……….the angry angler of Antwerp, the bonking babboon of Ballynahinch, the catapulting cavecruncher of Cobblegate City, the dippy devildater of Denmark and so on and so on I’ll go. Point? None.
My walls seem filthier every day. Once entirely yellow, they’re now covered in dirty black shards and little pieces of blue tack from years ago that I was too lazy to remove. Van Go insisted on yellow walls, didn’t he? Something about the colour reflecting well on his disposition and then he put the bullet in his stomach.
There’s still a substantial volume of dark visible in the wine bottle that’s perched upon my desk, almost resembling a wrestler or bodybuilder with its hefty frame and small neck – could be talking to me – with a little enhancement of my infamous decadence, I could make that throat bob. Grab the bottle, throbby throttle.
the empty ear of Eercis, the hulking hatstand of Hapkido.
Yesterday, I walked to the library. I thought I’d look around – not for anything in particular. Take in the atmosphere. Check out the female talent. Most of them were students, ripe with their blue leggings and white shirts. I was also fond of wishing for a glamorous librarian. But she wasn’t there - no, never was. Just some wench with frighteningly furry nostrils. I may go to the library right now actually. Who knows? Maybe the employees have been altered in the space of a day. I wonder if it’s opened. Nah, who
cares?
As I contemplated the unsightly fur of an old librarian's nostrils, I thought of another flocculant thing, my pet rabbit Bertie who’d died the previous year. I’d neglected to provide him with a mate. And I feel that his lack of another bunny to fuck was the chief cause of his demise. Here is a conversation we had before his death:
BERTIE: I’m working and slaving my life away here.
THE SELF: You’re running around the garden all day. I’m giving you lettuce. You’re giving me shit.
BERTIE: I’m dying here. Look at my whiskers. I look like a grand old thing.
THE SELF: There’s nothing wrong with your whiskers.
BERTIE: They’re getting weird.
THE SELF: What do you want me to do?
BERTIE: I need a lady, wiseacre. I need a woman. I need a roll in the hay.
THE SELF: You ate all the hay.
BERTIE: Besides the point. You haven’t even tried to sort me out with a doe.
THE SELF: I’m sorry. You’re in the same boat as myself.
BERTIE: Beg your pud, bud. You’re in the boat. I’m strapped to the side. And that’s no place for a bunny.
THE SELF: I’m a little slow off the mark these days. But I have passions too, you know.
BERTIE: Passions? Pah! I get ten times the chubbies you get.
THE SELF: I’m sure. I’ve seen some of the calendars you have pinned up in your hutch.
BERTIE: Don’t I need the recreation? I’m withering. I want a bit of crumpet. With a big bush on the
back of her.
THE SELF: You’ve a fine tongue.
BERTIE: You see, that’s the kind of compliment that increases my frustration.
the instigating It of Istanbul, the jogging Jap of Jesus, the kettle-kissing kitekiller of Kidgelldare, the laminating lustlover of Lentilmerrick. I may delve once more into that story. “He’s happy is Incubus”. HE’S HAPPY IS INCUBUS. Like the sound of it.
Carl was aware of a great scene of debauchery taking place in one field. Many witches had assembled and were skinning live goats, eating at the grass and engaging in sodomy with the wailing red remnants of the animals.
The wine’s gone. I’m already half-sozzled – lack of edibles all day. Drank too much the last while. I must refrain. Discipline. Go on the tea and…….maybe some vol-au-vents. aaaagh There’s the TV on now. Never moves. It would be good if it did, like the one in Videodrome. This music that’s on. One of those fucking teen boy groups where they hardly ever move except to hold their hands up every now and again or to close their eyes and roll their heads aimlessly.
Rastibularbogglefibularpixelandsunkenmelting menstruating monk of Meaty, the nesting nib of Naanassolgacarriedermotommystuckcannot writea thingfionaengo, the oscillating oxovomitter of Oslo, the pesty pillpopper of Pippin.
A hand slowly lowered itself onto Carl’s moist forehead. The hand belonged to a dazed young girl, naked, and swaying to the music of chaos. Nonsensical roars and shrill orgasms formed ugly melodies over the great floor of flesh at Carl’s feet.
