the sinecurists and their lousy roving associates, the frauds, legions unnamable, all those crap-peddling creeps, the missionarilly positioned, the last-riters, their long-gargled oysters, and the gipsy bullshitters, the shovels of rotten manure of all their ethnic noisome shit, the trash and the rheumy hogwash from your crowned speakers and right featured talkers, and the chief-whores, the faggy chefs, the whole gamy gamut of publicists, everytime they vomit some “deep truth,” or parable, or haran­gue, or whatever the truly deep sensible shit, aporetically inquire: “–What the fuck!” Better still: answer softly, Dahell, on the side, Juno, at the margin, where the wild greens grow feracious, ferocious, tasteful, private, and free, reply with the lethal stick of your kept composure, not at letter more exclamative than the next, and, above all, your response’s a given, Juno, I know, again, stick it to them, reaffirm yourself by remem­bering the most sacred secret name, Dahell, the one to which you are sworn until you sigh your last, namely, ok, Dahell Juno...! Rather: Da-hell-Ju-no, Dahell, psst, quietly, unsnared, kicking up almost no dust, it was nothing worth a flare of anger, lost causes lost, and getting it on, Juno, woodsy path along, easy snag, not even a stumbling, just a leaf, turning a new one.

As to the etchers, which I realize I failed to include in my heart-felt, though on second thought too mild, too softcored diatribe, I’ve got to say, being as I am on their side: We etchers don’t lie; after all, what we do, it’s only a picture; people know that pictures are only that, we don’t put words on the figures we draw, we don’t..., wait a..., what tripe I’m trying to..., the gall. Actually we do! We’ve sold-out, with all our woeful strenght, as a guild and from the start. And actually the masses are maggoty – they’ll believe anytime any kind of pap, witness the millions upon millions of images for sale, laughers and laughing-stocks grotesquely and universally depicted, and no wonder I dislike both spine-chilling categories with all my might, a braze of clowns sanctified, eek, tacky devotions, gaudy halos and radiating lights, revulsion instinctual; and look at the religious, the political, the propagan­distic pictures in which we drown, they lie consistently, and no apology. Damn, I was thinking the bridges, the arches, the branches, the expan­ses, the rivers, the moun­tains, the icebergs, the oxen, the carts, the ramparts, the skates, the snakes, the birds, the clouds, I was seeing only the homage paid to these honorable constructions and dignified beings. Fuck, aghast. Shamefaced, biting the dust. Retracting, staggering back. Scratch all that then, come on. We etchers lie through our toothless gaps almost all the time. I know that almost don’t cut it, but almost is bad enough. We etchers, the shit we know. I won’t ever etch, other than in my mind. That’s settled.
Maud, sensitive sounding board personified, although try as I might want to be tough and unfeeling – an artist at heart alas doomed by fate to be more than mere mortal and furiously hated by them born-decayed withal. As either Kickarow or Whore-Ace was wont to spew: –Thou canst only imperate over this earth with the explicit permission of those that heigher up hold the bag of destiny’s strings. And thou canst shit upon the gods as much as the need arises and thou art able to comply, still they, being non-existent, massive resounding board like, will shit on thee all the harder. It’s like pissing at the sky a rainy day, like shitting upside down, your asshole throwing ignominious injuries at the raging clouds during some stormy, hailing, lightning-ridden night where necks are bound to be wrung.

A painter (painterix, painteress?) of the mind, all the action inside the private vault, room for myriad master­pieces, a sixth chapel where the conjec­turing has no jurisdiction, off limits to the rest of the concocting head, silent, inconspicuous, exiled, sly, unpindownable, therefore never more a suspicious charac­ter – too scalded a pussy, a pussycat, for these shenanigans any longer; for instance, during a previous recent unfortunate per­sonification given alas to often dream about the lost eden where infants frolic and gambol in the birded woods, feeling again the balsamic health-restoring smell of pines, finding once more the light treasures of softly perfumed variegated tree galls, running the gamut of delicate colors from nuts to berries to toadstools to the shady and sunny leaves, and thirstily drinking from fresh pristine mossy singing foun­tains – last Tuesday still, when Rob Kingsly Browning was my moniker (Mister Kingsly Bee for the intimates,) in hallowed remembrance of the greatest of bards, not forgetting the strict ancients and the curlicuing overbrimming vates – so here I was, suburban poet out for a des-intoxicating walk; obliviously stopping now and then to write with the wisp of a pencil fragments of lines on a bit of paper – cruel above measure, the idiot burghers already sic their foaming dogs, unsheathe their rifles and bellicosely, eager at the triggers, post themselves at the window sills, the killing children go rabid, the fat addled-brained all-day-shitting wives phone the cops, the despicable turd-minded snoops of the neighborhood-watches try to run you over with all and their intrinsic self-defeating clumsiness, the helpful clean-cut youths are liable to commit again and again the slight mistake of slaying still someone else for any kind of thoughtless misapprehension, and never any qualms about it – ‘tis in the nature of cop-minded scout-trained reverent trustwor­thy youths all over this land accursed – don’t know what the hell they imagine, so many generations of being fed the dripping suppurations of superfluous junk, probably they suspect I’m boning up on the situations, to show back maybe in the wee hours and bugger and burglar them blind, tough chance, who wants to add the likes of a collection of rotting heads on silver plates, namely the dreadful instruments of their quotidian selftorture – “–Aroint the churl!” they fuckingly shout, uptight shits with squirmy quim-mouths, all want to do you in, every right-thinkingly sanctioned implement of murder in tempting reach, until you take notice, of course, and your nape’s hairs rise, your balls shrink to nil, your bowels churn, your eyes turn myopic, your skin gallinaceous, and by and large you’re diminished to a borrowing rat wishing itself an armored fish hiding among the blades of Poseidon grass in the vast prairies at the bottom of the sea, and thus off you slither, for your life, trying to stir not even a speck of dust, sliding slick like a porpoise off the swamp, untethered into the ocean – by fear neutered withal; all my efforts at ex-pression of an otherwise too pressured numen rendered nugatory withal; by sundry venues aggressed, no leisure to unlock the crypt and spread on the bitty papers its treasured mysteries – you won’t catch me again, though, that’s the last time you play me for a sucker; figments of a nightmarish mirage, I swore and then snored them off forever, their war path never once more to be crossed, forgot­ten the convoluted directions, “–This way to the abattoirs,” eek, off me map, busters! – the unpeopled meadows are laid on the other side; even among the har­rowing citys­capes I’ll venture of a whimsical or more compelling opportunity, but you are to shoot at me no more, the ducky, sensitive poet’s dead and burned, and his ashes are spread thick over the minefields where the abstruse softenings that you-all are unaccountably grow – with a fetid puff you went, overripe stinkhorns, one and all in a fruitless chain last time you were dreamed: wily vapors flown.

Straddling the eras to and fro from fiery end to fiery end to the entropic empty expanses, the glaciers, the deserts, the infernos, the flagging suns, the searing winds, the poisons, the meteorites, the storms, the gases, the unlife. Shrunken, shriveled in a forgotten corner, striving for meaning – because after all cunts – albeit their nifty unripeness – were definitely not it. Unshrined, the vitrines smashed to smithereens, with the tasteless smudges washed out, the little unladen idols roam free. Birdies peck at them, not chomping at the bit, cavalierly, in loose tranquility, as when they peck at sandy pease, or scuff at wet firecrackers, and the fizzle slowly turns imponderable. All excess gypsum shaping limbs, lineaments and attributes fell off; then the worn out body cracked up, that’s the way the superannuated goodies crumble, the cracks broke down at the fringes, the railings collapsed, the stuffings protruded, became toys of the merciless storms, the aimless vicissitudes they were subjected to finished them off. Used up, dis­carded, disappeared, that’s the end of the cycle reincar­nators ride melancholy-bound and yet the while peeking abreast. Fate of bikes, remission to rellapse and back again; on the fritz now, soon on the mend; hope untrammeled, you bet, and plenty roads still left. Now I’m the bike, now the biker. I’m a bit drowsy, I think I’ll close my eyes for a bit. But now on the train home the soothing equations of motion muddle up if the coifed man with the big chin queries you about the ticket, or token. Hexed by a pug-nosed hag perched nearby, the massive rot zone veeres toward us. I answer: “–No,” twice. He brooks no arbitration: “–The token or bust.” Always discard ‘em, now I’m at a loss. A good chunk of his immense chin has been recently sewn up in a vain attempt that he perchance afterwards might’ve looked cuter, this I’ve immediately own, but, as I was telling, not a chance. As the bewildered shades conferring around our circle wane, and the train hugs the tunnel, through the hag I bolt. Where I’ve gone only the fey and lonely know. You can see the thighs from here and the females pissing in the toilets, and, through the comfy rug, for the reputed welfare of bedbugs, you relish the vision of the emblematic chamberpots under the bunks, for here’s where I’ve hidden: at the forlorn cellar of a wagon-lit. Where Fang gathers, and belongs. According to the law of the land, I’ve read someplace, anyone caught crying in the undercarriage – “crying” in this case meaning: “making his the use of the concealed master faucets” – and, much worse yet, if suspected of “spilling the nectar running therein,” by which dis­reputable act the crimes accrue (and incrementally the longer the spouts spout,) moreover if the randy use of the taps is against one’s own flesh – signifying I suppose when you insert them in some of your nether orifices and I don’t care to speculate about which other emergency room shenanigans – the punishment, and no replevin possible, is, if the paper had got it right, the suffering of the tanning of the wacky sybarite’s skin – the wider the patch of it, starting at two feet, the worse the degree of the crime, naturally, and the tanning, withal, performed by executioner tanners using methods (otherwise only practiced on pelts extracted from corpses) hellish enough to warrant mentioning in the Annals of Horrendous State Cruelties, of which more anon. Never would it occur to me to “cry” of the shit-carrying pipes, if only the law wouldn’t give one the idea, and also, by so hysterically forbidding it, imply that to top it all it would be so bloody pleasurable. So, I took to tinker with a spigoty contraption nearby when from an empty rusted tin of tea, a rat, its guts just overflown from the impact of a silent bullet sent no doubt by the sinewy gigantic mister Chin, the aforesaid train marshal – already, if the fleeting perfunctory peeking checks, wielding a gun with an opening enormous as one of his sputa of tar – nugatorily emerges, only to collapse anew, and pat at my nose. Plasticity be damned, the rat looks on me like his chin on him... Anyway, for continuity’s sake, I finally quit musing – and please observe my ass ap­proaching as I recede backwards, as an impaired snake, toward the last corner where a recess full of refused disabled berths are piling up. I can’t hear any longer the garrulous wives nor the grunts of the fuckers, here all is rat arty-farty yick-yack.

