For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dimarts

Lucille and Maud - second installment






Time a mystery… Such chestnuts flying right and left, and actually the less chestnutty the talk the more parroty. I remember fondly Bembo - recounting his adventures in Mexiko… Quite an original blue hyacinth macaw with an exotic background, and a believer of sorts - rarer in a bird… But to repeat: old Lucille Fang did not believe in gods. She didn’t even believe in herself, she knew she was just a pack of cells that somehow managed to imagine the fiction of a completed being. But she sure believed in the actual existence of Maud. Maud, the untouched; Maud, the unguerdoned, you know... And now she’s almost done, old Lucille. I’m Maud, her daughter, at the side of her deathbed, witnessing her descent into the last dispersion of the jumbled bundle of cells that she called herself. Is she dead yet…?

It’s my chesnutty apology anthumous…, imposthumous…? The soubrette, I mean, the curvaceous nurse with the penistone cloth and the stinky perfume she’s thinking through chestnuts also. And the aged pedophile, and the crumbling avenger, and the daughter - untouched because untouchable. The wretched lets go of a whimper. Twilight. Sarcasms are in order. Echinoderm grotesque - my skin, a rhinoceros’.
I think this is Fang talking now. On one’s uppers (ass aloft) begging for a crumb. Too disgusting. I might be of Thucydides’ opinion, “to know a thing and not to call it out, is the same as if to never have known it.” But what does that mend...? Nothing, not the frail fabric that fleetingly holds my jumble of bumbling cells more or less together. Just an illusion of being busy enough. Avoiding the flies and the stink of the nurse. Something to do. To flee or not to flee. Fleeing is living. Toward extinction, ok, but busy, with an illusion, the illusion one goes someplace.


Often, we grant each other half-facetious forgiveness for the sins of the rest. Somehow we understand. Not for everyone the sense of proper visual collocation. But the actual mess of today! With his eyes, the always provisional patching over, the slipshod cheapness - everywhere extant - impairs of necessity the imperium of the printable. Where is the grace, and the tranquillity, of the ancient city, so deliciously excerpted in our previous sixteenth century pieces? Where even the possibility of depth when everything jumps at you aggressively, including the uniformed, the armed, the crippled, the perfumed. The labile equilibrium threatens nonstop collapse, hum, hum, hideous, hideous picture indeed, uninspiring, utterly; no harmony among the diverse shaky components of construction, way too out of reach for compositional balance, features upset by counterfeatures, we should be very specific indeed (or else embrace uncontrollable ugliness, pervasive, perverse,) become detailists, miniaturists, the field is fertile for rather less than more, and the frantic pace, the noise, the stink! Who concentrates enough to appreciate the promise of immortality assured by our pictorial intervention? Watch, at foot level, calamities galore, the cars, the obnoxious workers, the beggars, the pregnant sows, the scowlers, the glarers, the insane, the sick and sour, the crones, the skin-and-bones, the morbidly fat, the killers, the wankers, the death-rat­tlers, the many-splendored accidental wipings-off; the wrong-rubbing items, plenteous, ubiquitous; chief among the anachronistic eyesores the flagpole, lightning-rod to my utter contempt, and for the shit-eating idiot patriots abjectly floored by its meaningless rag, and, worse yet, for the far more numerous proverbial scoundrels that with its tasteless splotches of pseudocolor cover their putrid assholes; but don’t mind me, only trying to picture something actually worth pic­turing, you unsuspecting, deluded, pitiful saps. Yeah, but who’d understand, age of zombies, something ethereal and yet solid, a wholesomeness wholeness, a presence unmistakable, with a genuine noble feel, a dignified slant for the... already classical - an intimate category you probably never even have heard of. Can’t stomach the preposterous askancers, meaning most walkers, wearing a path about a cage, like a neurotic beast, incapable of observing where the beauty lies, meaning the suspicious malign chunk of humanity, most or you, at all times mistrus­ting your own eyes, believing all types of tripe instead of relying on the mountains, the trees, the arches, the horses, the carts, the glaciers, the clouds, the volumes, my poor suckers, the volumes, to which you aim your murderous misconcerned reck­lessness, your hateful ignorance, the poisoned hooks of your gambling stares, at any hour trying to take advantage, and over what, you unmeek, stuffed, hubris-too-fed-with, liver-rotten with meanness and self-worship, images of gods indeed..., over what, specks of nothing, over the perfect grandiose arrangement of the world? That’s why sometimes I laugh by my own at the ludicrousness of it all, you milling no-accounts, extinction-bound, and still worrying, still apoplecting for piffles, and still annoying my creative stand, never ceasing at arrowing your bad eye. There’s always been people more of less of my ilk, those who, with no poke of their own, only with their mere presence, provoke in the mob the porcupine’s pricklings of ferocity, the fangs and spikes of rabies, the nails and stings of odium and tetanus, tickle the rest way the wrong way, awaken their worst instincts, stir the animus of a whole shitty bunch of dir­tyminded neigh­bors, I refer to those who historically, and even now on select locations, were stoned for a song, were burned at the stake, were set on fire, were lynched, were hanged, were done away with in the most repugnant rituals, and publicly, church-sanctioned, county-approved, the posse slavering over their shiny badges, and with little squeamishness from any quarter at all, and in full light of day, on the spot, spontaneously, no quarter offered, with malice aforethought, the smile of cruelty on the masks of the enthroned, horror personified blessing the proceedings..., until the deed’s done, and the ap­peased file back home, the murderers, the immerded, the full-of-shits head back home where they’ll shit the breeze a bit longer yet, till next feat, with full-of-shit logic, shitting reasons left and right, up to next time, the haunted, designed, or naive and unawares victim almost ripe, they can already smell it, the coming, coming feast. But after all’s said and done, how to blame them? Somehow they perceive our superiority. There’s envy directed at our freedom, resentment at our independence, jealousy at our aloneness, revenge at our magnitude, plain meanness at our pinnacle, mousing uselessly at its moun­tainous base, above all there’s self-loathing at the reflected piddling doodle they get back when they scowl and look at themselves, worthless turds, on the high mirrors that are us. The sorry bunch of them don’t amount to beans, especially when, as always, as due, as they can’t but have it coming, we choose to depict them from afar, alas, farther still, from our tops, crags, peaks down, and congregated yet, anonymous, stuck, insect-like, a fornicating, fetid, moribund, confused, utterly despicable colony. I eat, defecate, work, go through the motions of vulgar vegetating as fast and perfunctorily as I can without losing my cool. Only become leisurely on what matters, namely in my walks, in my inspired spottings, in my fulfilling findings for cerebral framing. Who am I? A monster, a beauty-fed, beautiful monster, hated by the envious throng, nothing to be done, have to live with it; die with it? I don’t think so, your dirty glares don’t ever reach my pupils, aiming always higher, volumetrically mine, gone before you’d ever lock stares, slippery, fuck you, airy, flying, and perched, unseen, above. Where the rare celestial bird yklept classical, whose dark symphonic comb I dangerous­ly inhabit, safely dwells. Classical, ok, meaning for instance Icarus distraught as he plunges in a sea of no return, minus­cule in an enormous godly landscape, that’s the topic, and not the nondescript bowels from the disguised shark that ate him, deluded­ly peering for as long as you wish, inten­ding abortively to meet the contents of his contentment as he ascended his disap­pointment afterwards, you err in color, you blatant silly persons, you plain humans, under­reachers, as it belongs, as it becomes you, as you deserve, always small, almost negligible compared to the order of the world. We the gawkers feel the awe, we’ve got the key of seeing, of taking it all in: respect for the environ­ment, leaving it as found, only enhanced by the angle on our sharp vision.

