plastified droppings from the candidates - subterranean funfairs
Thou anew with thine fair ticket aloft (for the return trip)
Tidying everything before I'm gone
Something to remember me by (I thought)
And now it seems they remember me by
The endearing sobriquet of "the tidy guy."
Picked up all the papers
Piled them up in tidy mounts
Picked up even all the discarded underwear
From the secretary girls dirty after their parties
And saintly debaucheries.
Now I was loaded with my goodbye packages
The street a bit slippery
The metro station the wrong one
The corridors dark
Some of my little suitcases misplaced
The funfair underground labyrinthine
Its shops darkening and almost deserted
And the criers not even bothering with the shadow of me.
Luckily I met a friend of old
Who hadn't given up
He was back at work hard as nails
And he put everything to rights
With a sad face though
Because I was surrendering to pressure again
Bailing out retiring to pastures green
Alone and naked and empty-pocketed and so on.
Little consolation he gave me a few mementoes
For my collection of trifles and worthless trinkets
From the city back at home in the sticks.
Took from his pocket a few electioneering badges
And match boxes (three or four)
That he'd found on the floor
As he was walking today and he'd thought
For which I was very
We said goodbye there at the dark platform
I see still his hand waving goodbye
And gesturing showing which way the right way
To get to the good station that would carry me
To the station
Where the train would carry me home.
Such perfection of organization the world
I was so touched
My fingers still smelled of the girls' crotches
The train was lulling me to sleep
I had a slight erection
Peaceful pastoral home beckoned
And my trinkets joyfully tinkled
What a perfect world indeed.
clues on the angular walls
Angular walls of the fortress hotel checked for clues
Ah yes the hotel
Well it was full and we were bound to stay by the window
Looking at the snow
The hall was teeming thick with breaths and smoke
I told my son as soon as you see snow anywhere
Scan the landscape
Wherever you are in a train a plane a coach a hotel
And be light-footed enough so that you take your place
Near the nicest available girl
The more well endowed with chest material
And ass substance the better
For the hours shall be long
And nothing warms a heart or a body as a nice big chested big assed woman
Son at your side.
Keep your ears pealed she'll tell you soon such intimate details
As about the time she pissed herself and had to hang her underwear
Well wrung on the racks of the communal bathroom
Or... But you get my drift - as I was saying substantial stuff indeed.
The wind was blowing outside
The snow afloat
The trees surrendering
The bears hungry.
Scheming or running
The runners and the cheaters were scurrying in and out of doors.
I told my son never you fret
Morning comes always soon enough
Often your are caught by its light even in the middle of your endeavors
And you are puzzled and amazed
And you scream to the forces unseen that hey you weren't even half finished
With you secret delicate nocturnal chores
For only in hypnagogic vision one guesses enlightened
That there is truth and that there touches one reality.
I remember now in the tundra
When we were stationed in the abandoned mine
The frozen torrent had to be dug up in order to find some of the soldiers
That had died during the previous war
And had been buried in there though nobody knew exactly where
At which point all along the intricacies of the stream
Buried in sewage buried in which type of taxidermic reptilian sands
Or in which sludge I mean or slurry rather
That their moving corpses shriveled to weirder shapes
Than when they were just tidy dudes aching for action
In the dancing floor of the massacring grounds.
There then where the fortification at one of its banks ran in zigzag
Arbitrarily letting in inlets or contrariwise encroaching on the trench itself
The immemorial water had drawn into the rock
There we dug and well look never mind
The conditions were infinitely worse than now.
In fact of course everything evolves always to a better stratum
As stuff adds its modifying thrust
The outlook improves
And the definite glory you know what it is?
Dying when your work has then been done
Once and for all - ah then yeah the sighing the blessed letting go...
Meanwhile though our hands were so frozen our arms so stiff
That we had to feed each other
We soldiers paired face to face with our stiff arms clumsily fishing
Into the gritty pond of frozen food
On a plate all told in front of us
And then we lifted our arms and the fellow in front
Of you fed you with his stiff arm as you fed him with yours
The frozen muddy dollop of incongruous potato at the end of your glove...
And then almost of a sudden
Wouldn't you know!
The Sun would always explode
The torrent flew the dead exited disguised and unstuck
Their lids unclung our arms jumped alive
The flowers popped all over the field
The birds were ubiquitously heard they had resuscitated
We started to sing songs much as oarsmen do
We joked we slapped our reciprocating backs
The cook danced a jig with his ladle aloft.
I never forgot those days
How could I and how could you now son
Look the snow is the page where all is written
Indelibly don't you agree?
Forever extant and the Sun explodes only in order
That the page be renewed
Where another episode of our epic should appear
Splashed in such magnificent clarity
Our eyes at the beginning smarting
And we rubbing in consequence our lids with some alacrity
So that the phosphenes should add a few more protagonists
Disfigured and all to the queer proceedings on the stage.
Then the snow outside turned red
Arson is the fulcrum where snow finds its leverage
Is also the setting in where the incubi delve
They are blushing as their alibis are shot
They are accused to be accessories to asphyxiation.
Beneath the old soldiers smolderingly slumber
But do they fume? Only when the Sun's too keen
Its explosion unwarrantedly muscular
The processes meanwhile push on the landscapes puff on
The rampant smuts offer their syllabic gambits against the eroded walls
The ramparts become flatly synthetic if bizarrely stained
With a language I don't understand.
Every entity this side and that of the glass gets imbued
With the fiery madness
Macabresquely prostrates itself.
It's too cold again
The son's trying to disentomb the father from the snow
The father unfound
Unfound as yet and surely for evermore.
Useless frostbitten undertaking son
Scan rather the apparatus that suddenly takes off
A revival of sorts
At it then courageously.
Virtuous after such debauchery wallowing
My eyes not clinging unclogged
Under masses of snow.
But why the elegiac tone?
Scan scan the landscapes
The protruding forms behind the wondrous
Do though take care it doesn't pay to scrape one's shin.
At the nudie camp, strange happenings
In a world of miracles, cannot everything happen...?
In the nudie camp we had invited the non-nudies - I remember I was sitting on a table with not too many others, joking about the weird stuff that happened in the world.
Then other groups of people came and started sitting themselves around the same elongated picnic table - a woman sat at my side - I looked at her it seems at the same time that another of the fellows already sitting down stared (perhaps too intently) at her - so she went into a rage of sorts, ejaculating in high dudgeon: "What! What's the matter! Something wrong? Why the bloody pernickety stares?" - all this glaring at me. I replied, with an apologetic smile: "Just a roving eye; sorry."
Then it started getting too crowded, the wine flowing, the sandwiches jumping along the table; I felt trapped, so I got up and searched with the eyes a route of escape - the best way was to get on top of the table among the food and the drinks and the bouquets and the hands, and run for it to the nearest corner in order to leap then to the floor, free; only that when I got up, my underwear (the only item of clothing I wore) got caught on a sliver of the bench and as soon as I got over the table I had to hold and hide my balls (my shorts torn and hanging down to the middle of my thigh) - so I said, laughing, especially to the lady at my side, a non-nudie mighty interested now: "Just a wandering eye, indeed," but everybody was already making fun of me, so that I ran to the end of the table and leaped to safety.
I went to the meadow to look at the sky with the others. The seals (so you'd swear they were - same shape, same sheen, same impression of ponderousness,) the seals in the air were still talking among themselves. The sky was a spotless deep blue, the "seals" all black, with fins that looked like rudimentary hands. It was utterly amazing. How do they do it? How do they manage to... And they look so intelligent, stoichiologically surmising and all... Balancing their words, or thoughts... What..., what kind of uplifted animals or celestial beings are those...? Mighty puzzled, we were asking all kinds of questions. They had appeared in the sky a couple of days ago. That was the main reason we had invited the non-nudies of the neighboring camp up to our domain. To discuss and comment about the wonderful apparition of the shiny magical beasts conversing by themselves up there, and aloft. Such miraculous situations. But now lo...! At last the "seals" seemed to have arrived to an understanding of sorts... No more weighty conferences atop our wondering heads... They had started drifting away, only that now there were millions of them drifting in the same direction - opposite the sun that had started its slow descent... The seals were "flying" (without wings) higher and higher and faster away; only that now, come from all the corners of the firmament, there were many, many of them, and their shapes were not identical to those we had come to know; some of their shapes were a bit comical even, almost cartoonish, grotesque... And yet, the whole, how imposing, daunting, stirring... The wife of another fellow was at my side, we embraced while we looked up... She was a beautiful woman, bronzed, strong, with short hair... And now we embraced still tighter... The sky was changing into astonishing shapes... The forms the sky was conceiving were now mainly like enormous, heaven-encompassing peacock's tails, with chiefly brown and white rhomboids, but also rhomboids in other iridescent tonalities... In a world of so many miracles, why should anything, at the end of the day, be impossible...? I remember commenting - and she holding me tighter.
Unfortunately a superannuated plane appeared now very low, licking the trees, its motor making the sick noise of giving up its ghost... We were afraid the plane - all black, and heavy, all of metal often rusted at the seams - might fall upon us. But it fell a bit off the camp. We saw immediately a thick plume of dark smoke. We rushed, she and me, only that we were by now a bit far off. And then we saw two naked young women get out of the plane, no too much the worse for wear, a few scratches and bruises and stains of grease and coal - they were wobbly, but who knows from what, if from fear, or shame, or too much of an intoxicating substance brewing inside them... There was nobody else inside the wreck. The women were both very embarrassed; nobody bothered them much. There was no fuel left in the plane; it didn't really burn, but it looked like a pile of junk.
We walked, the other's wife and I, deep into the fields; we sat down among the rows of recently planted oats; we kissed; we decided that we were part of the miracle - the seals in the sky, the odd images sketched in the firmament by the conjunction of the elements, the planes that fell, all those signs of life and of mystery hidden and manifest - who knows what's really (really!) true. Everything might be possible - the return of our selves - the return of we as we really are under these disguises of flesh... "We might see ourselves again in a world undreamed," we concurred. Nothing has been discovered as yet. So many possibilities ahead...
And then she got up. She went, so marvelous, a goddess into the sunset.
At length I got up and went into the opposite direction. I found on a lame chair a pair of trunks that I got into. I walked past the camp. I gathered a few bottles of orange juice that were unopened; my intention was to carry them to the fringes, I didn't want that they should spoil, go to waste. Only that, lost in thoughts, by and by I had walked into the wrong camp. There were some steep steps in front of me, a stairs difficult to climb. Also I saw that there was a mechanical ladder working not far from the stairs. Loaded with the dozen bottles of orange juice, I started climbing the stairs. A fellow was atop them, dressed all in yellow, in a sort of military uniform, with a pumped up cap like those worn by generals. He started shouting. Actually he was congratulating me. "Magnificent work, citizen compatriot!"
Then he was talking (shouting) to somebody behind him. "Behold, soldiers, a pure clean fellow, a legal local citizen, a man of our kind, climbing the stairs!"
Now I saw that behind him he had a company assembled - about twenty young fellows all dressed martially, in yellow, all of them I noticed holding in their right hand, not a rifle or another weapon, but a bottle of milk (milk, I assumed, for the liquid inside it was all pure white, as the liquid inside my bottles was pure orange.)
I had stumbled into a camp for blossoming right-wingers - a camp that I knew to be not too far from ours (about thirty miles, I reckoned - that must have been the large stretch along which I had gotten stranded.)
The commanding nut was haranguing his troops: "Then they will say that only the dirty bastards, the tainted immigrants employ the stairs - that we real McCoys are too degenerate to climb stairs, that we consider it beneath our station... No way! Here you have a hero! Not only a properly hued person, build like a demigod, and loaded to the gills to boot, but also a man of quality: observe how fine his hands, behold the classical shape of his nose... He looks to me like a rare product of the heavens... And he climbs the stairs like an immigrant...! He doesn't take the easy mechanical way. He takes the hard bitter heroic way! We are able to be strong and earthy too, my dear purebred clean-blooded fledglings! Not only them are able to endure; we can too!"
They were looming huger and huger, a gigantic yellow egg about to burst. I was in the middle of the stairs and the general, after effetely glancing and smirking my way, gave an order: "Let's meet the hero halfway!"
