Im no believer in gods - not that dim-witted, moi, to believe in such pap - no gods of any type ever tickled my fancy - matter of fact, I dont even believe in the actuality of myself as a single unit - or else maybe only (and then but hardly ever) as a casual bundle of jumbled cells that self-delude themselves (by who knows which maybe plain enough genetic mechanism, or else by which other intricate otherworldly base trick not the faintest whiff of which has yet happeneed to be evoked around the stuffed, snotty nostrils of our too gullible, foolhardy cosmographers,) a random packaging, moi, auto-cheating itself into raising the phantom of an I, thats moi, the silly slobbering, monkey-minded, thumb-sucking phantom, the shimmering shadow of some sort of passing entity with a certain fleeting unity of purpose, soon forgotten into brumes of nothingness, or what will you Tsk, the hell I know. But anyway, shes me, Lucille. Lucille, the disbeliever, the nondescript non-entity, all right. Now, yes Only that she cant help it, she cant help but in believing in Maud, her little four year old daughter, for Maud has become an object, she is now something, and no mistake - shes the object of the lubricity of my husband Fang, a old fiendish pedophile.
In the sad welter of her thoughts, the sallow pious woman kneaded - feverish foam rose from her hands as she washed the pesticidal grime of so many dirty vegeables away.
Old Fang works at home - he deals with parrots; gets commissioned now and then, by a chain of pet shops, as a speech-master for parrots, for the proper indoctrination of a special bird or other.
He must be dealing this very moment with stern no-nonsense Crusca, the wimpled chaperone shes sent to manage the pair. For Maud and Fang are close. Too close and trickle-treacle intimate, if you get my meaning. He being a dreadful pedophile of course. On the other hand, Ive always got some spy or other in the house of devilish hankypanky. Mascots who always bring good luck to children and to other hereditary creatures of little understanding, parrots are easily bribed tattlers.
For instance, Pippo, one of the parrots in training, told her - i.e., that brisk working mother Lucille - what happenened last time with the previous, too bloddy young chaperone, one Arantxa, who had to have her eye on those two, but, instead... The bubbly giwl with the lemonade name, as it put it, the wimpled shapewone she wasnt. Listen, Im in a cwisis because Im not in a cwisis? - she cwied, fake little whowe. And the wowthless husband, old Fang said, Well, what the fuck, exactly.
Meanwhile, the nosy neighbow, wimpled old woman Cwusca, was outside bwass-plating shell cases - that was maybe duwing the halcion aftewnoons of the big waw, when all the women young and old wewe jolly and extempowaneously fucking a lot... Hew old man was stationed with the othew uncapables off the city, in some waggedly bawwacks belonged to the national guawd, just scwatching his cwabs and swallowing goofballs, when behold the old giwl was stwaggledly bown. Shes a cuwling champion fwom Chicago now. Old boy Jim was alweady mewcifully dead - leukemia, you know, shuwe, poisoning of the blood, of couwse, and desewvedly so, to be faiw, shuwe, who knows, fow he had in him a vewy, vewy nasty stweak. Once, he wewent oldewn a tyke, he took me fow a wide in his dismal souped-up motowcycle, dwove to the faw-away swamps and, half choked, dumped me in a vultuwes den only fow the fun of seeing me battle a howde of muwdewous bawbawian biwds and die town asundew evewy which way - that Im still awound and he aint is of itself a paean to unbungling pwovidence - that pondewously fweighted day, befowe I also took wing like a homing wocket fwom hell, I happened to dispatch like the fewocious hail-loaded wind eleven vultuwes, shuwe, those weptilian gooks had it coming fow a while, until the west of em went clamowing to the fawthew weaches of the dead tewwain whewe only the ugliest species awe exiled, wetweating lamely, saddled with gwief and wage and singing waucously theiw campy anthems of defeat, fow, shuwe, dindnt I, I did, I knew how to wield with my hands me peckew, me sting, a tiny poisoned scimitaw-shaped bodkin much as the twumped-up keen talon of a fighting chicken, but which I wield of couwse in an owthodox fencing fashion, hewe awe put to wowthy fwuition my long-yeawed lessons in swashbuckling and swowdplay, and always bowing to the stwictest of wegulations, fow instance I nevew fail to exult: -Touched, you bastawd! befowe I piewce anothew heawt, pewfowate anothew gizzawd, anothew spleen I spill if you please all ovew the awe-stwicken jousting field. So I was, with the old velocity of a homely wocket, leishuwely, almost gloatingly, soawing with ease above the clouds of melancholy, on my way back to the comfowts of the heawth, while in the intewim poow cwuel-gwuel old boy Jimmy suffewed, alas, shuwe, sevewal unfowtunate spills on the lonely and cwowded woads back, fow I had befowe taking off densily gweased (and thus fow the nonce oblitewated) with thick vultuwe blood clots the shallow twead of his old tiwed tiwes. When a few months latew he finally and spasmodically quit bugging and stwidulating, his now spawed fellow householdews, why, we all compassionately sighed: -Ok, he was quite wipe fow it, poow guy.