Not to belabor the stretch - out of my scope, rapscallions! Your damned bad barking peepers are malevolently staring at the wrong carrion; get off my back, bothering cockroach, you’re wrong about me, and you wrong me, entirely, and no mistake. If only could you suspect... But stay, no dice; of course, then I’d be also lynched as we talk; skip the warning, Skip! And crock! Cranium cracked, on the bloody dot; sudden raging, momentous hatred unleashed, abrupt killing, one more, two less, and where then does it leave us, unfinished business, rather transmute un­noticed, which I tell myself, better from brutish ignarian ignoramuses be ignored. Besides, disapproach, please, don’t dare adhere, you’ll rue the adherence, stick to yours and yours; it’s only fair hinting, don’t touch, might bite; scram, right? Otherwise, for your own good: you’ll only be singled out, you’ll only be featured, first cannon, big void, but pride of choice, the protagonist, unavoidable, obviating the surroundings, the eye of all cynosures, but too exposed, of course, your presence magnified, now it manifestly proffers how damn grotesque you really are, how afflicted with all sorts of frightful shortcomings, how defective in all of your parts, negative sum indeed, hateable, instantaneously worthy of getting some potshots, there by yourself, so alone, and stinking to hell, infectious can of rubbish per­sonified, retching’s in order, if by the reverberating cement could you be swallowed, would you unhook yourself and drop without more ado, and how, howsoever, topsy-turvy, slapdash, sappily, hard rain or shine, don’t care, splintering your kneecaps, twisting your wefts and warps, your glass shattering, melting your irons, agreed, you bet, and no discussion, not another thought, oblivion, by the grace of what’s dear, and so on, for hark…! Then, indeed, your vanity will out, as will your stinginess, your sicknes­ses, your too stooped acumen, your cluelessness, your rank ugliness, your all-encompassing spite, your universal envy, your hypocrisy, your bowels, their contents, their by-products glaringly strutting from your deathmask of a face, persona unpleasant to be perceived indeed, her vilest crimes trophies she wears hanging from the gray chunks of rotting meat his face’s reverted into... Don’t let me be specific, too harrowing by half. And why chuck pigs to a sty formerly believed (deceptively) to be ornate with pearly gates and all? Futile straining, disagreeable laying of a smoke of an egghead; you wouldn’t get it, what’s lacked is surfeiting patent, flies on the face, in two words: dis-cer-­ning-taste.

It is as, if I’d be allowed to be so bold, as if… Here you are: these are the sparrows, each one for himself scatters and frolics and gambols, and flies, creates a flight, something to behold, admirable, if bored enough for this sort of shenanigans, but of a sudden, the real fun… A blustering blister, a loud or else silent explosion, a panic installs itself, malignant, all-powerful, every one misses the train of her thought, their insulted consciousnesses lose the threat, they come unravelled, panicked, ok? - and when thus frightened, never you mind the creative fading insipid evolutions, you are so damned afraid, you do your utmost to find consolation, companionship, togetherness, fellowship, sparrowkind or whatever the piffle, the point: if gargling and gagging with their own balls, birdies mob as one, they sorry cowardly solidarians hang together, as you before the aurora borealis, awed but shitting their cloacal brains at break-beak, -neck, they confederate in an ungainly gang, a chain of dunces stuck, hampering each other’s movements, barring on purpose each other’s escape, the whole splut­tering centripetal nosebag of mellow-slimy sleepy nuts now all balled-up, a cloying disgrace, watch out, you saps, here you go, down on the double lickety-split, in a heavy leaden clumsy sere overripe ball they fall to earth and crash like a shattering devil-sparking stench-porous death-tainted coprolith. The show’s too sweet, gotta heavenly smile, won again, and unscathed, the free agent, the victor without batting a wing, that’s me, the free ion wrecks havoc when it knocks about (and hey yuck no touching) the ludicrous molecule of you, with the accumulated poisons of thousands, always inhibited, and in any kind of free-wheeling act, resentful to the utmost, you the hell-bent careening unharnessed caving-in overloaded witches’ cauldron, its stale brew fouler and fouler as it’s bred and fed by your mutual, reciprocal hatreds, me the free ephemeral will-o’-the-wisp; me the free nasty cunning wisp of the willow, you the whole awkward spectacular thunder-burnt behemoth destroys the fucking prairie; me the subtle master-touch of a free widow’s weed, you the ridiculous stamping waste-boot bane and blight of the land. And then here is the hospital, and more moths and broths coming up, served disgustingly rebootedly odoriferously hot.