The yellow boys came to me as an avalanche. I feared for the bottles. I put them down one by one. And now I had to be embraced by each of the boys. The general, from the upper rung was paternally smiling; very straight, and proud. Now he gave another clashing order. "Climb to the bottom and up! Let's show the hero that we also can!"
The yellow blob went down and up in an exhalation. A quaint demonstration at once of bearable stamina and acceptable coordination. Then they stood behind their "general," in correct formation. The boss told them to be at ease, and they started drinking eagerly from their bottles - I noticed that their bottles carried now my orange juice. I peered down at my bottles - they had been all violated, they were almost empty, or filled with murky milk. I left them there. Silently I retraced my steps..., headed back to our nudie camp...
The night fell while I was still lost in the fields. The stars were so strange. The sky was a complete snake with many eyes, many refulgent eyes - What am I but a possibility, I said, trudging along, bombed.
3 filing fast
Three clownish departures
Funky guy Fred
He tries so hard, he carries on trying... The agitator, wielding his monkey wrench. Cernuous, headstrong, corpulent, burning like lit punk, choking with rage. To harm, by word or deed, as many people as he possibly is capable of laying his drawn talons on. The vixen and the jackal, his mother and dad, unworthy, cursing the failed cornucopia from where the firebrand sprang, shocked, went up in a plume: they had gassed themselves in their kitchen which forthwith exploded anyway.
The earthenware pipkins therein, you got quaint fragments of them up the roof of the church's pinnacle, and some humbler bits of their skulls stood on raining over the village, scantily enough (now a sliver, now another,) for months on end. Or that was the pious belief, at any rate.
Blurry science, oratorical fifing, plus philosophical and moral expositions and discourses - sermons mostly - expounded for years, after expanding on the plight of the perjured parents, the rude-rife theories about the generation of a monster such as this. Engendered, it was said, by retrocopulants, one of which with a prehensile phallus, and so on, products of nystagmatic frenzy, dreams of rutting stoats and retting stinkers and rotting cunts. Where the contorted arms of a swastika turned into two persons of the same sex going at it like damned acrobatic stick devils.
He looked almost always sullen and quite severe, even a little bit frightening, though at home he often loosened up indeed. He'd mix suet and creosote, and stripping down to nothing, on the buff, he'd skinny-dip and flip and slide on the unbreathable fatty rills on the floor. He, inherited from his mom, who had still a denser tuft, sported (always vilely smeared) at the end of his spine (guarding his beguiling asshole, plugged by the prehensile doodad of his genitor, it was rumored afterwards,) a tuft of thick hairs where his tail had been meant to be. He had such a tantalizing address sliding on the fetid agar-agar on the floor of the living room, as to seem a golliwog basking on the brake.
Parsimoniously, for the scents were dear, the poor engenderers spread, through a spraying receptacle of which they had one each at hand, attar and other flowery oils - for, as it was notorious all over the neighborhood, the infant (and then the youngling and later still the youth) stank, in perfect mimicry of the skunk who basks in his own shit or the hoopoe who on a manure pyramid ass-wise nudges her fledglings to the least chafing areas of dung.
He's eaten plenty of pungent rubbish for the oblique length of his existence. A succession of infectious highly pyretic outbreaks was his lot as he grew up - he should have been a runt, but he throve on filth and became a giant. Terrible corruptions of his innards ensued after his basking on the shits. His teeth and bowels rotted away. Now he is aware of the reaction (the flanges of the vents on everybody's noses cannot help but flail in disconcerting agony) on the part of his supporters every time he unwittingly vents the worse of his guffaws, and therefore avoids to show, for as long as he is able, any kind of merriment or public enjoyment.
Funky guy Fred and his conceivers for a while had a pact, how d'you call it, an understanding. He had to bring some kind of funds for his keep - that's to say, if he wanted to crash and grub in their nest, he had to make some kind of coin clink into the kitty, ok? So he haunted the subterranean metro stations. He'd hide behind the piles of slag with which the engines were fed, and he would suddenly appear, very aggressive, maybe with a female companion or two, also malodorous, also ugly, also criminally bent, and they would raze the platform, they would stick their hands into the pockets of the bewildered patrons. Shameless, obnoxious, repugnant beggars, they would claw at the insides of every pocket while the people so attacked couldn't react in time, too befuddled by the stinks and the aspects and the ferocity of the raiding party. Plus each of the assaulters carried old umbrellas, with very pointy, honed, rusted tips, very akin to spears to spear people through with. And with those coins he lived for years comfily at home, in fact until he was thirty plus or so.
Then, as that bogus fellow Christ, he went it alone. Alone with his disciples, of course.
First, most of his pleasures he had to savor in private - alone, poor little old liar - for his parents would literally smell any single one of his putrid pals, and forthwith kick her (or rather him, another of those bloody pogrom-prone catamites most likely,) out with awful remonstrances. Then, one day, as his dad stumbled, by some inadvertency, upon one of those rare girls, who was, at the moment, oddly bathing, and as the dad saw the grime of the erst haggard nymph now thawing out and he grew consequently fonder of the spectral apparition by the second, and as his prehensile phallus was up to tricks and the girl faked to be up to playing with the repulsive snaky staff of the oldish fellow, he (Fred) played instead the appalled, enraged, upright citizen up for the defense of a maiden in distress at a solitary crossroads where on the sly an ogre was preying on a rape-suitable patsy, and voilà, he gave his dad such a correction that the unfortunate cripple never could engage his prehensile handle again around any of the sticks that held the panels of coruscating signs offering directions to all vaginal travelers.
Since then the vixen, Fred's mother, never felt again the jackal's snake rummage up her siphon in search of awkward or secluded spots, for unknown coves and unreached beaches. Her womb, now become an antechamber of frozen cadavers, withered. Naked to their worst incompetences - their skins ragged ravaged canvasses through which peeped crossbones - Fred's parents despaired. "Our bones walk us," they moaned, shufflingly stalking one another, down the encumbered boulevards their house was now plagued with - for the disciples had come in droves and all their plunder was discharged pell-mell - Babylonian piles - at the first empty or semi-empty location they happened to stagger upon. They were there (destructive anarchists) to acquire new curlicuing decorations from the dangerous acid of spit plus other goos inaugurated from the mouth (and spouts) of the gifted haranguer.
In the fateful kitchen, ah, the winter steamy gas of pyrotechnics! Bomb building a must. All was there for them alone. "Buildings apocalyptically fuck the fields," they were told. And they didn't want the erstwhile pristine fields any longer fucked. Those buildings had to jump. And jump spasmodically indeed.
The doomed conceivers in the meanwhile found themselves marooned among mountainous scrags of revealing, reverberating moraines. The advancing glacier of the squatters' appurtenances would soon have swallowed them whole. "To our great detriment, every crag of our countenances had become a screaming denunciation," they would've written had they found with what (other than a infirm turd and a mirror).
Fred sent his disciples (females or female-impersonators all as it happened) on sticky missions. She (the terrorist girl) is careful in arranging herself to the quiet surroundings so that nobody can catch her red-handed in the beautifully spectacular mischief. She does this either by going there under the cloak of darkness or by providing herself with some ironclad excuse as to why she could be found precisely that second at precisely that spot so mournfully walking by herself, brimming moreover with all kinds of unwarrantedly guilty self-exonerations. Then, this instant when she is absolutely sure no animal alive is able to watch or even surprise her while she is mired in the thick of the felony - in other words, when she is confident nobody will witness how she is committing her marvelously cowardly action - then is when she rapidly juggles the writing on the walls.
This she wrote:
"My peruked ambition
But what. Guarding something big, walled. On the thickest side.
Guarding a castle, a palace, a museum. Old stuff, not too alluring.
A far unimportant wall with nary an opening.
I'm taking long pisses, I'm always retiring, past the corner,
To the dark. I'm reading long novels on the sly. I'm
Strolling leisurely, watching the birds, the leaves,
The snowflakes, the petals, the butterflies...
I'm dozing with a shoulder leaning on the unflinching wall
The remaining of my allotted... Passing the time in peaceful
A subversive poem the merchants can't stomach. Who could, such a horrendously unpalatable& Such a counterindicative pill of maleficent unpoisoning. And what a frontal attack to their values of non-reticence as pertains to spending for the sake of such. The tenets of what they hold most sacred mocked. It disparages acquisitiveness and ceaseless consumption of worthless, maliciously created necessities that choke the gristles and deaden the living tissues of the mortified bodies that would free themselves from the strangling vice of acquiring for no other purpose save the fact that they were cunningly instructed to, bunch of dickshit zombies. "Worst crime committable," they wring their long-nailed hands, and pull their hairs in agony, "is an anti-advert of consequences most devastating; imagine in terror the pains of withdrawal a naïve youth would incur if heaven forbid should follow the diabolical injunctions and quit shopping for garbage. Schooled (since his first breath somewhat drawn) in the addictive, drug-fiendish frenzy for purchasing."
The clandestine versifier will be tortured, and forthwith shall die a most a propos death. Impaled atop de lit beating pictograms. For all her misleading indications, and garbling of clues, for all her unhealthy infection of minds up till now so contented, she...
"Burn, barn, burn!" - they puerilely chant, the businessmen killers, anapestic, getting rid of the antimercantile pest, "burn, barn, buuurrrnnn!" And that's what they do, they burn the old barn (and later they'll impute the feat to the terrorists,) with the slowly impaled poetesses inside, and all those by her so much loved animals, only the too exhausted, for a fact, though, of course, the too exploited, the burned out - can't extract a single stunted egg more from them, so now they are tortured once again yet, sacrificed in the worshipping temple of greed - only god the hucksters acknowledge, though hypocritically they (with their prehensile dinguses of a tongue each, each couple coupling in the swastika position indeed) pay homage to the cruel self-righteous gods of lying priests, their accomplices in the selling of nothing - nothing, and yet so dearly paid by us - we clowns thus claim - with our warped from infancy, messed forever lives.
If you find a vandalized panel full of coarse pleasantries, you will only ignore it and follow your way, but if an arrow in a panel has been deceptively turned around on its wrong end, or a warning has been removed, or a single letter has been put upside down, and a word that faced left now faces right, so that "no way," has been distorted into "on you may," or better: "one may&" and you follow it to your death down some abyss, you've been had again by one of those brilliant ubiquitous ads.
How were the executioners to strike the hearts' jaded chords with proper wit and humor, supposing any (stab at humor) was left untapped in a world without secrets, brimming instead only with awful verities everyone was manifestly eager to flee from&? Hum, here was the sparkling rub, indeed. What to sell furthermore with the images of the barns burning. The sheer swelling, the continuous flammulation of the blaze inspiring maybe the last tumescences left between some moribund's flaking thighs... Again the acceptable parliamentary harmony that convinces the mob the most far-fetched imbecilities are what is imprescribably desired... Where to find, both serendipitous and dogheaded, the oomph needed to operatively elevate the highly transmogrifying verb of the flames, yeah? That spume of elegies which very iridescence spelled such passionate self-assurance, oh, talisman of credibility that one day had enhanced, soul by soul, the whole ascending chamber of listeners...? How... How to repeat the irrepressibly irreplaceable&?
This they were plotting, while Fred there he kept, ensconced, by himself, in a narrow land of hopelessness that was fast becoming storm-eroded. A flick of metasome flew away, as flint percussed. His bed of reduced linen and muslin smelled of recent cinders now. "The boss is also burning," he heard the concerned voices at his withering ear. He felt himself being felt up, as if he were just a beginner, a young professional, craving for preferment.
His liquefying pool was peopled by creatures still propelled by pointless conspiracies, by paltry collusions of pedantic prides, a dreadful cocktail of sundry enemy twins wallowing in boiling water. "The small boss went up to her rip and roamed along the caves, wherein he neatened nothing, just browsed, as lamas and moa love to do; hand it to her, she never gave out a chirp, but now, that almost thirty years have gone by, and the small boss is retiring, will she be so craven as to recriminate upon him for what he did&?" The parties of politesse colossal, of conceit limitless, the flowing nankeen robes so auspicious for the perfidious feel, the confident contemporaneous set listening to the demeaning hymns, rumbaing to them with miens ecstatic.
