two jaunts through tarry pipes

angry moths were emerging from the dark abyss... I was peering into Elzi's cunt... an intrepid scout enkindled with the thrill of sundry discoveries... all those quaint nooks and coings... and then I sunk deeper yet, fathoming the obscure zone... and it had happened: the sudden fright of those screaming moths big as bats... behind the batty cloud, an embryo... an embryo who, barely skipping a beat, from the size of a polliwog had risen to be at least a mighty prawn... prancing and squirming, the prawn grew to be a hippopotamus weighing who knows how many tons...



at its peak, a womb is a lopsided microcosm where simulacra either gambol happily or scrap by, depressed and half-suicidal, whilst certain quotas of determinate shapes are filled by the sedulous work of the tiny cellular employees whose decline would announce the end of the world as we know it... bribery of acquaintances and mysterious bureaucrats will carry you only so far... the rest is up to you... you alone, my darling strapping tyke, against the uncountable cruelties of the natural world... for instance... try to avoid like the bleeding devil the ravenous hunters... the army and its burly uncouth minions, always hunting, on the infamous prowl after down on the doldrums young bums... poor guys... ventilating with dirty gills, their collapsible ears utterly collapsed... the depressed clueless youth... and the fangy hunters bribing them into becoming legally-shielded murderers... and ultimately self-murderers, of course...



we women so strange sometimes... squeamish about eating bugs and beetles but delighted always to swallow the slimy spunk of a man's spout... a man's spout... an overextended clitoris that, in insectoid bursts, oozes now and then some disgusting excretion...



the dream was becoming silly... we women "unctuously constituted and thus more inflammable for pyral combustion..." – a memorable line, as I perhaps had read last night... women as cunts and wombs always... and fatty subcutaneous flammable stuff under the shiny hairless carapace... eggs in women’s shapes... carriers of an alien massive virus called the embryo... the hype and the upheaval of maternity... but in the end, all said and done, nothing but flesh subdividing into flesh... all that amount of soft pink becoming hard pitch black... a blood denigrated...



or, again, strangling a dick... murdered, bruised... crags appearing along the shaft... vessels bursting... who’ll suck on this...? the grotesque faces of the taunting tantalizing men... conceited hero (he raw)... erstwhile so self-sure down the avenue... and now look at him... rag-and bone, wretched, drenched in irrelevant goo... a busted groin and, in its middle, tortuous, covered in the tacky fuzz of fire-damp, the lame dick... hornswoggled by the scraggy snaggled teeth of a witch...



cobwebs of bile criss-crossing the broken-down lift... flawless nomad, though, I kept hard sledding... ripping across the pinker and pinker wrinkles... seeking the light... until...



but then I woke up... tried to tell Elzi about the dream... the journey up and then down the tube of her adventurous cunt... but I was by myself... I bridled at the thought... but here it was: the truth... begrudgingly, bitter, I remembered the irking accident... “be thou a survivor and thou shalt reap nothing but guilt...” somebody must’ve have said it already...



Elzi wasn't there of course... she was chez les fools... at the asylum for the insane... locked in...



all the fun we’d had...! and now...?



went to the window... looked down at the overgrown yard... a monk was there, standing, his eyes raised to the window behind which I spied... he was old... I payed heed, it behooved me...



I pictured him under the puce uniform... instead of a sphincter a prune or its pit; each cheek a peach pecked at by flees; a navel of novelty sequins and allhallowmas sweets; for ears and nose, cottoncandy and acrid saltpeter; no balls but tealeaves; a crushed and yet hirsute artichoke for a merkin; shins and chin of grape skin; anchovies for lids; the mammilae two resilient bumps of snail spit... the limbs... the limbs of hoods and weeds... and he’s back from the woods on his flowery skis... there he met the morbid dough, keen for treats... he became the creator – again, another...! – damn vice of men... – and the clumsier the more adept to try his klutzy paw at the impertinent game... – he contrived for eyes for the creature two chickpeas; for a loose tooth a bit of onion; an empty rind of gherkin for a wee-wee; black-seeded halves of watermelon for feet; for eyelashes apple parings; exploded mangoes for teats... medlars, toadstools, rotten eggs... with expertise he fashions thus his teeth... a tongue for wibbling made of quicklime and mercury... he strives to accentuated the perfection of his creation with the invention of a mind all of thick smoke... when the pudding’s thought to be as toothsome as you please, he realizes that all along and underneath he’s been seasoning his granny for the beast... it’d been, his great creation, it’d been... another granny disguised as by another priest...



“the fuck you want?” I said, opening the window.



the gargoyle looked terrified, timorous perhaps that I’d be so bold as to bother to come down and... as if I were to come down and ride him... too frail for farther ministrations of that sort... already hag-ridden as by his so-called virgin...



