Lucille and Maud (5th)

We are all eminently fashionable. The clay is always wet before the slip of death. Maud the mud. Pottery, and painting, ballet and theatricals. Tiptoed into this cruel jest, existence. Extricated herself (not quite) from the clammy claws of the indigenous fogey – his old queer’s fingers misled, coveting some cursed trap of a dry hole, where the serpent squarely waits, its fangs loaded with venom – a venom lasts a lifetime. Hear her carping extempore about the ills of the parquetry. Useless nagging. When her vegetable lady, her vegetable table at the store lady of a mother lies dying in hospital...? She wouldn’t presume to dream to do it otherwise. Uselessness the acme of utility. A grimace of nubile disgust as her fingers skate over the weaponry. At stake her future, inheritrix of itches at the trigger from where nothingness spurts – unstoppable. Mincingly, leap back to the shale where the latent embers shall flare: arson against the ocean. Do not, repeat: do, repeat: not, recoil from the spoor that leads to the crossroads where, savagely, the slaughter must proceed again, and, unswervingly, for many returns. All culprits infallible. When’s my birthday...? Soon again, unleashed.

“–Darling, the train won’t wait...” I’ve got to deliver the beast – a pedantic cockatiel mispronounces every concept – and the deepest the concept the more glaring the malapropism. Terrible aspersions rebound then on the hapless teacher. I’d rather strangle the aggrieving bumpkin.

“–Mister? I say!” Everytime she touches me she provokes a choking flare of burning in the unquiet ocean of my chest. And then, unwinged gull, how do you fly with seared lungs...? You can’t. Here you go, enfeebled, in disrepair, floundering down the derelict well again. Countless chickens tainted with the chicken plague have been also tossed in over the centuries – worry not, you’ve been preceded down this death’s pestilential shit shunt I daresay by legions. Hoo-wee..., this poor cock’s also hitched nowhere to. Before you smash your head into the dirty dead waters at the end, lair of foul vicious survivors dying to sink their claws and beaks into your too suscep­tible now autonomous flesh which fragments itself into all kind of monstrous trangmogrifyings to vainly fight their onslaught, you’ve plotted her murder in twenty thousand sneaky cadgey ways – but, hm, how does one get rid of the mean poison raisin of a hateful head, above all, with its drawn-in, nightmarish, grimacing, hatredfilled, bookburning turd of a face...? Somebody’s bound to find the horrifying package, eek.

There’s her prying preening daughter to take into account, all those nosy hardnose neigh­bors, plus her asshole friends, the pudgy puffball of her postman, the stumpy stinkpot of her sister, her myriad fond doctors: all those hokey pill-crapping eminences, her confessor, shit, he’s the pits, but don’t forget the phlemg-dripping hairdresser, he’s in the same league, plus boo: the deadliest scare of many epochs: her straight-laced mummy of a fucking mother, criminal vision above all, behind my protective sun shades my good eye goes on the blink, I can afford to look at the doleful apparition only with the glassy one – but what about the good ear and the good nostril, will they survive the onslaught...?

Totting up all the dawdling circle of infec­tious housewives, killing bee circular swarm, and the badgering mourners, the wandering preachers selling her some new fangled this time around not cripple-proof sky, all those stale scams she falls continuously prey to, the vibrating pestle-fosterers of yore now turned sthenic health peddlers, all façade and nothing but steroidal dry rot inside – so many intruding worms trying to feed on her cadaverous face – at any rate will it ever end...? She’s totally controled. No curfew at this suburbial loonie bin, at all hours you’ve got the interloping crazies loose... My cunning mind is naturally gearing toward poison – selfpoisoning’s the way to con most investigators: all those virulent pills, a deadly combination could surely be arranged. Meanwhile of course who’s the only one getting selfpoisoned in repressed aggression...? Yours the truly helpless creepinous asshole, alas. Very harmful stuff: one own’s wife rotting nearby, incrusted in one’s soul, like the root of a corrosive molar. Her mouth: salacious fetid opening of the well to eternity we are all on the verge of falling in – welcome, ok, rejoin the souls of all those million previously eaten chickens of yours. In any event, ‘tis all too much touch and go... The rest of the body (perhaps minus the finger tips, easy to burn off) you can dump almost anyplace – the swamp, the woods, a crevice... But the head, the head, the bell-splitting head – what with her known nothing jolly Jolly Rogers features and the damned dental records, not safe at all to degrade in peace and tranquillity (fucking bone hunting geeks,) but instead most liable to keep on walking somehow and find its way back to haunt, and eventually impute you and shackle and shatter your hard-earned freedom – what travesty of sick justice is that...? But wait, trodden masses, and fear much worse. Heard about the added threat of the coming genetical probing and monkeying...? I’m feeling faint with im­potence; where the hell shall we hide from the all-seeing green eye of the all-hope-crushing state...? – it won’t even be worth to live on, the general deception will have to extend inwards, become selfdecep­tion and dry you from the inside, just a lurid lying front for real living. I’m ready to pack up and go. I think I’ll commit sweet suicide: where’s she stashing her hallucinegic cache? Maybe up her rotting cunt, in a doctor’s cunt-pocking glove no doubt. Me soul was hurting so much I thought I were surely dying... He said.

Tomb-robber; nighteous aberration prowling the churchyards. Isn’t she harassing that corpse of mine? She reckons that, dead and half shrouded and all, I’ll let down my guard and she’ll be able to take her long-awaited revenge and rape me, head to toe body and soul. Just like the shivering terror of those first bile-moonish days – frantically rubbing her skeleton over my frail pelvis much as she wants to swallow me whole – broke several small bones there, scraped the others, the prostate’s shot forever, bladder scarred, pissed blood since then, never been meself again, I was sprightlier and randier, and my sperm had a count on it, now I’ll tell you, look at me – never’ll happen again, I warrantee it, starving whore, once caught’s quite enough, thanks, now I know all the escaping tricks, nonfucking Houdini, the calm one, the clean, the elsewhere bound – the nowhere, rather; dead end indeed; on account of him being an old fart, how’s that for an added complain, he can’t muster but a piddling half a quadrant of an erection, if you’d call it that, toothless pitiful wonder, too much lying through ‘em gone wormy piano-keys, his ricketty doodlebug points dead plumb to the iron fire center of the earth (puh, seeking humidity indeed!) – latently alive but never kicking, or at any rate less than does the pathetic dowser with his limpy shit of a witching rod, we are talking 45 degrees, 46 tops, if aroused to where the brain explodes and quits – but anyway as always the creep I’ve killed is only meself – only that this time, shit, I’m done! – she’s heard me thoughts and is about to shoot moi point-blank – and if she won’t dare, then ‘tis a ruthless ac­complice maybe disguised as a burglar-spy bent on silencing me so-learned irrefutable accusations of base collusion amongst art, ornithology, business, politicians, acrylic whatnot, and... – ha! – I regain full consciousness with a jolt – a beating hardware vertex is poised at my left temple, trying feebly to bore where the bone recedes and the good-willed bullet could be less hampered, escorted by the softness could emerge I daresay intact and be retrieved and used as a suppository, gut-bound where it would slowly melt and become human with the assassin and no one the wise, as it should always happen in any well-calibrated attempt at suppression of some aggrieving potheration or other, but the point being who the fuck would really want to annihilate thus thoroughly a mind which, mind you, with a bit of chance synapsing tilting the lucky side, could even surpass the best genius of all time up till the present and, as far as drawing little pictures is con­cerned, seeing who I’ve decided to embody and supplant – at any rate, the quan­dary’s moot, skip it, fold it, shut up, this is the precise injunction, I mean, conjuncture, shit, juncture where I get it: that’s no cold gun – it’s the small radio propped on my left temple where the good ear lies – forgot it there last night – too often trying by night to catch in vain, on the so-called educated short-wave stations of this sorry earth, some wise criticism of our painterly work (obscure endeavors the worthier of course, master of specialized instruction for parrots a foil for easy cheap uninstructed, parroty derision) – to no avail, I’ll tell you, almost no hope left of ever succeeding anymore in having the oppor­tunity of collating to my own any approximatively intelligent new concept – in fact what I dream matters a whole deal more than what I ever could hear here and there, it matters substantially, it matters most – dreamed are the masterpieces – and what a masterpiecer am I – in my dreams...!

Kitchen noises, a bottle droped, a cup smashed, a metal lid reverberating for centuries on end... Wait, where was I? Shutting my fracid cunt of a mouth, no doubt, letting my fancy run faggily wild, what an occasional creep; sometimes I believe I deserve to be shot for my thoughts, not exactly because they are so exalted either – well, are they? – ninety per cent sex and killing, the remainder pretending to become, if not already be though in anonymous nonchalance, the biggest shot there could be this side of the time-space confluency – no, I have to limit myself to talk about what I really know and even master, I have to become pointedly laconic, load my remarks with magisterial but always obvious meaning, defer transitorily to the imbeciles, pass on in deafening silence, wait for the deadest instant, and then wound to the marrow. From cheerfully humble, to seriously focused, to earth-shattering commen­tator, that’s the ticket to coolness. In any event, what’s my scope? – art, mud, vegetables, birds! – accurate, erudite, nudgingly indicative, here I come, the natural expert, oh mine orks, by the grace of pete, yes.

For artistry is, solely amongst the many human crafts and endevors – by predetermined as it were indexation (if I’m right in assuming that Peter Brueghel the First would be delighted in having me, his nowadays hallowed vessel, for seconds) – my home domain, artistry is – so if I’m slipshod, fast and perfunctory in my daily nonessentials, meaning my job and all the other dealings with sundry obscure obscurantists (the family, the very fleeting acquaintan­ces thrust themselves uninvitedly in my area of influence,) it is in order to keep myself fresher and keener for my first and only elevated love – the less I have to do with the worthless heaps of borax and piffle the rest of human crafts and endevors amount to, the better – you betcha.

“–Mis...?”

“–I’m alive, damn you!” First foot off the bed and she’s slunk off the room. Sunday of blood, every bloody Sunday. Only that... Stymied once more: a baddy, a clown, a comic-book villain grotesque. Frustrated fist gone foraging for a face returns morosely to the fold. Off the rankling intriguing scent, resigns, listlessly remains enfolded in the sheets, and starts to tingle, throb and prodromize a fake heart attack; you’ve got ta punish such a wayward body child; I sock him one; felicitously stops its monkeyshines, goes to sleep, sulking but gracefully shriven. I won’t be driven to distraction by members of my own intimate compound: everyone’s got to pace the line, er, each doodle drawn on this line will have to be properly certified, declared genuine, and its new design allowed to stand as the latest rigorous standard flaw-detecting device. Whereas if you’d be so silly as to permit any part of the compact to go panoramicking about by itself, the flues of anarchy would lavishly flow open and the unraveling would ineluctably obtain. I’m not one for mistrusting your nearest accomplices, but neither such a flagrant malingerer of a reckless boss as to...


And now the muddy bubbly champagne, her daughter, is at the door: “–Dad! Mom is waiting with the teapot aloft. I fear for a seizure of rava-rampaging consequences, with the unheralded proviso that moreover you should be advised that the beverage’s turning colder extem­poraneously.” Cocksure little piece of crap blowing excess hot air on her cossetted cuticles. The assholish corner chemist, who the fuck could guess what is he mixing in those poppyseed candysweets he’s always plying her with, and pinching her pendulous nether cheeks into the bargain, hateful fat pasty buttocks as she’s been damned with, not even good enough for a basement secondhand Rubens, cheap and disgusting as the original originally already is, but what the hell, de gustibus of tasteles faggy nincompoops nobody, much as one could dispute about it and never settling zip, nobody’ll ever fathom the entire extent of the shallow distance.

“–Again?” Pestered. Pestle-raped. With a warped fetish gewgaw, a dildo for ogresses, seethingly scathed.