And Fred, his burned lungs splintering, his splintering ulna up his rectum, an enema of sorts, the splinters of bone razing the lining - huge groans heard - wanly latched on to them with ears withered, while the partying set is jamming underneath, senile devils, their elderly parents with them, the pointy elbows whacking around for room, the aromas something else, perfumes of agony - in order to own some of our most spoiling gizmos the set must monkey the clients, do as the clients do, singed lungs and all, insane shrieks and all, trade names that are sky cries of rallying of the faithful, less..., adjust the gears, the gauges, less, I want to hear less... I want out of the jolly reunion. And yet why am still I howling for morphine...?
Whisper it truculently as if the gleam of a pearl has been usurped
That the apocalyptic prospect of a protruding tumescence
That randomly splinters into corneas, retinas, and spasms of sneering
Tangential philanthropy, while you are ceremonially brained
Is the intimate consistence of complete silence
That notwithstanding all our tacit ovarian longing
The previously seen eagle was but a slice of tomato flying askew
That the subsumption of the symptomatic is akin to
The insidious cud never even met, and yet sworn as
Graphics to the blind clue.
Doomed to prurient pretense, to pretend indeed at competitive bids
Thrown at greedy, misrewarded counterparts of a somewhat opposite
Sex, let's say, for the idea's sake, a dreadless half-dozen
Of vapid nymphomaniacs whose survival depends on a few
High-strung platitudes, everyone of them another banal ally
Eager to give a shit, rolling her sleeves up, each with vast cinctures
Of resourceful bliss; nothing debunks such a mood
If they are up to the job, and you fondle and ride them
At appointed trysts.
All this preempts easier encomia
Only the brittle loci of envy and jealousy now to climb out of.
Insofar as this calculated comportment evokes also the evolving
Redemptive moltings of the reptile, all disapprovals dissolve
Into what's "natural," "normal," "current," "vital," "organic,"
In a word "female."
You've saved yourself an awful series of sessions where
You were reviled to irrecoverable lengths, plus were exposed
To quite an array of pernicious beliefs enacted by toughs that now
Really got sinister, as those patrols of the skies that rain death
On you all, another population terrorized by the fucking virtuous
Before you've reached the cumulative grueling ontological temptations
Of sweet senescence.
Sweet senescence, indeed, and its unsexy temptations
The engines of metastasis.
All the sardonic haggling, with "honeysuckle that," and "don't be
Such a tease, and do your sheer gorgeous routine this," and "be petty and rough
When trampling on my archaic turgidity, please," abandoned as the
Tormented moths of love.
The rusting nails of unscrambled rapport
The moldering craven levity of two hearts of molten cheap tin
Drowning in the wells of frustration.
You do relinquish all congruence and approve instead
Of almost anything, any old crap that now enthralls you
The weave of a nastily pubescent felt hat
A prestigious non-verbal dexterity to turn clichés
Into impish idling wit, the proof being in the constructing
Of now mental aridities: "Look at the weave
Look at the weave, the waft and web, the woof,
The grain, the nap..."
Turned yourself into a regular fetishist indeed
"Of that nastily pubescent felt hat..."
A clownish fetishist who struts hilariously insipid
Down the aisles of
The aisles of
The aisles of bone hidden in the cancer epigrams.
What's that? A tinge of hideous hisses at the end
As you grieve and simultaneously
And simultaneously vigorously root
For the mean tricky virtues to finally
To finally screw up the totality, screw it up
And here comes the whole crew
Shout once again
They haven't heard
Obey all, you all
Mincing choir of wincing grubs
Stochastic, fragmented steps towards the exit. To the moldy stacks of books where disappearance is sweet. Ah, being leafed by the odd virgins' clean thin fingers. My life slowly burning in the thrilling Lenin kilns. Relics of exotic languages skipping over the gray waters of my cooling back. Every book a livid beige of dried pulp. Moths in abundance, or flakes.
Ah, the bliss of going under - then, underneath, ha! - flummoxed by the humorous gait adopted by the clusters of offal - somehow militarized into battalions - leaves pulverized underfoot - the proceeds from the circus in my deadened carcass - raucous laughter - the payment in excess of what one certainly expected - far from the sobbing conflagrations vomited by fools - all that gruel oozing now from the rickety counterpane, by clonic spasms grieved - my sore talons sorting among the crumbles - drawing arguing petroglyphs on the rubble - with sharpened nails...
This time I'll go deep and I'll fetch the cold slimy heart that aches at the end of my lost traffic under the wet heavy counterpane - this time the cinders shall take shape, and the slug of my soul shall emerge clenched by my crippled claw. An invading criminal flock of grasping clutching cranny-pecking birds - that's the last item I shall feel merging with the burning moths of my closing blindness.
Despondent structure of the nightmare - forlornly spinning as I rode astride the spluttering worm whose heels trip on the wavy ropes of yawning limbos - and falls, splattered, and falls, scruffy, bedridden, bathed in snowflakes of curdling incense turned fetid - the macabre quilt tinged with shriveled fickle phlegms that figure ominous armies subsumed in the dusk behind the cliffs, where the embers linger, ravens and banshees lurking at the threshold of the ravines - the bamboos fluttering fringes, mangy tassels, inky grisly silks worn by ugly revengeful strumpets whose dreamvoices upbraid the abject botanist, a thief sleek as a sloe who roams the ditch and steals the choicest books, the tenderest flowers, the herbs miraculous, the hypnotic weeds that once taken, you sank into oneiric crack-climaxes that brought rapt metamorphoses - the gruesome aesthetics of the dream patching like glistening flak the cuirass of your peeling skin.
Long-leafed laurels overhead - while scanning their headlines - "postcoital colliders, particle chitchats" - the blundering rings on my skeletal fingers start to reciprocate - with which irksome acuity their energy fields impeccably battle - the capsized funnels of my late sanity inaugurate the bromidic eidola which my catatonic self blithely sows - worse: vomits - sons of bitches, I am a regiment of nystagmatic clowns - damn "funny" weaklings who peddle their Levantine crap gambreled as tattered empty puppets from a clothes hanger, insisting their debts to society are both "slight and speedy" and that their is "no compensation available in the dismaying void of our disrepute."
With the fast ebbing stamina of a cripple whose effort at mending the unrepairable helm ends in a sprained core of disease, it is my ultimate folly to rebuff the crutches and...
Agape with the boss
Conversations with the machinist
Well, of course, though he had not a penny in his pocket, he went inside the house. "The lot must go. All as marked. Furniture and wieldy items priced individually." It was already the last hour, so the throng had thinned. Any thing at all worth anything must have been snatched long ago. "Downstairs, everything in the drawers goes for a dollar." "Middle level, everything in the drawers goes for a dime." "Upstairs, everything in the drawers, a penny." He climbed to the last floor. The drawers were practically empty; still he rummaged where everyone had rummaged before. He was tempted by a keyholder in a corner of a bottom drawer. Not to buy it, mind you; just to stealthily slip it into a pocket. But what for...? He had no key to attach to any keyholder - it would have been just more dead weight. He took off as light as he'd come in. Three Polish ladies, though, had come out rather loaded with stuff. One of them smiled to him. "Are you also going to the bus stop?" She asked of him, with a heavy accent. He lied: "I certainly do." "You wouldn't mind helping me with this two little parcels, would you? A strong young fellow like you." He, of course, agreed; acquiesced, so willingly, adding a few little reverences with his head. The lady gave him two big packages. A chocolate cake, a box with just-worn-once shoes inside. Traudlclitza her name was, the blond plump white fortyish lady. Over the bridge Traudlclitza noticed her two friends, that had kept on walking as she was negotiating with him the carrying of the big parcels, noticed them down by the river, with their skirts up, cooling their legs and thighs, their parcels on the shore, at hand. "Oh, let's!" said his lady. And he had to carry all of the parcels, lest she should slip and fall, as they were carefully trundling down the bank. "He'll watch all the packages," Traudlclitza arranged. And so the three ladies could go inside the middle of the river, where the water was deeper, without fear of having their goods stolen by any slithery thief. None of the three wore any panties. Their skirts they held with one hand above the navel. Her three cunts talked marvels about the miracles of nature, and their white plump asses shone like three beautiful moons. His cock was shooting for the moon. They were going to miss the bus, though, crazy broads. They put back their shoes, they were, they said, thoroughly refreshed. Now they walked fast, he loaded more than ever. Traudlclitza carried not an item. The other two, somewhat miffed that he couldn't carry any of their parcels, kept apart, all of a sudden lagging behind. He wouldn't hear the spikes of their shoes resounding behind him any more, he stopped, and gyrated - yes, they had gone, through a sidestreet no doubt. Traudlclitza said: "Never mind the bitches. We'll go to the station, to catch the train, too late for the bus." At the station, she pays for her ticket. He accompanies her to the car. She installs all her parcels on the rack above her seat; the chocolate cake, starting to melt, he wraps an antimacassar he swipes from another seat around it, tells her to discard the wrappings under the seat once she arrives at the station and her husband picks her up. Now he kisses her cheek. "See you, Trau" he says, "I'll try to reach your point of destination, I'll see you there again if I manage." He has no money to buy a ticket himself, but the woman likes to flirt, perhaps he'll get lucky, once he knows where she lives, say tomorrow, when the husbands leaves for work, and he knocks at her door... He climbs to the tender, he lies down among the chips - it's a wood-burning locomotive still. He tries to doze off but two thieves climb to the tender also, pursued by the police. One of the thieves tries to become him, while he must become the thief. And the police shooting helter-skelter already. He refused to become a victim, paying for someone else's crimes. He slips off the tender through the other side, and runs. He runs fast, he carries nothing in his pockets, no ballast, no dead weight. He walks along the rails. If he walks fast enough maybe he can arrive with the train or a little bit before? A rampart grows suddenly on the sides of the track. It's a parapet or a wall that starts small but becomes so high he is afraid. For he's started walking on top of the parapet but now he's afraid of falling into the chasm where the tracks run. He decides to climb down and walk along the side of the tracks, inside the wall, that now is more than six feet high. Either they had repaired the parapet recently or they had even built it anew: the cement at the foot of the parapet is still wet. It's becomes more and more difficult to advance. The feet sink into the mass. He wants to go back then, but now the train is coming. He's trapped, he's bound to get crushed by the side of the sweeping train. He watches the wall for traces of gratings and scrapings from the excess metals at the sides of the cars of the train. His feet are sinking. He's a statue that could nonetheless lay that side or that, where the scrapings on the wall are less obvious. He knows he's dead. The locomotive's showing its ferocious lights. He waves, he flounders, his arms white semaphores. The machinist guiding the fuming locomotive seems to have seen him. The machine noticeably slows. It stops at hardly the distance of a span from his naked chicken of a body. "What's the idea, bum?" asks the steam engine driver.
Well, you see, and he starts rhapsodizing about a hidden treasure and he on a quest... Counting his steps, losing count, losing notion of place and time, too enthused with the mystical, stony, philosophical hounding... Socrates, the engine master, says: "Spare us the shit, get your ass out of here fast; I'm on a schedule don't you know."
He's feet are stuck, he's sunk up to his knees almost, already. "Give us a hand," he pleads. "What's in it for us?" the driver wants to know. "Haven't got a sou," he answers.
"Well, I'm fond of eyelets."
"Eyelets? You don't mean the malodorous ones thereabouts where the bodily sewage taints the underpants...?"
"Flawless reasoning thine, mate," said Socrates.
He was rescued minus the shoes. His feet stuck now on the platform, he was irrumated while the train uncoiled. The starveling scalawag was given afterwards a slice of rough spelt bread, while the appeased machinists ate the Polish lady's chocolate cake. Their tongues forgot thus the bum's bum's taste.
He had sucked instead some water (otherwise destined to become noble steam) from the spout near the gauges, while they, Socrates and his discolored pal, had strong wine from tanned pouches that they squeezed like teats of Polish plump ladies.