But oh the pleasure of letting your carcass (formerly your body) be dealt at will by more or less caring hands, you can freely expose your smallness (oh, Shannon, Elvira, Cyrille, Irene, Clotilde, Christine, Monique! Soubrettes aplenty, galore, embarrassment of riches, lolitas a go-go) - freely expose your helpless guileless tinyness and be gratefully rewarded nonetheless by little tweaks, and pats and pinches, and pulls and smacks and punches, and some slight mocking sniggers, and some hurtful delicious come-ons, nasty juicy comments, even some very dismissing barefaced put-downs as to my main inadequacies, oh, yes, I’m small, I’m warped, I’m incapable to reach, I’m such a shitty no-account little-little prick, I’m Fang, the pedophile, I’m no match (not a prayer, plea-ease) for your lovers, and husbands and boyfriends, and sundry admirers and admired, no, sir, especially, I don’t hold a scrawny candle to your dads, huh-huh, not by a long long long, straight, energetic, all-performing stretch, oh, yes, oh oh, ah-ha, satisfying reverie as one starts smelling the pungent remedies, ascen­ding in a cloud of beautiful quasi-memories the mighty stairs to the door of the sweet languor-inducing ex­quisitely enfeebling temple of pain... Not to spin too fine a point about it (to be blunt and not to screwdrive home too sharp a pointless..., blindly embroiders, though unheeded, my jolly hooded-eyed beside-walker. Bloated amender, not your regular bloody scintillator when in public, frightfully tongue-tied, ogling the dregs, the digs, the blondes, woefully frustrated, psychopathically tongue-in-cheeking at his heart content, sinequanonized as the booming heart of the party by the bishops of swing, though only skull-deep, and for later, who knows, and always el­sewhere, always beyond, in his dreams; give it a rest while in the presence of the moth, too nerve-wracking an experience, psst, cut the mush, much obliged,) ok, not to weave too fine a point - once when I was twelve, my mother and a friend of hers took me along. We boarded a packed coach chartered by the local church, destination the mountains, in a pilgrimage to the site of some apparition. Miracles for the shit-swallowers. Even the danger of the narrow passes, with big rocky drops now at one and then at the opposite side of the road, and the obvious clumsiness of the lightheaded driver, the spirits were relatively high, at least around our area, with peasant types, including us, apparently in their first far trip of their lives, and to where a wondrous virginal sighting had recently taken place no less. At a clearing on a flat terraced extension of the by now less steep mountain, the location moreover of a health-bestowing fountain, with some stony seats scattered thereabouts and even some kind of refuge stuck into the rock, with a religious image presiding the entrance, there we stopped, for a rest and a collation for those that had it, wrapped sandwiches, bags of cookies, and bottles and canteens. Mother found the fountain and surroundings spiffy and lovely; wanted of a sudden to photograph her friend in front of the rustic chapel. Her friend - a neighbor, another gullible, devout, ugly woman, married to a bestial ignorant cop - enthused gratefully and agreed, but only if she could reciprocate, anyway, and where was the camera? Run for it, the moth instructed, we’ve forgotten it atop the seat. So run I did, toward the coach; in fact, I ran so fast and turned to where the door of the bus was, meaning almost leaning against a mountain wall, i.e. the side that wasn’t facing the frolicking throng by the fountain, that lo and behold, I caught them! Or rather I caught it, the vision. There were two women there - both in mourning, wearing black all over, headscarf to shoes, just back from a funeral, of burying the man, the father, the breadwinner, of the family no doubt - the old crumpled one, a wisp of desolate doodle, I barely saw, she hid her face in shame, stifled a shout of fright, but she was just startled, betrayed in her watch, horribly justified in her misgivings and admonitions to the younger one not to go ahead in her precipitous dastardly deed, ­she wasn’t the one pissing. The younger one was. Thirty-five, forty, dressed in black to the last detail, tights, girdle, garters, knickers, and she couldn’t stop the rush. Mes­merized, I stood a couple of seconds assessing the value of what I was perceiving to be a revelation - miracles enough for a day. The woman had a black-gloved hand holding to a side her undergar­ments, included her satiny under­wear all at once with the two middle fingers of the same hand atop the exquisite silky white thigh opening the black-haired fringes of her thick-haired merkin, and the softy mouth-watering cunt saucily peeping up, and so that its expedite center could spout without unneces­sary pouting, meaning the gush wouldn’t be hindered in its melodious flowing by the intervening labia, now carefully separated to minimize not the splatter over the pebbles, sweet nostalgic music of my youth, but the awkward misdirections towards the staining and wetting of tights, petticoat and skirt. Then, followed by her un­decipherable stare, I was up the stairs of the bus and floundering for the camera a trifle longer than needed, so that upon descending the pair as hoped had vanished. But never in my mind. Miraculous fountain, apparition indeed, and so on - tag, I’m it, the knight errant pilgrim, forever again after the cup that runneth over, in search of another sip from such holy grail indeed, all these, and more. But to the point. In retrospect, the uproarious thrill of the adven­ture, the blood pounding till it renders me deaf, the gigantic boner, the shivers, the suffused cheeks, the burning brain, had never seen a cunt, much less a hairy black rosy cunt, and pampered by its attendant fleshy, and how fleshy, shiny, whiter than white thighs, still lesser, and that was crazy, a pissing..., a pissing grown real-to-god cunt..., the great sigh of accomplishment, the wellbeing, the graduation into what’s about, secrets revealed, touching the core of existing, the universe centered, understood, all a-ok, whatever, and more, and everything at no expense! Unimaginable, for free, no emotion wasted, no words exhausted, no money squandered... Saw how it works - immediately. Soon as we were back, and I had a moment alone in the bathroom. I turned incon­tinently into an inveterate voyeur. On the spot, no waiting. And then the neverending waitings, loiterings, stalkings, hauntings, the stealth, the emboxments. Constant or mobile, agile or turned to mud, sinking and taking flight, swallowed by running sand, catclimbing the festive pole, catatonized or fleeing like a bughouse hare, always up or down, and up and down, day and night, here and there, so near or remote, you never know, keep your eyes open, all your senses sharp, nimble joints, and lo again, sooner or later the miracle occurs, concurs, becomes. For years I fixed in my mind the distur­bingly delicious images caught sometimes unawares, much oftener by meticulous overwrought design, and kept them religiously, and then, in the dark privacy of my room I unwrapped them and developed and exposed them, and the light exploded in my brain and all was reproduced to the last slow detail.