“–What, what, what!” In a righteous rage, as the interrupted linguist plus artist is pitching excrementitious paint all over, his inspiration shot, his underclothes soaking, his groin aching, his yearning sunset bird scheming to drown once and for all, dark river of death where the birds of gaudier plumage are now the uglier of the bunch, manifestly.

“–Just to remind you...”

“–I’ve heard!” Curt stabbing answer makes her flinch, ack, again with the taut, all yellow skin bone, just murdered face brims with horror, hatred, spite, revenge...

I’m escaping fast to the bathroom where for all it’s worth I’ve arrived in one piece. Me murdered brother Augustin – is he reincarnatable...? Maybe, let’s suppose, why not; old fame, however the vile means employed to acquire it, certainly obliges one to concede – anyway he, also like someone I know, because he was so small, and therefore complexed, thought it most unadvisable to copulate in public, moreover being as he was also pretty slow-witted, perforce had to secrete a god according to his own image on the mirror held rather tilted so, toward the low dirt-licking deadworm-like sector of his reduced scope, his god consequentially resulted into a tiny-phallused idiot with great societal problems. Here is where we luckily part company. Since long ago I’d wanted myself an artist and needless to say since yesterday more reinforcedly so, my fateful shortcomings only enhance the unreflected magnificence of the model from which I presently stem, looking nevertheless to a future full with yet sinnier sunnier possibilities, for, who knows, anyday now I might still discover, in spite of all the dead festering weight I have to carry even from before birth, and beyond to the death of some doomed dumb starstruck disastrous galaxies that created me in a despicable sorrowful show of stupid randomness, the cunning and know-how, the dominating mastery to which I designedly promise myself... For ‘tis plai that (lack of depth be damned) I’ve necessarily got some of the stuff; otherwise why the lofty impulses bathe me when I’m most unawares. Something’s cooking, I tell you. Something’s brewing, brooding, looming, sublimely wants to shine forth. I stand warned...! With a warm feeIing of renewed accomplishment, I’ve flushed, I’ve open the door and in a mere trice I’m back facing my unfathomable wardrobe. First I don’t find my train-riding brown suit, then of course I see it lying treacherously in wait again atop the freshly made bed. While I’m nattily dressing, the fright-face’s talking to my deaf nates.

“...your lady mother and his son, your brother...”

She’s reminding me to visit the moth during my lunchbreak. Likely that I’ll forget, as if. Maud sets the alarm clock. She stares at the wall in front of her bed: naked. No picture, deep cream, amber almost, with streaks of verdigrised cracks: meandering helter skelter, haphazardly. Of all the retch-prompting losers the hospital’s pestered with, this couple, the moth and Vangong, her klutzy nitwit of a brother, must take the cake (to pass yet on to whom, I wonder.) Touch wood, you whittler, you carver, you artificer of artifacts: curare-ed tips.

Now that I’m my own nappy self, feeling my oats even before ingurgitating the blah itself. “–Come on! Breakfast ready then? Action!” Trying to farther bring up the shine on my self-willed instep, violently gone, eager to break in the homely flowery yuck-yuck skirt that veils thank goodness her scant rump and all. No luck, or luck enough, the topic’s moot. She’s scurrying away, bleeding skorpion – always faster to avoid my horse pricks than to solve the easy mathematics of my pedestal’s logistics, by which I mean of course the unimpaired tranquility due moi and targeting deadeye to the creative well-being each echt artist should naturally be entitled to.

Vangong, by the way, what a simple, twisted mind! Enjoying his work, I suppose, and no hinterlife, alas and alack; no hint of life, that’s what’s lacked. Sorryfaced happy-go-round, sees me and calls: –Wassail!, as he makes to drink from one of the shitboats he’s loaded with, and regales me with his scraggy-toothed moron smile, thanks, could have done without. He works at the terminal ward, near his ma-a-mamma, and well, I guess he’ll be happier in hell – or not, who knows. Pro forma, I’m asking how’s the moth doing. He looks concerned for a second, “–as the wise ditty goes,” he stutters, “a tragedy waiting to happen.” Talked like a bleeding creep indeed, and no dispute. Anyway, with stupidus non est disputandum, learned it long ago – word of a true veteran, at whose expenses erst the sap usually fed, scroungers starred in my memorial of grudges. But now he is gainfully employed (probably makes more than me, artists the truer the hungrier) an orderly, no, worse: an under­ling, the meanest, a pitiable drudge, up and down, sunny disposition, dreamy maybe, poetic in his own way, like somebody I quite know well, for here we are, both thinking all at once the contrary and the same stuff; thuswise the contrary: thinking that not oneself but the opposite fellow must be crazy; also both thinking exactly the same stuff: that “–the other is crazy,” ok, a bit of an enigma, q.e.d, who knows; he is in high spirits these days – man, free of seizures for a week. He’s ogling the unwell maidens, catches me doing helplessly likewise, sends an impish reproach to himself but that he addressed to me: “–I’m such a slobbering nitwit,” or maybe he ain’t, “my thoughts idly rambling among all those sassy arsy nurses – and some of ‘em barely eleven.” His rat-mouth guffaws like the ratty jerk he really is. Brutish raggedly scarecrow, he laughs but now at me. We nod, on the know: a tragedy in line, on the waiting. “–I’ve got to empty a few pus basins and pishisses and I’m with you,” he passes, a congeries of sickening stinks, crappy broth.

Crappy broth, how’s that for continuity. Here well-taught, well-groomed. The pedantic cockatiel reciting classical appraisals of old abstract aberrant atrocities. Pastiches indigestible. Now forgotten. Waiting to resurrect. Maybe in a next incarnation. For the works of genius belie the eons. Ha! The fuck one knows.

It used to be that the fake swallows of the zodiac chummed about and pledged not to stint on the heavenly, vastly protracted, almost limitless praises (of the boring, most ponderous kind) already tossed liberally at the very very few champs who stunned the ages with their talentuous doozies of some truthful universal beaut or other (accordingly to the sages endoctrinated by the inventors of such speciality.) Those that were already let’s say permanently saddled with genius, had nothing to fear – the excess of praise, on the other hand, that was the promise, would be bestowed also on any other new worthy fellow, if ever found, for nowadays the thing’s so scarce... – (more when not counting my decent strivings: undiscovered, still alive...)

So who’s not counting. Where’s the beef. Grown in obscurity, a mushroom encompasses the planet: suffocatingly. Alas, who’ll notice before all’s a dismal waste: uninhabited? Surrounded by grotesque mediocrities. No matter. His heart nonetheless is reinvigorated buffeted by such adversities. He says, epical, stoical: regardless, I’ll pound. Thus, indeed, Mr. Again is chirpily up, oblivious to quotidian annoyances, why bother he asks you, his eye peers deeper, farther, than minions and menials by the myriad could ever suspect, not in their reach or brainpower to fathom, why indeed waste his breath, he’ll drink his tepid tea, he’ll grab the bloody cage, he’ll step lively toward the station, where he’ll board his train, in elegant poise he’ll take it all in, discard most of it, passing late he’ll enter his place of labor, and...

I was lost in my princely thoughts, but did she giggle at my nether involuntary borborygmus or maybe did she at my already full-fledged eructation...? A lascivious giggle – as the one daintily accompanies a sly showing of your still mostly bald vulva or of your quite shriveled timid crack-ensconced piss-yellowed panties – is of course very nicely endearing (as I say, if you are a youngish alluring girly of eight to twelve or so,) but it’s totally repulsive and puts you off as nothing else so gross and vomity, and cries to stentorian hell for bloody murder, in an old whorish stinking sick hag like her, I trow!


Oh, me boiling veins, and the tickling of me scalp: for a sec I’m about to get a stroke or a heart attack: to nice too stomach: unsafe beauty makes me die. Here’s where me nimble mind bogs itself: helpless: naked lass, alas, of less than not even a soupçon of velvet for a merkin. Ah, me soul escapes down the tiny tiny trough! Where the pure saintly freshness of perfection softly fingers the nascent pubes and even dares to (oh, mine orks, me head’s coming out all floss, me mug’s overflushing) slowly circle the target of her putaminous hymen...

Clang! No, but seriously... I’m sober with a surplus of a plunk of reality, for I’m nearer to the remembrance of hell than paradise: no, no. The harpies’ claws of venereal pandemics rake and wrack the slack runny misshape of the crone who, borrowing in crud, only increases the harrowing horror of the grotesque image that is destroying all kind of human solidarity still left lingering in me – anyway every fucking body’s dying right and left, so that the best example of solidarity left to me to exercise without hypocrisy should just be to plain fucking die also – murdering veterans, their very presence elicits terrors most jittery, and quite right you are to feel ‘em, those clobbering jitters, for who’d ever be the nigget wants to fall in their poisoned clutches, victim again to a swatch of infections wipe you off fast and painfullest, please, don’t insult my dimming lights, tyros and virgins firm and aromatic against those raw malfor­mations of decomposing muck, spoilt-soft mushy potchy busybodies bodies melting from the core out, I’ll ask you, what kind of contest’s that...?

Lucille and Maud (fourth installment)

Gathered soon into a blanket of oblivion, the climacteric looming with its ever-decreasing masterworks a fact every morning in the mirror, and as the rickety structure of my bag of bones goes to its sombre aftermath, bristling with warts, and with the glitter of the excrementitious flecks of fled parasites – a cheap tinsel I’d rather do without – the abominable icons, illness and death, reaching to touch me with their mummy, skeletal hands, I must take a stance. I see myself lost in deep tall caverns with walls, ceilings and floors of shimmering plastic and steel – and then the psittacine screech. I must be in hell. Otherwise... At other times, I lift my head from the pillow... Frugal, isorhythmic passages of dear old motets pass the scrutiny of wept resurrections in my mind too attuned to aesthetic atmospheres; a sucker for perfection; a weakness for elocution; the speech master’s life hangs for what teeters on the tip of that turd of a tongue a parrot has. Hard-nosed examples galore. Penning poems for parrots – proper enunciation a must... And then another impediment mars so much work...

Enough. Comply. Don’t begrudge me or I’ll be damned if I don’t come out and explode the whole conceit, there’s no more motherly mother load extant than the one I just this minute conceive. ‘Tis my empty contention that your building crumbles with the pivotal cyclopean stony die I once unhinged and pulverized. No, it isn’t. My contention is words to the garbage-eager pigs vagrantly haunting my mind.

For all that and more I’m bettering myself everyday I properly am by circumstances allowed, trying only to improve with minor repairs the manor of me and its rutting nidorous inhabitants. Wait, and if I’d be allowed to fancy-freely choose, why settle for anybody less than the finest draughtsman that ever existed – all that, of course, according to my own matured sentiment, which as it happends for the nonce is the only one that matters. Such an affinity I feel toward him, and this despite the incontrovertible fact that I can’t draw my way out of a cereal box labyrinth, that each of his sparse drawings, have I the opportunity ever to catch the glimpse of one here or there, or even, though maybe a trifle less, each one of his colored drawings (otherwise snobbishly yklept paintings,) seen occasionally hanging in poster or advertisement form from the oddest places at the weirdest of times, and especially this marvel of profundity on a simple small dun slightly streaked suspiciously soiled piece of paper flying my way yesterday and almost splaying itself across my spec­tacles, whorelike sacrificial offering, its effluvious middle agroof on my rejecting sputtering mouth, “–Ice Skating by the Gate of Saint George in Wheredahell,” awakes in the wuthering depths of my predisposed soul such pangs of recognition that tears of elation shoot upwards from the echoing vaults of my writhing thorax and, fit for the last odious trampling, the ends of my electrified hairs, overcome with longing, also rise in wastrel erogenous elation until it (the elation turned spikes projected heaven­ward) brilliantly jellies and hovers as another blessed’s aureole or rather halo over the beautiful many-talented replica that under­girds unbeknownst to the populace the acrimonious scarecrowy me that goes nonetheless humbly about his beeswax... Brueghel, I mean.