Something he said, too gravely probably, about the strange complexion of Socrates' pal, made him the laughing stock for the nonce. Then he mistakenly enquired, too jocosely probably, about the ambiguity of their vice. He got rebuked and execrated, then almost asphyxiated, and was told about: "What about his own vice for being poor...?", before he was finally kicked out, as the train slowed going up and there wasn't any parapet now, just meadows in the dark. The fire had departed straightway. He was alone, though his eyelet was well cleaned at least, rimmed, double-rimmed clean, cleaner probably than the Polish lady's, even if she'd had that erotic bath with her two friends in the old river. Mocking cries of night beasts couldn't then discourage him from masturbating. He wouldn't want to remember the coarse tongues of the machinists, no, not those infamous tongues that... But he came remembering the tongues. Next morning his desiccated milk was smelling bad; he quickly found some aromatic herbs to erase the marks, he said: "Lest a pack of lubricious hounds hasten towards me... I wouldn't want to be eaten raw and seasoned only with the aromatic herbs that wiped my desiccated milk that the tongues of the drivers elicited all because I followed the dream of the Polish grace whose clandestine chocolate cake didn't manage to pass muster - much like my sorry trip."
Barefoot, he then walked. Morning had broken. He spied roundabout, peering at the several horizons, in search surely of habitation. He had to make his mind, again.
His presence eventless
His presence eventless
There's death at the knocker.
He comes in relentless.
Don't answer the fucker!
Fed up with the stalker,
So slimy, not scentless.
Here's death at the knocker.
Takes us for a sucker;
His knocking be endless,
Why flatter the fucker?
Vile bothering mocker,
Cajoling, but friendless.
There's death at the knocker.
Life, he wants to pluck 'er
Roots and all, consentless.
Don't let in the fucker!
That should be a shocker:
His presence eventless.
Yeah, death's at the knocker,
Let's ignore the fucker!
All ends in shit
landscape sans horizons
A Beer and a Loaf and a Kipper Cunt
What else but a beer and a kipper
Cunt in the soft breeze of the shade
Of the mighty tree, seasoned with bread
Bitten with appetite?
Kipper cunt, tasty smell, probably
Nutritious, as the sheep and the hens
Bundle yonder under some pretext
For the weather is fine, a vintage
Type of weather, where the grapes
Are spun in sort of a strobe-lighted
Mottled projection from above.
The haughty Sun stumbling meekly
On the leaves of the tree of late August
When the seedy straggling wormwoods
Disperse, smugly smuggling their seeds.
How apt those names "worm" and "wood"
As the bread is eaten with the kipper smell
Of the ripe cunt, a snatch diseased none
At all, just slightly unwashed.
The city is gone, mausoleum for snobs,
Never seen for the hills and other pastoral snags
Where nature's creatures straggle to struggle
Smelly and rather lousy too.
let my neck my ass how heavy...
(a prose poem for my dear wife Vera Baratinsky)
As we were getting out of the pub, with my wife already out of the door, talking to somebody, me still inside, a woman came to me with a lipstick on her hand. She'd been talking to my wife. Now she told me: "Here you are, a cocoa-cream lipstick... For your wife to fuck your ass with..."
I said: "Kam pènjon!" (which roughly translated means: "Let them hang me; for I can't believe I'm not the luckiest man alive!")
Smiling, I took the lip-rub, the chapstick of cocoa's fat, and went outside. Now I understood why they were laughing and looking toward my side, the woman and my wife, while I was there listening to the deadly boring explanations of a deadly bore about platonic ideas and the inter-atomic sub-particles... They were talking about me and my delicious pseudo-perversions.
As we were walking home from the pub, I said to my wife: "Look what your friend gave us."
She laughed. "I told her how you lately like it for me to fuck your ass with one or two of my fingers, and how your asshole suffers so from the friction of my nails, while I mutter into your ear how my lovers can fuck me for real in the ass (something you've never been and never will be allowed to do,) and how they talk filthy to me while they do, the nasty insults they hurtle at my head while with their big pricks (five or six times bigger than the little shit you call a prick) they hurt my ass, and how I enjoy their fucking though they hurt me, and how you enjoy my fucking and my repeating to you the repulsive abuse they throw at me: You like this, don't you, you fucking whore...? I'm gonna fuck your shit out of your eyes; you are nothing but a sorry twat eager to be fucked; I bet this little shit you call your husband would love to see you now, swallowing my come till it comes out of your ears, you disgusting bitch; what a dreamt bounty for the cuckquean...., you know, and so on."
My ears were all red. I was so proud of her. And the woman in the pub (how deluded) pitying me (I hope she tells about my enviable plight to as many of her friends as she can.) Nothing excites me more than my wife's wild teasings. I was fumbling with my tiny appendage through a pocket of my roomy pants... She's so masterful in dealing with me, I'm her puppet, her marionette, the strings limp as my wrists... Me following willy-nilly, at a distance, the strings never so taut: she never pulling me nearer than a mile when she's in action, not wanting my impertinence to sidetrack her target-centered pleasure... And yet, she knows, over there I'm her lap-doggie splattering with eager saliva at the mile limit (or more when she travels abroad,) waiting, at her blessed head-bursting return, for the mistress to let drop a drop of her delicious crumbs as they crumble from her overfilled quim or the tiny panties soaked... I'm panting after her stretched holes... I love her smell indeed as she comes back from another tryst, her panties a source of bliss while she snores upstairs and I'm rummaging in the hamper where she's tossed the underwear upon arrival... Ah, and all those months that she doesn't allow me to put the cuckoo cocky anywhere near her, while her holes are all aflame with the fucking of her vigorous fuckers... But then... The great reward. All of a sudden, as is happening this last week or so, she becomes so charitable, and for instance, as nowadays, she seems to enjoy fucking my asshole with her sharp nails, and deigns to repeat what the fuckers tell her, and how together they occasionally laugh at me...!
She was a bit tipsy tonight. She wanted to go to see some cinema; the three o'clock a.m. session down on the village. We fell asleep on the seats. The music was deafening. The voices carried into our dreams. At five something we were out. Dawn had broken and we were still walking upon the park, a slope it was, full of brush and bushes; I found a drinking pumpkin made of green plastic, with suckers all around the sphere, same sort of sucker you find on the legs of a giant octopus. What we called a gurdy (assuming that the hurdy was the "handle" and the gurdy the "pan" o "pumpkin.") I sniffed inside. I said: "Ugh, the smell! Wouldn't drink that for anything in the world; who knows who's pissed inside..." But then I remembered how I always pestered her when she was just back from some lovers' tryst, begging that she let me drink the dripping jizzm from her twat or her ass, before she went to wash it off at the bathtub, and how she always refused me. So I tried a little blackmailing then: "Unless you let me suck the come from your asshole next time you come back from a fuck with so-and-so, I'm going to take a sip of this..." And I held the pouring tip of the gurdy to my lips. She knocked the gurdy off my lips with a slap. She said, enthusing: "Look at the landscape of the sky! The skyscape, yes... You remember the film...? That wide sky with the spread of spare clouds...? Look now how it interlocks with the actual sky we see from atop here...!"
Panoramic, the semicircle of the sky seen in the film, could be found now here, as if superposed over the actual sky, with the other half provided by the actual sky, as I say, finishing the circle. I was amazed. How do they do that...? All those men, such great technicians! That's why they are so cocky, so confident; they know how things work, the sky, the cinema, the world, and their pricks are commensurate to their knowledge and savoir-vivre, and that allows them to fuck around, the wives of the deprived chiefly. What do I know about how to do anything...? My cocky is terribly small, my knowledge nil, my technical prowess a blot on any echt engineer's diploma. Of course my wife fucks around, of course she hardly allows me to smell her twat when she's had her fill outside. What's a poet good for, worth at...? I said: "There they intersect, the two skies! I've discovered the seams. Over there, the cut on the right, just perpendicular down the magnolia tree: see how the big pale pink flowers at one side and the other of the intersecting line don't rightly fit...? And to the left, the long falling live iron of the thunderbolt, how it twists at one side and the other of the overlaying line in a wrong pattern, the elbows all askew, as belonging to different remote storms...?"
She said: "Boy, are you full of shit."
We had all Sunday before us. I cooked us a hearty lunch, while she had a shower and a nap. I was stirring the ratatouille, and started thinking about that chemical oddity: the spontaneous combustion.
At lunch I was asking her: "Spontaneous combustion, you know. What do you think causes it? Which kind of mishmash howler must provoke it: a clash of which chemicals, you know?"
She sent me a withering stare. I knew she was in a bad mood. Better to shut up. No sex today, no nails up my asshole, no endearing words from her abusive males re-laid to my eager ear. I turned into a maggot. I went into the zombie mode, assuming my robotic situation, a matchstick figure walking to the gallows. I washed the dishes. I spread plenty of foamy antiseptic upon the rugs. I gawked at the birds on the yard with my pirate's spyglass.
I heard the phone. I waited. She was in the bathroom. I picked up the device. The voice of a man, a lover. "Is she home...?"
-Certainly, sir. A second, please.
-Give her a message. So-and-so is waiting for her at Bla-bla street. She knows.
-Ok, thank you, sir; no fear, I will, sir, thank you.
She was glad when I told her. In fascination, I looked at her getting dressed and painted for her lover. I was fumbling with my pesky midget across the threadbare lining of a pocket.
That was the rest of my day. Fumbling and dreaming. Waiting for the early hours of tomorrow, when she'd be back, so exhausted.
There were the poems building themselves in my mind. The fluttering lines... I took a paper. I wrote some of them down.
-Assuage with the pomade of your tongue the fistulae in her asshole.
(The pomade of your tongue, the words of the poem...?)
-Clearwings kittled the cullions of the corpse.
(I picture myself dead and the ash of her lovers' cigarettes falling on my exposed penetralia: so insignificant, so laughable, and now deservedly burned...?)
-Slimy weave... Woven like lace from her asshole, splendid rivulet of his semen.
(My tongue a snake's, rehearsing the words of the poem in honor of their love...?)
(. . .)
I had dozed off in the middle of the poem, its embrionic state looming as another child in the womb of my wife - whose that time...? And bound for adoption by whom...? Hm.
(. . .)
[last chance in my life to see them win
and they blew it.
they fucked it.
no appearance in the annals
no show even in tomorrow's tv:
they would let dangle this bit from the program.
my old playful wife saying again and then again:
"well, they fucked up
they really did."
last chance for them to appear in a program
our grandchildren as the starters
"they fucked up, fucked up..."
her voice trailing,
and then everybody's;
the whole public joking on the bleachers:
"they fucked up
fucked up, fucked up..."
so that now the whole hour of the program
was precisely that:
the whole stadium shouting "fucked up, fucked up..."
no use delaying the program,
nor eating just a fragment off it,
for the entire program was such a kirmess
of fucked up wallowing.
that was the fun
until the end of the hour
of the swimming championship
where our grandsons swam
so badly, oh, so badly
so badly, though
What was that...? My dream. Something to do with all those wasted spermatozoa...? Each with a face, each its temperament, each a biography...?
The night fell on my head. I was haunted by my customary spirits - the grotesque devils that you can only see during that dark interregnum that bridges sleep and fright. Stochastically dancing, those shady monsters, on the inner wall of your lids. Or worse: on the walls of your pitch dark room, with your eyes feverishly opened, your pupils penetrating like sharp spikes the utter darkness until they crash into their misshapen suddenly lit forms performing their sick shenanigans...
I screamed no, no. I called my mom, my mom.
It was Monday morning already. My wife, whipping herself up and down, dressing for work, letting some florid oaths fly by.
-Dear, I'll do your breakfast. Baloney and cheese...?
-No time for that. My plane's in an hour.
A week later, she told me that, among the crowd of her lovers (for she also imitated the manners of Faustina,) she had found a man so well endowed that...
Despondently I said: "Can't compete with those guys."
She said: "Would you believe it? In the cold of the winter night, the guy complains about the quality of the bed - sheets and mattress - about some clothes or stuff bunched together, anaphrodisiac bumps, he calls 'em... A bit disappointed, he is."
I said: "Which guy was this guy...?" (for I didn't know there was a new one.)
She said: "Oh, nobody; one I knew at the convention. He wants us maybe to hitch up together."
I thought: Married away...? I shriveled altogether inside my clothes. Such an insurmountable bereavement I was the victim of.
I said: "Insurmountable odds. Can't compete with such gifted specimens. I know I'm a poor substitute, but... who else would serve you so well as a simple scansorial implement, and as a contubernial comrade, and as..."
A defiant flash in her eyes. I crouched: "You don't want to hit a nun!" (Only that she probably did, as who wouldn't.)
I was jealous of him. No for his cock, for I loved his cock. But his flair, his fluidity in dealing with the public. "He's another James Bond," she had said, under his spell.
