For Every Tib and Tom Cat

dissabte

20th... Faltering, steam wanting, my... legs...

20.


As Bobby the writer was busy dying, tiny Bobby Dick was busy getting born.

As Chuck attended Bobby’s funeral and memorial service, Coralline at the same time was present at the pseudo-christening of the big new brat.

Later they talked by phone and commented about the two episodes as respectively witnessed by each. Their observations were somewhat biased, but, by Jingo, whose aren’t.

As it happened, the afterimages were still powerful. The fire engulfing Bobby’s casket. The cow-elephant pissing an intercrural yellow torrent that sparkled in the fiery Sun.

At Bobby’s sending off, some of his exes were there — the frigging frigate bird was there, pompously in front — as were a couple of his three or four estranged children. A chap of thirty-odd, student of philosophy, said a few words taken, or allegedly taken, from senator Boethius… Something about “The sweet poison of letters… When sniffed a few doses every day, being a healthier anodyne than laudanum or heroine…, and then that, by avoiding foul shitty smells, and instead smelling little pouches of fine herbs, health also improving a lot… Providence giving you already such weapons, as a big nose, that, if you had not messed them through ugly vices, you would have been indefinitely preserved from disease and smelly agony… Pagan witches being always in the right, compared to the stupid preachers and canons of the religions of today, who stress foreknowing, when foreknowing of course makes any action worthless, as diet itself would if you’d knew that it would really work out a hundred per cent of the time, but you know that it doesn’t, for still everywhere you see all those fat fuckers who wasted their money and time and are still such eyesores and nose-smacker for the rest. And in fact this, in fine, that predestination all in all is such a shit…”

Nobody paying him any attention but for the fat mothers around, readying their umbrellas to trip him or wallop his balls if he happened to pass nearby…

Anyway, later all these maxims the moronic Maximine would gainsay in her garbled exposition of credulities. She’s another not too persuasive Mormon. Those clueless Mormons never persuasive enough, the pack of heavenly garbage they try to swindle you with, unswallowable even by the most obnoxiously limited. Door to door they bang, stinking of cowpats and peasant stupidity, and try to convince you that they got something in there that makes any frigging sense even to despaired depressive lifer housewives with no prospects of ever shedding their chains of drudgery or even their tremendously crushing weight.

“In pristine hindsight,” she also said, more or less, “the spook for whom the dirges of love and unmerited favor so graciously showered by Jesus upon him are being sung falsetto and softly enough in the background, wasn’t (the spook) so unleavened as the unleavened bread nor so sour as the grape juice (our savior’s attributes transmogrified) that we will shortly serve… He was a so-so guy with a mania for bottomry. All his hired help had wide bottoms indeed, plus he betted on the bottomry of his loaded shelves — he put all his money or all his vain illusions, let’s say, on the successful completion of his literary ship’s journey — and the accruing freight of a volume added monthly — with interests (above the ongoing rate) of vast glory posthumous…, and yet, alas, wholesale obsolescence crept up on him before he had bad (or bidden or bid) (or had beat it) adieu to his shabby cloak of a earthly body…”

Outside, on the village square, a few youths were goofing away… They were poleaxing a squirrel, whose cries of anxious woe improved on the shitty choir’s shitty songs — Chuck being half Chinese, pronounced, very appropriately here indeed, shitty as shiti (shiti meaning corpse in Chinese) — the shitty hymns sounding on the beam ends. Managing as a surplus to put everybody’s nerves on edge.

Finally, Maximine, following perhaps their quaint perverse Mormon practices, stuck to the shipping metaphors, and…

“In Viking fashion, him who so appreciated the ethnic angle of everything, now that his ship has reached final port — and fully loaded, indeed! I must say — dammit, when taken from clew to earing, the hapless dear bastard, at least two gross of self-published books he would be sticking us with… Except that, of course, very charitably we’ve included them in the same act of holy cremation, for though we all enjoyed them so much when freshly out of the presses, though nobody ever acknowledged reading one or even a page of one, now nobody either has bid (bad, bad boys? bidden?) a single cent for any of them, and we, as always, need the room… It’s quite understandable moreover that he’d prefer having them in fumous fashion, as himself, up there — up yours, with you, to the very end, how poetical, each book calling after him — up there, yes, at the right hand or world-clad claw of him whose whim it was to credit him with so-called life…”