By and by, faint teary groans behind the thick walls of next car – the jinxing, hexcaster hag being questioned for complicity by throaty jerks, friends of the chief ticket puncher I’m damned to have athwart. “–This train shall never dock,” gyps now the feckless passage enabler, and adds: “–Yonder fen dismally looms more and more (for I’ve got the benefit of windows) as your final resting place (many fallen are felled and fall, happens daily all over the tractscapes of this land of secret agencies). Get!” The new bullet dutifully bricoles about, and dots, as lucky dies, even my livid cheeks, fore and aft. That’s no life for an already accomplished artist endowed with many endowments. Even my linguist’s intricate excellencies fail moi. Situation becoming absurd. With the mind’s elephant eye, I see us all together charmingly pooh-poohing away our nontheless avowed-to foresights of atrocious entrampents and the concomitant presupositions of the direst fellest deaths ever registered. “–We had some celiac belly-roarers, didn’t we, also sundry gut whipcracks; I almost shat my regulation armored undies!” – that would quip mister Charon Carrion, or any other of the uniformed Chins, whereupon (with somewhat tainted mirth) all would guffaw, haw-haw-haw, including crinkled-up me, who on an intimate dangerous dare (for if too out of their paltry reach would surely infuriate the touchy lot, unpearly pigs, or the arm will violently reject what the mind can’t grasp,) I sillily unfolded and thought – yeah, crinkly me could even spice it, good-naturedly enough, of course, with the odd learned touch (elegant in all my motions blest or accursed): “–Reme­mber, ha-ha, that a protracted nightmare not unlike this one befell kindly fellowman Atlas, a guy just like you or rather me, sappy, helpful, well-intentioned, a priggish pismire who, much as the gamy snails he patronized ever since, carries the sins of all with light fluty flighty fleeting feet, mirror of gentleness, never meaning ill toward the rightful shibboleth-keeping authorities and in consequence often misunderstood for a wittol and a petulant lachrymose piece of shit, please, I beg please, don’t hit me again...” – for I was antithetically picturing their logical reaction and the new pains, contrariwise, that also could be shortly wracking me instead. Saw then the sixteen anointed judges sitting in ferocious judgment, the hype was on; I had been rendered almost senseless with a whack on my skull with a butt, and, therefore with no struggle to speak of, rapidly smuggled by a bunch of my big fruity foes to the end – rickety car if one, the freight one, with the contraband carrions, and with the mail bags, and hardware and live cattle indistinct; once and for all, it seems the thugs have taken over, and about time too, no longer the excruciating waiting for their abiding power to become all-concrete.

Of a sudden, the truth dawns – dying always am­mounts to murder; I’ll fight for my integrity, I won’t be branded another gristly killer, I’ll ressucitate myself whatever it takes and whatever the number of tries, my only regret’s the present choice isn’t more heroic, resourceful, ruthless – another gun-addicted, muscle-bound creep, for instance, would do – I mean, just another of them, on the side of the surface winners for once, anything to spare the hide.

Where’s the veggie, witching hag when you need her? Disguised as another hoary throne-scouring drone, she could succor his fateful, now doomed, seat companion by chucking a few handfuls of styptic powder (or some such, maybe more elaborate, trick) on the beggarly tribunal ready to max out a sentence too action-interrupting in its unheard-of truculence to pay the pains to record here or elsewhere. Damn. Malignant cut-cutters, after the limbs bit by bit, so that at the end of this middling average half of the trouncing even the trunk’s become nugatory – and the heart beating withal. But no, forget it, no aid from this quarter: she’s also left me in the lurch, con­suetudinarian avowal, alas, story of my cancatenating lives. No Lucille, no Maud, no Polly, no Pippo, alone.

As chief indictor, Chin points directly at my left eye, the one more darkly given to phosphenes, and, when there’s light, more ridden with floaters and flying specks of dead absorbed gnats, beetles and flies – a frightful faggy swatch of balletic images is already commonly mine, I didn’t need the added owing of the modern-“art” delusions provoked by any so-proper law-ad­ministered contusions, thanks, I would’ve done nicely without, kind reminder for next time, if you’d be so personably amenable, I gamely pinpoint, good-guy policy, and so on.

He’s bran­dishing some sprigs of yew he’s pulled, by jets of sudden energy – windowwise? windowwards? – from the wild hedges run along with us. Seems he’s conjuring the ill eye I could’ve otherwise been cursing them with. But who knows. Later, cursorily, he deposits the sprigs on the table where the jury (still mute like the moot point of it all) scowl and sit.

“–Well, hello here, and how do you do? We lifted your nightshirt and pulled you some leg, didn’t we?” I’d wished he’d greeted me thus – instead, he invokes the sins of the son (or some other ceremonial piffle like this,) and, after vying a bit with the woman in bed (for every juror’s got his own and all are more or less vying also) in order to attain some sort of necessary trance, lastly, down the funnel of an histrionically evoked V (like he’s diving into deep waters or something equally cauldrony,) surprisingly (unless he’s turned my advocate) he kens the summum of laxity. What! – the uppity wrath of the grivously vexed queen of the bunch. She dwarfly stands on her bunk with no man, and, with a faint gesture of disgust, dismisses from the premises the big droopy fruit. Unbelievable.

While Chin’s dejectedly ejected, a sizable branch of exotic yew, much as a suddenly striken match, burns of itself, alone on the periphery of the elongated table behind which the jury’s berths so smoothly waggle. Through the car doors widly drawn open, the navy sky pours in. A little fleet of party-fishing boats graces with its coruscating white the aubergine surface of the lake. Staggering cloud formations call for resplendent insurrection; agog, envying the insects, like them hurtfully allured, I can’t but bend down my plucked eggshell-thin frail cracking neck. Damn to hell my adult drive to the barren high-falutin’! Wish I could be again a flying hero...

“–All hail Tarman!... From the demeaning shaming tar he’s constantly covered with, pristine feathers suddenly sprout, and his legs become thin sticks of black scaly steel, his talons and beak are now wildly mortiferous; he’s another bright keen-eyed dignified bird, glory of creation...” With a bit of angry self-generating heat I rise fuming from the grey tender malodorous heap of the humbled, the crestfallen, the cheaply dispensed with... From the middle of some of those sad growths of rot, which on closer look happen to consist of shambolic messes of hunchbacked ster­coraceous newly transmogrified worms the harrowing drudgeries, the iniquitous inequities, the criminal daily ignominies have compelled a few plain humans who once dared face the scowls of the powerful tyrans to turn disgracefully into, a blinding light with the body of an assassin bird is shining irresistibly forth... Among the excrementicious non-descript blobs a phoenix is reborn, magnificent, eficacious, flamingly lethal, proper as hell... “–Hello! now we are cooking, baby; everything is getting straightened out, the ill-perpetrating fucks know now, to their bodily and psychic detriment, indeed who’s boss; the avenging resplen­dent black bird with the wide stragulum of immaculate white feathers, and the ferocious razor-sharp nails of its wings and feet, and the fangs of its beak, astraddle on the two beaks of the moon, or the forks of the oaks, the arms of the crosses and telephone poles, injects the worst virulent fear into the hearts of the proud and the vain. Hooligan­dom, hoodlumhood, thug-thug-chug-chug, all the nauseating kingdom of the robotic, military-trained and the uniformed is in for a rough refreshing shake up, a whole turning over of the manure pile – and guano shall fly, guaranteed, for Tarman’s loose again, Tarman’s afoot, the tarmac mac with macadamia nut nuts is about to pounce, boo, and all the bullies do tremble, yeah, they most certainly do...”