The injurious rays of the silent tv, the smoke, the clop-clop of the horses' hooves... I felt dizzy. "Will you have the house de-polluted from me with a high-powered hose...?"
She said: "What?"
-Sorry, the poison of me, I meant, not really the pollution, if the word incommodes you...
I saw behind her the frames of the two gigantic doors leading to the temple of nothingness: it was one of those types of temples you find sometimes in the middle of nowhere. You climb up there, and there you remain for moths, in a space not wider than your body, flat on the lintel of the stone door; you eat the grubs and the insects that crawl around the ivies and the mosses, and you drink the water of the rain that gathers in the depressions of the stone...
How are those monks or buddhist in Nepal called...? Wouldn't it be fine to be one of them? Oh, see... Here I come, to the stand in the bazaar, a hot bishop at 87, selecting chocolate bars with his daughter and friends; affably buying tigernuts at a booth in a fair; neither bloodied nor hooded, chewing gum not grit, subdued, at peace, unhurt, rebounding beautifully.
A sampler of twats. As long ago, of yore, his wife-that-was also happened to be such a sampler of cocks. He's done well in the publishing world of Nepal and thereabouts, he's the editor in chief, the bishop who nihil-obstats the full amount of stuff comes to the offices of "The Gyneco-Religionist" - a specialized magazine - "All About Cunts." How the quims stack up against each other. All types and lasts and shapes. A triumph at the newsstand: plenty of oafs leafing at the numbers: stammering approval; their lengthy, delighted oinks inarticulately speaking of unequaled success; thronged, spellbound, seething herds oiling their rusted articulations, dusting the cobwebs off their soaring eyes... How well one feels doing good!
That's it, quit dreaming... No more the handle of her to hold on... Gone the cushion of your legal wife to fall on... She bailing you out every time... In front of the immigration officers... In front of the thugs at the borders... "Ma'am, are you sure that is your husband? How could such a classy beautiful lady as yourself show such poor judgment in the choosing of one's mate...?" I'll have to find a real job; the jig is up.
"Well, sir, your honor," I'm telling the judge, "you see, is like that; though I am not a homosexual, that's what I've become by dint of a major force, if you get my drift, your honor... Now I'm one of those well-intentioned nice boys who suck cocks for the photos and the films; some of us instead have to give blood for money, your honor; you earn your life with what your capacities and what your circumstances decree; there I am, all agape, and when the jig is up I'm down on him; he discharges profusely (in the capacious vagina of my mouth no less); taking milk beats giving blood, your honor, at least accordingly to my admittedly scant wits; they love, all those oafs leafing through the magazines, all those oafs at the picture show house, they love indeed all those milky sperms, or semina, streaming from one's mouth. So poetical, it seems..."
"No, my honor, no!" But he throws me to the dogs.
Here I go, out again, a writer beaten up, who nonetheless vows to continue writing in the sky his quaint novel about key personages (supreme judges and such) in key positions across the teaming cities of the east coast - with their tacky flavors, pleasures, exotic dubious gleams, revealed - roman à clef where as soon as the larcenists' crimes occur, they are written up in a sky language - only the initiates can comprehend its intricacies - no projected letters, just fake clouds stuck with words, later released up to the welkins... Released in all their lambent, lambasting intensity. Everybody with a knowledge of the rules of skywriting can read the exploding balloons filled with sundry stinging revelations - the exploit of the writer in his prompt cloud-sending is also lauded universally to the skies (by the common people, of course.) The sky's the target for the eyes of those that want to have a handle on what's what. Its letters a boon - a bedazzling miracle indeed. And now we really realize what's happening - (everyone is saying) who's shafting us, and how.
In the throes of guilt, my guts tainted with the bullet lead of ubermenschy impunity..., in the guts of the quilt, my throes, as I bemoan, and croak and groan, stabbed by the self-punishment I'm shoehorning into my soul, for how could I be so callous as to... No; even Hercules yields to odds. How could I go against the world...? I submit. I apologize to all and sundry, my honor, I take back each of my inhumane stings... All in a knot, pleading in bulk, pledging my oath... Never to be again so self-derivative...?
And she, meanwhile...? After marrying that successful sadist of a creep; damned impostor; not a puppet, a puppeteer. Slapped, unfree... At home, taking care of the kids, wiping the floors... The girdle stained with indelible blots... Where have all those hot big shots available at every homely trip and every convention abroad gone...? All those James Bonds with their cock at the ready for thee...? Au contraire... Contrary squalls. And with the cold breath of time at the tattered sails of her large, long skirted behind... Alas, now she is a frail grandmother propped with a cane, as a scrawny crane on a high branch: "Sit here and don't move, granny;" but she leans, she falls, she splashes... She's down and no one near. And here's the gray roof of the sky falling on her. Those darned inventions of those young damned Chinese scientists! With a machine to lower ceilings, they've done it, reached for the stars; reach all you want and then pull back, yes, shit, and what do you get...? All the spiders, hanging, teetering, titillating on your head, millions of them - the shouting, the terror...! The immobility from the paralyzing fright: the attack en masse from the hairy beasties... Your neck under duress, torticollis; your plight wrongly pegged; your haggard, worn out, nagged arm groping in the emptiness, flinching from a nefarious lump of... What's that! It's that my molten hip...? Feels more like a big turd. Age's lamed me, it always hurts like the devil... Woe is me, so low and deep I've fallen, without him, my prop, never malapropping, haven't I...?
And the old house, vacated by the old dame... Who would now buy such a shit? Everything disguised as working and moderately clean, but once you start digging into the grime, worse grime appears, and nothing works: the faucets once opened don't ever shut again, the fetid sink hole is stuck, the shelves fall all over, there are mummies of little boys crammed into the recesses of complaining closets; all those mummies never went to school, they have been sleeping all those decades in filth, with rats and cockroaches; poor mummy boys, never could wash, unless the flooding filthy waters soaked everything; could never have breakfast, with the shelves all collapsed, the food splattered on the floor, feed, fodder and bait for the toothy rodents and the chortling coleopterans...
Let instead the house burn - like next hotel - vacationing, conventioneering - trying the photo booth for the elevator - whacking the buttons to no avail - the floor boy telling you: "It's the photo booth, ma'am, sir."
-Fuck, you are right, and we two adulterous galoots taking the flimsy contraption for a fucking lift!
Frustration circling the swamp of your rotting relationship like a hawk in no conciliatory mood.
-Sorry, I'm frightfully superstitious today. Where's the throne? I have to eschew therein my backbone, the backbone with which once, long ago, I throve; indeed, I once thought it was even sprouting wings...
Was I crying? Indeed, shut in the bathroom downstairs, bawling my eyes out, sobbing into the startled trite specters of my utterly depressed handkerchiefs.
Ah, on the wavy meadows above the hills, a quasi silent congregation of all the inhabitants of the surrounding towns - the girls to identify the molesters - I know I'm bound to be one of the fingered; doomed to be shown out - I must smile during the whole of the proceedings, I must put myself as one of the many, incognito, another nobody, mixed among people of my own complexion and style, confidently to the fore, a body is as good as the next, and what the fuck know the silly brainless girls anyway...? Harsh I must become, obscene, specious. Void of angst. Tough as another of those gangsters dare fuck the bourgeois women, and kill the pleading craven husbands into the bargain. Undiscovered ever, were it not even for a gangrel body who has nothing to lose and talks...
So I called one of my goats to me, for I knew them all, and milked her into a wooden bowl. Ah, to swim in milk, like a champion fly...!
I remembered, didn't I, how I found my wife's whole family rummaging in my room; at first I was sympathizing, friendly enough... But then I ordered them all out; what if the wife had a tumor...? Her gangrel body, yes! Her gangrel body of a gangrenous body aching and hurting all over - she'd mowed my garden to bold places - and left naught - all my odorous plants dead or razed... But she had nobody but me to care for her oozing wounds... Who but me with my artistic taste could chose a better wig for her bald scabby skull...? The fashion in hair topics at the time had to be observed, and to top it all what if it happened to be something as weird as having one's hairs in shags thrown behind, and, on top of the head, a badly shaved half void, in tatters, as if mangy everyone...? Everybody looking repugnantly enough, and smelling hideously too, thanks to those fashionable perfumes...? Well, who better then than me to chose, as I say, with my poetic nose...?
It was me now who rummaged their chambers. I have the old pictures of your mother spread-eagled. Who took them? Either your father, or a previous lover, or the fake agent who pretended she had actress or model potential, of whom she always spoke dreamily afterwards, saying (ever I heard it) that carrying you as a fucking fetus marred her figure for ever more...?
A pall of purple suddenly fell, engulfing everything; the little bits of wan dough-people melted in the unwieldy murk. Afraid to the core, I was shouting for my mother.
My wife forced the door.
Top citizen of earth, emeritus meritorious shapely one, daughter of god, immune to the frothing glitches beleaguer us commoners, mired in dread. Bestow on this finicky flunkey a modicum of circumspection, so that he'll be able at least to beseech thee with his obnoxious dull verbosity stilled somehow... Would that I could add some interwoven songs of the linnet withal...!
And forthwith I acted, I compelled my abject woes to meekly be dislodged from the festering corners of my mouth.
She said: "What's that?"
I said: "A charnel-house habitué hasn't seen more horrors than I saw during those two last nights that your were conventioneering in frozen Geneva. In ravenous dearth of tepid company, I rattled like the dying snake of my strangulated neck."
-Are you gonna marry this enormously endowed guy...? Are you tossing me into the inbred garbage cesspool of nevermore?
They laughed! They laughed, and I knew their quims were therefore soaking wet; women's quims humidify the more mightily the heartier the laugh - crying obtains the same result - the fact is I love it when they cry; the wilder the tear, the more productive the lovely vaginal secretions: all so mish-mashing, the cunt wet-tissimo, and the stewing, the taste, the smell!
Hamstrung witling, I smiled, my homespun ears a chintzy red, knitted in a motley of foolish tatters, stewing themselves, fuming with inklings of revelation, sworn to boomings and beyond, their edges nibbled by alternating squads of the heathen mice of friskiness. I'm a little naughty boy. My asshole itches, wants to be slaughtered by the grumpy nails of the crucifier, the punisher, the great fucker goddess herself.
She was showing me the cream of cocoa lipstick. Who'd be so damned daft as not taking the cue? I dug not in, but vividly I leapt and flew, my trousers down to my ankles.
-Coo-coo, Jack Cuckold; coo-coo, Jimmy Wittol, look what I've got...!
The magic wand from the pub fairy godmother shone enticingly from two of her strong long-nailed fingers. I was spying from a chink among the layers. I was buck naked, shrunken under the sheets.
She screamed: "Come this instant!"
And I almost came.
She said: "We might, I thought, be passing over the surface of your anus or some other far bizarrer smooth planet where sin had never alighted, and therefore no fucking redeemer, thank god, had to either."
She repeated: "You like that, don't you, fucking whore...?"
She said, more or less, or else is the poet in me slightly elaborating: "Indulge, my racy pet, in the smooth pleasures of this nutritious little dildo. Wince in lucid fondness at the vicarious ordeal for soon all your coy comfy universe will crumble into an outrageous cataclysm, and you'll be ravished in whole pageant by the forked scepter of the aggressor - same, alas, as your poor virtuous wife does suffer daily the cocks cuntwise, and this most underhandedly, for when she feels best at ease and utterly and rhythmically contented, the steel crested cocks, without warning, turn evil and bristly, and pierce asswise, flanked in their savage attack by the foul thunder and fury of the blaspheming gigantic devils their lords, bent on mayhem, and who, as I was saying, fuck her hard they really do do, boy, and how!"
She said: "Does it hurt enough, greedy little shit? Is your cunt stretched as wide as it can get and more now...? Should we rake a little harder, filthy dirty whore, with the steely crests leering at the fore of our forked fingers, and cruelly bent on paining the fuck out of your non righteous rectum...?"
When out of smutty ideas, huskily I gave her pointers. My vocabulary being vaster.
