they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices

fuliginously silhouetted against the penumbrous corridor, she tells me: a swath of lit Möbius strips arose around my discarded clothes as the doctors made me strip... I saw the obstetricians eagerly hoard some of them... as if those twisted strips were any worth to have or relevant at all anent their diagnostic criteria...



later, they tarried, mumbling amongst themselves... as I showed obvious signs of discomfort... they pretended then to already get to work... they started drawing with their scalpels thin lattices... thin bleeding lines on the random fields of my exposed abdominal skin... ellipses mostly, they drew, oddly enough... the axes of those ellipses generated, with the gathering blood, shiny carmine drops that now looked like cones, now like cylinders... or else, as vortexes or spirals now... all the topological surfaces... somewhat polarized... painful medical procedures, all told, that... I found no clue as to what purpose they were having... I wanted to raise my concerns about... the whole set of shenanigans the doctors were engaging in... their tools, for instance, normally used in garages in order... in order to mend automobiles... my brain activity... showing now signs of utmost stress... my reflexes less automatic than... you... might have wished for...



expressions of extreme disgust were, I'm sure, facially appearing... not only facially... also on my whole façade... shifty shades... shifting summits of scowling... of snarling... of nail-baring... subtly demonstrating that... I was perhaps desiring the death of the butchering bunch... they though... kept trifling with my innards... damned interlopers... talking meanwhile their pusillanimous garbage... bland pablum for the abulic... all my bodies in a state... sieged by piddling anomies... nothing to write home about, I thought...



suddenly... a shout arose from the archaeological ruins of my forgotten self: "get rid of the fucking fetus already and quit immerding around...!"



their paws spastic like those of a constipated dog while dropping hard tiny turds on the unyielding ground...



then the blustery blowzy peroxided nurse... massaging with long-drawn nails my anus... she said: it improves your range of inner vision, speeds up nerve movement, increases air flow through the bowels... all of these boost your ability to either battle it out... or give in and compromise your survival rate... the individual organism, whose adaptive value is well known amongst the more cognitive of scientists, fears naught beyond the biological...



are there onlookers up in the dark bleachers of the operating theater...? why is she become another arcane signaler...? keeps on wincing and prancing toward the missing audience, I notice from the corner of my right eye... she says: behavior of this sort suggests that the amplitude of both distinctions is one of half a degree if even that much... so, though it matters a lot for the individual's survival, it is on the other hand neither beneficial nor pejorative in the broader world of social and non-social phenomena... (a dimension to take into consideration and nowadays being thoroughly investigated...) that the woman shed or not the evolving parasite that replicates at a furious pace inside her most kernel-like membranes... she mutters against herself... her prattle includes miscues... she's said too much... "the evolutionary mystery of why neuroscientists ultimately fall in bulk prey to the same manias they try to extricate from their patients... are findings that will have to be disclosed at a later lesson..." the surgeons are about to trample her... her heels all scrunched-up already... floored and minced by military boots...



she flees, crying... her sensory functions impaired by the pain and the shame... she doesn't go far, though... dives head first into the whole body magnetic thingamagick... the scanner... whose whizzing and burring betrays its extreme irritation... inimical device, whirring... from idle gone to hysterical gone to insane... "positron turbines..." "raving mad frequencies... hopping on the spread spectrum..." the scanner fries your brains... you always come out, if alive at all, mentally diminished... she probably deems she deserves that kind of cleansing...



lame aphorisms are being tossed about my head... I'm laid out over the moist warm table... my body a swarm of trapped bees... and outwardly innervated with new abnormalities... them buzzing... green-cloaked buzzards feeding on carrion... they kept on jawing, nasally, about spontaneous mutations... rare syndromes... brainstems branching out... I was cool... observing it all from above, unconcerned...



once, twice... here it is again... I remembered the sensation I had being born... I say: here I am, at my birth again... time and again... those trite ephemerides... nonetheless engraved in my old brain... are they, the rummaging intruders, reviving the old groove...? I guess they must... it lends credence to this supposition the fact that I'm aloft yet unsupported... whereas down below... a woman's legs are spread... and a battalion of hands are ramming in down the broken doors that lead, raggedly, to her all higgledy-piggledy torn, tortured, womb...



I squirmed... the bed was creaking... ominously... battalions of crooked, prickly, ripply hands stampeding inside Elzi's bodies... a-quiver, I tossed the quilt; I stickled pugnaciously between the sheets... how to unstick them... took umbrage with the whole layout... rocketed the bundle against the wall.

all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women

it must have been the worst cognac ever... like licking a rat, I was thinking... and... getting laid, what a waste...! and then, to top it all, that thing, that hellish beverage...



it threw me for a loop... I went... like a Götterdämmerung monkey... fast toward the sink... hilarious... almost broke my neck... I had to gargle something... the fracid water for the tap... much better than the sulfurous cognac... he... that over-male writer, the Stanley Baker type, in the darling film Eve, with glorious Jeanne Moreau as the ur-fatal female... only that, instead of a "bloody Welshman," the stellar oaf was a no less bloody Catalonian... a writer of sorts... "working for the cinema," his words, undersigning his twisted, fancied, productions with that juicy, or maybe just farcical, name of "MM···WW," which must have made, let's say, the curiosity button, of a few potential employers, itch... "what's this MM···WW thing...? is that the name of a machine...?" "no, just a writer... he also wrote for such-and-such... a film..." clever ploy... the guy perhaps not a total imbecile...



now, the fellow himself, a poor performer indeed... getting laid under those conditions, yeah, what a waste... but then, worse... his cognac, yikes...!