You betcha, wish I were a dreamy little boy again: maybe then I’d dare to jump – “nothing risked, nothing earned,” the comics heroes’ mottoes ring and agitate for a second the ashes inside the canopic urn my cranium’s become. No risk involved, no risk incurred, responds the scaredly weakling I’m playing instead – necessarily, seeing who they’d prefer me to be, the lame hostage that wallows in self-pity and frantic apologies. Here at the dank fusty cellar meanwhile, helplessly splayed as a just smitten bovine, first (the splicing being somewhat defec­tive,) wink as you may, much as you strain, the layers of dark matter keep their booming assault up for a few adaptive beats. Keep your cool, the stale secs are bound to elapse. Add tret to tare and pay off half, that’s what’s needed, the right maths always cut the simmering down, else the tear and wear of a brain too hot soon shall have you worn out, torn to shreds, gone to pot – the new extra input weighs your frame down, unload one half to the back burner, come lighter to the front...


Lucille and Maud (6th)


The mind reels in protest. My fault, though. With these so frail hands of mine, afflicted with grocer’s itch, added gages of the crime my hazardous larval occupation after all is, I ought to have throttled the ailing bitch long long ago. Let’s draw the hermetic lid down, let’s tame the eager skorpions, picture them again instead in all their lofty composed glory, the jewels of your crown, the vision in your mind slowly erases the pain of what of have to see in actuality: what a putt-putt downer from what the pun-rich and uplifting ideal could be, shit, otherwise ‘tis too frightening, the sinewy furrowed leaden carnival mask of a malignant chink she sports for an ordinary everyday face that you so much long to crush under­sole while emerging to better purer lands, a longing so ancient, probably active since before she was even miscreated and destined to rake with her trident your spirit’s raw body for the length of her natural unlife, but wait, when she gets mad then her mug’s the pits, I can’t stomach it for a minute, gotta escape it in a no-wait dropping of the lids, exiled to the inner landscapes of girlcrease bliss. That youngish girl love business, a typical anaclitic love if I’ve ever seen one: as rejected babies and later on when still tender, we were palmed out like poison packages to neighbors, hired perverts, priests, scout-masters, orphan and charity charnel houses, boarding complexes, military schools – now our spirit’s still hooked to infancy and early youth when the melding and bonding took place among us aban­doned infants clinging to each other for dear life like vatfuls of maggots – we’ve known nothing else, that’s the love we’ve got imprinted, now blame us, and thanks. I’m not saying we’ve all been hated as kids; a child feels often rebuked for the wrong reasons, he mistakenly thinks the cause is animosity against him, lack of any suspicion of love, and although the results are ultimately the same the springs of the harsh rebuke might find themselves in places undreamed-of by the reasoning tools of somebody so tender: mental cases, death having struck nearby, terminal illness, heartbreak, malice between the parents – a still much more common occur­rence: when the child’s suddenly rebuked for his own good, specially when he can’t be told why, for secrets can’t always be divulged – you don’t want your kid to drink from a faucet the spraying tip of which you’ve recently used by way of sticking your immerded ass to it in order to wipe yourself more thoroughly – so you slap the kid before he’s able, thirsty as he is, to plant his lips on the infectious stopcock, but will he ever understand the reasons of such slappings? – he’ll remember you forever for the creep you’ve been, because what one does one is, in spite of whatever the intentions – each of us is entombed in his own shell – we are the shallow flimsy masks which we most in­timately choose to believe are in fact, and by all means, just some invented hackenyed entities that, once the chickens have come to roost, will hatch in glorious revelation and will prove easily discardable, forgettable and nothing stranger from the real deep meaty us; we’ve fallen prey to the most prevalent of tricks, the trick of self-decep­tion, which makes us believe that our (anyway inexis­tent) essence is just make believe, a handy disguise we offer the can­nibals that lurk about everywhere we care to step, a shell the devourers will be satisfied to feast on, whereas, meanwhile, the brilliant us, safely ensconced, shall thrive on, and so extravagantly, once the excruciating difficulties are finally sur­passed. But the shell and you are one, you are the shell and the shell is you – that’s the snail that some joky miserable masons building a wall once stuck by its shell, the opening looking out, to the mortar between two bricks. After the wall was built and the cruel masons gone the hell knows, the smarmy bigots noticed, they always notice, don’t they, and soon came in droves to worship the phallus from the wall, or the wall with the phallus, or... (the dogmas diverged, so sundry opposite churches arose), a wall anyhow with a miraculous phallus you could beseech whatever the granting with the simple (though everyday more expensive) offering of a single dangling salad leaf – an erection would mostly mean the granting had be accorded (some heretical sects mantained of course the contrary, but what else would you expect from the borax fringe calls itself religious) – soon the wall became over­weeningly prideful, it thought that, albeit smallish, still it must’ve been the only wall in history with its own working integral phallus (and no trick involved, imagine,) so that somehow by and by it seemed to augment in size, to swell (though maybe it was only parasites: fungi, molds, lichens, dry rot and the many saxifrages, with the specific brick and mortar ailments promoted by the unhealthy piling up of ex-votos and the rest of the ludicrous pious decorations by the smarmy thereby affixed and underneath which the tiny enemies hid,) whereas meanwhile the snail, wouldn’t you know, also bethought himself to be something else altogether, he boasted he was the one with the most powerful shell ever, the biggest, the amazingest, the incrediblest, the godliest, the heavenliest, and though he couln’t go anywhere with it either because it was so humongously immense and heavy, also no matter, all gods worth their salt remained sitten, enthroned’s the word, witness the queen bee, the queen maggot, the men kings, their shells so enormous no way could they go anyplace, no need either anyway, let instead the faithful come to them and worship so smarmily, prone to fall mouth agape in front of any half-baked link of circumstances if insanely enough misexplained to them, anyhow look at me: a big wall for a shell, though now and then, when I get the heebie-jeebies and I have to shut myself up far from the eyes of the multitudes, and then the brutal depression sets in, and I’m but a humbled piddling hermit, in my protracted drymucused retreats I dream myself a free naked slug wandering about, maybe someday too tired of so much adoration I’ll become the slug I’m in profound reality... Alas, no snail is a slug, and our doomed snail with its magnificent shell, and our doomed wall with its wondrous little prick, had become one and the same, one the shell of the other, the other the thing of its shell, and when the dying came and the stink of the rotting came as it comes to every phallus and to every god and to every god’s phallus, the bigotted smarmy went to a newer miracle-working marvel, and the forsworn wall slowly crumbled, and the ruin became dust, and some of the ex-votos dildos for the naughty girl puppets of some playing snotful adorable girlies. Here is a head-scratcher for you: answers to the name of Chuckles and Sobs, diddle-diddle, the girl and her fiddle.

I was thinking, seeing them steeped in their breakfast: talk about bottom-feeders, burying their ostrich heads in steamy pats of shit. So in a burst I said good-bye, my second train won’t wait for me, you know. Shell of me train, I’ll soon be yours, and you’ll be mine, and we’ll be each other, one.