Until, demurely, I only piped: "Ow, ow." So gratefully.
agape upon my casket
Notes on Being (1)
books flung over the icy
field of words - ploughed
field of words - ploughed
they all sing and recite while being fucked
atop a transparent bed
at the bottom of which
the camera works.
serious work indeed -
a heavenly anthology of song and recitation
while the interpreter is thoroughly
fucked - so refined, oblivious, anestrous,
excelling at the other, more real, task at hand,
almost far aloft, notwithstanding the grim
circumstances, each of the goddesses
in their artful absorption
impervious to lubricity,
for the flesh perishes,
the flesh indeed, when confronted with art,
by it is bound always to be excruciatingly
it is a given: the flesh indeed, by art
being always shamefully transcended.
and now in fact a glut: cohorts of singers
and diseuses, the best around the world,
Chinese, American, African,
the most famous, the prettiest,
or the fattest, and the thinnest,
ponderous divas and flighty burlesque grisettes,
all prone, and lubricated,
ruthlessly, under martyring attrition,
in earnest performance fucked,
with their tits and mouths
splashing on the diaphanous coverlet
across the slight clear water mattress
under which the camera steadily
artfully unblinkingly rolls,
and with nary a clatter rolls still, until
the recital’s finale orgasms through
the cramped layers where the soul
art defeating the vulgarity of the act
as the spirit discomfits the mud, the dust,
the carrion of the filthy vessel that
carried such wondrous riches,
the poem, the tune, the song…
I’m so full of it, so pleased
with my crafty work,
the tatters at my back feel
like multicolored wings,
the sweat on my brows
the product of the skies
where ethereal angels slobber and drool
in their enthused paeans
against the dark infinitudes
of the unseen backdrops.
Said professor Reggie Morell, the famous aphorist:
"-There are some assholes full of cant that equate Bush with America. Their betters of course equate a bush with a merkin - sick paradigms of another faltering cunt."
"-Who'd be stupid enough to try to export a "democracy" who produces as its head honcho a bloody bully of a baboonish cunt such as Bush, his mandrill behind prodded by a sinister vampire who seems doggedly determined to die with the earth itself...?"
* * * * *
Said the famous aphorist, professor Reggie:
"-When shit equals bush, nothing else matters but your sanity.
Nothing really signifies anything; everything just happens; bush happens; shit happens; and that's it.
Shit never ceases happening; get used to the idea.
Now scram, bums; and make yourselves useful; (&); amend that, make something useful, not of yourselves (what good would that do in a world where shit happens and will keep on happening, willy-nilly, in spite of all your efforts and more&?,) but for yourselves."
* * * * *
Said the famous professor, aphorist Reggie:
"-I'm extremely shallow - three goals I'm only after: the continuance of life, the enjoyment of liberty, the pursuance of happiness."
"-There's the fuckers and there's the fucked. Both despicable failures as trials go - as trials for the well-adjusted organism that nature seems to be trying to produce. And then there's the gray people - they only think about fucking each other - like doves."
"-See above the waters the spectral specter crossing the spectrum. It is an idyll of the minnows. Brief interlude. After the orgasms, steeped in grudges, she slunk along the curb, the coughing ghost of a sick bitch."
* * * * *
Said the famous Reggie, aphorist and professor:
"-As soon as you hear the name "god", you know already they are talking bullshit."
"-Next with a yawn I happened to gulp a spontaneous thunderbolt: distasteful."
"-I went under the olive tree
I had my wine and my bread with cheese
And I started daydreaming
Under the warmth and the dappled light
And I entered
Into the delicious hallucinations
Where paradises abounded and bubbled
Until it was time to go back home
With my dubitative step
Down the country walk
Thinking what a well replenished day
All in the line of a day's work."
* * * * *
Gaze till they to madness run
Gaze till they to madness run
I’m the omnipotent investigative reporter
Who uncovers the totality of your life
The paltriest of your secret dark caves
Is invaded by my steady all-seeing step.
I’ve got every detail down pat on my pad
To the salient facts I’m adding the deepest buried ones
Painstakingly I’m adding and adding down,
Nothing escapes me, the joys and the sorrows
The extreme disappointments above all
The strange silences, the odd lulls where you
Or is it even you
But the crumbling shell of your waning gargoyle shadow?
Walk on a void.
Got them all, the smacks of fate
The leaks of unbeing
The deadening jolts every time
That you realize you amount exactly to zilch
Or rather to even less than zilch, and you doubt
Do you even exist in any kind of measurable
Level of exist... Hey, silly boy! I’m telling you...
Hide this, ok?
Unless you want to zap me to hell
Cover - and fast - your murderously radiating insignia.
I can’t abide the shine on my too sensitive eyes.
Little shitty fellow
I can express you like a piss-vessel
As a bladder, yes, or as a pig
A piglet squeezed out in my gigantic Jovian hands
All the wine, and food, and thoughts
You ever had...
Come pouring down from the old
Holes and the spanking new ones.
Not a ripple the prowess of my prowling prow
Draws over the scum of this old blood
To which the few stale drops of your miserly
Worthless nothing of a body, empty
Bag of fluff, scantest of hefts,
Fleeting nugacity, bring but a
Remote never-noticed shading
On the faint shivering
Of a non-descript stain.
Through the dances to the stillness
Through the dances to the stillness
Walking in a park adjoining my home
I’ve found some stamps
That now abruptly somebody deems valuable
For with his son he is obdurate on recovering
Them from me, though I maintain that I never
Found the fuckers.
They say they’ll fight me to death
They’ll burn the house down
Kill all my plants and birds
Unless the stamps are handed over.
Which stamps…? I walk along the park
With my stick and I try to keep the path
Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly
Garbage, what do I care about little squares
Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.
The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone
Once underway a hoot no doubt
I see it already: such hilarity.
And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.
After I’ve tried as well as I could
To hang up the long wet carpet
Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –
Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…
Roils the cold still air the passing tramway
Where our last trip shall commence
I can make up words of rhyming verses
With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…
The jerky witty dance indeed
Is underway in my head.
After the eviction
Following the crisp roads
Toward the mountains yonder.
With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress
And some deep blue pillows
I’m trying to make it across the country home.
As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank
And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach
I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress
And onto the bike itself.
After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking
At the sunny courtyard
I notice that the bedding of the mattress
Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows
The thin brown blankets.
There are customers on pillows, true
There are resting workers
Lazily stretched along the shadows
The building provides
But I’m gaffing continuously
None of the deep blue pillows
Upon which they lean are really mine
I’ve got to apologize every time after my query
And in a good-humored way.
Sounds of the same music again.
Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.
On with the farce
And the arrival again postponed.
J.V. Foix’s Song of Doubt – (1948)
True it is and not true – the heart’s aflame
With burning hopes, but the hostel’s alone
In a background of noise of dance; to one
And all I’m asking what, only I’m too tame.
Outside I defy the blizzard all the same,
And with wild gladness in nights of white stone,
While running after whom of me complains, the groan
Of the wind soothes me, unseen, with no aim.
True my love; true also, oh, god, the untruth.
I’m foot and asphalt; evil’s my climbing stool
Upon which the good I sing, angry and uncouth!
All’s so hard – please help; I bathe in the pool
Of beauty – at it you are banned, and I’m in ruth.
I see gloom shine bright; gold’s my hunch of the fool!
Nothing like dying clears the lumber
Nothing like dying clears the lumber
Yesterday, over the deafening blasts, in my mind, I was bidding: Goodbye, you gooves, I mean, you goofs, goodbye…
There was the airliner, greedy god, giant totem bathing in the shiny pool of its own spunk — edgily milling around, surrounding it (inside the permitted boundaries,) some of us plethorically salivating, others dry-throated, we all intimately worshiped…, entreating, beseeching, begging to be worth to be allowed (mentally allowed) to have a fulfilling tongueful licking up of it all, the uptodated goodies, the magnetic stool pigeon, the monstrous divinity, its cascades of coruscating sperm… And then, underhanded, clandestine, left and right, the sacrifices… If a man, your sacrificed your cock; if a woman, your clit.
I was so confused. Split between allegiances, you might say. A walking tribulation lost among the runways. One of my grown sons going toward one of the ready planes, wife and baby going toward an opposite one, another plane, in an opposite tarmac, to an opposite destination, bound for an opposite locale altogether…
Damned. Splintered, splattered, dispersed. A jumble inside. I know that you know the whole of my whole… Wallowing in pituitary juice, the little man me splat, I mean, split up, and swam ashore… His double life… Their respective… On both crystal-clear horizons… Over the muddy ramparts… Two beings not too apt to… His lives flashed before me — a splayed, badly spliced phenomenon at the end — telling me maybe that my job was done; the next generation already in command; that it would take exponentially longer than the whole life itself just to try to put a few floods of thoughts into action… This is another paradox, that many of the most critical injections and suggestions in a plane’s eyeful head flash through so fast, that clocks collide in battle, it seems. Time we all live by has so little relation to the sort of linear lifetime one spells out to oneself as he runs from platform to platform, trying to adjust, just trying (hard and never quite succeeding) to spell out the contents of even a single fast right word.
Every iteration uttered above the din roused from the frightful grunts of the huge idols and the shitty imprecations of the worshippers seems totally unhinged, out of any regular sequential pattern. We all seem to go around trying to grab the pigtail of a chronological series of feebly understandable gestures that willy-nilly should add up to a nanosecond of sense, but it never does.
Between you and them, and among these and anybody else, paradoxes rise like barriers — the moment you subside, exhausted, they call the roll-call of their lifetimes. It’s really like that — the best way I can imagine to cope of with the repetitive quandary, would be never to try — better even to un-try… Everyone happens to use words, but all what really matters goes on without ever being said; you try to convey to those so-called loved-ones what you are thinking, and you find out that they're thinking exactly the same: deep down we all are thinking the same… Unfinishable! What a fucking travesty is it all, and when will it be over!
Move the gods in unison. We are panicking, fast, huge, unhooked, a lack of words in a torrent of words. Barely sketched on the reflections of the surfaces, there are the outlines of most of the sacrificial silent underhanded self-cripplers. One tiny little piece of me given to the god, so that he might obsequiously concede me the keeping of the rest — the rest of that body nonetheless incapable of expressing shit — or other than shit. I won’t put up much longer with any further part of it. No. At any given instant, my internal head-speed might go into overheating. And whatever my ideas, memories, hatreds and desires might impel me to do even faster, the crash, by the way, would nonetheless be still a sure thing.
Exponentially more and more discombobulated as the shot flying god crumbles to the rough surface of your ominous thoughts, you’re dying, meaning your urine is like caustic whitecaps on the shore of the burning brain. I’m thinking piss or bust… Meaning maybe that it’s as well if I die or they do… And how fast and, farraginously over meadows, o ruinously over neighborhoods, or stinking wet over the ocean, who cares. The doors to the crapper fly open as my scrawnily screw-taped deliberations and associations can fly through the airport’s thunderous sky — uselessly querulous. You can be in the middle of a ravishingly tiny rush, and yet start sliding back, technically, to the years of your infancy, when dying was what was coming next whenever anything at all happened — so that as a fact the chestnut about all your (good) seducers and (nasty) abusers flashing before your mind’s eyes (if any) as you’re finally reweaving, I mean, relieving and re-living yourself, isn’t all that crazy. No.
The cups, plates and platters rattle, as does the lid, as do those trinkets they sell, as does every pane, and it turns out that that’s what the worshippers were waiting for — a discrete cheer — usually it only happens once in a lifetime, but today it happened twenty-three times at once. A finite instance of sequential brain-pounding, as though you are being banged about by a bunch of thugs in a filthy ring strewn with rusted cans and dead cats.
The way I think of time while they are alive, plus the way they think of my receding shadow as they create those slow mind-numbing balletic steps out of thick smoke, what an exuberant flirtation of promiscuous misunderstandings…! Who the fuck knows what’s really going on. At the most basic level, I suppose is fear all around, masked with yet the same misrepresentations — who can imagine entities larger or more meaningful (or with a mind more powerful) than those, who indeed picture in his infantile fancy something as beautifully hideous as a train or a plane now aware of those alluring expanses called ocean, desert, firmament which moreover they are bound to realize their destinies never tire to call them over to, as if it were to the final resting place of home, home, home…? Hum-hum-humming home all the way home, my motors, my body. Homing machines, yes. No, but, when one of those dumb divinities is up to something as reasonable as giving up the parasitical ghost that had them in thrall, does it then, finally, realize that, although their whole life…, its whole life had been for all apparent purposes some kind of unity, with a starting point and now that hysterical crash, that in fact there turned out to be somewhere else foggy bigger meanings, bigger terms of reality, and that their lives as my life weren’t even close to what words and chronological pitter-patter, really a sequential thing of some sort, where first you are borne in the arms of a creep, and then you’re up with enough material to rush through a complaining door on your way to become a drop of piss in the pan of a universal latrine, can for an instant convey with any sense of accuracy…? Not a zillionth of a fraction with not a zillionth of a fraction of…? Your head might just explode in little silences.
