C.R. — Days of Wine and Loaves.

 

Today I would’ve been a hundred.

I’m the human roll
Roll with all the punches
And never any return

What for?

And anyway how could I?
I’m rolling down

Remember?

(...)

C.R. — Days of Wine and Loaves.

By which enchantment of self-deception the bogus aeronautics of the wondrous pawn I were took a turn for the worse? For if in weak fortitude the nuts that held the magic carpet wherein I lewdly flew among the smog, leering loathing fetishizing above the violent immitigable disparities of our dystopian paradise, shrank as spongeous cornerstones surely would, and for a second the passionate resources of my barbarian masculinity in astringent misshapen fragments bonkers, farcically bonkers, went, why then one could still keep somehow afloat?

Fringes of scum were retroactively looming, sorrowful aureoles for our vice-ridden planet, as myriads of coruscating satellites, clandestine voyeurs who as I were skilled Olympians circling with the intuition of born leapers the most inaccessible of the flesh kitchens, where the choicest of coffins sported strangled chorus girls whose gigantic lips kept on elocutionizing their despairing superstitious pessimisms, fell, for an ephemeral instant, as of brazen asteroids their unfathomable hammers, upon the melancholy limelight of that sclerotic pannage, that ludicrous repulsive spectacle, and just as also would throngs of entomologists who, lithe and athletic, would spontaneously interrupt the odd inveterate baking on of the superannuated constellations whose obsolescence stank, and which in fact had run the gamut of the silliest of exhibitionisms, we lobbed, as the cretinous lepidopterists their iconic nets, our sublime grenades, transforming the carnifying farms into warped crematoria, that only snarling butterflies of cosmic oblivion would let escape.

Those were fraught moments indeed. I had been that indelible impostor, a cherub while small, and I went often perched behind to the province of waters and hellebores with my plenty vigorous courageous dad; angler on his bicycle after the trouts of the stream, along the pebbly towpaths, we would reach our destination.

There always does happiness linger in wait for us, and the horseflies, and the dear bees, also, once or twice, the harassed and pathetic mountain lions and at their tail those huge pitiless despicable hunters, and among the suspicious derelicts of past glories the specters on the other side of the spray hurtling about, traveling fast, like hostile nun with disgregating robes, and the never in distress damsels, rather than near, afar, always luckily afar, damned damsels. Quite.

And then by the riverside often enough his quiet deliberate delivery of verities about his war as a flyer, and also about her, miss Eileen Alarm, his first wife, the faithless actress, would slowly come my way, all those talismanic tiny todgers and the cursed slimy pearls born of them, always at the mercy of chronology, and at the mercy of the bitings, all in all disguised as another coherence scene.

And what’s the diagnosis about all those tame herds of headstones? He stood guard upon a cemetery, don’t you know, and the poisonous underground of chaotic borderings later told on his health.

Then amid the uninhibited dreams of brown merds, my loyal me, woven shadows for the eye, naked from the waist down, having knelt among the pimps, reminiscing about the atavistic mimics of nature’s magnum opus, sexual intercourse, wouldn’t you know, the lean keen eye of the goddess Eileen, my egg cracked like a mirror, would come impinging across the thresholds, the fragmented pylons of the night.

In the thud of the season, crippled by contemptuous lechery, at last, queasily lying supine in chemical death, swamped with conflicted amenities, every broken glass a slender and pellucid museum servile to the dark oneiric jungle, nauseated, I spat in consternation at her diminutive bottom, which eye leaked obviously squealing quanta of futility.

But now the bitter honey of resounding merriment felt itself called out by the constrained paradoxes of some sudden outlandish magnetic convulsion to endure the pangs of spasmodic disappearance. Yes, I could inveigh against the ineradicable anthropological purpose that shackled me to putative hindsight, and also alas to a core of pervasive denial, but hey, who knew, the melding worms of total violence couldn’t care less about my plangent spasms. Their never the less cretinous throngs couldn’t contain the seamless incontinence of their academic laughter, whose voluminous daughters, crime and terror, with their unbounded taste for degenerate usurpation, soured, to say the least, the exuberant longings of the intrepid adherents to the League for the Cadential Evisceration of Haruspical Humanics.

What? Indeed. We of the LCEHH have never drunk from the lunatic elixir of ceremonious parleys. We prefer the springy concision of astray intestines. We neglect every ridiculous illustration of zealous reasoning in contrary favor of forcibly obeyed intuition.