Rabid through the fart-dense air, reached the out of doors, exulting new found sense of belonging, my shell’s waiting for me, gotta rush. To the air smooching gorgon gave the crafty quotidian slip, kiss of death and so on, virulent vermin, pathogens alive, not on your life – would it be like kissing your own dying mother, not much better, eek, sucking the head of her dissolving mug, rotten black humors sloshing in and out of craggy cavities, gag and gaggle at the murderous thought – however, ok, I still need the bunch, couldn’t do without, and, all things considered, they come cheap, gotta keep ‘em somehow, and if one should fail me and beat it to the other world (the one alas not in-between those two where only the non-being holds court), oughtn’t I to hurry and replace her with another as acceptable to society at large as those two (three with the faltering moth,) hard to believe, are after all? For they constitute as a whole my thin veneer of respectability, admittedly at times they are no more than a transparent coat, you fool no one covering yourself with them, but mostly it works; they are, as I was saying, my old rather cheap fast-shrinking crackling glaze able to properly antique (you’ve got to look half dead to be let for dead to enjoy in relative tranquillity half the benefits of being half alive) any covering surface – covering what? – like the sunglasses cover your roving eye, like your trousers cover your wayward cock, and the dead merkin on your head the dangerous seething plotting going on inside your all-sides-covered skull – daring, future-bound, in secret permanent dialog with all of the few selected thaumaturges: the all-time team (you’ve made it like in your day and night dreams) of semper current reality creators, they are always backing you, at your back, pounding to break and enter, each giving you no rest, each your buggering monkey, Goethe, Browning, Brueghel, you name ‘em; you’ll forgive me, but oh mine orks, yes, got ‘em all intimately enclosed, and, if you see me doing just the indispensale minimum to earn my keep, I offer no excuses, busy enough in the invisible much more productive fields, also a:) my world’s elsewhere, b:) I’m in close contact with the centuries, c:) don’t fucking need any of your piddling, immensely annoying, thought-dispersing, track-muddling, the altogether venomous rip-off of your company; rebus sic stantibus, things thusly standing, I dwine for no change – on tenterhooks I throve, why would I now wish for any different – the day I cull the fruit of all my longings surely I’ll be done for, the satisfaction kills the illusion, ‘tis plenty known. I prefer a hundred thousand odd million times to remain yearning for what I can’t harvest, lacerated, forsaken, abominated, vilipended, filled with obloquy, a simpleton in a cave eying the meaningless shadows, butting my head on the mighty wall at the end like a tiny cock trying to penetrate a goddess’ giant marble statue, than to get easy as some grapes and break my teeth on them, and my mandibles, and the nugatory cauldron where my thinking brain used to plot ways of being able to but specially of avoiding to really succeed in attaining the desired forbidden object. I’ve been only once to a graveyard – for a November first, went there with my parents, I must’ve have been seven, eight, and what I saw made me swear never again to have anything to do with the dead and the shitty places where they gather – since then no gathering of more the two or three has seen the likes of me, and you never will, for the stink of death gathers around each of you and, stands to reason, the more you are the more overpowering and sickening the stink you let off so that it reaches my senses and really kills them for months on end – that’s not your ornery idiopathic distate, I know for a fact it comes from all the no-account dead you carry with you at the back of your memories where they’ve sucked off all the subtance – whereas me I only carry the live geniuses of all-time which instill me with their controversial wisdom, and whom I help on becoming, still now, wiser by way of instilling in them my often far-superior own, all said in a tone of just convenient humility. For me life’s supereasy. The all-hallowed dictum should be that: with a slight improvement on the acts of your parents (nothing more spooky than when their still imperfect eidola catch you unawares while looking yourself at a mirror,) you’ve done your due (by these standards I beat them for an inter­sidereal mile), your due for the continuance and the hopechestness of your specious race or racist species on its race to sense and to maybe putting some sense on the whole race, the race track, the finish line, the refreshments booth, and who gives.

All lifelines end at the dead swamp of nothingness from where time has suddenly evaporated – time, a mere appreciation, can’t anymore be felt – the hand of destiny was suspended in air, aloft, free flowing, surrounded by no-time – the arm of being ends on a stump – a mutilated wrist filled the gap, now definitively reopened and not to be sewn up again. In view of all this, let’s keep things into perspective, ok? You are worth probably millions, you fuck ‘em, you infect ‘em, you don’t even take the trouble to bury ‘em. I smell ‘em, I eye ‘em, I dream ‘em, I honor ‘em; I must be worth some kind of tiny minus. Once child-love has become profitable again – money being the shit you are still playing with (and if any shit should be abolished, which pete forbid that I ever should propound – no, long live all the shits, and shits be added and multiplied, shits go forth and indiscriminately fuck each other and produce new legions of even unheard-of new shiny bright burning shits – money is the first candidate I lean towards abolishing,) while the shit I play with, though less solicited still packs a spectral wallop, many, as Pyreneus himself who following her, blindfolded by her paradisiacal aura, climbed up a high tower and when she easily testily charmingly teasingly flew away he, whiffing away, thoughtlessly still, walked behind her, and so fell tumbling many stories to his unimpeded death, many of us are bent also on dying to attempt to attain and faintly touch through the abysmally deep though very narrow cracks her veils’ tinseled hems; she proudly carries the hallowed whole name of: Interstices of Fake Reality, the flimsiest of phantom’s intoxicating clits aroused in front of us as Himalayas – and yet often I find that Miss Interstices and me, Mr. Girlcrease, Infatuated Girlcrease, often feel that we are like this, specially when I shiver: a couple most dovetailed – anyway, when, due to the profits it turns, child-love becomes again generally accepted (“so en­riching to the child, and such a powerful builder of self-esteem,” the cheap psychologists shall claim,) then alas I’ll turn big time turncoat, and my hobbying urges will be deflected toward, now, let me think, I could turn my weary old hand to something still more disgusting, its indefensible sex-appeal still more glaring, cock­roaches: could they be drilled like fucking armies, they look the same to begin with, and their tasks, encroachment, anonymous numbers, insult, rape, spoilage, look also akin, what is each is poisonously loose upon the world, each purveyed with ist own microphones and loudspeakers deafeningly repeating the secret converstions to the won agoras of the world, and better: microcameras, and best: atomic mines, silly musings, I would never dare touch a fucking one, but what about lumping together (ah, remebrances of the luminous lumpen of my youth, when all the women were adorable goddessess, the almost naked gypsies, the crazy white-sick nuns under their many long skirts steam-cloud pissing on the dust of the streets by only stopping an instant and separating the legs, the unfastened bobbing allurements of the common so beautiful women running to me, afraid of the passing herds of angry cows,) what if I mix in a bowl millions of the greasy abdomens of termite queens and beat ‘em into a pulp, with a pestle and its sizable mortar, pumping down until the syrop’s made, and later I drink the love concoction, and fall into another coma, and wake renewed, I start seeing beams, trunks, logs, timber, firewood, for what all them really are: lovelies of wood, alive and vibrant, incandescent and amorous, and I should like nothing as much as making them all my paramours, here I am, another insane timber-hugger, making hidden love to each, falling in love with all sorts of wooden struc­tures (how many silly women or crappy fags have fallen in love with a chair, a table, or a flagpole; well, my turn,) ranting against this other horren­dous monstruosities of stone, steel, glass, plastics, cement, and yet finding local lovely objects of lustful penetration even ensconced in the holiest shrines where the bourgois money-grubbers fart their seasons away: party head­quarters, palaces, sport arenas, universities, cathedrals, pentagons, capitols, relic houses of past presidents, robber barons residences, corporate skyscrapers, capitalists emporia..., because with child-love again kosher, where the fuck will I find – I’ll be really lost, no taboos to profane, no strictures to break, no more sillinesses from the “saved” to counter, no in­junctions to further ridicule..., because I’ll tell you I’ve got to be in eternal opposition to all this or­ganized shit: the world, the worldy and natural laws, both totally arbitrary, and above all, the dying: the dying, the anxiety: the anxiety, and the anxiety of dying... Beneath the grime of all shibboleths: more fucking grime. In an eyeblink I would’ve done a better job of it all, compas­sionate, reasonable, understan­dable, with only moderate pain, no pernicious bugs, no fury of elements, no dark ominous no-space, no black holes, no fire, no ice... But look around, look behind rather, all those nightmarish dead, tattered flesh falling from flavid brittle bones in unspeakable rags, desperately trying to cling at you, tortured, oblivious, beating your arms like helices in a hurricane, let me be, you shout, let me be, I don’t remember any of you, I’ll never will. Could anyone have botched it worse? The demiurge’s the fucking devil, that’s the maximum dirty murderous bungler you so scaredly worship, you know! Lucky that I don’t care for him either, another lost ion shit. In the begin­ning was my ass, ok? Little girls, though, only single excellent idea I’ll surely repeat, “thank pete for little girls,” as that other flabby Nabokovian used to sing. Boo, though. My name now’s Marcion Nichtsärmeresunter­derson­nal­seuch. When I sign you can safely bet I don’t do it with no fucking horned cross; when I sign, wich happens very very seldomly, rarely, astrally, I always have trouble even remembering my current name, never guess it right, often I invent one on the spot, and it always passes for the echt stuff – of course, I’ve got no account to any of my names, so whatever I sign: petitions, bills, receipts they sling at my eye or stamp agroof at my nose, nobody could care less, carry no weight whasoever other than the added shit of my funky name, are like most papers aloft flung by the breezes and winds totally worthless.