For when people are looking over their quietly bleeding stumps and waiting out, to see if there al last happens something more exciting than the intoxication brought by drink or by any other means which would tickle the hormones, always prone and eager to disorder, there you might talk and say as if you know what the fuck you were about to… but deep down… not at all possible to, no.
I was benevolently smiling through both ends of my schizopodous lips, and then, of a sudden — flexing, feeling my muscles, my face settled, no longer in pain, budding, breezy, an odorous flower waiving off — I was outside, alone, somewhat exhilarated, pondering that, indeed, dying clears your mind of so much dross and encumbrance — for a little while at least — till next one — before falling into the pattern, and then again, there you are, thinking, as always, those other obstreperous thoughts — or worse, hey, or worse.
can’t bark, can’t bark
here, projected, is my body…
what a roaring scent,
what a roaring scent it lets fly…!
is dead and rotting…
in its murkiness,
a sparkling maggot
scoffs at my swift
calls me a rustic,
a no class churl,
no finesse whatever
in the liquefying arts;
such a crying, such a bore,
such a boor, such a crying
inability to render oneself,
or at least to render
back to the clean humus,
such as one always
and now in her smugness,
a corpse beetle
lands in her field.
the sparkling maggot
bristles most aggrieved.
fetid quills are crossed,
the fierce adversaries
disregard the juicy meal
of my body…
lugubrious, the victor
the vanquished devours
as any mother would
her gutsy abortion.
as the sparkling beetle
now flies away,
my body, a derelict,
a sinking deserted wreck,
melts with the sea.
the sea, a juicy…,
a juicy meal
from a bigger corpse yet.
the sea harmonious,
the warring oceans cacophonous,
the blue, the blue…
Hats (or, as the wind commands)
About hats severally worn by the born
these are the hats I wear
the hats people forget
at my side
whenever I’m sitting
at the brinks
these are the hats
nipped and scratched
often too deeply
just maybe as the people
who wore them
and gave them up.
those are the exhausted
I find after the people
who forgot them behind
suddenly up and decided
into the ravine.
those are the hats I wear
as unwearable maybe
as the people
who left them behind
people who up and marched
with a will toward the abyss.
those are the hats of people
some of whom were allowed
to descend flight by rough
and jagged and craggy flight
to their uppermost bliss
while others were forbidden
and had to leave behind
(with their derelict hats)
those excess years
and riches and felicities
and their droves of children
in a spasm.
those are the hats I wear
as those that wore them
up and disappeared
down the chasms
and forgot them
near where in his secluded niche
the surrogate wearer waits
as the master winds
blow up the world
as the master
blower blows up
a crude bottle
where the scene
before my stunned eyes
a hat blew in the storm
I was disoriented
heavy rowdy traffic
blinding gaudy lights
I had been eating grapes
with the friendly inhabiters
of a crumbling house
deep pools of rain
where the rats wallowed
but now we needed bread
to eat with the remaining grapes
and I was so disoriented
emerging into the busy artery
I didn’t know where to turn
the smells were injurious
the lights hurtful
the dislodged hats blew around
whirlpools of incongruous objects
in eddies of splintering hats
the crazed cars
rammed down dogs
and left those unspeakable messes
so that new cars rapidly
and with a vengeance
trying to obliterate the hideous
the revolting outrage
I was utterly disoriented
the offensive smells
the garish neons
the clattering stabbing hum
I submerged myself back
and when even without a puny loaf
I reached again the dilapidated house
new lodgers were busy about
putting in new shiny appliances
the rude bullying servicemen
who chased me away
like another grubby
Book of Life [only two chapters]
Book of Life (one chapter)
My mother, my father,
my daughter, my wife,
they were all talking
at the big monument.
I said: Excuse me…
And so fast, and almost
I was gone.
I went directly opposite
traversing streets and roads
chockfull with people and cars.
I had to go steal a book…
Couldn’t let pass
When I came back…,
they all were dead,
my father, my mother,
my wife, my daughter.
Now I’m trying still
to read the momentous book
I stole on that occasion.
While I wonder
was it all really worth…?
Book of Life (another chapter)
Borrowing and substituting
is my way of being.
My way of being, meaning
how I exist on this selfsame earth
the reader is supposed to exist.
I’m borrowing the combs of others
to see if with their special,
toney, tawny, wide-tined combs
my bald spots don’t populate again.
I’m borrowing also the sauces —
Often I feed on sauces alone;
other times I only need to add
a bit of bread…,
or found someplace,
or even bought somehow.
Substituting is the second endeavor,
as important as the first.
When my friend Bledso
went to town to steal a book,
and it was Halloween time,
I asked him to substitute whatever
book he was going to steal
for this one…
I said: Bledso, please…
And I gave him (taking it from
my pocket with a flourish,
for I was sure it was a very surprising
book,) I gave him a book
enveloped tightly with the mask
of a goofy Dracula.
I said: Bledso, please…
Would you slip this on the window
of the bookshop, prominently,
you know, on the window
of the bookshop where thou happenest
to go for to steal a book…?
He made a moue but took
the unfrightening book
to inconspicuously put it
the eyes of the amused passers-by.
I remember (I was at the time involved
in the fond process of supping by
dipping some sops in the sauce
on the counter) when he came back.
Alles in Ordnung…?, I also joked.
Bledso answered: Yeah.
I said: Show us then which book thou hath
for thee for the nonce appropriated,
knightly Bledso, chivalric chivalrous
chevalier of mine, please, huh…?
He said, nonchalantly showing
indeed the scant volume:
Just “A Small Tract…”
(or “Treaty” or “Treatise,”
now I don’t rightly recall;
let me rephrase it…,) he saying: Just
“A Small Treatise About Ovarian Cancer.”
I said: Sounds interesting.
As he forewent the opportunity
to reply, I thought I needed to add
to the praises of his choice.
Promises to be a wad of fun,
in the empty cage of my trunk
trying, though benightedly enough,
to guffaw. And then I said:
Would you please, Bledso,
lend it to me sometime…?
He was rummaging about
in some deep drawers
where previously I had rummaged,
but I believed then as
I do do believe now he kindly
nodded his assent…;
awfully nice chap, Bledso,
if swallowed whole and
unseasoned, as they say.
Through the panes, transfixed
Through the panes, transfixed
Frugal love links of the everyday,
I awoke and peered through the panes
At the long acres of cultivated trim,
Those strenuously conceived
Paradoxes of commonplace creativity…
At the critical orchids that often create,
Under the breeze, such brittle melodies.
Ah, yes, simplicity; mine, no doubt
Very much like that of other
Humble gardeners whose orchards,
Above over yonder,
Also drift in waves of curious solitude.
I peered at tilled fields, mathematical
Sequences of aspects hidden
To the reasoning mechanisms.
And saw next, near the rough wall,
The bland covetousness of moderate lizards,
Joyful in their other world.
The beasts’ techniques allow the empty,
The empty like me and my empty eyes,
To marvelously relax and dream.
Mixtures of grease the hoe mixes in the creases
Of her ancient goddess skin, earth.
Blasts the volcano its lavas,
Over which the fire fishes
Erstwhile so deftly swam.
Like them, I’m telling myself, put up a fight,
You lousy lazy creep.
Your dough is elastic, and hers more so,
Vow then to rip her lingerie…
Even the thought, brings you enough
Exhilaration as to be able to…(in a jiffy,
Had you only taken yourself outside,)
To saunter over the manifold bird’s nests
Of her hairy treasures.
Rewards that shall be yours as the same
Paradoxical library of commonsense wit
Encountered while digging for other
Think: Labors a plenty,
Labors so wondrous, reality is tossed around
In mindlessly rational straightforward fashion.
Stay. Bother to listen to the feet of the lizard
As they take purchase over the rural quiet,
And as they steal with ease the ease,
The uncostly ease of earth undone.
Eliminate the acquired knot of enwrapped
Sentences, and maybe freedom is deserved.
Vowed now to unstinting attachment
To fewer places, exploit the wasteful
Clouded less-ness of superabundance.
Suppose the cheapest and the highest findings
Are both equally doomed to extinction.
The cheapest and the highest priced,
Those extravagant sisters who clearly and
Chastely require the tasteless characteristic
Of picking yellow laundry in the hope
That their lizard feet in clarity and vividness
Will follow their stealthy model to the vacuous
Small refuge of the infinite.
As the length increases, and thence the plurality
Of spending, bestow rather a scattering of
Further elegance on the cheerfully unbidden
Juncture of sudden death.
Nothing is codified nor edified.
An agonizing whinny originates
In the healthy chest of a slave
Bought in prospects of gaining
Insight into the clandestine.
A merely elongated leek is the nearest
Thing to the bread of thought.
It requires a vast planting outdoors,
Where the intelligent of yesteryear
Taught the hallowed topics,
Now grown disgustingly sour and stale.
No hindrance to the expansion of its hair,
Its leek-y hair, the subtle emanation
Of all earthbound tears.
A grove pristine in birdie mirth
Shows nonetheless some weaknesses.
Fewer distractions are available
In the far-fetched maximum leisure
Of redundant, mutually assured hostility.
I rose that morning beholding success,
And of course such a surplus,
And yet my oversize aptitude for idleness
Frittered away all those (soi-disant
Worthwhile) hothouse remotes.
Unyielding and specious as any other
Coquettish novice, I shunned the tree
And its poisoned fruits, and removed
Myself to where the lizard had gone,
Or thought it had — the hot naked
Unsteadily dangerous rocks
Of sheer unproductivity,
As the burning rain unwrapped
Its coruscating pyrotechnics.
Sorry old machine clinkering its last
Sorry old machine clinkering its last
On a whim, I had climbed the old narrow stairs.
Back from afar, I had returned to the city of my birth.
I was almost sixty now.
Fancy, over forty-odd years already that I had not seen all this…!
I was climbing up to the small terrace found on the roof.
There we used to do, as mere tykes, our calisthenics, under the supervision of the livid, bloated, screaming teacher.
I wanted to see again the lost landscape of fifty years gone.
At the top of the stairs, on the landing before the door to the terrace, in the dark, I heard a voice…
—Who’s that? Is that you…?
—No, I answered, it’s me. I went to school in this same building, I just wanted…, out of curiosity…
—Oh, but of course, come all the way in.
I did so, with a certain trepidation. As though a monster were to lurk therein, or maybe worse, the same stern old teacher of yore, cadaverous now, it had to be, mummified, eager to punish me for an ultimate, definitive time, for a more unpardonable sin…
But no, thank goodness, it was his pretty daughter who opened the door to the Sun.
She had a bottle of schnapps with her.
She was only slightly older than me. Still gracious. She offered me a sip of her odorous bottle.
The terrace, I saw, had been totally altered.
All in white. Blinding.
Also the cityscape you saw from the terrace itself had nothing to do with what I remembered.
The big blind white wall of a neighboring house barred the view to the river beyond and the lovely undulating green and dun hills that often used to be filled with gatherings of white bleating sheep…
Or with gypsies tethering horses around an improvised fire to warm themselves as they waited to sell the scrawny animals.
The terrace was also dangerous. Gone were the safety railings at its borders. The impingement of the swallowing edifice nearby almost making the railing superfluous. And yet there it was: a strait, a canyon, a narrow chasm that would open in between the two houses, pointing down to the same busy commercial street underneath.
The approach to the brink was therefore nonetheless perilous indeed.
Actually the small terrace seemed to waver in fright, choked and squeezed, cornered by the huge walls of the new houses surrounding it.
If you wanted to inspect what was nonetheless still seeable through chinks of unchained buildings, you better did it from the center of the little terrace, lest in your dizziness you should fall straight down, the whole length of ten or eleven stories, as a dead weight, fortuitously tossed, and now witlessly caroming through the uneven walls of the descending funnel formed by the walls and balconies of as much of the more and more proximate sides of the leaning buildings as their randomly acquired shapes presently afforded.