I came back from the sink... we were in his garret... his garret, a narrow venue indeed... not ripened into a pigsty yet, but never so clean either... the charwoman herself had been there while we were chatting about "culture..." not a bit too clean herself either... full of blotches, her face... those red and white blotches caused by a state of depression... she came in limping... dragging her heavy shadow like a corpse... she hanged around... with the little skips and dodges of a clumsy thief... she had no success in unhooking any of the jealous grime... faithful, dogmatic grime on the chapped fake porcelains... whipped despondently at the chaos about... carved a few meager scarifications into the dust... smote a few worthless rags into submission... all her utterances were loud sighs of despair... and then she was gone.



said the writer: she was worth a few fucks last year, wait, two or three years ago... but then his family fell apart... a lot of oblique abductions... some obese characters that burst somehow... decimated... an outspoken boy killed by the cops... the sky falling on the whole family concern... the scheme in disarray... I put her in one of my stories... I made her a disaster of an authoress... never managing to sell a line... even to those shitty religious comics... and then she's killed by her religious would-be publisher... who makes of her a quite successful authoress... she manages to sell now many, many books... she's been gruesomely butchered and her dainty flesh is now being used as little tasty bits packed in tiny books... affordable, mock-refined gifts... her flesh turned into choice morsels of bait for fishes... also, as selected treats for cats... she's a scream now... fishes and cats crazy for the stuff...



back from the sink, I had an item rankling... in my mind... I said... ah yes... something about the gods... "Götterdämmerung monkey..." he had been showing off... much like the writer in the film... only that where Stanley Baker says: "I love all women - six to sixty," he said: "I love all the cunts, from four to one hundred and four..."



I said "one hundred..."? I said "four..."?



he smacked his lips... he said: those pouty lips on the cunts of the little girls... why would god make them like that... if not to entice the lips of us men to give them moist kisses, and the more Frenchified the better...?



I said "god..."? I said "men..."?



he got my drift... ok, or rather not god... that damned usurper... but the goddess, the goddess, yeah... goddess Nature... anyway, why would she make them like this...? if not for us human beings to kiss and revere...?



this talk was throwing me off... he must have felt... the freezing settling in... my side to him quite frozen... sending waves of animus... poisoned quills... his creepy words being a deterrence... he blushed bluish... became uxorious... melting into a swamp of effeminate warmth... this fragile plot of his threatening to crumble...



I thawed... he had gorgeous eyes... burning... black.



he was telling me about an outline now... a thriller... a terror thriller... so intensely... very involved... his eyes burning holes in my integuments... seizing power, my throat constricted, my eyes tearing up... he as possessed... so full of passion...



sham passion... but a woman with a wet vagina doesn't have... too keen a sense... about rightly feeling... what is and isn't bogus... she is busy otherwise... no time unwrapping the convoluted wrappers of pretense...



in the outline, all the suspicious characters are men disguised as women... but, at the upshot, the real culprit... the cruel loathsome killer... is a woman disguised as a man... too predictable, I thought...



I was deflating again... he went into some unashamed capers... "darling, our brief epoch will crystallize into a wreath of unforgettable vignettes... with you as a model, my writing shall become divine..." plenty of slavering rubbish of that tenor, caliber...



and then he drilled me... just fair...



I got up and went to fix me a drink... took a morsel from something bitter... tasted of leather... was I chewing on some of his blinders...? I heard him snoring... I drank the cognac... the scream of horror and disgust must have awaken him... his visage betrayed now a frayed exhaustion... as if his skin had become moth-eaten... failure showing through the gnawed skin... but as I was running like one of those monkeys... the failing gods... and stumbled... he laughed... sonorously...



I said... I remember now... something about the last embers... the dying evening of the gods...



"your plots," I said, "all male chauvinist shit... why don't you... become a woman... disguised... operated... and then... make a killing...?"



"a woman...?" he really looked spent.