So Pippo had a tongue impediment, poor guy (sequels of [its] last yeaws stwoke - cowl, that the wowd, cowled - the ex-aphasic pawwot like a condom-cowled pwick,) and consequently he was quite ripe for it, the doomed asshole, I mean, for the cooking pot, as the pet shop wouldnt want him back, damaged goods, and Fang had to pay the cost of Pippos person.
Lucille trying halfheartedly to save him. Could he [it?] learn some type or other of freak circus trick...? Change your name to something funny and silly, Arantxa...? -Hey! Hewe comes Arantxa - If they can pween and bantew,and pawwotchattew and stwut, why cant they float and fluttew, and fly away as such...? On stage, duwing a pwoduction of Aida stawwing Luciano Pizzawotti... Just as the cuwtains fell, up and the bubbly cuwling demigweat Awantxa suddenly weappeawed. -Hi, Lutxi!, she buwst (fow appeawances sake pewhaps pwoffewing an owange) fancy the orange, I mean the awantxia...? Awantxa, hew awful shitspanic fwiend. -Txt, txt!, with a wave of his smelly kewchief, the sweaty wetuwning Vintxitow tetchily again dismissed the annoyance. Hence, ok, [him] become a pawwotty pewched-up comic, pwankishly, [he] goes: -A tuwbaned man with gaudy jewelwy, claiming to be the pwesident of the gweat countwy of Andowwa, walks into the office of a U.S. senatow and..., wevealing to be fictional, indeed a disguised don Sanches (the semigiwlish semigweat tennis staw,) immediately pwoceeds to snatch hew own puwse, which she flungs upon the hitched senatowss table. -Now hewes the bucks, and dont botx it!, she admonishes. [Ha, ha?] -One day, next to a pawticulawly lawge pothole in ouw city..., thewe youw actually above-avewage tennis bubbly has stationed hewself with a sign that weads: -Hey, a buck the splotx!, and -Hey, all you cwittews and newts, hewes youw niche! [Ha?] And now numbew thwee joke: -The phone wings at Jack Kewvowkians house... Hi, Kevowtxi, its me, youw txawmed txild, out to catx a txat. Chews...! Im also mutx maligned, but watx, you txeating txicken, as Im not passing them (a batx of twitxing wowms seawtxing the dawk) no bucket of blood but just the vicawious ketxup! Sweeten it up, and theyll muntx it whole, legs and all. -One mowning, an unusual advewtisement appeaws in the papews pages: ...Demifemale tennis gweat in a cwuntx (no txin, big poutx) ISO matxing txamp. [H...?] - A dinew opens the menu at a fancy city westauwant to find... the Tennis Supewgweat Special: Lemon Balls Txowdew. -At night, a meagew team of pwankstews sneaks into the aiwpot and... in honow of the vicawious bubbly due in the mown to leave town they subtly amend evewywhewe: DEPAWTUWES - I mean, DEPAWTXURES, of couwse!
Pippo was soup yesterday. Now Im washing my hands with a sour scouring sandy product. Suddenly, splat in the tacky sink falls her glass eye: hence maybe all this talk about such wondrous depths on a flat surface - once when I was about eight (eight and a week,) a summer night it was in a Southern sticky climate, supper already over, after I had gone to play in the dark with the rest of the critters of the tenement compound for cop families where we were safely kept from harms way - unless it was the other way around - I finally came back home, rang at the door and waited with my right side eye hanging on that hand of mine so much of depth enamored. Of course, there I am, standing, a bleeding appalling phantom, minus one eye on top of it, and clumsily trying to hold the dead eye into place... -Gouged with a sharp stick... Explaining, the face all shrouded in pouring blood - her poisonous clutches rampant, the moth, my mother, beats me in a furious fit of craziness - she was very strong then - she also stepped on the eye - a mess now - as if splashed on the hard tiled floor of the entrance - it had become a very frightening cockroach...