Scan around in case any new one came my way; not so, enough revelations for this lifetime, thanks. The air is crisp, as they say, which I guess is also matter for rejoicing; I’d dance a few steps of a gig, but old things look so clumsy, don’t they? What was the silvan beauty told the vice-addicted idiot employed all his saving on this trip to the Amazon River, or was it Malaysia? Thailand? Remember you had climbed the crags of the riverbank in hot pursuit of your faintly glimsed muses. “Are those the tusks of some of your mastodons in the crotch of your pants, Dennis, or are you just glad to see me?” Dennis it is. Same as some grownups, amend it to: same as most grownups have the brains of an infantile moron – believing in ghosts, angels, leprechauns, imps, lives after death, designer universes, all sorts of arbitrary compartimen­talizations, resurrections, reincarnations, deserved fates and other calvinist piffle – many children have reached sage poised maturity at eight and before, know what’s healthy or not, spurn and scorn the simpleton’s pledges to religious and patriotic enslavement, kick to the river of no-return the mephytic sack of metaphysics, where the “truths” grow like toadstools of smoke, forget the whole dogmatic boring borax, and can cope with their own desires, and with those of alien bodies (some repugnant pulsions have to be thwarted either violently or craftily, others, much tamer, those of the ewe-eyed moonstruck, which show as mis­derected loves, need to be nudged and redirected without farther afuss) which can all be used to their own enrichment, finally in sum they can beat you mentally to a sorry rubble. The alleged venom of all those sneaky pulsions too can easily be evaded with the relativization method – which could go thusly: ahem, ehem(alig) ahem(aler), ahem, now: what’s the point in the random balance of painted molecules the painted univers presents at this juncture? No point whatsoever matters, a point added or a point elided, makes a different painting altogether, and yet no matter which it does not in the least matter. Matter has a knack of painting itself into a corner, and then shambolically call it quits and restart the explosive remixture. What’s a female child’s privates but the chance encounter of a few purpled hued molecules happening to pass and collide with no purpose whatsoever, and yet building a joy and a jewel they are already trying to erase, obdurately eager to disperse and pulverize again and be painted into another surely less successful culdesac? But why rob me of this grain of ritual salt? ‘Tain’t me the shitfucker devised this game, the most nauseating and criminal ever devised, you bet. But again, why should my life be reduced to nothing beforehand? Are you killing me again? Are you rushing me to extinction because you delude yourself to the point that you believe yourself to be the shitfucker’s arm? This is your perverted pulsion. Go and relativize yourselves, murderers! If the children have to be protected from someone let’s start with you, worst conceivable bane, instilling them, to begin with, with all the killing constructs that ulteriorly shall wreck their own life with the lives of others and their unsuspecting descendants, doomed despicable race of creeps for time immemorial. In my inner eye, the real criminal lurks elsewhere; on the mirror of my mind I reflect rather hapless and with a glint toward comprehension never alas quite met; while in the muck-dwelling eyes of your crime-making mind and those of the filth-stirring laws it slimely secretes, I’m painted like the devil you secretely worship, and you want to kill this hated image because you also yearn to be free of yourself. Keep very far from me, wouldn’t want my molecules to have anything with yours, I have this distate for the tasteless and garish and painted in hatred, in blood, in lymph, in pus, in shit, in sickness and in death.

Spare me the boring compulsory tablet parables with wells, ordures, dunes, waterskins, camel crap, crying walls, sharp curved steels and the repulsive conceits of your regular bigotted creeps, as well as the other piffleous ethnic classic tales; all the clarifying goes on in my own head. From the homesick infant-loving tripsters to Thailand lured to the foreign swindling fields by their irredent passion for tight witchy twats to the armies of repression, sinister slinking clouds of noxious officers followed by rosters of hobnobbing accomplices, often disguised as irregulars – same disgusting wrappings: the uniform, the single-minded intention to destroy, the faggy hell’s angels, their leathers, the chains, medallions, muscles, medallions, stinks – same as prison-loving guffins (can’t stay out of, couldn’t cope for long in the nastier and dirtier world where only the hypocritical, the brownnoses, the otherwise un­rapped as yet, and other possessors of means manage to get by, even, in the more treason-ridden cases, to thrive,) those vigilant matrons – she needs the addictive affection of other gullible dumb scumsucking cows, she’s always suing for pity, they are always the victim even when tearing at your battle-weary throat, they are complaining nonstop, they find even easier to hurt themselves and specially their brood, their dying withering sons, in order to arouse the care of sundry and all, nobodies and strangers particularly included – fat lady gone paperthin ghoulish belongs to this mur­derous class – they wouldn’t like anything better than to be taken for another suffering “god” – one more odious cruel despicable entity everybody names as the pinnacle of fairness and beauty just to propitiate it, because they mistakenly fancy that it wields some power (some wildly exagerate and ascribe it ludicrous omnipotence) over their destinies, and chances of their death being indefinitly delayed thus increase, when in point of fact, if it’d be at all, that chimeric patchwowrk clown wouldn’t nor couldn’t ever be but a nogood bully peculiarly augmented by a curious tryst of giant-making molecules, some macromegathug everyone should bandy against if only once in order to reduce it again to nought, a desert barren black-hole particle-splitting zilch from where never should it have been in ther first place allowed to arise – all of them, shady fauna of a zoo I’ve been catalogizing for years of train-riding and cursory strolling and superstore haunting; there’s by far shittier passions, plenty of them everywhere you care to fix the roving eye – mine’s trifling compared – there’s the de facto toad-skinned pederasts, your regular scout masters, coaches, teachers, sergeants, priests – the greasy bowel worshippers, the society buffs, the killer cops, their counterparts the cop killers, the faggy prides of the nations, mauling and murdering dogs defenders of the monied until death does them part, the solvers of unsolved so-called crimes, so obdurately pursuing others when why is to kill in cold blood now better’n to have misbehaved under whose rules in the dark past? – all prey to searing sentimentality: no rotter of innards more speedy than that – hospitals, graveyards, barracks, prisons, churches, the pits – blob-blabbering crying women esthiomenating this asshole world.

A fact: tearful cows galore: overheard it yesterday at the hospital – before the hecatombic incident with the fate-twisting wastrel bit of wiping paper drifting my way and falling, oh mine orks, yes, agroof on my teeth. I gathered they had seen each other sometime during the last weeks downstairs at the dismal radiation chambers where the shabby phantoms slowly melt while waiting for hours between savage bouts of annihilating radiation, formidable poundings of venomous rays burning their souls, lost shades in the subterranean underwater Greek hell, and now in the glare of another aimless corridor, the distressing feeling is mutual, surprised both that willy-nilly they are still clinging to the shambles of a shuffled glumness their existence’s become, they feel they’ve met or been introduced to and that they faintly recognize each other... “Aren’t you the one...?” “Yes I am; how did you latch on to me; there were thousands of people there and I feeling sick to my stomach, I thought I was dying, rotten bones and all,” he’s immensely gratified, I can sense it, the youth noticed by the superannuated hag, nothing more womanly epiphanic, the desire oozes from their pussy cunts. And she with a sentimentaloid fish face drowning in tacky grief quasi-sobs: “Well, you looked so much as the love of my life. He also died of generalized cancer pretty young you know.” Eek, if only I’d been a twinge heroic, how would I had relished the fast demolishing kicks before turning the next corner to another corridor where even death sometimes gets muddled and forgets to pick away the too ripe hopgoblinny rotters.

Sarcophagi uprooted by a hurricane. All those ressuscitated mummies still walking the more and more deteriorated earth. Here come the arointers, the lynchers, the judgers and prejudgers, all the trigger-happy shrunken worm-eaten pricks, they are ogling about, eagerly searching for the next arointable catch, dying without rest to stone the bejeezus out of any faintly perceived code-breaker, here are the hordes of the cretinous christians – we are the fucking blessed: the more you suffer the happier we get – here is the juggernaut flatironing the kinks – everybody must become an idiot: that’s the ideal – paradise preconceived – uh, the legions of chaperons with their chaperonic faces, jaundiced dog-wankers, farty raisings on a corner polluting all surroundings nonetheless, foisting bizarre guilts in minds unformed, raising sins, inducing crimes where there were none, baptizing murderers all round, giving them new just invented wrongs immediately punishable by death – no one more infinitesimal in human worth than those that are sure they are the fucking chosen ones – if anyone deserves extinction – the sheer repugnant over­weeningness – I nod my head right and left in slight salutation, but I don’t mean it, I’m only telling: yes, I know, you are another creep, yes, yes. Another respectable whitewashed sepulcher, stone in hand, looking spasticly up and down to fall like brainless vultures on whoever happens the be it, the new wretched fallen one.