Peggy Lee, a painter’s, a forger’s parrot. Learning the words of the trade. Trained nicely, I mean, all the niceties about daubs, coagulations, foliations, alabasters. Mullers, massicots, sphinxes, barbicans. Which is fine by me.

Never could I impersonate but the artistic, that’s understood. Adhering to greatness, a discriminating limpet. Limpet: I hate my face and I hate my name – about the latter something can be, and is being, done, don’t you fret, no problem about the latter – naming myself’s my elfin foible, and it’s often indulged and satisfactory fulfilled – as for the former alas I’m allowed to relie only in my fanciful fancy, the frame must be always the same ugly inelidible niggetty one – the contents though that’s another whole kettle of still lives. Naturally enough, thanks to my physical wherewithal (no trophy tusks nor jabbing pizzles typical of the rhythmic for­nicator species jinxes me flaky frame,) I’ve never been drawn toward the brayingly repugnant, you know plain well whom I’m refering to, isn’t it obvious, my frayed feelers jam with seething contempt, fizzling rage at their sheer allusion, mention, let alone selfmurderous proximity – throng of bloated routine-ridden lice marching hitherward where the murky puddle of the end of the world festers with all the earlier cadavers, each plump vaguely anthropomorphical duff bleeding semenlike into its neighbor until no surgical stroke could cleave them – down the shallow sewer head­line they come, agonizingly slow-witted, snug, relentless, benumbed, soundlessly gainsaying the evidence of their definitive pitch and plunge, still nudging at each other to appear smarter at the stoned onlookers and photographers, down the inexorable sinkhole sunk, count ‘em, at the shabby bucket deathly gathered, pluck, pluck, pluck – the suc­cessful, the adver­tised, the exemplary, the clean-cut, the lofty, the ludicrous, the filliped, the above-notched, the wigged, the spoiled, the martially and crestly toggled, the laconic, eek, the parlous, the smug, the high-spirited, the gloaters, the sincerely hypocritical, devout, prayerful, ungrateful, the overmen, the judgmental, all those elas­tomeric pansies, the histerically steroidal, the musclebound, the maximal male, ravishing apes, taunting chumps, so manly men – meaning the faggiest of fags, of course – the shining charming rocks of citen­zenry, sartorially spin-and-spanned, and the ladies lapping them up, supposedly, by decree – the fashionable rebarbative media, by sappy asslicking suckers manipulated, thus decrees – the empty, the surface-swimmers, the never diving into the troubled darkness of the dust that is all – buildings of dust, hopes of dust – the destroyed at the first death in the family, the totally jaded, the recently bar­bered and perfumed, the spermous, the advancers, the leering, the sticky smilers, the swag­gering, the glowering, the job-driven, the cinematic, the tes­tosteronic, moronic icons for their foul enterprises, dime a dozen, the Creepycrap Corporations ditto operatives, the getters ahead, the ghosts, the inexis­ting, the walking high-lighted machine-twinned glamorous dead. No. Only the artistic free spirit sits well with me. The sneaky whoreson, the conscious, doomed sonofabitch, the hankerer after sordid hang-ups, the irresolute, many-wombed reaper of worthless snatches of melting reality, the mixed-up, liquid unstable among the caustic refractive rebuffing mucks of being, the garnerer of free snatches indeed, the poacher in your dreams, the undrugged, the sinister snoop, the reader of your secret diaries, the rummager of your treasured chests, the exposer of your dusty loot, the rapist of your spirit, the knower of your dust, the public braider of spangly braids of fumes spun from your most hidden velleities, the hated all-around, the scapegoated, the breeder of disil­lusions, the scourge of ob­durately repeated, reincarnated sinners plague this prison earth, the free-fligher, the uncrutched, the unco-opted, the naked, the undeludedly plummeting, the resolved unto death, the con­demned, the lumpy blib of an amebish always perfectible half-being, the outwardly tepid quietly embezzling the irksome craving itch of a smoldering explosive unbribable core, the dust raiser, yeah, the brooder of fell sweeps, the broom incarnated, you bet, himself the one about to be obliterated, and unsaluting to boot, for he’s asking after all why – he too, that’s my ticket, that’s my ilk.

Besides, I’ve studied since yesterday the carefully folded (never mind its redolent rancid condition now spicing my breastpocket,) the neatly creased bit of coinciden­tal newspaper where the reproduced drawing awoke in a flash my vocational inspiration, or froze into some type of braintissue the flighty gossamers of my up-till-then lost calling. A forger’s. One of note – for there’s nothing more genuine than a genuine fake, where the fake improves on the original, adds to the cultural implications undergird its treasure trove of an intermeshed network of references. Something like that – yawning, replenishable, subterranean, profound. I’m becoming a convert. The same effervescence, absorption. And ditto as to what Peggy Lee’s pertains. So skillful, attentive, on the ball... Wished Maud were so deep-intentioned, attention-bound. And the other seductive tykes, Madge, Myrrha, Merilee; rapt crows, staring at my eyes, or the Osiris eye of a dick exposed, thinking only about sex. Their brains murkier than an ape’s. “Fang feigns to be dumb, and gets a gardener’s place at a convent of women, who in sudden unanimity haste to lie and have remorseless whoopee with him.” Same stuff obtains nowadays in the field of art – the stupider the wiser.

Artists, we are fixed on forms. The insides repel us, we vow and vote for their annhilation and inexistence. Alien world of my inner organs – wish I never heard of that corruption of an enemy country ensconced in my foulest recesses, and biding its time, and preparing and mining and secretly approaching, incessantly bent on my impending destruction. No, the beetle’s beautiful, but it tastes like bowels brimming with sewage. That’s what we concentrated upon, exclusively: its chitin, its colors, its harmony, never the juices repugnant exit viscously from their crushed carcasses. Color of a muddled brain, crushed. Anyway, I was studying the forms, the shapes, the volumes, in my intimate ancestor’s (our ancestral) masterpiece, “Skating by Saint George’s,” and wondering did he catch me...? – am I there sketched, did he intuit my genial presence across the epochs...? – why couldn’t he...? – inspirations work in mysterious avenues. And if I got to be someone, I’m probably the creep that fell and broke his neck – that’s my klutzy luck in front of a chance manifestation of sublimity (that’s big enough, though, for who’ll self-deceive into believing in perennial fame...? let alone in fake vain immortalities...) – I sure hope I’m not any of the disgusting onlookers who, with no ramshackle iceskates on their feet, and safely (there’s vile contemptible bully-haven safety hidden behind shitty jeering numbers, and high and dry when others cope alone,) and safely propped on the bole of the marvelously formful oak, laugh at the adventurous sportive folks who dared and became – I mean became actors of some singular prowess (only the singular, the single-handed, really count) if even only for a day. Fie with all the pack attackers, the bulk traitors, the militarized, the base, the ganged, spineless but many-legged, the hazing swarms, the sanctimonious prigs, the oblique al­ligators, the coprolalic preachers – they only speak shit – the spewing lapidarian matrons, the vacuous, apotheg­ming, apothegmatic, addled-hump profes­sors, the malevolent hell-sellers all – frightening the toddlers and the toddler-minded out of their scant wits, threatening eternal dam­nations where the saliva is dust forever (and the bullying resentful envious “saved” above wouldn’t spit on you – anyway, even if they did, to no avail, for the spit would vaporize long before reaching your parched tongue, your molars in raging flame,) and all clarity’s gone and the fire eats at your blisters in neverending hormic ruthlessness, filling the enfeebled totality of your available thinking space with sappy stories of devils or gods, virgin births, rotten returns from the grave, and batty welkins where the crappiest go, after death, for hanging nails’ sake, unbelievable: after fucking dead! I’ve seen them, pitiful specimens of degeneracy viciously wallowing in the filth pulpits disgorge without end. All those monstrous women afflicted with the Munchhausen syndromal headfucks, the several lousy green ghouls pounding their ribs, all the cringing brainsick, interred alive in their own fanatic credulity, the puling blessed dickheads listening with fly-infested mouths, opened as canons of carnage, with which they suck what the criminal endoctrinators ooze off, off and away, a crude hodgepodge of hatreds and the awkwardest drivel – they are great at flinging invectives, though; always stalking, ready to pounce and ransack your thoughts, substitute ‘em with their dozy eggy tumors where they’ll cook and brood for ever­more – feel of a sudden their sweaty paws clutching your belfry, raping each and all of your resident wingbats, agog with fright; that’s their speciality, of course, getting at your limp goat and buggering her whenever you are younger or frailier, avengeful ges­ticulating savages; malevolently jawing away at you as if they want you arointed with the harsh terror of hurting words, and the corrosive little tales they inoculate you with, virulent trash you’ll never be able completely to shake yourself off of – from reeking cinders regenerated foo-foo phoenix risen again indeed, pfui, isn’t with this kind of sick snot-crap pap ill irrumating children are put finally to sleep...? – Here’s where I’ve learned a little and from where originally (before I wilfully balked, tore at the writhing ropes of paralysis and broke plumb free, all horseshoes triggered hurtling to the lowest surmisable brows) I’ve flung mine. Like crippling fat com­partmen­talizing itself on their wasted bodies, these in­humanizing notions store themselves in the ingrown talons, hungnails, hammertoes, and at the rotten meat horns of all the true, all the thorough­ly deceived frassful believers – the worst imaginable insult, believer – it defines perfectly all that’s shitswal­lowing – one can’t improve on it, no other name could be more offen­sive. But not. On second thought, not. I’m still peering at the eye-opener, I mean the photo of our glorious accomplishment on the paper, and now I’ve got it – if I remember the location and the scene, if I feel I’m actually there again, is not because I once was already there and protagonized it in any other way than (same now as then) in my well-developed imagination. I’m nobody and all at once they are all me. For I’m the master who depicted them all – the heroic and the mean, the despicable and erasable same as the worthy, the spareable, the innocent – yeah, all invention, all an art product out of our phantas­tic creativity, out of our visionary head – foreshortenings and shadowings, perspec­tives and prospects, bridges, arches, cathedrals, seepages, verdets, tin roofs, cleardarks, rusted barks, illusive dead walls, dizzying depths...

From pictures by the brain to pictures in the brain: all’s projection – he (the brain, and you know how tricky can the rascal be,) he makes you see (and hear and feel) what isn’t there, and contrariwise ignore what is – all, either outward or inward, is projection. And that is as was our projection (either realized on canvas or on paper or as an idea, all are one and the same) by choice. We alone, Peter Once and Peter Again, former and to come, quondam et futurus, out for a holy excursion in art’s sacred domain, on the loose, baby, every time we choose, and on the spot, wretched or sublime, we are painting or drawing or inventing this image perfected, spotless, sinless as the arts of art prescribe cum predicate.