On the off chance that a fall or a sudden bullet while taking an alarmed powder from the site of a sighting obliterated with one side of my brain the archival treasure of my best efforts, I trained myself to store the algid trysts, the pissing, denuding, masturbating, copulating shocks, all over my conscience, all over my person, my personality, my synapses, my effluvia, my replicas, my eidola, my projections, me and my parallel and fore and aft perspective projects… My projects…? Forerunners no doubt to my foregone, past and future, intimations together of afterlife and of bygone lives, also called, with a grain here of reticence, re-in-car­-na-tions.

Be it as it may, over the ages, as due, all passions spent, everything wilted; this urge disappeared, the thirst for fleeting flesh finally slaked, and with a ven­geance. I’ve come to loathe the stuff, corruptible, sickly, contagious, rotting pasture for wens, stinks, tumors, worms… More as it should, fodder for my righteous contempt; who wants to waste his talents with this piffle…? But the training remains, the marvelous acquired skill endures, subvents as preciously precised the natural gift.

Cutting a swath of astonishing, whimsical dashness among the blind rabble that were dancing with butchering eyes around the edges of greatness with the impunity accorded simple-minded tame animals, I once, though taking it in stride, ignoring the styleless farcical scroungers surrounding my acrobatic, quivering inspiration suddenly grooving and turned on, hurray: a shock! Hit by the familiar volumes, the dismal forlorn shabby museum where I had entered for a lark, now was something else, it exploded with the mental pyrotechnics of an amnesic who returns to the momentous scene of his terror-induced knock-out, in a clean sweep: from his earlier death, now demoted to an episodical anecdote, to a particularly harrowing end of a chapter, with the new next one opening with much brighter prospects, for I had recognized, hanging sullenly (and who wouldn’t, considering the company it by creepy curators was compelled to consort with) at a penumbrous corner, one of our half-forgotten master­pieces. Imbued with a feeling of warm pride of actual possession, I daresay nonetheless I kept myself in a fabulous state of selfcontrol. Admittedly, it wasn’t one of our best efforts: probably too rushed in its completion, our legendary ken somewhat wasted, the detail-freak flamboyance gone temporarily if ever so slightly numb, the whole middling affair surely needily done, for hard pay, for nourish­ment’s sake, nourishment alas of the body - with the sorry payers, a few scattered per­sonages, that canvas bane, sadly prominent. And yet, gifted by nature, honed to supreme sharpness by eternal practice, no secret to our otherwise unparalleled skill, doing the done deal as it alights, as it comes almost prepackaged, no sweat, artists by birth, the contraption, the painting’s a succulent beauty. Even with its (to the naked commoner’s eye, and also to that of the more farty-mindedly dressed,) even with its unperceivable shortcomings, still, what a suffusion of old bite-me (I had you itching under my skin, and I meanwhile spinning gossamers of idle nimieties, but aware of you now, darling, am I, and how!) - I remem­bered, and felt well, and felt next to something else: vin­dicated, anyhow reassured, you bet, bolstered in my convic­tions, sort of, up­holstered in my confessional underpinnings, rewarded in my efforts, in tune, no longer clutching at smoke, blowing straws, whittling bunions, no egg on my face value anymore... I came out a new man, left behind like burned tumbleweeds, surfeited on ashes, the quirky pranks I played on myself - over and over - across the unbridgeable chasm the crushing knowledge of the secret sins of defecating randy women had riven in my little-boy-lost’s shrunken heart with the gunpow­der of sudden out-of-the-blue forceful seduction when still, and yet for long, quite im­potent - homesickly dreaming of the elusive now rancid prelapsarian winter evenings when I was just an infant poseur, just trying to please the soft delicious pudenda-and-caca-heavenly-stinking women with my gentleness, my sedulous aesthete’s charm, my profilings, my sphinxities, my hard-rock reliable meeknessess whatever the provocations, the ludibrium they pelted me with, the ridiculizing temptations, un­ceasantly laughed at, and loving it, butt of all jokes, a model of probity, to endurance hardened, not a peep, taking it on the chin and wherever with my shit-eating smile, the proddings and pricklings of long painted dirty infectious nails, the poking-fun rapes my privates, their nearby bloody sphincter, my mouth, my nose, my ears, suffered painfully contentedly willingly gratefully, stoically posing during the whole amiable proceedings, occasionally being praised for my for­bearance, given a cooky, good dog, send to sleep, or rather more often send to somnolent hell, while the goddesses satisfyingly slept, and then I could still, fainting in bliss, smell their delightfullest feet, only - and the memories sour, like the women-grapes, and again this same remote uncertain fog invades my brain, and the rage hexes all kind of reasonable lucubrations, and I tend to be unfair, and as soon as released I feel immediately guilty and deserving of more punishment, so I’ve to overcome myself, tell myself: Stop, you better, that’s an order - only in fact to be repeatedly rejected when at last maybe I could’ve quit my dumb silent-idiot-actor acting, and done really something. From gyneolatry to misogyny only a see-you-later of a slight miss at the next turn; the road of destiny being as it is, babelian, spiraling, with hairpin bends and interconnecting links, wormholes and secret unguessable passages, you never know which direction you’re heading next - each of you blunderhead fuckers another stick-in-the-mud going round, that’s for sure, colliding haphazardly here and there, random nets of strewn pebbles of chained choice changing just-so the everlasting sense and speed of your aimless spin. Deal with what you are dealt. And here, though, is where my plight is sealed. Over and done for with the bludgeoning iron-maiden suits. Here we attack, no longer the childish heroes, sacrificial, just some more hick warriors, shorthanded, unarmed, hand-less, all-stumps, cannon-fodder to further mangle and cripple to their heart’s (the beautiful, friendly enemies’) content, and charging over the silly thrills, and looking forward far away, beyond the pale, and the pale glimmers of our last sunset alive, staggering, the cross getting heavier by the bump, toward our just desserts, the ulterior impressive fool’s-golden color-exploding rewards, whatever they’d be, that’s for later to be decided, to the adored enemies’ discretion’s left, to the en­feebling softening loved lock-luck cuddlesome delectable