Some lackadaisical little whistling. We all look so innocent. Call me mister but mean master, ma’am. That’s fine, your umbrella, hey-hey, every instant might rain. A few years hence, and all your carbon copies will still be flying about, smashing agroof on my also wizened mug. Hope to be there to see. Every funeral seems to produce more of you. New spates all the time, soon I’ll feel flooded thoroughly – always heard as a child the new very near end of the world should be a fiery one – must be the lava exiting in big turds from your nicely upsy-daisy mouths. Yes. Adroit cloacisms galore, everyone’s a consummate eschatologist, all know for certain about the apocaliptic appointment soon to be met, and about the comings and goings of some fellow called God, about the whereabouts of heaven and hell, what the hell is cooking therein, loathsome snivelers, how the supine virgins exactly managed it, how the efflorescent Tarman does it, relentlessly raising from the downtrodden and cursed and nonetheless still invisibly giving her a slight fuck, and none the wiser, his prick the finest needle, much as the tooth of the rabid bat, how every dope’s rope runs out and where precisely and what do they show the dice of his ass as he falls, their mouths are full of it, the plasm of being is some kind of sanctimonious pap, rumor has it that everyone’s going to hell but each one of themselves and their fucking cat, groveling slobs, ah, I swear, we know it all, how the astrolabes shall go bananas, from the leprous wall thick festering how blood shall pour, from the dark massive clouds rain rats, from the sporrans of their cunts, erst nests to angels, now little albino parrots shall rise and hover about and sing the glories, and from the aquaria the little uneaten goopies shall link hands in joyful festoons while carrying their Buddha-assed matrons again in as­sumptions sacrosanct, and all the ironmongers, and truck­drivers and construction workers, and the rest of the awkward roughs formerly unwilling to share of the spoils, same as the pestering nymphets in their Thailand bordellets, all the fucking daddy’s little gals lost in their fairy tales’ cobwebs, shall surface an instant from a sudden rent passing gas and, before fading again in the rumbling depths of flaming hell, all the smug beholders shall be able to enjoy the spectacle: they’ll poke righteous borak at all those murdered children, oodles of grubs in a tin thrown to the blazing coals, watch how they wiggle and thirst, the sinful, the outpuzzled, vainly attempted all their failed life to break the patterns of thought imprinted at birth, they fell on their faces, dogshit varnishes them, ha-ha, nature tricked them outright, couldn’t withstand the temptation, god’s trap, pleasure reproductive misspent, trumps misdelt, worse luck, fucked yourselves, you must cheat nature, she’s the whore, not the maximum authority, not by a long shot, too late you’ve learned your smarmy lesson of today, they giggle and grin, and niggle and nag, and like niggets salivate, though none of the spit reaches the parched tongues below, of course the drops evaporate much before, weren’t you taught that as an infant before you became also another murderer, a child who murders following the injuc­tions given from the start, shocking chow! they’ll laugh, what must be the screwy woes the fucking solypsists must now be going through, and they’ll bitch for eternity: aroint the infidels! bash in their carbonized skulls, they’ll yell and neigh, and they’ll laugh like horses, girl, I can’t wait to die and see the lord again, and won’t it be fun -

Indeed, a gas, it’ll be a gas.

Indeed. I hear you, ok (remember? that’s what the poisoner slave used to have to answer you with) – right on. My eye goggled first time I noticed. On the mirror it was, and my eye couldn’t be trusted, could it? Easy to deceive a single doubly worn mortal eye who always strove to get the right angle even amidst the darkests mists. Well, but here it was, indisputable. On my lip as on the lip of every other human. Anyone I think could check for himself.

Walking to the station in the lurid naked dawn, at the windows guessed shapes of lazy sleepy-eyed youngish preening females, picking down there with those lovely narrow unpainted nail-chewed none too scrubbed fingers I so much yearn instead to suck clean, of course, or combing their pinkie secrets or already tinkering with the ass-wiping rolls – my, how I’d lick that pretty just slightly cacated fuzz! Aha. No tits the ideal, at the most the teeniest of buds, as opposed to the aged horrors of the dire buxom monsters. Nothing precocious either – I view precocious as a purulent blister of the self, you know for a fact it will soon burst in a rebarbative mess. Please spare us the vertiginous deterioration, we’ve got better resolutions already at which to focus our attention undivided. This side of death and shit, I can’t conceive of a finer softer passion. Let’s level, ok. I only ask for a first taste, not even; as I was saying, a first smell; less: a first peek; a first inkling is already enough. Later, you, whoever, however many are able to, can eat the whole plate and more, I couldn’t care less, cram yourselves. Exactly: later. Later, when I’ve slunk forward to the fragrant new batches, let them choke on it, and with whichever seasonings they choose to add, their tastes might be odd and even nasty, me instead with very little I’m satisfied and plenty full, thanks.

Still waiting for the next train to arrive, the morning getting ripe; I’m standing near a slim column, when out of left field, somebody resolutely accosts me, shit, and with no time to hide – is she addressing really moi? Oh-wee, I’ve nobody stuck to the other side of the column, the column and me, she’s talking to us! “Hello,” she says, devil woman, all delicious temptation, and I love ‘em so – narrow short red dress, red highheel shoes, red short hair, pink skin all over, vision divine cum spectacular, lips, tits, ass, legs, my eye becomes lit cinders, lid flown open, its urn getting fast depleted, and she’s smiling familiar­ly at me! Had not even noticed her dorky daughter at her lower side. Totally startled, did I manage to hello back? Just barely. “My daughter,” she’s saying with a slight indication toward the silly tyke, whom I’m hardly aware she’s even around, “is so glad you always wave at her, how nice of you! She says: this nice man always waves at me, and that makes my day so happy, I think you are such a lovely man, caring for the children everyday, waving at the school bus when it passes your way...” What! I was speechless, agog. She had me down pat, and I had never seen her, and anyway I couldn’t recognize the boring girlie, they all look alike, poor projects going nowhere perhaps, my eye wouldn’t descent to such a paltry inchoate entelechy when the flamigerous vision per se was there realized and letting out an aura of paradise found. I was gagging, stuttering, inarticulately retrieving the cursed accent from the depths of prehistory, I was talking like the Piltdown man, gargling like Fillmore’s bathtub, what a nogood horror show. “Well, you see, I-I wa-wave, and, ha-ha, ha-ha, er, hum...” And I’m feebly waving like the last bughouse idiot on dope, when the stunning apparitions is already getting on her way out of the station, smiling but shaking her head, and my eye – bewitched! – is gone behind her for a mile or more, up the stairs, down the ramp, into thin air, and, even after she’s disappeared, my steel gaze keeps on following her reverberating eidola for ten minutes or more. But what’s the incident mean? I’m asking, while slowly cooling down, what does it do to my dear paranoia, where does it leave my vaunted powers of observation? I ought to have felt so ashamed, seen my performance, and con­sidering what the premises clearly evinced (they got my number whom I didn’t even know existed), and yet instead I felt strangely buoyant. When the train finally docked, I climbed the car jauntily. Sat down in a corner, deafened by the roar of my purring till by and by I came into my own.