As to what regards my share, no surcease shall blemish this longing intrinsic nisus of mine to excel and succeed. Though unschooled, I shan’t allow any sly cretinous subterfuge to sneak at my will and foster in it any doubt whatsoever where a chance to abort could ever find parodic lean-to or conniving harbor, for after all I’m somehow a natural and all this creepy composing business comes so mar­velously easily to me it’s almost frightening. I’m a hardened sonofabitch, though; I’ve been plenty weathered at the deranging fields of adapting metamorphing mutancy. And now that’s anyway decided. By spunky choice I’ve become Mr. Peter Brueghel Again, thine truly, and thine, and thine, sir, ma’am, child, crone, and with no inkling of being an artist other than by sheer redundant overbrimming volition. Hey, the nitwit takes the dew of the vast prairies for his own wetdream come. True come, dream Maud, mud, fang. With these thine hands the wet clay transform into parodies of paradise. The jizzm girdles the totum; the substance of what mattress, matters. With gristly ferocity I’ll stake my own, thanks much. Scram, my plot’s not for dibs. Furthermore brooks no greedy eying, no aspection, no surveying, no prospecting, no mad craving, no appraisal, no conces­sion. If I’ve got no hope for a hoe I’ll pluck at my orchard or at its weeds with any other implement comes handy; a frame wouldn’t be at all contrarian – I can’t miss, I’ll chrome-frame me crummy weeds... Not a piggin of talent with which to daub vague twilights of Rorscharschputtle rubbish on a paper napkin. At most I could as an infant sketch charcoal bulbous uneven blotlike tar­babies when happy in company of my foraging grandfather, and, when anxious and curmudgeonly, abused and at home, some scut­tering prehistoric stick woman umbrae, female specters with hairy mammoth slits short of unique and all-encompassing, terrifying slits like spiky-legged cock­roaches – with the shrinking limbs and heads of the stick ghouls soon becoming just added cunt hairs – or, alternatively, extra legs to the prowling deadeye bug... And having a nifty erection the whole of the way, as it most naturally and creatively pertains, all told.

Plainly it shines to the connoisseur, connoisseuse. Even grocers hanker for symmetry: eyes of a panther, two cans of cornmeal, two hams hung, matches matching, and so on. What about those ugly guys at the morgue. Sinister combs of corpses combing the starry skies, their aspect, their eyes. Blurry. Tom, Dick and Harry, in formation, bait for the art lover’s tainted moolah. Hear the howl of the prowler. Adquisitive. Since antiquity, up the well of ages where the wealth of knowledgeable wisdom slowly gathers, we all deep-thinkers agree, and in fact what makes you basically a deep-thinker (and the deeper the sooner you get it) is the ability to discover this unavoidable truth by yourself. Go up a mountain and by your lonesome self survey the naked transhumants shuttling noisomely feverishly aim­lessly – distortedly, no matter: head or rump or haunches, or paunches or feet first – observe them pitifully hop, like obese amputated all-abdomen camel crickets, or better yet: like humongous unwinged vulvaceous moths, from beach to tub to the pools atop the skyscrapes. Woefull, disgusting larvae. Exactly. Humans are better seen as masses of maggots – and the most despicable mass, that of the worst engorged maggots, the one you’d burn the first, also crawls, albeit with the help of thuggish attendants, but worse: scrawls, rewrites and complicates the daily scenes, scripts the scenarios and the whole behavioral shebang for the second most repellent and most slimy congregations, those of the actors who implement the tyrants’ morbid scripts, base singers of their praises, bootlicking scenifiers of their dreams of murderous gradiosities, their hirelings, the speculators, the soldiers, the pros, all those who’ve bought into it, the assizers, the seasoners and enhancers of the pie of blood and lymph and all the bitter poisoned rubbish, who repeat to exhaustion, and for the benefit of themselves and their unsleakable masters only, the dated taboo-ridden enmeshings of bygone terrors and new fake intimations of otherwordly intrusions, plus all the habitual and loathsome pomps and chastisings, enthronizations and crematoria, parades and trials, mock apocalipses and other masses, butcheries both actual and imagined, condemnations and obscene awards, medals and spikes, impalements and appalling aplauses, crucifixions and slick fixings, demotions, demolitions, successions, enraptures, all gaupedly watched by the third maggoty mass of maggots, the less despicable and revulsive, still pretty repugnant, and nauseating, mind you, still engorged, still slimy, still a filthy fetid bunch of eye-chomping necrophagous grubs, and yet the least corporated, the least buggery and stifling, self-deluded, treacherous, compacted, the least convinced of its own empty importance, the least realized, the most in doubt about what’s real and really touchable – meaning of course the last in the order, the slower, the loonies, the loners, the watchers: the expectant spectators, always loaded with patience, wised-up though, looking with scant hope for some kind of coincidental shortcut to a likeness of what should be substan­cially authentic, a chance shade on the wall that triggers some ring of veracity in their maggots’ maggoty brains, a fleeting puff of an inap­prehensible answer to their purposeless lives, a slight intuition of reason. Alas, all in vain, for maggots are only that, and try as the will they’ll never amount to much, unless... Unless their purpose on earth is to feed on the deep-thinkers’ brains especially, and thus in some sidereal concatenation of manifestations or other (let’s call it some great red evening, bat-ridden, of a purring vaginal dusk,) amassed together in some sort of giant maggot brain, vastly improved, all classes linked, they’ll, or rather it, it’ll be able, before it’s too late, to understand the universe, its pur­poseless vanity.

Well, that’s a call for careful observation if I ever heard one. Keep on heaving, peel your peepers, never fear, steady truck-truck-truck, and maybe (a minor bingo,) maybe something, just something, just this once, shall pop up. Ages elapsed, with a tail and a shriek, wading the asphalts, golem berserk, thatched heckler, bedraggled, ungulate, vouchsafing to salvage the shredded remnants of a screeching genetic pool that erst invented now forgotten fables of intentional creation. Apprised of which, we remain... none the wiser. Acerbic afterlife of remorse. The bigotry of a stooge driven to junk the lot of what is for the sake of scripture: scripted bumpf. A puppet with blinkers unable to withstand the brunt of the attack: reality.

And then... Dawn of the fire. The Sun burning on a perch above. Unreachable. Bristle the raw deals: blinding. Here we are, besotted, cringing, stillborn.

Couldn’t keep for long this sexless pretense; had to fuck them all, naked, wheylike, maggoty, enveloping, bland, slightly redolent of piss, eight to twelve being my preferred range, but also their moms..., if blondish and soft and amber-colored and without perfumes, nor make-ups, but with sweet-smelling breaths, both from their mouths and cunts. There must’ve been forty of them or so – offered, agroof on my body – completely stamped-off, tacky-sticky mazic cocoon of all-dick me, nicely surrounded by willing cosseted uncorsetted quivering, lackadaisically bruised fleshes of slushing female bodies – gently devoured by the most delicious worms, smug slug undersea unctuously fucked from every quarter – can’t help my gooseflesh outdoing, sublime, sublimating itself – each of its pores lifts up its pate like a clitoris; bristle the clitorises, or already snakes, and rummage the sweaty amphorae – I’m deadlocked, they are my girdle of torturing delight, the sundry pelvises’ em­pyrean flowers, both full-grown and in bud, are legion in every inch of my watertight bristly prairie, bald rocky fountains and wildly odoriferous tufts of tawny merkins slurredly perfume and embalm with their sobbing mucous fragrances the last tiny secret nook of the proud all-flint elevation of me varnished nose...

“–Mr. Again?”

All the clover’s blighted – oh, displaced hope, I don’t feel my oats noplace, been plagued with some apocalyptic ill-starred bane, crude botrytis, bromidrosis, tawdriness, viruses galore – or has it been arson – I smell the sickening vapors, the wavering flames, all thresholds are flung to the carrion-stinking winds, the mighty marbles of my temple-like construc­tions leap about transformed into awkward cheap rubber locusts carnivalesquely strung up from childish windowglass suckers – now even the glasses of my specs crash, the much maligned window-gazer himself is crushed, dust weevils surf the junk, by them I’m excruciatingly stung – “I’m broke, piss off!” I hear myself mutter – atop a grass-whip handle a gadfly sticks out its obscene tongue, the insolence curdles my lymphs, such aspersions, filthy potions flying my way: should I elicit some type of cockcrow tempering meaning from all this...? – no time to parse out, for sooth, gotta skip the incidentals, cast away the gaudy swatches and borrowed raggy clothes; only at home with the essentials: the bridge, the cleft palate, the philtrum, the sputtering teeth, sparks of foolish reasons searing the whites of my deluded eyes; with agonized snores, the bristles of its downy tongue turn ferrets and nimbly penetrate, and thus jam the naked springs of my neck so that reverted is frozen forevermore – wracked giraffe neck, sorry rubble, hurdle too stiff to clue across, unable to stirrup my heart’s burst – I’m crying tears of blood, here, where the knife ul­timately rests the pain’s too keen to endure – I’ve swung my head, under duress I glance insofar as the pummeled eye carries, the landscape’s gone haywire, the sick welkins only bode further deteriorations of the crazed orbits, and the sea’s gone dry, its coarse troughs home to swarms of weird reawakened beasts, me slug’s a sagging blur which with a startled yell I unwittingly have turned to more poison dust, a whirlpool of omens, dirty and shrill, thudding, huffing, reeking, chockfull with bundles of pre-emptive strikes, assault me fancy, though as her­meneutics go, I’m also subsuming squat – in albis – the periphery’s closing in, no, to the contrary: there are no peripheries left, I’m at the center of the burning hole, a hole that expands till all’s burnt – what a shit of a last stand; for that all the fracas, the wreaking fury, the untiring cunning, the unrequited spurring, the spurning, the engrossing, the crazy nonstop choosing of so much alleged living; with bloodshot eye I’m about to go irretrievably ape... “–Mr. Again?” – again the rattling distressed voice.

“–What!” – I recognize vibrant vital me. The beacons of my eyes glow, deftly, cynosures of quintessence. Welcome back, you deserving tripster, we were starting to weaken and bitterly emote with weary pining and impinging worry at your salt-rubbing wounded-deer tardiness.

I invigilate, make certain that the real reels on, unfeigned. I’m an artist – gorged on periwinkles, on all architectural wonders, and self-containedly, matter-of-factly, unaffectedly do I (don’t I?) (you bet, and how!) always own – or should, anyway, for sometimes I forget, or I’m not quite there, or indeed a sudden attack of embarrassment or misplaced modesty and spon­taneous shyness takes me down to the spit-crammed floor and turdy dirt, of which even we artists often have to swallow (washed down with spite and bile) vast handfuls (non-immunizing either,) doled by moneyed or authoritarian nonen­tities – own to an attempt to launching a better creation. Yet. It’s all well known, such a trite mechanism. I won’t manic-depressively spatiate on it. Glory-bound, with the unwitting rabble I melt, shielded by their tortoise-like carapace of ordinariness – I remember well, that’s how we Roman generals traveled on our way to dethrone the corrupt barbarian-induced orgy-addled forgetful degenerates who while wading and wallowing in the shit of their artificial paradises let the stark empire crumble – darkly reminis­cing on the ubiquitous foreshadowings of their fall and of our gnarled consecration, never a word higher than the next, cloaked in anonymity, sly and silent, always back from exile, the avenging juggernaut I’ve become trucks along... Damn the torpedoes and other derided knells. On the contrary, bleeding snatches, from scratch. Everybody admires me, and they are not even aware of it – lucky ignorance, though; otherwise how dost thou presume to tell me how should I avoid the slow ossification of their envy and consequently their crazy jaw-wielding mur­derous bouts...? These usurpers that arrogate for themselves the faculty to institute the standards by which the rest of us are constricteldly measured, namely, as I was saying, the bullshit-doling censurers, don’t get from me but the resounding rebound of the granitic wall of my unstinting but silent scorn desirous without rest to, once unespied, go along and coolly let crumble also a few crushing cyclopean square rocks over the verminous lot of them – they are wormseed, now conveniently mashed... Good riddance, chimes me.

Unchideable. At your peril. A lean dog too full of tricks for you, inapprehensible, that’s it, not for your pound, unbowed to your foul carrion-feeding dictator­ship, too slippery in my ever changing hide of many hues, as soon donning Nisus’s putrefying undershirt, as jellied all over with the soft cheese of the new born yet again, paranoid snake that molts spontaneously at will, its invisibilities undistin­guishable from the straggling wriggling ones in the humming gravy of the menstruation pits.