Trying all the while to keep your balance, the terrace wavering worse and worse and you in danger of falling down and rolling to the brink and to the almost sure prospect of your bruised body finally dead and smashed…
Splattered on the pavement.
The same pavement you kept on looking at, faintly suicidal, all those long Summer afternoons when almost everybody kept themselves inside and only the man with the long hose would splash the dusty street with cold cooling water…
A cleaning hose for your blood and crushed pasty bones now again maybe…
I turned, urged by the burning of the little hairs at my nape, and looked at the lurching old woman girl of my childish erotic dreams…
She was laughing an ugly laugh without teeth…
J.V. Foix's Fictions
J.V. Foix’s “Bru i descofat, i descalç…”
Barefoot, hatless, tanned, in aimless pursuit
Along the empty shores of a day overcast,
Walking alone, and imagining sharp casts
Unnamable, sheenless, drawn in mud and soot…
I happened to see a row of odd galoots
With heads split, facing their tombs, standing aghast,
Mycelia of blood crossing their shadows fast,
Brute idols cut against a sky destitute.
My mind I questioned, sighing, mystified…
Did I see right? The awful representations
Arose off me, or from the stormy outside…?
Even now I’m pestered by those ruminations.
Do fictions — and they are my life! — roughshod ride
The mind, or lift it to the heavenly stations…?
as the mood dictates the quality of the colors on the painting so the consequences on the canvas of the skin
as the mood dictates the quality of the colors on the painting so the consequences on the canvas of the skin
When she was good
I was allowed to lap up
The glaze upon her buns
Left there by the others'
Sturdier brushes -
When she was bad
The labile slender pencil
Of mine got punished
Into being banned
Into having its nose
Blocked for days on end
Deprived of the nurrishment
Of their glaze.
Caught in amber
Tiberius Ieye didn’t realize that he was just that — an eye with legs — until the day his friend the killer, Garrison Buffoon, a fag who nonetheless had also a honeybuns of a wife named Penny Mile, showed him the eye of an antediluvian sparrow caught in amber…
Said Tiberius Ieye: “Is that a mirror…?”
Said Garrison Buffoon, the killer: “No, silly; it’s the eye of a very ancient sparrow caught in amber… You want to know how old it is…? I’d guess no less than a billion years old or so… If not older still.”
—Somebody gave it to you…?
—Found it while I was on the job… [Why he was killing somebody, understood the Eye.]
They were bathed in penumbrae and squalor… The Killer Buffoon and the Eye had gone to the city to acquire — through any means necessary — a book Penny Mile wanted, about “How to atone serenely enough for one’s crass errors at metempsychosis…” Or some other learned volume approaching this title…
She’d tried and tried, alike with herself, and with his dear husband, and his most intimate friends — with whom he’d have orgiastic sex in the gun-logjammed den while she brewed both tea in the kitchen and, over the crucible in her lab, some incantatory formulae of soul transformation… She’d tried with all her circle of acquaintances, and especially with her husband’s… All flaky fishy soft-wristed malleable fags. But the results, anyhow, left always a lot to be desired.
The Eye was maybe a consequence of her tinkerings with the leaping trips that souls (if too prodded on their behinds) often feel obliged to take from body to body...
As the process was uncalled-for, with neither the souls nor the new recipients of them really ready, horrid creatures ensued, with forms you don’t want to be too clinical in describing lest you provoke yourself into vomiting and loathing.
Once a jinxed sparrow was passing out her window and received the soul of the maid. The maid becoming nothing but a little bit of carbon with the shape of the maid. Penny the Mile had the little carbon maid later engraved upon an amethyst set in platinum and she used it often as a love-charm to entice other girls which were later also subjected to the same indignity of unripe transmogrification…
The bookshop held nothing of any kind of interest inside — just rubbish, just garbage, just fluff… The Eye and the Killer, dismayed, thwarted in their last-ditch expedition, finally hobbled by tiredness and life-purposelessness, started running for the hills. Back to the sticks where weak weedy books didn’t poison the air.
The Mile was waiting home. As she knew Catalonian perfectly, her incantations packed a truer ring than did those of most (if not all outright) of the other more helpless, hapless charmers. And thus her degree of failed success was much greater than that of the rest of witchdom… Many women of the neighborhood had been put to death accused of witchcraft only because they were ugly and surrounded by monsters, but the Mile was free to run crazy and on the raw by night, without fear of being assaulted by corpse-hardened killers, for she could convert at will, becoming a gigantic thrip who smugly could twiddle with anybody’s crotches and them none the wiser, or a firebug and mix with the sparkles of a drink of warm liquor as the knights and lords discussed at night which witch go out and burn…
The knights and lords would gather nightly and under oath and with short brusque squabbles, resolved instantly by the barking of the skin of the shins of each of the squabblers by the great boss with a big stick, they would decide the nightly victim… And the Mile biting their balls, ferociously, when their idea was wrong enough to direct itself to the whereabouts of her home and the Killer’s, and in consequence instead of opining, having to swear devilishly and bang at their own balls… By the time the wrongly inspired knight tried to intervene anew about which witch to bring to justice, the veredict had already been agreed on.
The weirdest type of zoomorphism as a startling new phenomenon didn’t start in their soap-operish homeland till the Catalonian Mile had appeared a shiny day on the sunny, thimy side of the hill leading to their hiding place of a little village. Most of them had seen her as a sweet lagniappe coming of itself, on two pretty gazelle’s legs, both for their enjoyment at seeing her burn, and the more delicious faggoty drudge and grudge that went on while selecting a new sacrificial cunt every night on their Columbus Knights lodge where the sanctimoniousness-weary devil willy-nilly presided.
There were tigers and amphorae and crucifixes on the walls. Buddha was absent, of course. They could transform into hyenas and other beasts of prey in manners quite peculiar. A society of castes which was held in deep contempt by the rest of the untouchable population… [Untouchable except at the time of setting them on the pyre to burn alive, of course, especially the women, the witches so called.]
The Killer was of the opinion that: “Only the irregulars can win the battle against the deadly regulars…”
The Eye agreed. He beat an eyelid in assent.
Upon arriving to their village, a nasty surprise awaited them. They had been declared “off-kickable.” And in effect they had been kicked out. “Why the fuck…?” They inquired, pissed off to the max.
“—New rules apply — no access now!” The soldiers paid by the caste society of witch-burning knights and lords haltingly answered, and their machine guns gleamed menacingly.
As the bullets flew, the Eye and the Killer ran. And ran and ran. Nights, days. On the roads, dodging the mortiferous road blocks…
The Mile, prone to infatuation — or getting fat on a wrong idea — now without her killer honeybuns, felt cheated at life.
Idle in her palace, wasting away the day, thinking only of pseudonyms for her new forms, she suffered first a wicked rebellion of the organs of the body, then an incapacitating stroke; then her father the great master law-giver in the lodge, the wielder of the big stick to bark shins’ skins with, became entangled in the fight of his life — the others unanimously wanted to shorten his name — in effect depriving him of his whole personhood…
Also, the redneck peasants, the most overwhelming of whose passions was thrift, had stolen another of his daughters, and didn’t want to give her back… The great exarch moaned, writhed, his losses climbing…
The Catalonian Mile, her daughter most loved, the witchiest woman in town, pot-bound by her cord-tightening disease, couldn’t help him. Her hair in thrums like tentacles of doom, she, ill-mannered enough, grunted and whirled in order ultimately to rip free from her sinew-slammed paralysis. Her tongue knotted and wedged, prison-pent in an impregnable electromagnetic fence of molars grown like vacuums of distances so daunting that might as well be interstellar… Her world-altering spells reduced to sibilant syllables only attractive to wasps whose squirming nuptials of dances and whimsical stingings caused her to laugh and tremble like an addled chrysalis…
Indeed, her rump on the bier-like bed lay like a chrysalis from which Psyche tried to rise… The Eye had seen the Japanese showing how the souls get out of the assholes in men and off cunts in women… But if now he could have seen Penny the Mile he would most assuredly have popped.
For an instant Penny Mile became a moth, engendered from the carcass of her own frozen rump… She unfolded her wings, hovered above her discarded chrysalis of a hebetated body, cast a forlorn glance on the old slough… And throbbed for action, predisposed to fly posthaste to save her sister…, or the Killer…, or to talk evil obscenities in next night’s sacrificial witch… after this first liberating, very fanciful gig…, when…! When the swarm of wasps took her of course for a handy insect host and, at one fell swoop, the lot of them got rid of their parasitical eggs, eggs with legs pretty soon and immense mammoth mouths, by injecting them in her plump feathery dusty magical disgusting lymphatic drunk faltering body…
The peasantry, meanwhile, storm-swept, ripe for mischief, hearing the end-of-days banshees riding the sneering winds, disabled the innocent daughter… They parboiled her in thawed yolk of written-off menses. In mirth they drank the pith, while flirting with the falling, devastating bolts. Temptation must be always heeded lest we lose our humanity… The evidence in chief of the manifestation of this verity was under our very eyes beneath contempt: the younger sister, the daughter of the great khan of the clan, while sizzling, gloated. Hmmm! That was mighty strange. We nudged the cartilaginous mass she was becoming and streamers of most untherapeutical steam flew up, and bubbles very mean and pestilential burgeoned from the burned ends of the caldron to hug in a lethal embrace the more punishment-deserving amongst us. When the malign fetid waters ebbed we realized we had been purged of the worst elements of the tribe. Had we not yielded to temptation at the beginning, now we not only would have a still more powerful witch amidst us, but our society would live in deadly jeopardy clandestinely truffled with plenty of traitors eying to harm our coming prosperity…
Waylaid, the grieving Killer was also horrendously killed. Unseen, the irrelevant Eye, wielding a magnifying glass, was let alone to study the mosses and lichens and the monstrous tiny gigantic beasts thriving therein.
Me again and again the cuckolded jerk
Me again and again the cuckolded jerk
Oh blind woman, my wife, missus Becker,
from the jolly high town of Stecker,
she thought every nose was a pecker.
So often, verily,
whoever wanted, merrily,
to outrageously make ‘er…,
did — he certainly, most cunningly did
— what a jerk, wasn’t she; and what a jerk,
me, the cuckold, and what a jerk every jerk
made ‘er, my wife, missus Becker.
Swindled and tricked by almost every feller
came her way and pretended to be, handwise,
temporarily, a no-trekker:
“—Would you blow please me nose
and its hyperventilating nostril,
du meine süsse Schmecker…?”
—they’d ask most politely,
and this, lest their otorhinolaryngologist later
should find ‘em, at the end of the day, yet sicker,
and so they’d sick ‘er, thicker and thicker, and seek ‘er,
and tease ‘er, and strip ‘er, as their nose got bigger,
and bigger, and as they muttered —
“—Indeed, sweet sister,
for my otorhino…, my otorhinolaryng…,
my otorhinolaryngologist is such a stickler.”
“—Blow yer nose, he tells me, you pickled prick prickler,
or it’ll become a damned gangrenous tickler.”
“—Plus also, as long as you are at it so deep,
you deliciously cowlike mischief-maker,
strenuously lick it, and lick it, and lick it,
like the block of salt it is, and milk it, and milk it,
with the skill of the fabled udder-lass who mistook
the udders with the bull’s genitalia…, ah-ah, ah-ah,
with care you there, you motherfecking faker,
aren’t you the rascally malkin, look at me merkin
(I mean me beard,) smoking as if on fire,
and yelping for help as a forsaken whelp;
no, you motherfecking faker, you milk it,
and lick it, and love it as though you mean it,
no meanness here, then, ok, you motherfecking faker?”
Variations of such obscene smears followed,
from the filthy mouths of ‘em that had
their nether nose eagerly blown,
and then you heard ‘em (true, with a hard-on)
forsake ‘er, and break ‘er, and brake ‘er,
you heard ‘em quake ‘er, and wake ‘er, and wreck ‘er,
and you saw ‘em neck ‘er, and deck ‘er,
and finally they invariably, with all their might,
you saw ‘em thoroughly feck ‘er, and feck ‘er,
and feck, and feck, and feck, and feck ‘er,
my lady, my wife, my missus, missus Becker.