During one of those never disowned baragouinning days, suddenly I found myself on the verge of falling into the warping sphere of a hard-boiled mistress, another asphyxiating Eileen Alarm. Exactly, a fledgling mellonymph nipped in the bud, turned away, fidgeting and groaning, and wracked with the excruciating pain of withdrawal, longing again for her stultifying caresses, feeling that the lot was lost even before really having had a single proper taste, torn almost at the bud of her clit, my mouth not unlike the slavering one of a ravenous half-hooked fish who’s just reached the flesh-shattering allure of the bait. Ah colossal specter of an electrifying mistress, how, in empty gratitude and dull regret, at last, abject object of obfuscating greed, I fled from her majestic peremptoriness into fictional lacunae of soliloquy and introspection, where under the thunderous cobblestones, mutating fowls and amazing amazons, in a growing mountain of garbage lyricism, embodied my fretting utterances with a quite questionable resemblance to reality.

Snaking now through the ashes and bonfires from the stewing ruins left after the Circassian wars, where the female warriors, their erotic mastery sparkling to the fore, with unspun relish, and added stabbing bouts of derision, definitely screwed civilization, I became the proverbial prowler, with the nictitating brain of a salamander, forgetting the olden superannuated heebie-jeebies, for I had already castrated myself, and now spying instead, not only how the beauties, Adriatic geniuses warped by bellicose rage, were, now victorious, succumbing to vice as did earlier indeed the dinosaurs, who had wilted in the obscene dishwater of incremental rancor, but, in poignant juxtaposition, spying also the disreputable purgatory where, in nacreous oases, astrophysics kept on being studied. In a word, again jilted at the last hour, I went for broke, and joined the tentacular League.

Castrated, you say, by which magic alchemical excision, the useless accessories blotted out, and yourself turned into a totem without foibles and with such an imprudent wit, that we had to keep on scratching out, rather off, the dirt of that tongue of yours until you had succumbed and swallowed those illegitimate words, and the mild relish of a few stupes could be afforded to be apposited where those circus agonies took their sulphureous source.

And now what. Totally clean, there we were, wholly committed, for all intents and purposes, to wiping away those damned narcissistic constellations forever watching themselves on the flattering pools of our groaning eyes. How pretty, how luminous, how well balanced they thought themselves!

“Shit, yes, wipe away the shiny grin of those bafflingly idiotic constellations!” We would scream, thorns of revenge sprouting from the marrows of our clangorous bones, our guts spilled, and with the asshole hysteria associated to certain homicidal maniacs festering also, alas, in narcissistic pomposity.

We were all volunteers. Irreparable champions of insurrection. We would never stagger down the magnitude of our supinity. With the distasteful impatience of passionate crackpots, we rode the momentum to the febrile fangs of shattering yearnings for barbarian aesthetics. Soon we would be mythologized as darkened, prestigiously anodyne, adherents sporting the alarming symptoms of the harridan, the gamut of kaleidoscopic scintillating ruthless luxuries of intolerable monstrosity that erstwhile also afflicted our sworn enemies, the perpetually humorous female killers of manhood.

Perhaps incensed at such exuded abjection, suffering from the raw excreta of careening flashbacks, where in chagrined humiliation some of us realized that what the steely usurpers of yore did, in the genre of furrowed atrocities, we were now attempting, even to the least minutiae, to repeat, a few imagined friendships insipidly broke through.

Today it rained. Hurrah for my percussive umbrella, for I had found myself again beggarly alone in the streets. With gorgeous melancholy, in the shadow of an spectral excavator finishing to weed out the last shreds of dead autumns where discarded worlds had been brought like dry leaves to fiery collision in order to be done with them once and for all, I wallowed in a dream-sequence of scandalous voluptuousness.“What, sexless, could have stimulated the borrowed fecundity of my lubricious mirth”, you, pathological commodification of some idiosyncratic figment, may ask. Well, it was the stolid chaos of my purported auto-hagiography, I’ll be damned. That was it. I would engrave on a perennial stele, Hammurabi-wise, the sumptuous lies of my earlier lives, when, embodying hybrid domains of interrogation, whelks wheels wings breads wines summers swines, and squamous never squeamish cunts, were sown in such verily dashing smoldering fashion over the inchoate undisciplined soil of my memory, thus whipped up into orgasms of random time-capsule intimacy, that, the profligate sum of it sucked into the ferociously sinister frissons of the cesspit, and then shaken with sundry puerile abductions from the tortuous narrow pyramid of my secret psychosis, disdaining withal any adipose hierarchy of saddened clues, altogether the result being a concoction of such a glory of smoking stinking indigestible pap as to heroically annihilate, all others subsumed into its overweening obtuse crap, the labyrinthine reputation of never-read alien masterpieces, now each and all to zealous crematoria bound, that, I say, on behalf of the scapegoat and for the sake of truth, enslaved to the savage mirror of overcompensating perpetuation, I chose to disappear instantly every time a thought dared come against the wall of my scornful non being.