Keep larved at all times, it’s my self-disciplined unuttered injunction, and of course keep working, unseen insider, nibbling at where’s most concealed, for even we artists (not pandering to the high-falutin’­ly garmented – oh my precious, wild about tassels mantles miters foofaraws! – walking cadavers that be) gotta earn our life, and let the storm gather and work in vigilant abiding peace. Hidden amid the hustle, bustle and apoplectic swoonings of a plainful of pimply geezers, I went recently to the Amazon River, where all young women as soon as the ovarian curse’s with them go to a camp fire over there at the banks of the mighty Heraclytean current, cut one nascent tit and cauterize it immediately with nary a flinch. Well, far form the surly codgers, I was feigning some poetical quiet desperation one evening upon a riparian elevated rock, slickly disguised as an old impotent bard with longing soused, quietly weeping about the past joys with his now fondly reminisced romping nymphs, while all the while in point of fact thrice quietly pondering my long past, fairly proximate and just standing accomplishments as a furtive under­handed satyr with a knack for the clandestine deeply-felt bagatelle, able to pejorate, and nobody the wiser, a whole covey of vivacious girlies in ten lost unac­counted minutes flat, and all at once trying to catch, from among me fingers, behind me Sun specs, beneath the visor of me shading baseball cap, some of the dazzling tit for tatting squalid natives, even as children already consummated promis­cuous sluts, always alas giddily drawn to the arbitrarily illicit, when what was my surprise if bludgeoned with a light tap upon me shoulder – frozen with fright at first I wouldn’t budge, for doesn’t the old saw decree that a succinct snare packs more bite than the most longifluous of boisterous tattoos – and with a wry neck finally reverted behold plumb in the shattered troth of my unbelieving eye: it was only just another doozie of a vision, you bet, and this one much less than a foot from my itching quandary of a bashful (and yet eagerly chomping at the bit of unzipped fly scarcely concealing it) peepee, whose tickling fingertips brought too far by their sudden forward momentum were starting to wilt, uprooted, and die. Her scalding respiration on my nape: “–What’s this,” she sweetly scolds, “are you asleep on the job...? You’ve lain slumped as on the can now for hours on end.” “–Sorry,” I answer with bated rancid breath, “this, to which you pay protracted attention, is aught but the unwilled manifestation of an occupational disease. Dereliction blues. Too much equipoising between the right doses of verecundity and impudicity. Soon and in holidays subsumed you don’t even know where you are any longer at. My pegasus re-emerges unscathed and raves against the sick consciously misleading prognoses that indeed did send so many upstanding citizens to their self-appointed executions, or else distractedly roam now as coatless ghosts in bughouses and hoosegows. We are not anointed with the criminal infal­libilities that suit those hardly disguised murderers that with their flowing robes and oozing odium judge the rest, damn, no! Troopers err grievously when, (so-called) succoring the victims, add the insult of their dirty necrophilic lecherous paws rummaging into the injuries conjured up by the night dreamers, no way should they get so easily off the hook, feeling always above the suffering crowds, the doomed crowds not in uniform and consequently uninvested with their myriad immunities, their filthy frailties exonerated with the slightest of finger raps, if even that...

Virgil’s jay – green, red, white, black, yellow, blue – had a vermilion beak, and the wattles, not, the caruncle of a turkey, and it knew all languages and he was an unequaled master for remedies – never erred in its prescriptions. Brother Joy bought it to offer and thus court Sister Pleasure, whom he had already impregnated when she was asleep. Well, hello. I enter into the old mortuaries, and get busy putting to use the old arts of burglary – artists’ prerogative. The average clod, led by the nose on behalf of those least on the know, come in doughty droves, like sheep to the block. The sister throve, her girdle swollen, her breeding unimpeachable, her teats abrim with milk... They are amazed, expectant, suspending the applause. Suddenly... End of the world. The magic white crow sole guardian of the word that would stop the ultimate calamity: universe falling all over itself. Deflating fast. Everyone alive calling the name of the magic crow to utter the word of salvation. Pathetic end. She’s been dead for ages. Killed at the beginning, in a surfeit of polluted lead: bullets of the bellicist poisoned the wild life. No crow, no word, no world, no salvation. Niets.

She twitches and blows. The plane hasn’t seen in all its existence such turbulence... Here I could be run over any instant, crushed in my corner to carbolic powder. Shit yourself, rather: that would be the sane thing.

The weight of that monster must be insupportable. A giant parrot, and me hanging by a feather, a speck of grime. Indeed, indeed, the plane itself refuses any longer to comply, balks, stalls, will crash, has lost all its buoyancy, its shaky breath falters: hear it grumbling. Pitch the flounder-prone ballast overboard, lambaste the utterly fucked horror, send it to feed the tiny delicious saw-toothed fishes, to choke to timely death on earth the overly gluttonous sharks over the deserted ocean, make her walk her last plank packed and all as they go, in its crate of seats, in its bag of bodily liquors, in its box of fissured dry starch, in its whalebony cage, “– The plank, the plank,” we are shouting in unison with the intelligent suffered craft, no reserved hiding place for her any longer here with us, a class onto ourselves of humbly attractive (mutually, we mean, inside our own little phalanstery at least, yes,) participative citizens, what, time to fold, there is too much of a bad load, you know, obstinate visionaries...

When again I caught myself biting my thumb in dire punishment, then I knew I was behaving sillily, pretty obsessively too. Whew, decidedly, I was seeing those hostile clouds, impending scare-ninnies, where...? Not barring even the sky, everywhere. Clumsy obstreperous humongous parrots aloft, like maimed storks, mechanical metal cranes about to cave in with the roof of the craft over my head no less: disturbing symptoms. I was succumbing to the baby-anchored primitive believe anyone was still bigger than I... Even the alumni. But that is not finished. Wait. Even now, today the flaying feeling I have is not all that different – though older, of course, I, so travelled, so experienced – consider, anyway: an endearing symbolic syndrome. What, the perceptive reader should love me all the more for it – so much alike himself, yourself, hello, I had gone looking for my fortune and to my immense inquietude found it sooner than I cared to: always one’s curse, eh...? May that I were born in Lilliput, that’s the proverbial straight hit I am launching myself continuously to accomplish in my careful outings in a world too narrow after all, with the wrong landmarks (always the same, it looked like already, and I was only two or so of age) always popping up too. My sights in fact are righted much, much higher – the universe, toward what must be really appealing, manageable, friendly to one so specially self-created, room enough to choose, I expect, even for the uniquest of the lot. Would that I lasted till the fast approaching age of the astronomical cosmonautical explorations. Vanquishing hordes hurled through the flourishing void. Worlds flattened and hoed, and seeded and reaped by vertiginously swift heavy war tanks, totally perfected juggernauts. Here we come. Inside the witless bigness, there must be a happy nook for us, busy-busy buggies, discovering lice, conquering mites, civilizing fleas, hello, are we all here: we are, a few, I know, the sagely, wise fearful, nicely hiding in the misleadingly tough centenarian hides, and so forth, wings and valves. The man facetiously knock-knocked on my skull, brought me too a napkin, a handkerchief, a whatjumacallit, and a couple of sugar-cubes, “–Very well, my girl,” she muttered, and I was so grateful, felt accepted after so long an awkward stretch of roaring solitude inside the whale’s, the cow’s, the proud you-know-who’s grazing manure-heap of a gizzard. “–Maud, Maud, where art thou at?” Pierced the infernal din, all riddled by sparks, the coaxing voices of my dying mom, the stolen shrieks of my kid half-brother, gone, the rapturous jackal-wauls of my parrotified dad, “–Where art thou at...?”

Am I, tem­porally reformed and all, a repulsive number from the morals squad, then...? “–Exactly, thou betest, child, and let me assure thee, I was not relishing the thought. Burdened with so many sins, my senses unbidden about to take forlorn discretional awolish leave, no match for my guilt, lately titanically grown, thus deathly hindered in all my advances, I was quietly con­sidering doodlebugging my cranium, or else becoming a monk.” The wild native beauty, my vomitive persona notwithstan­ding, granted me a savvy wink, smiled with most of her teeth, and exposing with a limp extending arm the whole swatch of her inchoate nugatory fledgling fruits wrapped in skins with suspicious blemishes galore, told her pickled picking line: “–Let me hit you with a drivelous alluring proposal, hey...?”

Claiming to be a virgin not quite nubile either, then proceeded to offer herself to be raped for free. What! I was dissembling like mad, me tongue hanging, for a mile, already lengthily shooting my wad with no need for a single caress, larding my stuck zip with crying gobs of thick relish, privately gaudily enraptured, publicly blowing up my lid, though, really and hairily enraged, my unacknowledged cryptic prestige at stake, and I’m stomping on my cap, nailing with a vengeance at the ulcers of my newly reappeared stigmata, whipping myself into a foaming lathering ter­magant, else for liberty athirst exulting at last because the vane of suffering turns, and I’m bathing in the bloods and lymphs of the long-promised untested uncut never-seen Spring vespers, an explosion of wigged heads grass-whipped and suddenly tumbling down in a game of skittles where the cut-rate finally cut to size the cut-above.

“–Listen, urchin, I resent thine unsavory glibness, ok? Don’t give a hang for thy gratuitous yet worthless bestowings. Let me forestall the verdict and invite thee to squeal and quarrel with the contemporaries erst registered at thy cradle-ledgers; as a lagniappe or yet added tret, let me furthermore direct thee to go play with thy tiny cronies in the pudenda-reeking coastal crannies of this doomed female-infested river. Me always on prophylactic guard, ok? I snub equally the non-nubile as the ripe-enough, right? Immune to the charming legerdemain of any kind of floozy – strumpets stromp my trumpet floppy; let thee back to the Stygian stratagemous black waters, consort rather with thine piranhas and candirus, alligators and bald eagles, for I’m always the unreached – else actually alas the duffussy poor guy nobody, if caught, would dare grant clemency; quite, for if I durst sign the receipt of thy unfairly enticing trade-off and joined this cult of thine so many skill-proof saps fall prey to, the gossiperous ugly fat skeletal gristly wives would vulture my liver in less than a second flat, and who would slipshodded­ly be crashing right behind and terminate the devouring but the fucking cops...? Don’t I know them, and thine, and the pursy matrons, damn it, do I? Stay, no. Curb thy enthusing, I know I’m dressed with a body of shit. Besides, girlie, even if I rated ever so slightly above the scarecrowy, still nothing doing; I go with the scheduling – other­wise my cover’s shot. Sorry, don’t ever stray from, always stick to, the stric­tures of what the travel agency scripts: that’s me to a crossed tee. The dot on my I properly says: (reg.) – unwaveringly walking the appointed line – period. Call it quits, tear me up, crumple me bad, throw me away, down with me, I’m waste.”

Whereupon a cavalier push squired her to the hazy brumal whirlpools under­neath, where she landed without a hitch, with nary a splash even, falling it seems agroof amongst the erst eavesdropping soft playful porpoises of her no longer whispering but loudly derisive friends, wee males alas included, those last moreover enjoying themselves most rambunctiously – graces of life all to my damned shade denied, forever out of my ken and my repute.

Thus I became outwardly still more wretched and withdrawn, while inwardly I was guffawing harder than any of them nudie idiots snorting at my unwashed feet. For in fact I had almost instantly smelled the rat of a federal trap – their sucker-ridden tentacles reach all over the globular blobs of the suspected universe, even into the spiky leg-munching much-cadirued vaginas of the foreignest mythologies and back, always back to central headquarters, last and first refuge of the killer; fucking hypocrites, military and otherwise dis­guised – entitled and medalled, allowed to slay and plug, and rape and plunder, and safely “investigate” (more impunely even than gynecologists) the alleged felonies of less endowed, meaning talented, in fact just less well connected criminals. Be it as it may, as another lying swill-spewing classic said: –Get at me with a burning stopper. For escape again I did.