I’d be a mendicant sciolist whose poignant emerods, layers and layers of them that accrete with the seasons, make skating up or down my rectum the scraping of a wound the pain resultant of which the unraveling of the hurtling galaxies could never equal, he said, a glint in one of his eyes betraying maybe a humorous disposition in one outwardly so dour...



is alms you are asking for...? said I.



is that a brothel...? Have many babies been sacrilegiously inhumed in this oddly scented garth of yours...? answered he.



be a good monk and lift your skirts and show us your spinneret, I commanded, showing him a coin in case he acquiesced.



he did... typically, as any doll of his build, he lifted his skirts and his knob, an inch all told, propped up... as promised, I tossed for him to catch the fulgid coin...



also he did, alert enough, with his shambolic teeth (catch it...) then, as he put on his wonted far-away look, so fake... a yearning caught at the crinkles of my hollow... I almost fell for him... but then I checked myself... I’m not that hard-up...!



as with a swagger he turned tail to go, though... I screamed, stricken with desire... wait!



but again, before he turned his head, I had closed the window and drawn the shutters... now in darkness I brooded... having lost the purpose of my quest... my mind wavered... who creates whom, I wondered, appalled...

a motherly teat with a set of twelve hands instead of a set of nipples

we were a bit top-heavy after we won a prize at the raffle... cavorting down to the town at the bottom of the canyon like two amazing amazons... we glad-handed the passers-by we our fake twelve hands that propped out, as nipples on a teat... the strange object we had just won at the raffle...



we were feeling pretty happy... dismissing the ostentatious auguries of an ugly sky menacing to burst... in an allegedly depraved mood, we had been yawing adrift for a few days... visiting the fairs and funfairs... drop me here, would you, buster, we'd say to the peasants who took us for a ride around the dry thirsty plains... we taunted them a bit... rumbles ensued, of a sexual nature most, but one or two obnoxious brawls also occurred... we were tough, though, and at the end not the worse for wear... I had lost a pair of trousers but a good farmer's daughter had some flowery flowing skirts of her that she wouldn't use no more and lent them to me...



now we were on the tricky slope down to the town... I remembered that coming up we had seen that poor old tottering guy trying to put a foot in front of the other, and not managing every time, neither, despite the help of his gnarled stick...



Elzi had warned me... see the creep...? never approach the bloody leper... ebb out of his unlucky shadow like from a shark's threatening fin... he... he used to be a nasty cop... protected by the law of the land, shielding like a brute and a coward behind his shield... he took to beating and murdering women and blacks, hobos, and the destitute, the poor and needy, and the petty thieves... your typical nazi gone to seed... he took to torturing like to sweet drink...



keep away from old bastard cop, she said... he stinks... and fragile, they are liable to pin his corpse on you... he's about to kick the bucket, might drop dead with a whisper or a breeze, a draft... wouldn't be near him, no sir, madam... giving away a whiff of death... you can smell him from this distance... gives me the willies... and she shivered demonstratively...



then we climbed to the plains... and looked for the fairs far and wide...



now we were approaching the town... martins flew in and out of their high-rise little octagonal abodes... the rabbits coughed at the door of their warrens... from the weirs wallowed already the whirligigs... the sky roared... its eructations nearer and nearer...



a dirty dust floated about... a storm brewing, no doubt...



and now we realized that the slope near the first road surrounding the town was grown with a new substance... like a growing of tall yeast... a yeasty growth... the footing wavering on it... the ground so slippery...



and at the side of the road there again (or there still) the old bastard cop... still trying to reach somewheres... but with such mortifying slowness...



look, the damned creep again...! Elzi seemed utterly repelled... I think I'll bail out a bit farther... over there... can't stand the rotten devil...



and then, as she took off athwart... I saw her back... her back diminishing in the horizon as the veil, unfurled, of a vessel at sea... and me at this thoughtless instant... I slipped over the strange substance... that somebody must have dumped there overnight... a dump of mushroomy fungoid stuff... sandy, gritty...



on the road a gray car passed lifting a cloud of dust... and then the avalanche caused by my sliding down the incline... the spillage of mushy sand caught the old crummy man underfoot and made him flop down...



another yellowish car passed and now instead of dust it splashed that disgusting ocher porridge over the fallen disjointed puppet... I was really sorry for him... a discarded broken doll, full of vermin and shit...



I reached the road and went over to assist the geezer... Elzi nowhere to be seen... migrated elsewhere... I went to the little crinkling decrepit old fellow... he'd fallen badly down, all crumpled... obviously dying...



and then... I heard it... delightful... there was music coming from within his head... through the huge hairy opening of his right ear... he'd fallen on his left side, me gingerly propping him a little with my left arm...



and the music pouring out of the hairy opening... I asked him nicely: what is this music...? is so enticing, heart-warming...? "I hear nothing," he croaked, "don't hear a thing..."



it was a marvelous song... a 1920's crooner's or chansonnier's... a mild and joyous melody... but he wouldn't hear the song in his own head... poor stinking bastard... I was full of pity for him...



