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...?