“–Mr. Ag. Mr. Ag-a-a-ain,” once more my feeble, feeble-minded wife.

“–I’m an artist, shit!” – this self-assured, evident statement generally makes her shut up. No luck now though.

“–But it’s getting late for work.” I won’t disclose my eye and injure its new morning innocence with the baneful apparition of the looming shrew which in hokey abnegation enamels my oath. Spooky nuisance at all times flitting in and out of my morbid demented conscience – feel when she approaches to broach the issue of my rancid oversleeping like I am precariously tilted at the edge of a breached cemetery niche; her funky germs fidget spermaceously at the delicate entrance of my unvac­cined nose, her marooned guts treacherously slither and sidewind to rape my isle unconquerable, of ramparts unspoiled. For she’s a dish alright, an apocryphal petri putrefying one. Exactly, I’d rather be present at a botched autopsy – whatever wafted from the brutish chisels toiling at the old boneyard remnants certainly wouldn’t be so deletereous to my bereft sen­sibilities.

Won’t even take a gander at the more and more disap­pointing and embit­tering eidola she furiously reber­verates with, the crusts of lava of my dry lippitudes protect me virtue – as well they should, while the illusory roulette of me mind takes deadly aim and me heart mellows, of course. She’s the dead duck floats at each of the stagnant squares of the wattled swamp her breath and heaving heft inspires, each of which niftily corresponds with the cross-hatchings of the gun my resentment raises in contempt and muddled-headed catharsis. Shoddy wreck of a multiplying dummy, bang-bang, bang, let the evil funfair shooting range overlord fuckface freak foist as many as he can muster on coldblooded me.

I get a christening creative germinal kick out of each of the whistling obliterations I rat-tat-tat relish in doling out; with a whispering disembodied vault-dwelling voice I tell myself: Way to go, champ, from creaking nothing you’ve extorted the explosion of galaxies, upon which you then have fostered the procreation of dumb species upon which you immediately have gone ahead and shown your right unprovoked dutiful wrath and wreaked all kind of saintly havoc. And the lithe relicts they exude, like extruded poison pips, mock souls, stink clouds, among the fogs of gloaming and gloom, bang-bang, dead too, and no cop-outs, murderous janitor, deadly easy shooter, every airborne decoy had also a target painted for a head, with the fall safe of a self-ig­niting bomb instead of a brain. Harm overdone, that’s when it’s more toothsome. With the zeal of a gourmet cutthroat proceed to slice into the thinnest prepared specimens, to be forthwith analyzed with a minimum of slobbering, before tearing away with frustration, disgust and dull shame, getting it all mingled and conglutinated and crumbled, and already gobbling it all up – glad you made it, gulp.

Of course, she an Ockham. Lucille Ockham, me undermining wormy nemesis. Fucking family of stingy goose-stepping razor-wielding thugs. Behind their permanent mask of derision, fester the dead-set eyes and the incisive tweezer-teeth of the monomaniacal giant earwig eager without cease to cut at the root of all the strings bollard my brains to the crypt of my nonetheless monumen­tal body – not a cenotaph for rent, indeedy to be toilet-occupied with the too-simple simple-minded hypostatized simulacra of their obstreprerous choosing. They would pare me to a moot point short of extant oblivion. Want me one-dimen­sional, no future, no horizon, no attributes. “–But do I wist of anyone creepier than meself...?”

No, I mercifully don’t.

So they have their work cut out. Try as they might, they’ll never cope in tidying me up, they’ll never cut me down to their paltry measure, I’ll always exceed; as each spoke of overripe wisdom leads to another seething hub of further bungled snippets, where hapless woofs and warps don’t weave but the chaotic webs and sickening medleys otherwise plenty haphazardly slit bloated abdomens of cruelly spiked spiders would eventually suppurate in their dying pangs, I’m at any once too many to easily pin down and mutilate.

They are always at a loss as to where about precisely my nice excess shall now explode forth, as it inexorably does and with prosperous luscious most healthy methas­tasied growths simul­taneously sprouting at opposite poles – it rains it pours, he spouts foul frothy broths from every pore. Forget it, you’ll never manage to keep up with the leaden-loaded extra luggage I ceaselessly secrete – I sweat bullets, I’m crying sandarac, I bleed boiling tar and spent axle grease, I breathe umbrellas swept open and bolt-stricken and pulverized, I’ve hives eruptive as the farthest-flung of moonstones – a conniption-fit of mine sends sucking cups rival those of the most bombarded bat­tlefield; as I dig my heels in and get ready to crap, have no qualms, better call ipso facto the insane pry-happy locksmiths of your lousy universe for this here stifling space, right on, shall sure crack; but let me not sneeze, the wispiest wisp of muck deluges and thus usurps the pride of place the last most fiery entropies thought to hold, and if I resolve (just a whim) to ejaculate, well then, perhaps the zoomed rennet seeds of my jizzm shall sour and spoil for all your descendants and forever more (and such a blood-curdling horror also) the pointedly flocculated, many-sidewindedly glomerular, all hurled-together vertigines presented by the erstwhile rightly legen­dary milky way, now again definitely toothless and dethroned – imagine: A blobby- blobby blob blobbing everything away, the whole sky just another oozing con­tagious all-encompassing septic duct kind of disease spreading without end... For without superfluity we drown in crinkly barren dust. The substance of any entity is always ultimately nil; only the modifying accidents that to it accrue matter and afford matter – and only matter is of the essence. The rest is projection, ethereal, thus: insubstantial, dreamed – for only matter dreams – dreams never matter, never concretize into matter, never materialize into re, thus into what is. And however they dream me, I’ll always be yet different. Even if they dream me all substance, meaning dead, while alive I’ll still be delving among many waters. Undetectable but in a few of all my varied copies. Irreducible, then, unreductable. To what do you reduce an inexhaustible bloom...? Prune till you drop, behind you I’m still brimming, untamable; dissect me also, as much as you are able, but the quaint queerest organs reproduce full tilt, the yielding couldn’t be more feracious; search madly for the core, but the core is empty, the too strophiolated seed’s elsewhere; building ziggurat peels on a void, the onion me keeps on fleshing outwardly. She says, Maud, the mad free ion with no ancestors ever gave birth to her nor successors will ionize anyshit with. Ever.

You are only engaged in a fast looming defeat; while you try to save a part of your threatened body by madly slashing away, you endanger the next maybe more crucial bit to invasive death. My perennial pulsion to disap­pear has to be met only on my own terms. I eschew the clashing presence of all gauntlets: what a flop the silly challenge; if any, and just before dying, I’d nip-pick only a little quiet wild flower who were about to bud, alas but not quite. I’ve been transported into a world of nothing, and now I’m so weary I’m ready to give up my ghost – nothing to nothing. Plus, in ceteris paribus, the hell I know. The hell...

The staminated dawn had turned into acid revulsion. My esophagus was feeling discarded, wrinkled and disgustingly throbbing, like the spent apron of some sluggish scumsucking orderly in a filthy hospital where also the dusky skinks bask in infection. I hate my own guts, and especially their paltry excrescence. All what it makes me think rankles, and destroys and nullifies its less driven neighbors. When the steelyard goes limp, the solemn spell goes broke, the bags of unnerving granulated despair void down, spilt-spoilt, like the sickening contents of a suddenly slit stomach – soon kneeling fungi’ll conjure it up into poisonous vapors. Revert once and again to the unspent flux I had already swam (regur­gitation’s the operative word,) chew the cud more’n once... Select and pull out: another (even rejoice: it could be quite a new one) excuse for living on.

Lucille and Maud -- tercer lliurament

I had a telepathic revelation – all those chiliastic scholastics pole-axed in the hottest heat of intimacy. Smile like there’s alum in your teeth. Take a mulligan and better luck this time – phew...! – sailing through the cunt-shaped mandala. My (his) urethra bathed in sophrosyne. Calm, heavenly visions. Clouds of gory glory and so on. A spectrum, a rainbow of colored avenues with young short-skirted collegians trickling in miserly pearly drops, the stimulus all those spermatozoidal goblins working down and around my indusia and trochiluses, saying ave atque vale, fast.

Or how does it go, the famous saying by the pseudo Xeicspia…? Our paltry lives being but canards told by a parrot, full of goofiness and fury, and signifying shit, signifying zilch…?Huat-hanat-huat. Repeat the incantation, again, again; thence to supper, and so to bed. Smell the camphorated balm. Huat-hanat-huat. Ok.

All my parrots have to learn the proper dictionaries. They belong to high-ranked fellows. Cardiologists, men of state, the steadiest sadists, and so on. Master Txúrtxil had one: Txarlie – he had to know about strategies and tortures galore. That psittacus a general and an obdurate crook among psittaci, and the psittaceous birds, taught furhermore by a great diction professor, despite his tongue impediment – Lang’s “M”, the little girl’s murderer. One of those old man’s winding vagaries. It wasn’t always like this.

Greatness is latent and you’ve got to presuppose it on almost anybody, it may lurk imbedded even in your very membranes. Though, also, so may the lousiest of creepiness.
Gigi: her grandmother tells her: “-You girl, listen, don’t ever have any business with your girlfriends’ dads, as they wait for their charges at the gates of your school.” But now he is absolutely taken by the natural and obvious charm of certain little girls – shapes so alluring – there, true, nature excels itself, never did better, hazards of life.

Myrrha knows what she likes, and enough: she’s all for an older fellow, and basta. An older fellow such as my dad, she says, swearing by Ovid, for, hey, natural always beats artificial by a mile, it is never so poisonous as... And the animals follow the healthy rule of nature, cows exult when their bullish father rams them, same thing mares and such, and the old goat with delight mounts his daughters no matter how young and tender – and talk about birds, happiest of creatures, the old guy fucking in midair with the fledglings and the more recent specimens of the surrounding broods – everyone reams and rocks with the easiest available, yet we foolishly demur, only we neurotic fuckers enforce rules against nature.

Sixth century: when sex is the light of life. Faulkner: small frail oldish guy, a watcher of girls. Claims Sound and Fury is born with the striking image of a little girl’s trying to climb a tree, her muddy scant panties patent.

Atavist religious impulse – imprinted images of the much adored vestals of yore – from the hallowed ancients to us – worshiping the virgin bodies – the smooth godgiven bodies: images, figurations, mirrorings of the gods (the goddesses!) on earth. That’s what we did, that’s where we went if we really wanted to be blessed and, whatjumacallit, virtuous – we visited in awe the vestals at the temples and consecrated, humbly and selfishlessly, rendered our homage, our sacrifice, our vigor, our manhood. Young virgins, the most well formed, offered at exhibition, as proof of the incontrovertible existence and bounty and goodness of god, whomever – beauties so delicious they could only had been heaven­ly – and you could look at them most devoutly and purified – could even touch ‘em most reverently – could fuck ‘em even – if you could meet such strictures of self-abandon­ment and arrive at such summits of worthlessness – I could never – too overzealous (I mean in a manic squeamish way) to defile such perfec­tion, of course – the act versus the intention as religious statement of utmost devotion, here’s the rub, I mean, the question – the intention must suffice, replenishes the spirit plenteously enough, thanks – not like fucking despaired Nevolus, buggered pimp and badly bilked too, as told by saint Juvenal (not a delin­quent!) in his satire number something – he goes from temple to temple officiating at the crotches of all the virgins he meets – at Isis’s, of course, but also at Peace’s cathedrals, at Ganymedes’s, at Ceres’s, at the secret groves of the White Good Goddess herself..., plus plenty of other addresses the hoary author doesn’t care to name and I haven’t neither the leisure nor the scholarship to go chasing after...

Or who needs Humbert, mystical fucker, enslaved to an aesthetic idea of scurrying youth, propagating unsteady fallacies about Sicilians and other peasant Greeks to justify no longer trendy, alas, tendencies.