I was funereal scurrilous unsubtle. Their stupid dogma also lacking the faintest whisp of verisimilitude, those viscous atrophied members so zealously belonging to the indecorous Leak. The Leak from the Pyromaniacal Cacophrenics of the Decadent and Ulcerated. I couldn’t, who could, make heads nor tails of it.

I fled in blazing lights, but where? Born exiled, exiled shall I die. Yonder, the harmonious tettixes aggravated with their severe upbraiding the penurious screed where my crippled penetralia and its perennial lousy feelings acerbically lay.

Discomfort abrades, the poisoned rhythmal throb of my doleful beans insistingly bites. An abyss of subversion translates the failure of all my skills into the flamboyant derision of defeatism. Dandelion puffs of remembrances break on the surface of my senses like cheapo bibelots. In wan obsolescence the retroactively unplumbable chaos collides with the sinking expiation of my soaked rope. Hear the grudges beyond the wobbling corks, the fishes’ voices, condemned phantoms, mercurially starved for epitaphs.

Vestals of the tantalizing graveyards, gunslingers monstrously pregnant with a predilection for vexatious uncogency, pass me the nonfiction scepter of anastasis, that the taste for the lost words might announce with clarions of volatile intimacy their return, that the saccharine behemoths (“no beauty like Eileen’s”) brewing since conscience hatched in my ovum cranial might like Olenus be transmogrified into stone, and that on those same stones my regurgitating mind might be able to engrave some of what was really juicy when lived. For my spitchcocked brain now bathes in unpalatable vitriol.

The whole of the time some giant wonder yellow snake lurks waiting behind doors and under beds and furniture; I know that its deadly bite slowly suspends all electrical communication between my trembling brain and the rest of frying me; the house holds many of them, it seems, eight or nine, all invited guests of my inimical son and his fairy friends, nasty dealers, whom I cannot evict, for his rights (and by extension theirs) to stay are indeed more valid than mine, so what else should I do than to flee to dangerous night fields outside, beyond the reach of the enormous jaws of the colossal dragon snakes that now haunt the house so easily and matter-of-factly?

The successful effrontery of a baying butterfly hunting hives of aboriginal daimons, aristocratic in their taxonomical excrescences, recurrent dreams coined by a succession of geriatric afternoons where the sinewy moribund, thirled to a lobotomized macrocosm of spilt litanies, succumb to the fluid evanescence of sinister eruptions. Martyr’s utterances of giggling ignominies mixed with the other’s admonitions to inexorable submission.

But never mind them, a mob of unnecessary duplicates, the myriad of bones that curdle the shunned cellar like perverse festoons. Focus rather on myself, my own bones, all rucked up in the corner, strung up in a nervous snarl of useless ropes. Often cowed by rumination, the scale of it, boy, like when meticulously treading to be the measured one by the appointed butcher, and suddenly, now and then, at the edge of distraction, and hitting at opacities, my brains ambiguous caricatures whaling on the mosses, no, the salpeters.

Doomed but stoic. Occasionally fleshing myself up with the fresh breeze of inchoate sightings — enigmatic boats beckoning in the languishing distance. Enormous attitudes, latitudes, combing the depraved intimacies of virtual pieties, until, sanctimoniously sated, the bathetic limping, its resonance, the profane ankles deep into my carapace, tickle me to random outbursts of fondness. No longer am I squatting in a corner, wheeling in dizzying counterpoints of tedious flayings and hilariously flawed marginals. Am what then? Another epochal manipulative cringer whose lousy jeremiads diagnose not the greed and cruelty of this incendiary realm, but his qualms before the supine bombshell of despicability enveloping the totum.

An whole crop of unredeemable shivers, the agony of kinky annihilation, murmurs of cabbages fantastic, windows to the quagmire where the loquacious grasshopper declaims picturesque obituaries, soliloquies insane enough to become outlandishly didactic until, hilariously stumped, I quit. No, no wits enough to erode the irrevocable misery of those consternating surroundings. Better adapt, dismantle the awry spree, before you are corroborated a paranoid screwball.

But wait. A phalanx marched through the woods. Peripheral, they loomed and loomed, swords under clothes, irrelate to any stupefacient intent of sociopathic machinations, one hopes. Gregarious they advanced, in a column, dormant on their feet, evincing no surprise when the dropouts from the unwieldy column, agroof upon the ololiuqui, blithely melted into the ground, figurines of glaucous wax. Them the absolutists of the incorrigibly hallowed League, those that had shed successfully all species of scathing overweight. I a stroke of genius, they had also surrendered the cheating deceptive mangled ill-spirited mantle of being.

For after all, dead, alive, man, no fucking difference.

(...)