Now scan the car, at this hour (plenty of huddled tired guys indeed, and scattered ugly Lazarus-like she-wraiths starting the ordeal anew, you’ll tell with how much more enthusiasm should the drudges, the wretched refuse going to dredge more ore for the rich, put on the promise of a another gray morn) nobody of my range to phantasize about with, draw the lids shut, safely instal yourself inside the smothering rhythm of the train: she loves me, she loves me nuts, she loves me, she loves me nuts... Pack of blunted unsuspec­tors, I must unwarn you, proceed as if nothing, in en­hanced con­tinuance of your blatant demonstrations of ignorance. Your senses adrift, busy of themselves in the shifty caves where any anchors shun to tryst, you’d miss the patently obvious, meaning my silent-winged flight, for the nugatory evidence of the eviscerated ballast I’d leave, for a token of my presence, behind. Can anyone intuit it? Who cares? Our perceptive implements are at loggerheads with each other and fail to click, too rusted or warped with misuse, tricked nonstop by the phony epiphanies foisted on us by the ubiquitous misinfor­mation concerns, trustworthily debriefing our relations, even at several removes, of our least moves. Driven pawns, you are right. And we comply, and how; we do comply, and complacently so. But what about you? Same here, man. Your most dedicated crotch smeller’s happily aboard. But who’d tell. Mousy yeoman wobblily trudging to his harmless barely noticeable oc­cupation, another useless fake stanchion making believe he’s propping up a somewhat more decorative also quite easy to pass up pillar of society; another dwarfish beetle-browed nitwit worrying about always inconclusive nimieties, an inbred reticence to stimuli of the higher type, another irrelevant pawn drenched in the tackiest of non-significant fussbudgety fidgetries. Hello. Sappy impersonator of yet one sap more – he lowers all antes, he annihilates all expectations, he does without notches, he won’t score if the entire system’s all tilted his way and sports a cunt bigger’n a sad circus tent, his dainty doodad emanates no spasms whatsoever, his charm’s zilch, his sexual drive never knew you were supposed to have any, you know. Bloody ‘ell, poor devil’s worse’n dead. He’s inces­santly trying to get rid of imaginary villous cobwebs clung to his face the second he was born (“unsheathed in blood and snot, and flowing shit and the remainder of gagging putaminous dischar­ges”), nauseous gooey filament remnants of the uterine and other woman-tripe veils disgustingly shrouded in undisclosable secrecies, there he was for hours on end, integral part of the abscessed sore, almost hung until death on his own afterbirth, or so he claims, and that now the moth of death uninterrup­tedly grazes his brow. He values his life not a groat’s worth, he feels so volubly vulnerable he leads the unlife of a godless hermit and yet, devil take ‘im, he can’t shake the gloomy feeling he’s watched and doomed, the target of much cruel revenge, he’s running up and down, tripping on the tatters of his tawdry garb and breaking his residual teeth on the rougher barren crags which are his sole habitat, and still can’t shake the unblinking snarling scorning dogs his avenger sics everywhere he blunders on, even, and even especially, at night. Such nasty per­severance at intimidation only bodes some sizzling crisis of frayed nerves no balm will ever help in healing. You don’t say, but who might the fucking very vicious avenger be? Some spectral much enormous messianic bigot acts correspon­dently crazy, of course, for so he was taught in his tenderest youth, or rather got the appalling notion branded in his brain which now only a new substitute brain could maybe delete. What’s the likelihood of such a liberating move ever taking place in the shambles of his haunted skull? Indeed not bloody likely at all, right you are; we don’t happen to release our models with backup brains, and cloning’s a whole new kettle of poached fish; so we are left with no option but to sanction the fiasco of his seared raw reality and perhaps try to look elsewhere to quail the mordant embarrasment. Shouldn’t he call it quits, declare all assignable forfeiture void for reason of inexis­tence, and, once over this hump, quelled the stubborn intent to go on, just tip himself off down the cliff he hangs out at like the despon­dent exiled vulture he’s become, and thus be spared the further tastings now on tap for him from this slew of gratuitous punishments only because he was more or less born he’s got to go on enduring like any other of your dumber animals. And by the way where are the souls of all your eaten chickens gone? Isn’t it there exactly where he’s also inexorably bound? We wouldn’t make any exceptions, would we now, where’s your sense of fairness? As to why not let it all hang and go hang, where is the safer bet when to die is to absolutely fail? Not by your hand, surely, some allowance must be made to the bounties of will brought to its desired end. The squabble’s moot, I rather deem; dying’s dying and the venom’s dead too; something’s afoot and I’m afraid it is the quipping ruse of hope. What gives? He’s dissing even death? Ok, he’s a fucking coward; plus he dutifully reckons there’s always room for a reversal of fortunes; also, why couldn’t you die first, and he from his soaring heights the sniggering witness? The cheeky beggar, he’s right to watch his back; and does he therefore walk on eg­gshells? You bet; who doesn’t and survives for long? He wouldn’t dare transgress any, would he. He’d be rattled in a trice. Stubbly vagrant, would he ever be capable to reinvent himself? Not a chance, his nowadays shell is more than a second skin, a first and only, he couldn’t shed it and walk another step without falling flayed on the floor and nothing short of immediately becoming a fumy manury blob something passing monstruous must’ve just barfed on its slinky path. Anyway, why would anyone notice him, a nothing in­conspicuous dot, heaving con­tinually to the deadest side of walls, crossing no boundaries, in fact always keeping miles off, never at­tracted by the flaming hotbeds where the vacuous effigies burn out, wicked shadow-walker, ordinary maverick creep never approaching the too rowdy firecamps where the folds waste fast, ferreting uncannily on, always far from the cross-hatchings of your gutsier plunging hawks, shy sidewinder hastening backwards from the chaotic asphixies billow in cloudy dusts after the effimeral precursors have passed, flattened but resilient rush amongst the rushing mass, always gone and always in place, biding his aimless allotted time in stifled anonymity, brown crumply suit, missing button on the cuff, slightly torn pocket atop, spindly permanent knot on a shining old tie askew, threadbare dirty shirtneck around a scrawny loose-skinned plucked chicken neck, scant hair, small crooked body, no face to speak off behind the sun glasses and the trim mus­tache, thick socks, gummy shoes, a silent wisp of stink, he’s passed on and his still here, slight blurry frame spryly practicing invisibility, till he’s got the hang of it, gotta honor his word of being nobody... Beautiful description, sir, but I fear me you dispropor­tionately flatter the bereaved much shabbier original. He’s an ambulatory shit heading nowhere apace. You do him no justice, what’s the deal? You’ve mistaken him for another of your myriad burgeoning drones buzzing mindlessly on, going about their preordained chores, walking their doomed trajectories to a speedy purposeless dry sudden extinction. Whereas he’s unpredic­tably leaning you’ll never quite guess whereto, for he’s convinced there are path­ways to squander, him you can’t pin down so easily as he pretends he can be and one is encouraged to deludedly believe. Watch his antics; the poor devil’s gone soupy. Yeah, what’s with him? This drone don’t work in proper and hallowed or­thodoxy; we are tempted – don’t we, brother bother? – as we very seldomly are, to just let the bugger be; no hand-leading stern paternalism for him, huh-huh; his awful loss; now one of the fucked damned, and no respite. A raggedly bunch of lame arguments all if I ever heard one – but what else’d you expect in such a lame addled crippled congenitally diminished brain to ultimately ferment? Be serious, come on; let’s squelch all remaining flapdoodle, we’ve already spoken. You’ve got it, let’s scram.

Zeit ohne Ziel. All’s permitted – within reason – without the sensed presence of the flagitious salivating gallivanting clots would cow you to submission, and them only lurking in your parasitized mind, figments of old fears now frozen into the selfmur­dering genus.

Indeed, and, if I analyze it coolly, where else if not from the prototypical paradigms stems the smoothy passion helps me tally off the dreary days? Whether you suppress it at the root and just add another lie to the mess of your life that festers in envy or you indulge it in a criminal fashion and you are in for odious troubles untold, you are still missing the golden mean of letting the sweet faintly guilty pleasure just sink in and warm your whole being like a constant friendly ember who sprucely lurks, and fondly, at the old end of all your racking dispersed times; your trip across this hell is less crummy with the little light lit of each budding beauty saintly met, like the harassed fugitive encountering now and then the yearned refuge of a hallowed shrine, whose feebly flickering lantern, and specially its deliciously glabrous silky lampshade, affords a wide consolation and, having rejoiced and renewed your heart, pushes you on you way still, as it should. For the trip’s all – and don’t you go awasting your questing vims on stranger and stranger shibboleths – itself alone’s salvation. My goddess, swore gratefully the weary voyager about to give up his dying ghost, I can smell your freckly cunt for miles on end, ma’am, and I love it so I pledge to yet reach the dainty temple wherein wherever you go you’re still duly enthroned. For no self-contained enslavement is more powerful and yet rewarding than the one that comes from the deepest wishing well of all. The well of instinctual sham wisdom we all should share, gathered through the crapulous crap-filled millennia and willy-nilly passed on by other self-denying creeps like you and the good-guy quite ack­nowledging few others like me. There is no form in the universe so en­dearing as the crotch of she who immaturely walks in sweet sweetness through the sweetest remembrances from an infant earth, and no smell is more pleasing to the archaic brain we still sport. Plus ‘tis easily imaginable how protopathicly assuaging must’ve been for the poor prehistorical savage, warrior or otherwise, which better more fulfilling repose I ask you. Nothing chases farther into the ignored boundaries of oblivion the night wintry specters of deadly uncertainty nor wards off more efficiently the wolves of dumb anxiety; why think about death and its ubiquitious immediacy if you could instead diddle the silk-lined soft-firm thimbles of a few young’uns? Go ahead, old damned wild ogre, you lucky dumb thing, monkey toyfully if you must a little bit with it, what else have you got to monkey with? But seriously, could anyone conceive of a better package for the senses? No way, that’s how we are build, and we’ve got to accept without added repressions nature’s best if not only gift to man, primitive and extant, no difference. Remembran­ces of course of instances sublime that never happened in quite such a dreamy light, for the dream is in the blood of the race, sublimated, of course, but which better pleasure could possibly top the en­joyment of her unspoiled fresh beauty for the ancestral paradigms, of which you are but a mere copy, remember. Cir­cumstances fashioned us, unescapably. That’s how’s been decreed that we be. Gotta live with it, sons of nature natural. The ancient paradigms want you for their latter embodiments. They got you by the balls; make you whistle at will, cry uncle as told. Most salient of the prototypes’ inherited instinctual traits, you wouldn’t be so heartless as to diss your first dad, the one moreover who gave you the tools and the right-honed tricks to put them to healthy en­joyment proper – would you now, honeypot mine? Hear arising form the fustian subterranean cave the glib echos of archaic long-buried pulsions: baby, they are alive! – sprightlier than damned sardines from the aboriginal brine, the prime most tasteful dish from the globe’s primal stew. Honor their welcome injunctions: be a man, gotta love it. From the proudest place up the subconscious sacred mountain where the experiences of the race have, since the very start, alluvially collected, brightest beams the image of the promising goddess – she just will bloom in you, by your taumaturgic touch. She’s waited all your life unripen for you to activate her into a full being; no, she ain’t total until you come – and open her to the world that is. Clad in linen, for any other kind of fabric blisters his skin, the dedicated pilgrim seaks far and near the much attractive shrines and bows to all, one by one. Of course, he’s gifted in his one way, and like this who wouldn’t, shameless lucky duck, he’s got an ancestral inbred knack for spotting ‘em for miles on end, he gravitates to where the action’s bound to take place. Prettiest flowers beckon most delightfully from the rich bottom of the collective sub­conscious fund, like beacons and lighttowers warmly aglow from the ages to the ages – who’d destroy the whole race’s heritage and not condemn it to perish in the awfullest of muddle-headednessess, for fear of facing ‘em and smelling ‘em as they are rightly created for? For, you know that, their images are burned since for ever into our minds: images most angelic – here, here they come from – these just-so just-right all-rounded epitomes of beauty swarming constantly around your fleetingly freed semi-consciousness – all those all-sex putte: hanging by a thread from the ceiling of your inner skull, clouding up from the liveliest platform of your essence (though many of them alas you find them dis­guised as silly squinting putti, our misfortune the disgusting prevalence of shady homoerotic elements amongst the mangy painting fraternity, but what a sure sudden deboner, even when at your age the boner’s mostly mental, if it is given to you to glimpse the soft boll of balls and peepee, and yet, how nastily ironic life, it passes muster and even for the true echt stuff if the crotch’s covered strategically with a wisp of cloud or a veil, for you know there is, alluring, mis­chievous, dizzingly scented, gorgeous, as it always should, lurking in marvel, the delightful prefiguration of a sprucer twat) – images so delicious pleasant rewarding to the senses (the senses that by being the tools of experience are the makers of you) that no one can imagine any eidolon more excellent: imminent perfec­tion incar­nate, something you’d worship almost, and that you’d certainly never harm, unless you hate yourself and your own race to the point that you’d rather do away with its main comforting phantasm, the sole kind inbuilt devil helps you cross the chasm – in spite of all your hopes or blind resentments, the chasm you’ve become from dreamer gone-by to dreamer to come.