No, but what was that she...? Ah yes, I’m insisting, piggedly boring in with my shar­perst horns, I’m telling and retelling the stolid despisig nurse: “-No, but hear here, these are my books, I brought ‘em for the old woman to peruse if thus inclined; now I want some of ‘em back.” The dirty snake-faced termagant won’t believe me, she hardly deigns to answer, gruffly sends me off to sell my shitty wares elsewhere. And I’m on top of it bitterly complaining: “-Hey, they are my books, and they are all irretrievably impaired, look, but only look, please, look, ripped through – have they been also in the loony ward...? Most patients aren’t well enough to be entrusted with books of so deep a meaning either, anyway, you know, let alone the crazies, cappish...? – Would you please take a gander at..., crippled, all crippled by a bunch of idiots with scissors or razors, how could you allow...? – insanely intent on defacing the garnered truths, most invaluable marginalia have been trimmed off...! – who’s been cutting up pellmell the lamest references...? – These are not public property, these were mine, they were the repository of what I decided I needn’t keep permanently on call in my mind because I had them otherwise so candidly handy, at hand, and now..., would you only tell me what I’m gonna do with them now!” I’ll do nothing with ‘em, because before I can take any along she’s kicked me out of the waiting room and locked the door and haughtily walked away down the corridor. Poor Fang, crestfallen, a cuckolded would-be pedophile.

Rattled, a rat trapped at the dead end of a bowel, left alone with the anointed to die, and how full of shit they are because of the fact, and how they relish hammering at you with the naked cloacal facts, raggedly zombies, all nuts, a window, how fast I’d bolt, all their nuts and bolts rusted beyond rescue, recognition even, oozing green matter, ichorous, pussy, slimy.

Beware – be most severely warned – people who remind you so nicely of your mortality (“you'll die also, you know,” “you’ll be gone in a few, whether you want it or not,” “but how long you imagine you’ve yet got, you silly misled goat?”) – this criminal people wish you dead (“perhaps you think you’ll be spared and won’t die; come on, are you this daft?” “how much time are you deluded into reckoning remains you before also your neck – nyack! – baby, is wrung?”) – they wish you so dead (“death’s turning the corner, ask for whom she tolls and you’re it,” they doggedly insist and singsong, and: “watch it, you’ll be buried and done for afore next bantam crows or himself’s been cooked; even the land itself seems sick, the planets, the suns, the universe is doomed,”) – they can’t even wait, they wish you dead, and dead forwith, they want you dead: now!

There she was, the opposite of all your fanciful illusions on this paradise earth gone terribly to diseased seed – how couldn’t it have been kept frozen in youth, a world of nymphs benevolently shepherded by this softy satyr – huh? – out of the dancing bugaboos and into the totem in fire – there she appeared, sole hole for the rat to smuggle out of, this trolloppy poltroon of a woman, my mother...

What am I doing here at plain sight, ashamed to think some thoughts, lest I’m by my own face betrayed, alternatively congealed in a blank or by my conscience eaten alive. Shouldn’t again rather be hiding in the undercarriage? My time is too precious to waste now in the boring company of all those staring idiots. Old fellows, whose vital illusion alas is ready to burst into nothingness, a mirage shattered point-blank – for this ailment of the soul four salves seem to be extant (citing more or less the sage Cowper Powys now – recently perused wouldn’t you know): One, study of books – mono-maniacally or -thematically preferably – let’s say an author or a restricted subject, for instance that geezer staple: Tony Trollope, or the pseudohistoric fall of hither or thither empire. Two, utter devotion to a cause, say political, of course, or altruistic, or enviromental: “saving” this or that or the other... Three, an erotic obsession! Say to immature girls..., and... Four (the best according to what the hell does he know,) the punctuated search of pure sensation: Delight in, savor each separate instant in its unique liveliness and special loveliness – the classical (Mr. Plato and the rest of ‘em deluded mothers) erotic impulse for what is beautiful, for the reuniting of the whole in loving adhesive sex-secretion, the soul is provisionally complete each time the communion is achieved – but why the target of this instant truly lived in full couldn’t be – forget the trilling bird, the play of light on an umbrella’s silk, the quiet ingenuity of its spokes, the extracted world of a raindrop on the leaf, the coruscating pollen on the petal-wing of a butterfly, the crowning cloud above and its magical lineaments, all those variegated slices of cute outdoors – the troubling unsur­passable beatitude of the angelic impuberous girl, top of creation, and no bones about it!

Here’s the dichotomy – in our own minds we exist as projections, interminably watching backwards, interminably expecting forwards – while in the minds of other, same as ‘em on ours, we are just a longer or shorter rosary of fixed en­tities – where’s the woman I knew as a lovely child and fell forever in love with – she’s nowhere, while the child, though she lived only these few moments of enchantment and then left no traces behind, in my mind she still comfily abides, beacon of illusion, spiritual smile, living mirage, quaint oasis, serious lull. Let me insist on it, ‘tis mightily pregnant withal, a fortiori the key of living in zen-like peace of beingness for the remainder (and not unincluding in a further fortiori the remaints and all.) For projection’s the culprit, now I’ve sized it: We exist only as projections of ourselves, hence the fear of death – we see ourselves destroyed: Become rot, mold, worms and beetles, ashes and dirt, nothingness – when in fact this projected asshole is never ourselves now. For we are only fixed in the moment, exactly as we coolly perceive the others – while our perceptions of the self are maimed and marred by the stupid sentimen­talism of favoring and extracting from the throng and the cold common destiny this paltry pitiful imagined image we’ve grown so attached to after so often consorting with: The assumed alleged mental construct called self, hollow figment indeed. Where is – and a sob of emotion comes shatter my soul every time I remember him – where is my boy, my beautiful intelligent angelical son, his lovely silhouette cut against the glare of the peaceful river as the crepuscle sets in and he is so glad with his catch and he so gracefully explains his marvelous world...? He’s turned into a soldier malefic...? No! No, he is a much loved, a revered fixed entity, a hallowed tangible presence, an icon shining with an inner happiness-imparting warmth, a charmed beatitude niched in my heart, forever there and nowhere else – least of all in the petrified core of the gruff qualm-less death-meting hate-instilled warrior he’s projected himself, alas-alas, and become!

Same thing exactly – damn you! – with all those perfect beauties that will develop pete knows into what! – sick harridans all – why are women always nattering about cancer? Where are they projecting themselves, which horrors are they calling incessantly forth...? – But those full-blown monsters will always be something else, other entities, other mirages, alien implantations, knotted fleshings, blurred blubberings, foreign, unfounded, lost.

...but this, brought forth, would exonerate everyone! – yessum, yes! Anyone projected is innocent; no, sir, am no creepy dapper crapper christ, fluting away, clumsily faggoting with his craven chickenshit in­junctions for living dead (living while dead, living in death): “-Whoever isn’t fucking guilty, let ‘im fling ‘em first of lousy rocks, eh...?” Would he had been stunned, stoned by the lichenous iniciative and brazen deter­mination of some cop-minded thug. What then...? What a silly reprobate crook all told, wonder who’d ever believe him, if not some other wooden sanctimonious nitwit. On the contrary, I say: Be wise! Anyone who feels guilty better unproject himself post-haste, or he is doomed! Most useless empty soul-corroding activity, projecting thyself to whilom kingdoms of smoke, to a con­fusion of hells in pimping pestiferous abeyance. Confounded, conundra, unfound.

...and yet, wouldn’t this absolve point-blank this particular sinner and by implication and furtherance even one and each of the judged...? What of it, why the frightful to-do! Of course you spare the sinner! Anyway which sinner...? An adulterous wife? You wish! – No, the only sin extant is the sin of present bodily harm against you own now: Your own now – the rest’s rubbish, anyone is innocent of the a-fore and the to-come, there are only culprits of the now (and crazy, possibly non-res­cueable non-rescue-babble people, of course, too messed up, ulcerated inside by the current idiot notions) – this makes prosecutors and judges and such... – Yessum, agents of evil, you are right, sir, extraneous devils with an agenda to enlist one and each into their roster of lost souls, deluded painful livers-in-death all, agents of total destruction and inner annihilation, projecting left and right and every which way tentacles of poisoning and blame, and oodles of ubiquitous lying, and envenomed transfixig spikes of wilting rays of utterly mad­dening or else paralyzing guil­tiness. Projecting all around tainted unholy adulterated death. Scape-goating their sempiternal hatred with the duped, bamboozled and beguiled, the allured, and the baited, and the hooked, and the trapped... Bury them in garbage. To the garbage stockpile with those douchebags and the shit-scrapping stercorarians which feed on them.

But is your pretension, sir, that even an avowed, please remark: an avowed serial murderer can avail himself of your displaced generosity of scope and saunter off scot-free after he is caught (alas, not in flagrate, mind you,) and all just because the flimsy tech­nicality that he has become literally an alter ego..., or, in other words, how in bloody hell do you stop a serial killer...? – A certified warrior for instance, you mean...? – Let’s not be specious and piecemeal – Whatever, you kill him in the now (on the spot,) hey, lacking which! Lacking which, you castrate him, you lobotomize her, you commit them to an asilum for the rest of their natural... – But is this more humane...? – You don’t kill before or after; you kill in the now and that’s it, or not at all, for anything else is murder (much worse) again.

“I lost me ‘at last night, tossed me ‘at into the ring, and lost it,” a bit of banter on the tracks. Or: “Mädchen kleine und reine” (bis, bis,) whistles me magic piffle along with me magic mind to the rhythms of the train – the rhythms, the rhythms, the rhythms of the trains: Cheapest grand accompaniment to the opera featuring the languid spirits of the toiling masses back from the stultifying pits – fleeting musings serene last night clattering back home while the bit of schmutzy newspaper dreamily lays forgotten, ah, tremolously aside.

There she was, this poltroonish trollop of a slovenly woman our moth mother, who would offer me a buck (and later even less my half price kid broth) to go on scraping with my nails retracting by fear the often bloody scabs of thick dandruff stuck to her skull – she wouldn’t wash her chickenshitty scalp for weeks on end, not if it could at all be helped, not for the worthless spending of any vigor, not for the slothful hell of it, not if another glaciation wouldn’t stealthily slide to her parlor and have swept her thus, seated barefoot in front of the tv – she just heavily perfumed it, her foul caked greasy hair, yikes, most disgustingly... – but what am I griping about? – that asshole projected in the rere, nauseatedly scratching some hardened crap off some filthy old whore’s head ‘tain’t me neither! – phantoms, like Jimmy the murderer, desideria inapprehensible but with the sham net of untruthful concatenations – tenuous daydream formations dying with the sudden dry winds that separate the tiny cells of time – oases? mirages? dunes! – dunes: cenotaphs of the existed – the desert of being shifts like the sands in the equitremoeidous universe – kissing self-spinning funnels of unimagined magnitude – no matter, we are soon broomed away, fading glomerations of refuse – diabolo in capsicum: Hi, Jack!

“-What? Yes! I have the fucking ticket, here.”

Trying to rescue the thought, no way, agog over the conclusions, the corol­laries, though – it seems so magnanimous were I, and not a cent from me pocket, I had forgiven all old criminals no matter how noxious – exterminate the young, of the old let go – what an ungroomed joker with a thinking machine in a worse state still of disrepair – sorry case of oversqueezing the curvaceous citron of hokum, I trow – cosmically vacuous landscapes where the taut rows of aligned crematoria wane into the lost horizon – abashed, I was about to swallow, with a much unpleasant curl of a grimace, the gaggingly enormous bitter pill for the nonce and all at once roughly ingratiating whatever the nonsectarian powers, when I said what the hell, why should I always be wrong; after seeing how right are the others, the chiefs foremost, where do we get off and goof...? – What the fuck, exactly. Bring ‘em on, anyhow; aporias are my dairy, they teat me; off ‘em can’t be weaned, not on your sanitized life, throve on ‘em since I realized, still a baby in festering diapers, the fundamental disjunctive was: stay alive or die.