so... I had an inspiration... I neared my face as much as I dared to his straining teary eyes... I'll sing the song, I said, raising my voice and enunciating most carefully... and this is what I did: I didn't sing at all... actually I didn't say another word... I just pretended to sing to him... opened my mouth and mouthed the words of the song that came from the hole in his ear, and I added a twinkle to my eyes and I brandished harmoniously my head... to the engaging rhythm...



and then the miracle... he smiled... he heard... I hear it now, he said, brimming, as if illumined... transfigured... for he heard the music from his youth... all the beautiful memories the song brought back landed, softly laden, on his conscience then... and he smiled... he smiled... like in a train... looking out the window... the passing of all the delicious images of his youth... the gentle rocking on the rails... as the music played and the singer bewitchingly sang...



he died in peace... a poor little old man...no longer corrupt.

back from the old carousing

... it was getting dark when we were heading back from the concert... stranded now... after being dropped by the drunk nitwits... and neither Elzi nor I with a penny left... we decided to hit the road and hitch a ride...



a truck stopped to take us... but the guys inside refused to take us both... one is all we can handle, they said, you both look like trouble... I told Elzi to get in... I said: I'll wait for the next sucker... we'll meet back home...



so she went with the two truckers... and I waited, and another truck stopped and the two guys inside took me in with them...



it happens every time... you hitch a ride with those fellows, they will fuck you... we were not properly raped... so tired... after the excitement... the jumping, the quarreling... we knew what we were in for... we actually felt like it... we always do... at least I do, in those occasions... sexy... and then yes, I was ready for a bit of action... felt like having the... delicacy stroked... a bit of getting the skittish pussy appeased... a bit of the good going...



you practically never feel like being raped... not a bit... raping... not a bit, no... a bit of rough treatment, rough and nice... that's ok, fine... goes with the territory... but generally this... just the tickling down there made less... less itchy... and the fact was that... I didn't really know about Elzi at the time... but normally she's friskier, randier, than me... so... so, she probably was also eager to get... to be given the right cunt treatment... the worshiped cunt, that object of adoration, being rained over by the mists and the dews of the worshipful eyes, eyelets, of the one-eyed, monophtalmic, shapely little totems... I mean... the intriguing worshipers propitiating the niggling gadfly guarding with its magical key the entrance to the temple... some masterly thrusts are in order... that's the image...



anyway, my guys, my truckers, weren't what you'd call totally unbecoming... one of them... even somewhat fetching...



while one drove, the other one drove his drill home...cramming his tool... his screwdriver driving a beautiful releasing thankfully long-lastingly enough screw...



the problem was later... the long drive... night all dark in front... downtown still a long ways off...



one of the fuckers sleeping peacefully behind... me blinking, winking with sleep... wishing myself awake in case we missed the right place for me to stop and disembark... and then the guy at the wheel... starting to talk... a sinister tone... a creepy feeling crawling up my bruised spine...



and him somber... darker by the minute... and starting to rant, with a hollow voice... frightening now, really... a nightmare of sorts...



he once killed all his family... the wife, the kids... driven crazy by the night driving... truckers prone to such agonizing breakdowns... of course: all the terrors seen during the night... the specters, the accidents, the dead... the dead crushed... splattered into so many pieces of torn flesh...



and then the apparition... middle of the road... over all the mincemeat, the cadavers... an overpowering foul smell... the rotten archer... blind... his skin in tatters... the caverns instead of his eyes full of pus, oozing, a green rot... his teeth a shambles... the quiver slashed, punctured... the arrow splintered... pointing straight at the eyes of the nocturnal driver... you've got to become crazy, if you have any sense, if you are sane at all...



he arrived home... in the middle of a hurricane... trees uprooted, shutters flying about, babies smashed against the walls, rabbit cages colliding into each other... lost in a vortex of screams... a maelstrom of crossed purposes, frustrations... a raging battle of crossed wills and winds... somebody coming down the stairs... he shouted over the din... I won't be a night driver no more...!



he took his rage on all of them... the kids... the wife... tossed them into the storm... see how it is, driving by night... the constant carnage... the constant carnage... the constant carn...



he, the driver, the trucker-fucker fell on the wheel, his countenance one of utter despair...



hear me screeching... worse than the tires on the dead pavement... see me trouncing him out of the way... me pulling the breaks... the truck madly skidding...



I want out, I want out... my voice, hysterical... the sleeper waking up in a panic...



pounding me out of the way... managing to open the door... kicking now the suicidal fucker out of the truck altogether... and now him... the providential substitute choking the wheel... battling the inertia... the momentum... what have you... we were about to fall... the truck about to tumble down... there is... there is... what...? one can't see shit...



and now the shock... the guy stunned... the vehicle dead... the doors stuck... I'm aware of everything but can't really move... the oppression unbearable...



the apparition then... I saw her... it... the rotten archer... the rusted arrow aiming at the center of my forehead...



there was Elzi visiting me, at the hospital bed... as ever, kind to a fault... we kissed... damned fuckers, we said, bad guys, they don't want only your cunt... they almost took a life that time... are they ever really satisfied...?