enemies’ whimsical bosom, wherein we so snuggledly cradle, still sorrily cunt-weaving our sickening lullaby-inspired heroics... No longer the stolidly stuck hatchet - saps of their great twatty majesties. The reborn revolt, and declare the old sucker game over. Over the silly thrills, indeed. For that’s the new me, he wants a spanking virgin pack, has signed a un­violatable pact with himself. All holds barred, no hands in­volved. This life’s resolution. No relapsing. Playing now free of self-inflicting obses­sions; going for a win if even once, maybe it feels kinky, special…? Forbidding, stultifying? Fossilizing, idolizing? Immortalizing, stele-of-steelizing? Whatever; the point’s that that’s another can of mustard, mate; let’s cut to the chase, and me the wilful cutter. Here’s the bell again, choice sound if ever I heard... Here we come. Finished the cretinous hanky-panky. For instance! No more taking advantage of my dainty smallness, and sticking the smeg­maceous sausage into a bulb-less socket and then turning the switch on; the bleared, bletted pear of my despised balls colliquating and stoppering the smoldering bun­ghole. Ended and done with (Tuesdays all at once now with the remainder) with my fortnightly turd-happy escapades into those coves of scoundrels, the coven’s lewd sconces, garish shrouds of putrefac­tion and phoniness, with their trembling chan­deliers and the lurid painted idols spooking the nooks at which they are enthroned and staring down with mur­derous fixity the inveigled and the shriveled that grovel at their burnished founts of infection… Their lapped-up feet, I refer to those so-called churches I used to shove a few brooms around and attend, one per session, and on my toes, skirting the darkest pitfalls where the ravishing ravenous, the flesh-devouring, sex-starved unwashed lurked, choice ghoulish abodes of the evil and the depraved, and the avidly incon­tinent, thereby to be shriven, what else, and then, to tip the obsequious slug who, with the flashing ease he must’ve employed in buggering his chummies, shrove the crap out of each of his unhinged customers, including hosan­ning bullshit­ting me, to thank his rebarbative sanctimonious offices, I proceeded, before taking to my guffawing heels, to discreetly voiding in place, you got it, just there, in the confes­sion stands where the oozing bugaboo priest, ceremonial warlock, or whatever, the head-shrinking gob­bledygooking monkey sells his gimcrack funny wares, garbage useful only to hydrocephalic mongoloid crap-eaters and their kin, scolding matrons tending their bughouse brood with the braying monomaniacal commit­ment of licking fireants, fiendish scum-specimens all, overfed morons galore, also military-type scrawny fanatics… These fucked wire-puppets would at all times believe anything, and, anyway, while I’m kicking my twin stately muscle-bound witness-bearing dirty-thinkers, the gluteals, transforming with the wand of my shoe each buttock from mistletoeish hot water to dusty thin air, butt-bootedly gone, mud on their foul-frothy eyes, breathing hard, and elated, for that’s the world of good that punishing the flesh does you, still I’m exulting, shriven, again awarded to the panjamdrum, warded by its winged sicarii, paradise­wards indeed, done deal, and boasting, task ac­complished, self-full, inwardly shouting: And my will be done, and tailing it with pious scraps of chaotic harangues: I’ve come among you, my breth­ren, nattily well-prepared, you bet, with my own ideas about salvation or saving oneself for the right moment; I’m gone to balmier pastures, but I’ve left with you a better part of me than the one I’m parting with while I depart to better parts, keep my freshly expelled cuverian organs embalmed and emboxed in a shiny reliquary from whose glassy radiance many smeared miracles and other wondrous odors of saintliness might, if properly and enough worshipped, ensue - alternating it, likewise, with vivid imaginings of what should’ve been properly transpiring of our shriving melodramatic tragycommedy: Hi; well, you see, my wife - and I bet, prurient priest that thou art unavoidably, got the gut-feeling just smelling the spermous eek you reek of, I’m sure you’d prefer to hear her rather than me, her dirty deeds verbatim-ly and hotly moaned, I mean with many many many wildly endowed men - well, yes, ackowledged, beat my chest, my wife cheats on me, she cheats and cheats continuous­ly, and of course at the same rate my impulsive pulsions to slay her don’t either wane nor cease, and what the fuck d’you advise here then…? Well, my nearly-blind, bell-hearing, bogus-lapping son, let me mumbo-jumbo for a little more, and do you see those few revolting white birds each with the head, legs and arms of another sapid youth over there at yonder latrine-stinking corner, thereabouts if somewhat higher where the baptismal urinal stands…? Good, put yourself squarely under their slipshoddedly sculpted, giant, her­maphroditical, garishly phosporescent sexes... What, you wouldn’t dare command the crass idiolatrization of statues, would you…? Do as fucking told, my son, get thee there and sweat the bloody compulsions with the penitential ransom for your prelap­sarian buy-back of a few hundred thousand convulsions, ok…? But I got more, wait; also: uh, I’m the son of a whore, I’m sure you can relate, and what she hears everytime another lecherous goon disem­bowels her with some giggly jackknife gone on the blink, and bluntly jagging the fleshes it pierces, are heavenly chimes, and what should she do other than clucking the happening away and holding the entwining serpents of her womb up to the next dispensary good and avoiding, if at all feasable, the lurking dogs that would devour her fracidous blood sausages in less than it would take for me to expand the lurid tale you love so much till, never soon enough, this asylum of lust and repression, persistently on the verge on going soundly up in hellish flames, collapsed of itself as it’s only pertinent... The old childish pleasure, though. Fruity asses, frassy brains, but how to tell them apart…? You don’t want to get killed for your convic­tions, what a waste wouldn’t it be. I void the assorted palette of my bowels on their blithering frilly comprecations, but how to signify it without suffering further bodily harm - other than artistically, metaphorically, without words, like a true poet of the act - and artistry’s my sacrosanct statement. Here it was, the loud cake, a wiggly present almost anyone could comprehend. Anyway, cancel my subscrip­tion to the action painting magazine; all these fulsome impoten­cies now concluded, left behind to strengthen the credulities of the con­suetudinary creeps, as everything does, anyhow. No flabby dim-flame preoc­cupations haunting me any longer, thanks much; my mind is now nonstop occupied (what a find!) with masterly en­deavors.