Don’t die in self-betrayal, just acknowledge once and for all the skittish randy bee in your depleted bonnet still thrilledly attracted to every budding orchideal but cunneal blossom in the diminishing field of your putt-putting vision, your faltering spirit’s poignant ef­fusions, if allowed, even this late in the game, what would they be but a long paean to, virgin or not, topical non-pubertal virgins – only ersatz panacea you can nibble at and fidget with as it were as you precariously hang on – then, as you are clearing your mind and painstakingly con­centrating on this nice illusion, in belated understan­ding, and as well you should, I see you dispatching to the dying breaths of acrid breeze a few puling nods, well done, though, I’ll tell you, glad you’ve come this far, goo-ood boy, how a propos those puny nods when you are about to get it smack in the neck.

For after all that’s my secret longing, at last in fluctuating light waves overwhelmingly revealed: I’m looking forward with all my soul’s frail strenght to join the fart-embalmed cachectic tatterdemalion ranks, indeed to being soon another of your common widowed cracked geezers on their last crutches come sit and hen-brood the whole day at the park, where the young beauties abound. That’s their sole solace and maybe their only allowed activity: divine devinations: guessing at crotches so fragant and fine a rather longish too deliberate more frondous peek might finally send a number of them to the penultimate derision of the morgue. I’ll plop myself with them more daring dying, as near the swings, jumping wheels, purling tires and the crashing leg-logging feet of the plastic ass-scrapers and toboggans as possibly possible, doing abstraction at long last of cops and matrons and all the repressive shit-eating shit-thinking lesser fauna always have pestered us because they are incapable of thinking for themselves and of ever ascertaining what’s good for the race and certainly its peace of mind: not the harpy harassing, of course, but the tolerant reasonablenesses we so direly miss in the world of those last lost todays. In flickering latency, even instinctually since our tenderest age, while naturally tending toward the shifty and shady-sided, we’ve always been storing the proper im­munological devices and thus developing a melancholic fastness against the poison fangs and wingtips of all those much belly-tantrummed public wolves, vile purveyors of quonk, bullshitting on the margins the clean thought of the otherwise busy, noisy affairs all of ‘em only hot on obstructing natural justice, obstupefied by the facts of life, all their brain connexions miswoven in blazing disarray, where a few niggetty biocidal obsessions become paramount and then unique fieldmarshalls of a contaminated barrenness, from which only the putrilaginous gristles of the tails of its doomed skorpions shoot up to gripe about what they mispercieve as our twisted effigies and, irritably, intrude and grub after their projected eidola, our supposed spirits, in fact effluvious shapes of their own cor­rupted minds, while the real us with their own real again more resistant spiritual wisdom-repositories, are always elsewhere far up the gangplank to the shiny auspicious Arcadias of our forecelebrated parks, where we are bound to brazenly arrive, now safely yet misleadingly old, with our long caressed fastnessess come to complete fruition, fast survivors all, cavalierly inured to the moral nihilists’ myriad toxicities, eternally and triumphally giving the smile and the lie to the rotten rotting-teeth liars, and with our capacities for enjoyment all fresh and in­tact. Alas anyhow that I’m not ripe enough already right now for this replacement paradise – humbler truer honester, only blissful, only affordable, only available, only at reach, and only only, don’t be daft, anywhere at all. Double alas moreover (but that’s life for you, it never quite squares up) that as a wee child – when most I could’ve, had I had leisure enough to niggle about those adjacent less crucial quid­dities, and when not many mind-perverts would’ve found it too amiss that at the lee of some fleeting circumstance I happened to poke in the right coigns a few misses (finge­rpoked and doctor-smelled, and even if I’d boinked ‘em proper but, truth to tell, I’ve never been too keen on boinking) – only, and always mostly at a pinch, the monstruously grown up and copiously hairy crotched interested my youth (from years zero to thirty or thereabouts.) Already as a baby, murky lecher yet in bud, safely disguised as another naked maggot, I sweetly remember being able, Summer nap times, to crawl up many a grandmotherly thigh, vast desert of fevered snow, and nesting my nose on the satin nosegay of her asshole and bush; even risking an eye on a busk, I remember climbing other thighs, fragrant worlds of discovery (all points of entrance water at the cat’s-pawed skirts of such heart-melting recollections) – thighs have always been a baby’s easier Everests, there they always are, for him to hanker after and gloat at and deeply breathe in, in rewarded effort and deep satisfaction, once you’ve reached the least of picks – those of some frankly wide-open or else coyly slapping babysit­ting housewife neighbors, those of other hairy-legged (each hair a lissome pike in the soughing snow) sex-starved aunts and grannies whose grateful relief at lastly being touched and played like hosanning psalteries where the cords of pleasure were tautest you can hear still, perfumed breezes for once of real heaven – both dildofied and hypocriti­cal­ly treated as an added pest, all kinds of pseudomoles­tations you know are most welcome – you are a baby you are a prick. Anyway, the promised primeval eden or garden of delightful delicacies at Girlcrease Park for prelapsarian me at my valetudinarian last, I hope I make it, all efforts geared to surviving myself (against any unforeseen sudden failing of reason), and, needless, the bitch.

Oh the bliss of their peach fuzz pussies rubbing on my blessed all-erasable face! Bald Venusian mounts by flaxy myriads orbit my dreams – I must be smiling, wetly like a self-licked sap; what will all the uninitiated passengers think, over­weening little pricks saddled all with their own sham conceits; just in case, let me change gears for their self-righteous benefit and my face will die – and not by old bats out for blood my dreams are orbitted. Yes. Not the soft delicacies of the unfledged, meaning plumpish impubic ones floating graciously, but imagine for a eyeblink the sudden soiling of a collapsing vomit the hoary mangy older ones represent. Too venomous by far, their genetical diseases too ingrained, morbidity too developed, vermin too at home, general and topical spoilage too advanced; they are a no-no stentoreous; you’ll forgive me, but who’s crazy enough comparing, give me a break.

It wasn’t Polly but Molly who was floored from a sudden blow from an almost invisible hand. Remember…? Molly, the deformed and scurrilous she-parrot that, surfeited on termites, started hiccupping, until she fell from he perch, dead. An aneurysm. Fate of the downtrodden. Lucille, tying the latchets of her blouse, not thinking, walked on it – on Molly. Meteoric decline. Crimson-faced Fang… of what he didn’t accuse her…! Of ruining his life, his business, the crowning moment of his artistry, demonstration now moot, Molly being the Thalia inspired recitalist, a what, a burgeoning thespian of unlimited potential, shit like this… And its, her career shot, now “leaping over the rere and lastlings of the play of life’s broils, to end just in the middle”. As if it were not the plight of everyone else on earth.


Never so well

Never so well


anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,