I spat onto his bundled clothes and, slamming the querulous door, I breathed the nocturnal air, still with a mingy, pissy, taste in my mouth.

cruel play: deaf divinities of death

males are on the wane








we went to see a play in which the dire dictator of that empire had his teams of soccer duly maimed... the field players rendered armless... so that no hand foul could be committed... while the door-keepers or goalies had had to have their legs hacked out so that they could only use their hands in blocking the shots... and scanning around reflectively... the peoples on the bleachers... both in the play... same as those seated near us... looked like (or rather already were) mummies...



we came out of it rather disgusted... all those hissing green skulls at the end, roaming among the vestiges of empire, raving... wallowing in sewage... sewage... its dreadful stink... apparently running like sores on the stage... and the gory mummies, with their perfidious muzzles aflame... coming up to the audience... masked with glowing skulls.... telling each of us on our bewildered faces about what awaits each of us... the hole unlimited... the hole without end of blackest asphyxiating death... death... death... and luridly titivated... like dying whores... stabbed here and there by the slivers of decay... bleeding... or oozing ugly tacky... glaring syrups... staggering among the smokes and the fogs... vitrified notched skulls, green, phosphorescent, telling us... death... death... their foul breaths... exceeding themselves... no man in the audience reacting like a male... a gaggle of geese... cackling... quitting... giving up all resistance... retreating... tails high... taking those excesses up their asses... beyond decency... my nails eager to pounce... angrier by the second... imagine us proper ladies pandering to such filth...! suffocated, Elzi, only yesterday back from the sanitarium, had taken off her gloves... bad choice of show, I thought to myself, recriminatory... she meanwhile... all at once... she moved it up a gear in order to pummel... unmasking the deadly portents... the death portenders... a tigress... she got herself a trophy... a plastic skull sickly refulgent in the sick blinding light... a gangly asthmatic boy behind it... without his shell, helpless, weeping... as if his harpy of a mom were excruciatingly rebuking him again... we won't have no more of your nasty wetsies in your didee...! a scuffle ensued... somebody, a giant, shoved us down... humps in our crania... kicked out of the theater... now rubbing our lumps... disgusted... walking slowly... not elated after having taken action... voided... defeated... all that constant waste...



a deep depression slowly settling in...



home, in our chambers, Elzi, robed as a specter in a dungeon, from mirror to mirror, very self-conscious about her "insect" visage... with that cruel smile that couldn't be erased... with the insight of a knowledgeable louse, she insinuated... knowing more than she could comprehend... while life persisted in its tireless ruthless siege... her gills or cuticles or plaques heaving nonstop... look at the bloods, the lymphs, the goos, beating with an unstoppable monomaniacal... nitty gritty... obsession... again and again... pacy or apace... toward... toward...



I was afraid she would start asking "where..." I jumped, all spruced up, so bogus, optimistic, a triumph... I said, listen, let's fuck, let's forget about the shitty play, about the humiliation of the veins and such, about the horror of the outside... And then I became joyfully censorious: what...! fornicating during daylight! what a fucking sin!



she laughed... I was so relieved... I dove into her cunt... I licked the slender topaz above the entrance... sobbing with gratitude... she came in an explosion of giggles and yells... after a little while I heard her snore...



back with wobbly legs from my spelunking junket... I took to speculating about emulsions and emasculations... if... I said... if... a poisoner be the worst sort of murderer... what about the poisoners of our minds... all those preachers of self-hatred... all those worshipers of death... the religious creeps surrounding us like the infected rats of an ultimate plague...



I remembered the arcane arcadias elsewhere... how we drove the cattle safely into the mountain refuge... how the trucker told me his name... name's Ac Ac, he said... he added after a pause... a pause pregnant... "ac" means "shit" in our language...



perhaps he expected me act affronted or shocked, meekly tickled, sillily ticked off... instead I said: I guess it is as well to be... a double shit... when the rest of us are just a shit anyhow...



"I see you are an understanding lady", he said, the mongol guy... he had taken his tawdry worm out for me to have a go at a rocky suck... it is so poignant, isn't it...? women are as dumb as fishes... allured by the luring effect of the wiggling wriggling revolting worm... their mouth waters as soon as they see the soft lurid hook of the pulsating bait...



he was pleased with me... all the mongols in the convoy fucked me afterwards... I said: if scrawny Maura can fuck millions to exhaustion in a day, why couldn't we fuck a few less also with no detriment to our constitutions...?



afterwards their glances glanced off my skin all but reverentially, I'd say, obligingly... kind of shy... with awe... they were all exhausted, etiolated, ramshackle... and I as nothing... as fresh and dandy as a mountain flower just born... a fountain goddess... wiped clean... insofar as the squandering of one's juices went, mine had on the contrary probably gained in volume... whilst their levels had fallen beyond the red line... they felt empty, and somewhat hoaxed also, incapable to go dribbling about... their ponderous tread on the pebbles not arousing the smallest suspicion of a skip or skit or skid or scuttle or... spent... almost dead inside... the cattle meanwhile frowning, unattended, untidy, the sacrificial rehearsal unapplauded, without public... their play of death ignored...



overnight... with a single rolling of the dice that were their balls... I had become their totem of worshiped inviolate flesh... I woke busy... first inning on, I said, I'm hungry... thread the fangy needle of my thoughts and kill me a bull... I feel like a few steaks...



I chose the ballsier of bulls... I went to his perking ear: no use praying to the deaf, earless, divinities of death, buster; never any use in the event of impending deathblow, I told him... besides, males are palpably on the wane.