The doorbell rang. I would normally avoid so bourgeois a response as to answer it, however I choose to investigate via ennui. There was a woman standing there with a clipboard. She had to have been in her thirties and she wasn’t a million miles away from pretty. She had a pert and attractive nose that almost looked like it could be pressed in, an argillaceous dough it appeared to be made of. I haven’t a clue what the fuck her nose was like to tell you honestly, but I liked it.
She was wearing a blue and white tracksuit and looked quite athletic in it, a rather becoming chav. I’d say she was involved with sports for a living. “Hello, I wonder if you would be interested in taking part in a short questionnaire concerning health and fitness” – see, I was right – “just a few minutes of your time it would be,” the woman said. “Absolutely,” I told her, becoming more attracted to her with the passing of every second and enthusiastic about anything that would help me forget my block. Damn, I haven’t shaved. “What’s your name?” I asked her, as we sauntered into the sitting room. “Suzanne,” she said. “Oh,” I say. “I love you, Suzanne.”
HER: “Excuse me?”
“It’s the Lou Reed song, you know.”
HER: “Oh. I thought it was Leonard Cohen.”
“Eh, well, either.”
Magnificent. An interesting beginning for this acquaintance. I asked her if she would like a cup of tea and she said “no” but “thanks” because the questionnaire “probably wouldn’t take too long.” But I kept at it until I was rewarded with a “yes, okay, wouldn’t do no harm”. I brewed up the tea while she described my paludal prison of a home as “nice” just to be polite and I answered “thank you”, gleefully resisting “I decorated it myself”.
Tea made, we settled in the sitting room and embarked on Suzanne’s questionnaire and I’d forgotten what it was all about. Oh yes, it’s health and fitness, isn’t it? Then on with the inquisition.
“Are you at present……..”
“No.”
“Have you ever…………..”
“No.”
“Do you…………………….”
“No.”
“Would you………………..”
“No.”
“Have you…………………”
“No.”
“Well, that’s fine. Thanks for your time and the sip of tea.”
“Sorry I wasn’t a wellspring of answers. Sports aren’t really my cup of……coffee.”
“No bother at all. I’ve had a lot of that. All you can do is persevere, can’t you?”
“What’s it for, anyway?”
“Oh, it’s a council matter. Nothing important. Thoughts about a major town gymnasium or something. It’s only in the pondering stages right now.”
“Right. So that’s why you’re wearing the tracksuit, yeah?”
Her eyes became Tony Blair’s devil-eyes.
“Why? Do you think my clothes peculiar?”
“No. I was just……..well…….”
She turned into a creature of immeasurable terror before my eyes. Was she the Succubus to counter my Incubus? Her tongue rolled like the priest's who presided over last year’s Lammas; his tongue had shot from his mouth and coiled itself around a large pillar like a red python before demolishing the structure. This woman transformed in a manner that surprised even me. It was a paroxysm so grotesque I felt impelled to take her mid-mutation and fuck her till her brains reached the point of combustion. Her neck became bloated and worms began to seep from her cheekbones. Her arms elongated and finally tore open and her veins whirled wildly and the rest of her form bled, shaking and thrashing as it changed.
A magnificent specimen lay before me, widened, reddened. Her crevice was a compelling mesh of oozing scarlet and huge black lips. Our union was, needless to say, hasty. As I fucked her, she roared dark obscenities and twisted prayers of hate and I thanked the lord of sickness and decay and famine for granting me this object of mad pleasure. I envisioned our spawn. A demonic child of puss and rot, killer of future life. The first progeny of Incubus and Succubus.
Suzanne, my sapphic witch of ancient evil, was nowhere. To be seen, to be heard, she was neither. Perhaps having no existence outside of my literary diablerie.
I soon forgot all about health and fitness and Succubus.
the questionhurling Queen of Queens, the roving rat-face of Romadan, the swirling sundial of Satyrikon, the tickling tommachank of Tatsbride.
If a man alone can thrive regardless, the isolation can dangle. It’s the delirium of it that keeps me here with the vol-au-vents. How can there not be eventual rapture in this comedy? I’ll have to contrive a sack of grandiloquent mysteries. Think I’ll invade an avenue. Subjugate a pavement.
the undulating urchin of Urbania, the vending vampire of Vestibular, the wanking weaver of Wicklow, the xcited x-wife of xenophobeland, the yapping yitterbug of Yangtze, the zealous zabaglione of Zecktar. Jesus, mother of Joseph. Spiritual perfection’s looking cloudy.
ENDING
No comments:
Post a Comment