Mother…? Nothing but moans, nothing cogent. And then, as per each sore twilight, the parade of outsiders, damned wastrels stealthily impinging. Each his role, performing, in simplicity. The dapper vultures slouching towards the bed, drawing their doodles on the tablets, next the stinkier shit, stirred below, another rabid parson - ungainly victims of voodooes - imagining the slain, they bled - a bororo savage, yes, just by squawking nasally, and bobbing his neck and waving his elbow-wings, and preening and prancing, convinces himself he’s a parrot too, his face gaudily painted, and there is no difference between the soul of the real parrot above and him, transported to another life, aloft, only by his will, while we are rotting in an always self-same identity, gone sour with the boring time, and no chance now of escaping the sick-making cage of an adopted bogus self-unity of purpose inside a body tied to respectability and consciousness and convention, all gimcrack accretions of rubbishy notions.

Untouchable - at the core (an onion’s) a void. Won’t deign with giving them a second look. Fuzzy ocean of meaningless words. My wrath wanes, my spurs fade. Giddy, grist for embroidery each of the words - afterlife, hemorrhage. Serene in the hospital cantina, grabbing something esculent, ashamed to be harangued by creeps.

Said said Calliope, a joker of a parrot Fang trained: “-In Meksikou we went into a pullkereeah and on the dingy counter I had the pleasure of asking for a shot of teckila Mockingbird. My wife asked instead for a stomach-settling stomackal. We were coming back from a tryst up on the mountains. Tough shit may be the stuff of reality, but sweet hope springs and flows from it in coughing fits, uninterruptedly it would seem (if you don’t count the dead asfixiating in-betweens) until the end... Our hope for any mending of our threadbare matrimony renewed by leaps and bounds lately, but with less and less expectations, a sickening trickle all told... And today we had had this urge - to dream conjointly. A dream of ogres, it was. Up on the top of the mountain the view proved too awesome. All those clouds bearing on us, ominously you bet, and the less than ant-like people down to earth, all this nugatory, superfluous, numerous non-entity, a sum of noxious nothings... She vomited. A fountain of filth.

“Coming back from the disgusting top, midways through the perilous descent, a lamb was finishing to roast spiked over some embers. There was nobody thereabouts caring for the dripping meat whose fat smoked over the braises. Maybe the shepherd had retired behind a boulder to shit his guts away. Or else he was too timid - or else he was in wait to see if we would fuck around the fire, like firebirds, or maybe rob a thigh and leave behind a few coins in compensation, or maybe he was a thief afraid that we were the rangers, or maybe he was dead... I shouted hello. No reply. Then an earthquake intervened and the roast fell on the fire. Necessity demanded that we rescue the meat, lest it should become charred and unedible. A dog came now. I was a hungry and angry mangy dog. We moved on. My head flew away. I held onto my wife. I said, in the vernacular: -Where the fuck am I...?

“I thought I had had a stroke, except that I couldn’t think the word “stroke” and even if I could’ve thought about it, I certainly couldn’t have been able to explain its meaning. The dog was screaming for pain - I conjectured that in his fury to slake his hunger he had swallowed a piece of burning coal. I was really fucked.