A sudden double swarm of hourglass wasps, the shocking rush, a couple of chained-on dusty yellow-black flashes paying visit to each of the compartments. Shouts of deepest displeasure, the ladies faint and whatnot. As I was saying, the ugly anonymous co-tripster had gotten up to grasp maybe a snack, low-rent barrister or rather barrack­ster on leave, had both his eyes stung on the wing, crumbled, a twisted suited garbage, on the smutzy floor, too tragical, yellow-turd bellied indeed: “-I’m, like, again: Oedipally fingered; oh no, why me, my gad, why me!”

Asshole.

Too glad it weren’t moi.

And then clunkety-clunk for miles and miles, trying to forget the terror of the dense blood congregating around the ears, the orbits of the eyes, the scalp, inside, the nightmare awake each evening before the constant repetion of catastrophic failures itself knocks me out. Gotta stop projecting myself – nothing more destruc­tive, ay, annihilating – images of an always deteriorated ego that feels exacty the way I’m feeling at the precise moment the contorted projecting takes place, up-river with all those unmitigated failings, embarrasments, odious acts, shams, shamings, mistakes, down the lying river of being with all those strangulating rueful wretched outrageous opprobious miserable deaths, and deaths – and deaths. Your humble survivor’s only imaginable cure lies in projecting not himself, pete forbid, not oneself, never, but the others, always the others, at all times the others, projected, projected, the others, my creations, id est, my theraupetic alter egos, my dandy parasites, them, them.

Them the suffering (even the joyful, enjoying) assholes, them the living in the wracking glum of a most strenously punishing hell called I believe earth, not me, spared, constant, unmovable. I alone immune pure untouched, by no dirty passions infected, with only a friendly eye for esthetic appreciation, this yes, but that’s all, and enough, for the present eternity. Like a birdie on the wing – maximum desiderium! – deciding on the spot on the whim of the instant where next to land, where next, where next.

I flew as they say on the flimsy wings of desire – gossamer goose’s wings, in perfect formation, bound to a crepuscle of promised felicitous tranquillity. A violent jerk and back impinges dizzy-crazy crazy-daisy reality. Back alas to dreary crummy me-now, now-me, his dull unglamorous dire self still stuck to shit, yes, by the seat of his locomotioned pants.

This world indeed a klink, a clunker, a clunker of a klink teeming with wicked interlocked strangers – was onto something fucker said it weren’t no leaking hell proper but the cosmic prison per se where all damned souls came to purge their variegated penalties – here again on the mirror of the face of others, here’s old Tithonus, yeah, present at all times, ubiquitous like the very quantum foam surrounds and subsumes us, devil-pronged, prodding at the inmates, all kinds of no end ag­gravations, droning sounds interspersed with blunt thuds, coarse swearings, sudden crumblings, quaint silences, intimations of what awaits farther on, trying to discern from the planted simulacra the pertinent cravings, tough endevor, with the uninter­rupted tinnitus in his ears, the never-stopping nuncial and tolling tin­tinabulations of burials and births and three-fire alarms, and the daily clunk-clunk of the trains all the undying seasons, and the days themselves, nauseatingly repetitious beggar: “-Please-please-please,” in a puling wishy-washy voice, so caress-hungry, a single hard hug: wanna die of happiness, “-Yes, please-please-please,” all wrinkled grasshop­per, born old, sentenced to clopper forever, disabused maybe, so far gone, just hoping for a merciful lull – would you be actually praying for death...? – put yourself into a totally consciously assumed condemned felon, no hope whatsoever of parole, of respite, of release, or death proper in all fucking eternity – doomed to the same useless act – years that I don’t come, I can’t, I wouldn’t, too sad a business, anxious, excruciatingly breathless, strangled by fatefulness: Once you do, once you’ve had, then what, re-start the build up, clinkety-clunk, just in order to come again, and, more appalled still, re-, and re-, and again re-start – Scottsboro train stuck in a rowdy double bind, internicine slapstick, you slap yourself silly: -Wake up, you creep, wake up – this self-spiraling labyrinth’s got no let-up (double equitremoeidal, or kissing, arsy-turvy spirals: Atavist symbol of eternity indeed, exactly when you think you’ve gotten out you’ve just gotten in) – every fucking day, back to square one – recurrent nightmare of a waking life from which you are condemned never to wake up – who wouldn’t prefer the daintier dreams of heavenly sleep? – if hell is repetition, this clunkerous klink is hell – earth with a reputation indeed – withering leaf redone; plough of gristle, a flop, breaking again the unbroken terrain; what else? – hymen untrundled anew, what, yesterevening I seem to remember a mess, and all bleeding crushed it was; the terrors untold of all those virgin births coming to a head, widdershins, at crossed impulsed paths, the crash always unhappened, unhappens, though – didn’t happen, did it? / it did / didn’t / did.../ down to first step: Unstigmatized, that’s mighty odd; strove unyiel­dingly, and to what end...? – a mystic almond, a mandorla, a cunt of marvelous free pourings, better’n the corn of plenty and Pandora’s big loose-withies side-busted kyack both all at once, and yet regularly it shuts like lids over your eye, eraser lids, of course: Reopened, you drew anew another blank, faint dullish afterimages mayhaps, had to try hard and recall the vision again, but with which guarantees of exact reproduc­tion? – None, déjà vu all over da cappo, man, I think, not sure, but beautiful manifestations of (or for?) the senses, un­deniable, huh...? – Ah, shiny little cunt earth, how poetical, how rich in sensations and sentimental adventurous journeys, only that when anyone finally manages seemingly or for all material purposes to exit and turn in for scrap metal the individuating dog-tag, all around sigh so sadly: He’s done suffering, poor guy – trying hard to keep up with appearances of decorum, honorable, dignified – all appearances, though, and to which avail? – Wanna be called poor guy when the time comes again – your little own personalized again – again: pivotal crux where your quantum foam lies firmly anchored indeed, try rather viciously impaled – nice landscape, though, your private molehill golgotha, could even hear botchedly oozing from the dismal background – frantic estrapades, desperation mastur­batory self-destructive piecing apart – the insistent Mussorgski accords on No-life Million Skull Garbage Mountain by Night if you’d be ever so inclined – no pickings left after the hordes of clumsy ravenous mouths, even the marrows devoured clean by sedulous toothed bothriums – and beyond, and sub­suming the whole bloody global trap, nice and cute and lovely as Tartarus itself, where repetition is it – Sisyphus his mammoth rock, Tantalus his thirst, old girls carrying water in their sieves, fellah falling forever down his toad-rich well, tarry tacky sticky goblins in their cullion-bags, inside the indusium, the trochilus, the carousel, the ferris wheel, the roller coaster, bumper car, stationary plane lost in its flights of fancy, spirals with stunt bikers, albino ravens talking, humping pirates, snapping turtles, sitting ducks..., blinking, bumping, humped Fang the clown, geezer hooked along in his neveren­ding wheel, crucified into the spokes, the hub forever sodding him, worse crimes to pay for, pompous deleterious hellhole ass Fracidous Domingo, farting out some spic royal shit of his: -Hail, inhale, immerd it..., indigestible epic bore, from the boom boxes, worse hell, a grinning sardonic beast saluting all the way, mechanical twists of the neck, maniacal thrusts of the fists, Prometheus his minced liver reconstituted re-ripped apart by untiring raucous rancorous clockwork beaks – clan­gorous birdcage of moth-eaten parrots and cuckoos perfor­ming to never-exhaus­tive-enough exhaustion the very same selfsamest samesel­fest trite trick – till hey, here we are, clunking breaks, next station once more – only blink shortest of whiles and chug-chug already, yep, there we go... – so let’s re-commence...

Born preconceived – tough luck, though: bungled all through; by concord of sweet sounds really, let’s not kid ourselves, stuttering girl, kid thyself not, unmoved – the an­noying dad and his damned birds; the crazy wife – thick layers of cloying perfumes (egad, fetid strata, faith and forsooth,) smells are always nauseating – dying mother – now, that’s nicer, the stinks heavenly of course, fucking Chuzslitt, mournful cleric, at her side, egregiously waiting like a humped indeed, hurrumphing vulture to go first for the pus-oozing eyes – son luminously eagerly expounding a fantastic universe I’ve been painstakingly longing for since before we came a cropper, our own paradisiacal age, now like himself gone irretrievably missing, catalogued since as unhappened, not real, unknown – a job more as a derogatory tag hanging from a goods unsold, internally defective, no hope, unredeemable – a now for the positive streaks, he fancies, or do I...? The nymphets to enliven the eye, self-understood, ok, a pale softy passion for imagined mandorlas, amygdaline mandalas, darb-al-mandals, magic oval mirrors: to get lost in; reborn into the paradisiacal past, the garden of delicious delicacies: rather – an imagined passion for forbid­den passing visions of what some foaming idiots have convened to forbid – a bit of salt to season the anxiety, thanks still – distracted to death with distrac­tions to distract you from death – pitiful destiny, shit.

Instead, given the choice, of course today it’s a no brainer. If one could be, albeit for the briefest of seasons, the reincarnation of anybody at all, please let it be Peter. Being by nature a dabbler at arts, who better, I solemnly ask, who better after all to become than old Peter, Peter Brueghel the old, the ancient that is, the ancient master who, I find, unassumingly went to work every single day he could and, endowed as he was by natural nature, did his meekly best (and most of the time his meekly was the best,) looking the while forward only to next morning when the started work set you again lusciously afire. A world of forms to give better shape to.

Said which, I see myself obliged to notch in such thoughtful incision as: the pleasant side of rep.rep.rep...

I must be a balanced gal (guy) after all. Tautology, or to repeat: repetition, then, as a lovely plus, witness some exquisite music, or the rain, the weaving, the writing, the penciling, the little brush strokes, the waving of the sea, the smiley safe-side leering, the tilting with the breeze, the tender up-welling of tears, the routine, the regularity: oh for being in a groove, when all comes smooth and easy, when the calming thinking can’t be interrupted from the outside, not even from the infected within – for that’s still a worse hell: the constant interruptions to the train of thought that tries to go round your continent, endevoring hard, bound at last to make you one and whole, a known entity who’s found its place in the map of being, no longer terra ignota, shitty icongnita pars, festering virgin territory full of savagery and anonymous beasts fucking it all up; the noises, of course, the brain attacks under­taken by the others, those foreign parasitic souls, their contagiousnes­ses, agressions, animosities, hatreds, prejudices, envies, core sicknesses all, and the duties, the honors, and deadly deadening work.

A contrario, the blessed daily figuring on how to add to the elevated reconstruc­tion of one’s own philosophical locked-in-mentation, mental image like an imago forever pinned down in the undelible collection of that’s-it, the done template, the finished original, the dead pool at the center of the static eyeball of the universe where the wind-blown results desolately stuck, one no longer a loose sheaf of shorn spikes, a paltry work in progress too unravelled to pass even for a jagged spall of a structure promised to almost great complexity and fair completion, gone the cares and worries and bungles and falls and snafus; now the quiet, the rest, the nothingness, found at last one’s due entit­lement to an all-shaped firm unchan­geable entity and its place in the all-inclusive world-shaping of finite in-order, not inor­dinate, things – reproduced in the long wardrobe mirror of existence in one’s full measure and perfected entirety, painted definitely right by the master spirit of one’s own, a masterpiece of unmen­dable consummation, at every now identical to itself, from right this instant to both doubtful in­finitudes of every other minute rung-instant of afterwards or before – a chain of I multiplied without any kind of possible error, or leakage or slip-up, round the limits of what is and isn’t both inside and out.