A standard issue cop gun - that prefigures my dead eye, a logical sequel over a meager bridge-span of time - the bullet that found its target after a short roundabout of about eight years. Everyone has fucking secrets. It seems the moth, first time pregnant and accused of whoring around by her testosterone crazied hub, his pinhead become a pinwheel, his pea-sized brain spouting sparks and fumes all over the cheap wooden box of a house - a single unit barracks really, about to be engulphed too in hellish fire, and he already making a pretty shambles of it all, she with her skull half bashed in as a result of his hammer-wielding antics - next morning, wee hours, in a buddys neighboring barracks, she got up from bed, reeling and all, and somehow got hold of the buddys regular gun - unless it was still the one forgotten on a chair at the foot of the bed by her ah, how charitable husband, and attempted to get rid once and for all of the controversial fetus (me in slow and troubled formation,) here comes the skin charring shot pat on her stomach - anyway the upshot is she falls with the shock, her guns knocked off with the fall, the blood starts gushing on the bare wooden floor, the buddys wife comes in, somebody calls the compounds ersatz ambulance, which manages somehow to make the hospital on time, shes operated on the spot of several peritonitis, all at once, the bullets missed me not for much, a hairs width is the operative phrase, shes missed killing herself - so... - everythings dinky-dory again, just a few punctured bowels and an angry bloated bruised scar which appeared to suppurate for years on end, she never wanting to show off the open ugly wound, other than to recriminate me if Id been particularly deserving, and notheless me mesmerized by it - and remember: Im a born spy - not her sex, but her other esthiomenated horror of a tortured torn flesh fascinates my whole youth.
Ruined origins, she [Lucille] ponders no end - crucified womb - kicked its last, lets hope. And reversely: kicked to the last; exactly: used up soccer ball, worth only, if one only durst, a last strong vicious pointed shoe pushed into such a trash heap of oblivion.
I know no school girl (perhaps even any wise enough boy) worth her salt would pass up on such a beautiful opportunity - line each and all, I invited, most popular amongst the for once deferring bullies - who wants to kick the poisonous moths swollen sore of a disgusting womb...? Depleted dreams. Somehow or other, as it often happens, in increased calamity she (the fatal, hexing moth) throve. She survived the self-inflicted ordeal, she went even on to have a couple other children, the both of my broths: Vangong, less than a luminary, and cleverer Trustkin, the last nest-shitter - he married shotgun at sixteen and away he flew the angst-ridden coop. To the other end of geography. None of us have seen him since; hes alive, though; now and then, lets say every couple years, I get a letter of his, its a single sentence letter, rhetorically phrased, nicely turned, quite a grammarian, shows he cares, it reads: -Is she dead yet...? Perhaps hes not so savvy as I credit him, sappy dupe - I think he hopes to inherit something. Anyway, after all the self-sabotage, the spanner and the wrencher and the works, still, she was productive, you might say - you might venture to judge yes, that still she came out a winner. And so almost did I - at what a price though - or prize: here, let me nostalgically and campily moan: I couldve been a beauty! I couldve been a hunky beutiful genius...!
And yet, all in all, my odyssey is not less, er, triumphant: From stillborn to twice born in an amazing periplus of a few years - top that - actually I can and do, dead artists galore are soliciting this reborn master speech-teacher qui voilà and doing much better than the cop-minded much too exalted dithyrambic Dyonisos - polythyrambic then I guess is the word fits me now. Fangs specter mother had ordered already a childs coffin, which unused and all, she nevertheless never could gather enough sense to rid them of - during all their infancy they had been staring at this discarded old carapace of mine - try as I might couldnt outgrow it in my own tender mind, flaming cynosure for all my childish musings about the hazards and then the many shades of anguish of that ghoulish dizziness among the umbrae that one calls, more and less, living... My first impersonation was then that of this dead child, my dead double, my other me, the dead one. His name was Angel, Warden Angel, dead and rotting, and rotting and dead for ever more...
Strop the glass eye - make it keener - a pitchable weapon, a potentially lethal missile - a vitreous right eye - also can become a selfkiller, with a forceful enough push toward the deep softish inside and...
Dont lose your steady aim - full mettle and so forth, and dont decline - make a purposeful effort to take hold and invest yourself anew with this new yesterday body, and more: resolve to invest yourself, while it lasts, in this new body...
She fell. Her comrades amazed... Their faces, stupefaction incarnate - or whos the nasty wreck gazes blearedly at me, whos the nosy quagmire of insolence, what is he frowning haughtily at...?