“I said: -On the top of the mountain I felt for a second like a fucking god, but now I realize if something is forbidden to the human soul that is the ability of becoming divine, for the soul is nothing but a shambles, a mishmash, of scrambled desires.

“Back on the village we had lost all illusions. Shit, so much value we had staked on this last outing - and the result, what, had been nil - worse, utterly negative, unpredictably disastrous, damn our fucking bad luck. Or, under the gaudy plaster of vomit, perhaps she was happy seeing me die such a failure. Who the fuck knows.

“The owner on the counter was an ugly mother. Ape-like, a mongrel issued from the worst miscegenations amongst the most repellent monsters of the wild. His voice and words a shrill hoot where some drilling poisoned dards chaotically swam. He was eying the soft white wife like he wanted not so much to fuck her dead as open her guts like another clumsy amateur surgeon. I wondered if the sausages he sold came from the guts and the flesh of tender foreign women like my bland wife, who at my thought vomited again, this time over her own lap.

“Another mangy dog, meekly this time, came to lap the vomit on her lap. I asked for another shot of teckila Mockingbird. Dogland be damned. What the fuck was I doing there...?

“Outside, a monkey screamed, a bonobo...? À quoi bon...? I think he was being skinned alive by a few nasty brats. It was the preferred sport of those repugnant little monkey Meksikans. My love for humanity nil. The teckila burned me to bits. First the gullet, then the gut, next the bowels, now the appendage through which my piss passes... Hidden sexes all. Was I pissing fire...? Maybe. The sweat disguised all the other bodily fluids, anyway. We were pouring away like stampeding bottles.

“I paid and went my way. My way...? I had lost the wife, or else my left eye was blind. A stroke does that sometimes, I think. I held unto a passing goat. She bit my hand. The hotel was cool by comparison. The bed and the bedbugs smiled at me, signaling their jolly recognition and shouting forthwith wild holly hallelujahs and such other churchy pap, all fucking churches be damned.

“Deaf to their entreaties, I sank like a ponderous rock. Hope to crush their world and all worlds with my unencompassable weight...

“She woke me up, the parroty woman with the hidden sex. The moon was in the room, the jungle irritatingly pushy, pushing and impinging in its nocturnal din where the shouts of the murdered rose and fell like stormy waves of nerve-racking sound.

“-And now...? I said. She had a knife shining on her hand.

“After she discharged her blow, she gurgled blood and died. For the blow, that though I thought that was meant for my own throat, had actually been aimed at herself, her own’s.

“-She smote herself indeed, I calmly assessed, and fell back to sleep off so much worthless shenanigans.

“The early much quieter morning saw me eloping through the window with my jagged ragged soul on tow like a perniciously scrofulous tramp. Painstakingly climbing down like from a mountain of rubble. The lithe patchy monkey was me, a burglar fleeing with a yellow sheet full of heteroclyte alien appurtenances.

“Ah, architecture of pain, how gothic here abouts. The Americkans such patsies for crimes of jealousies. In Meksikou it had to happen: it was either her or me.”

Dripping, my bread from the suggary coffee where it had been dipped. Plenty of sops for still more energy. Big story looming, his (the bizarre knight’s,) such a secret mover of historic pawns... He wished...! (And his sons also wished it were true; just vain palaver of filthy smelly spics…) Entertainers in hospital, hospital as a mall with exhibitions, expositions, fun stands, comic retreats; she laughs at her valueless corpse of a body (as the doctors laugh at all of us,) plus movies being shown, and even recorded. Am I in one of them, barely, as a patient, or as a healthy idiot lost, accompanying a sick one…? Mom...? Still with us...?

You honeysuckle of the hawthorn hedge, heir of a heirloom of raw sex and crumbs of gubbins, sheltered serf of firelit oblivion, concealed under your own carcass, you dredge up amorphous knotholes through which the slovenly details slip forth. A deflowered baby whetted and strapped - and stropped and whittled as belongs to the tree people that grow on bathtubs.

As opposed to idols now as to the nothingness above that some call, in their despicable stupidity, god. How those idiotic workers are goaded on to their squalid orgies, it’s beyond me. Opulent Lucrècia wouldn’t fall for it. She was fluent in Italian, Catalan, French and Latin, had some knowledge of Greek, had an intense romantic affair with the humanist Pietro Bembo. Her parrot Calliope told some good ones. Historical stuff. A healthy attitude towards the gloomy rage emanating from the murderous Roman spies - bloody slanderers all. They reaped a stew of ruins, where the straggling goats who vote continue being as bigoted and cruel as right-wingers. Which reminds me of Bembo, the hyacinthine macaw, telling the story about that crippled creep who went tumbling into a church, with the typical bloodthirsty assumptions one goes to an empty church with. Wide-eyed, unflatteringly strangled with fear, a busted pawn in front of the marvelous. He was about to pray, fallen already on his knees as per his invalidity. He heard a noise, his ear flat on the floor, himself praying prone, and his eyes so something wiggling, it was the worm of a wimble, he was frightened out of his very limited wits. He let go of a mighty scream. The plank under his belly got lifted - a couple of sick guys were underneath, hiding from the secret police. They were flat on their backs, they had some provisions with them, and a bucket of water. This bucket of water became a bomb in the stupid imagination of the mob that came after the screams of the asshole cripple, became a barrel of gunpowder ready to send the altar to heaven. The pious churchgoers got together, females especially showed themselves very much pissed when they surmised the purpose of the auger-holes; they had to be made just for spying into their skirts when they took communion. Nobody needs help to ravish his own daughters. Once the prisoners out, the crowd tore them to pieces, then paraded their heads on pikes. Then poising the heads exactly above the giant’s only eye, the idol on the altar, they buried it deeply into the socket, twirling it round as a carpenter does his auger. The howling monster with his outcry filled the church, panegyrics rose, the choirs of slaves that were traditionally released and later waited on by their masters at the table during the Saturnalia wouldn’t have shouted so horrifically. A phoenix, a tortoise, Johnny This, Amanda That, the psittacine knowledge of Bembo, I’m still amazed, he knew all the celebrities on the telly by name. Soon as they appeared he spoke shat should be spoken here - were their fate hidden in an auger-hole, he would’ve eaten the worm of the future. My tears are not yet brewed enough that would melt the city. To see your daughters dishonoured to your noses, their temples burned by the friction of their daddies’ thighs. War is butchery and yowls, and faces blown up by bombs: carnage of the individual, carnage of the group, carnage of the rotten flesh of the soul.

