Tampering brick by brick with the messy facts, quenching with blood the what, the thirst, with a chalice full of mendacious substance, darning and scrubbing in the midst of reveries, vagaries, through dreams wondrous and galled, Sarah the shmuck roams among the ruins of her house, the lintel dicing for scratches, the surface of every object ready for swift execution.
Sarah the sour, every one of her awful parts drained away of joy and grace, lets go of an utterance that I’m pained to understand.
I said “what...?” hinting, with a moue and sundry juggleries, misshapen sons and daughters of the scant skill of a total cripple, that to be debriefed now by her and the lavas and sundry debris released by a crater that broke out and farted away all sorts of mysterious strangers, entrenched devils, unsustained steps, lightly worn exuviae, spitting salivous priests, their slippery slopes and clichés galore, some saint’s withdrawn withdrawals, the atrocious debonair gentlemen kept in awe, the noses running, their stinking marathoners, plus the banal managers, shitty mangers, sundry monsters out there in evil deeply embedded, and so on, would be..., would be one and the very same thing, and Sour of course duly corresponded with a look back at the attendant horrors tempting her sleep...
–You bet, Sour, I do condemn malevolence. Redemption, day in, day out, from the dreadfully horrid job of scary slaughters and surgical insertions, is what I also plausibly, diligently, loofah, loofah, loofah in tow, I look for.
Over their shoulders the timid turtledoves were getting stained – whimpering paragons of urbane longing – once they tasted blood, ah woe, they became corruptibly enraptured, consumptively enraged.
–My dream, she said, of the clairvoyant waif who scrubs the sore-footed snow over the barren dicey wastes where the rough crewmen dismantle the mistletoe when suddenly the fight that rises can’t conceal how loose and wobbly and slack the atoms of society, or, I mean, they were keeping in tight captivity a tyrant who cursorily had slain each of the geezers and what a dreadful gambit it was, for...
Our mutual friend Joe was at the door. There was his shadow on the floor, spread as a godly figure, and there was a ray of light widening, growing from its dark head, broadening down to its massive flowing body...
–Your specs are ignited, Joe, I said, rejoicing, for the Sour couldn’t be the sole martyr anymore in that prostibulous morass our house. Time instead for the Sour to deploy her robust meretricious lures, to scramble her flexing muscles, to go sniveling, ad captandum for the whirr, the vibes of dampness declared, of tongue scabbed, of tickles impetuous and the roar of localized itches.
I became the butler indeed, overwhelmed with groaning chores and smoother duties.
–Relax and puff, my friends, discuss philosophy and plumb politics while I take my umbrella and run to the brewer.
Lost in reveries, in woeful apathy, sweetly fancy-riddled, catching tepid glimpses, among the wavelets on the crust of the river, of the liquid glints in my new coffin: aqueous...
Aqueous, beyond dotage, lyrical and ablaze, a soul haggard and shrieking, a face snotty, with which intrepidity nonetheless the duped husband gave himself no quarter, and displayed such courage that never the gutsier cowboy against the injun nor the soldier against the hun could’ve claimed for themselves against his bleak feat the triumph, should he then, thinking himself base ordure, rid the world of such stain on the human phenomenon and drown away his scarred defunct stabbed eidolon, or...
Resilient, wealthier with the spoils of experience, more cohesively shaped after the few lackluster deeds of his counterparts, looking himself now heroic against the dismal shroud of their sad promiscuous squabbles, shouldn’t he instead like the freed orphan awake cleverer and sharper and anoint himself a renewed citizen looming in poetic license more and more gigantic among the quaintly resonating absolute zeroes of common laymen and the melting dwindling landscapes that now he can fondle to his heart’s content...?
I gave my proud back to the ghastly spittle of the flowing river, in the dying twilight showing green – green: the color of rot – and caressing boulders and obscene boles on my way up, kicking in the teeth or the nuts the sniveling beasts that in fairness thought me one of them and of whom the bones buckled in excruciating pain, I suppose, for they (the beasts) bailed out beggarly moaning, with some broken ribs, I thought, hanging behind like tails that would sketch in their scabrous periplus back to the lairs ravishing hieroglyphics for ripe metaphrastic ascertainers to reap and ascertain, as I say I nudged my way across the crowd to where the whores don’t sneer at a leg up on them nor kick the fervent nuts under the lifted legs, for we humans are not beasts neither, no sir.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
Cat Alone - 9 -
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