Unnerving little cottonized shrimp flushing at the gills wants to wreak havoc with my unstable sense of unity or something - tenuous ghost, decaying (un)presence ready to bleat its last rattled rite, the flimsiest of smeared veneers engulphs him in a fantastic coruscating indeterminacy - seems nonetheless to be striving to put on his face; as far as making hay of make-up goes, it certaintly would behoove him some kind of solid equine countenance, hee-haw, because as is, and as of right now, you dont look bettern a dungy piece of curmudgeonly imp, in impotent dudgeon, ready to start munching at the moldering ores of his own petrified toes - hey, put up your dukes (plus, bell major, coming up, music for two hundred horns and orchestra,) Im sure I could take you on and, if shove came to blow, blow you away like a straw in my too dishonored eye, shove you to bliss unsparing, in a fell swoop, smitten molehill, beat the archeological bejeezus out of the neglected confection of your gangrened being, puny blowhard of a paltry amber dildo discarded by the seamiest of sluts...!
But hark, shes flexing her zygomatic muscles, trying to smile or maybe to spit... And not succeeding in either of her attempted tricks - a dud.
And her buddy...? Another damned cuckold, too damaged a fizzling individual - whos the vapid jackass squanders his vim delving into such a lost cause...? - frazzled creases sailing pell-mell, ridden with bouts of mucous, too tacky pseudoinvisibility, blemished to the disappearing-act-prone, colliquating core, often even an absence hardly worthwhile then to be reckoned with - here, wheres the minion...? - know what, bellboy, enough, Ill take a redhibitory voucher on it, thank you much, forget it, as Ill forget Id ever seen (if seen I did indeed) such an eyesore, his assumed ugliness cum ignorable spermous ethereality all another uncalled-for fleeting illusion - it didnt happen at all.
But it rankles the mind, doesnt it; why at all entertain a conversation of sorts with... - and even inveigh against spooks...? - Youve gotta take another glimpse..., and now, hey, the whole while I was kidding, gilding the ark of the arcana, as it were - all bullshitting and shooting the crap, for a few naughty intimate laughs, ok...?
For I recognized him immediately: its him, by the glue of my crossbones! - (for that, and a whale of a great seething smegmaceous canal birth to latch on our double-jointed jolts, is what we slovenly subterranean sailors with a few needfuls in our drying pockets swear by indeed) - him, the fellow I feel impelled to choose to reincarnate - and call me foolish, but choosing, or pirating somebody elses pseudolife, is an excellent way of driving off the spleen and other malodorous agonic humors...
Sitting as on a tuffet at the tiptop of a rainbow, fishing for the another kettle of engorged new sensations, tapping into the thick fat of the unknow, before long craving again for the firm land of the homey - hey, beats staying put, beginning to hug your unraveling shadow and coming out undone, leaving behind nothing but the fledgling and all at once still-born wake of the unsuitable, diseased odds and ends of another butchered body - namely, yours.
So its lovable him, the ex-slob, Im safely plugging into. Im greeting him with familiarity, nothing contemptuous, no, with a frank smile, as frank as circumstances allow - all those creeps topsy-turvily speeding around to their racketty doom, loosing their asses for pay!
I send him a friendly wave, he revies with yet a wider one - good fellah my prospective friend - we already connive at greatness - old, secular acquaintances, nice tove seen you again - looking as convenient as anyone could wish for - smashing figure, faintly idiolatrous, so comme-il-faut, lovely enough in its interesting, quaint, philosophical bend - unmistakably a sage of the ancient persuasion, mystique...
Because me and my better-known ancestor, Im convinced we exactly ressemble each other - we look so much alike youd be mistaking us for mirror images - the sameness astounding, down to the last moth-gnawed furbelow and nipped dewlap - the details of their aspects, bloody tricky siamese brothers, corresponding to a tee - devil foreigners, outlandishly beguilings the mum word, anyhow worth a peek anytime...
And on her way home, marinating in the flush of her murderous intent, she had only been talking to a shopping window - its unduly sinuous glass surface, of course - greeting affectionaly the slightly grotesque reflection unawaredly returned - a smidge of a smudgeon retrograding here and there the moving moving-target - happy for another minute, softly dabbing at the mournful ducts, the lachrymals, with the comissure of the pouty fold the index and thumb of my right daintly hand form when closely joined - stinking of lye. Thats why one murders with gloves, the stench haunting the pistol - if ever found. And now my hand... Yes, with the same movement, hail, hail again, sentimentally yours - she telepathizes - and good bye, dear father, filthy mud, Fang, might we be so lucky as to be seeing very soon of each other... But not here. As to in hell... Not a chance in time - time, such a mistery, no...?
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