Now everybody wants to help me; I’m eminently helpable. Too late. I remember Barry, Barry Xinees, overstuffed, syrupy, and coming like all his lard were semen, a well of fat without end, and then his ejaculatory strokes... Sucked up till too eloquent for words, awkward, succumbing, the wounded flesh full of screwworms... Went kicking into the badly nailed coffin.

He says: -Were we part of the festivities...? He answers: -Yes, both above and underneath. I was the subservient cuckold - my wife and him get it on, at it all the time, while I’m trying to keep house - under the raised platform, the other numbers: acting, dancing, go on... Then the festivities are over, all the village people back to their chores. Now I was left to clean the mess - easy. My wife and the fake wife Maud, same situation. And at home as in the scene, same situation. Cleaning after their wilde fuckings.

Am I making sense...? Three or more ways to descend to the objective... But maybe it is better not to descend at all. There are live spiders in one of the cubicles where the chesnuts are pigeonholed, ice in the other - hidden menaces in the third, impassable. Better forget it. Keep on top till the downgrading is more favorable. Sheer cowardice, typically with some degree of incoherence. Intellectual ilk, all an oily stagnant shallow pool where the scorpions bask and regurgitate, not in thrall at all, just for the hell of it. Simpering: -The trial is already in disarray.

Let the audience pitch their ordure against the lame scenery. Wrapped around one of those bricks, a dirty cunt-rag, a bloody purulent fragmentary hamperbound rag - as soon as nabbed, though, and before the pitch had run the extent of its hyperbolic expanse, Julius the parrot had read on it the following prettily calligraphied paean... “-...sects of dungeon-journeying marauders, contrariwise, the amici curiae, gleefully reflected on the mirrors, and the synod of egg-laying worshippers, quieter sneerers, the better organized fray of meek earth-stuck cynics, the monk-packs of the quasi-deceased diseased, woefully enfeoffed with blazes of sins to catch yet up with (as though of caravans was the matter, scant and unpredictable, whimsically crisscrossing the empty deserts of a drained life,) the lot of us pilgrims, in a word, yesterday marooned, nowhere, anyplace, today prodded by providence, we’ve wound up here to the miracle flat, found the mirage: -Eyed we have the prophesied nosedive of the sacred patriarch, doctor Meddler - and strove the laggers, toothless and jittery like him, to lag no longer...? For sooth, indeed strive they did and hastened better than they would to the quelling solace down some cliff, inspired - inspired, that’s the crux.

“-Calls of sainthood, vying together even with masses of wallet keepsakes (the loss of which, even an hour prior to the rescuing vision, would’ve been bemoaned with riled cries of loathing - and oh, the wrestling away of the sentimental commodity - much worse still, defended by and embraced with ravaging tugs, and the thief berated with the more grievous oaths, forever indebted, to a luxury of revenges ineluctably dispatched, yeah, vouched for structural, skeletal cave-ins, suspected boob, never getting away with just some pout, scold, chiding, scorn, but broken, razed, uniquely broke,) have been heaped row after row at the temple’s matured nub-doors from which the inconceivable magnificence of the bishop wore gules and gold and sable and green, not scrubs, mind you, and used to dress-rehearse his wily blessings, and loomed peculiar with ah, the glory of his regretted double well-hung (Andorran tricolor: ao, ki, akae) infulae, and gave rubbery pause, and got lionized, and bad (bid, bade) the rubble cum racketeers, biddies cum rogues, mostly the help, elegant angelic farewells, hallelujah, and before he fell, and his fall bode (bided, bade, bad) bad for the survivors, he swam across the fat scarlet and lavender morass where the faithfully believers wished also to flounder (a stiffer offertory of queasy foumarts paddling forever in a foundry of hype,) grudgeless, for eternity, with the whole of which, crown of the epistemological expos’, the inescapable demand is being lodged that perfect doughnut-shaped slices of his broiled nozzle be the fubsy tangy HOST from just this eucharist on, the healing immediate of most stretchable souls being presented let alone conceded as proof incontrovertible, plastic mystery number one of his elevation, not contrasting here the isolated fact that some, allergic to the full elasticity of greatness, might ultimately puke it -their disciplined task as disciples and seedlings to his spiritual seed being in fiercer duty to the pulling forth, never the inflated idle discussing favored by those to perennial withdrawal doomed...”

Croaked the parrot, who, of course, wouldn’t do more for an almond than doctor Muddler for a shit at his peace in his upholstered commode. Imagine the lechery. He shat a dollop of spirituality.

Nobody the wiser, it seemed. The stunt had garnered from the laconic staff a flaccid “-Amen.” But about those of us on the know...? We thought the performance most nuanced, carny-worth, cutting edge, lurid, and unrippled. A triumph.







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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