For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dimarts

Lucille and Maud (6th)

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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
nyac!

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

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

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