Thus, whatever, but the whole collection, the two gross plus of monthly volumes, overly titled “The Secrets and Mysteries of the Ethnics,” now were serving as mere kindling to the same fire that burned him and his casket…

Chuck was irritated by everything. The tackiness of vile Mormonism, the gullible middlebrow turd-sucking dyed-in-the-wool Americans, (smelling of the hideous dyeing process too,) their stinking songs, their stinking perfumes and dresses and hats, and paunches and medals and crucifixes, and rosaries and all the idolaters’ disgusting knickknacks, plus, alas, his own diapers brimming… How he longed to leave that chair, and walk and dance around the village square, square on his hands, his pants kicked away, his balls a-bouncing, the nasty youths applauding, the squirrel singing his own protracted procrastinating dirge…

“And thus, with a bottle of cheap champagne, Viking fashion, ‘tis my honor — my honor ‘tis — to launch into the everlasting fire his final ship!”

Percipient now, her wits suddenly honed after Bobby’s death — what with her introduction to women’s power and the (more invigorating still) empowering of lesbianism meanwhile — Marietska, keen on her toes, aware of her renewed chores, keyed up the music to the max for a suitably apocalyptic finale. The revulsive choir came louder than hell. Chuck wheeled himself out of the building and into the waiting bus…

He had been before the service at Maximine’s, where the bitch and her favorite maid had put to the higher bidder everything unwanted — all of Bobby’s belongings, up to his last tape and notebook — both of which sets of items were later burned, as there were no takers whatever… And a rich mama’s boy of thirty-eight (one of the sons of one of the exes) who as it happened was always looking for bargains snatched from Maximine Bobby’s whole collection of vintage first-edition LP records (the sleeves intact, Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters, Howling Wolf, in their shiniest…) for 25 cents each, when Chuck, who knew the market, would have been ready to pay 5 dollars each… Only that he is not family (he is never family) and had access to the goodies too late. Chuck managing to buy but unlucky Bobby’s kraut pistol, with which he (the naive writer) had intended to commit a beautifully dignified suicide…

Coralline had been present both at tiny Bobby Dick’s (Suze’s son) birth and later at his christening — his christening of sorts, the mother belonging to that outlandish sect with the heinous elephant as totemic god and so on.

Bobby Dick was delivered off her mother the same night Bobby the writer gave up the ghost. Slightly heavier than his mother, though not taller than her by an inch or two, Bobby Dick made his exit from the too narrow and dire straits internment inside his prehistoric Venus of a mom’s bodily cage breaking tissues pell-mell. (In regard to the issue as to the weight and measures of each, who delivered or got delivered of whom was a question never posed aloud, but now Chuck and Coralline, through the line, gaggingly embroidered on it…)

The Thai boys were playing at marbles… Silent and serious in their seemingly deadly enterprise… A few strangers were murderously looking in, their teeth denuded…

During the length of the proceedings, the little monstrous squealer was smelling in his cradle, the little monstrous smeller was squealing in his cot (and the kot-leckers hypocritical in their praises, as always.)

A bit nauseated, Coralline waited nonetheless for what should come next. She’d scatter tidbits to the birds that came to peck at the cow-elephant’s splattered cowpats. Most of Suze’s buddies were irrevocable dimwits. The mom herself, completely patched up after the ordeal, looked defeated, overwrought, her vixen’s thick tawny hairs like widow’s weeds over her humpty trunk.

Then their flibbertigibbet of a rabbi — another disgusting rabbi of sorts for another disgusting obscure sect — came in, reciting some mantras and what have you. (Not a kikey thing, really, but almost, all but.) First he went to pay his outrageously opprobrious respects to the idol. He prostrated himself as long (or rather as short) as he was under the gruesome totem, a grotesque pagan-clumsy effigy of the pachyderm… Next he pumped up and down its trunk-like tale, the while making believe he was smelling the sacrosanct effluvia emerging from the its siphonal fulcrum…

Dick looking richly like a sack of bletted garbage, lost in a corner, trying to become surely an escaping wisp of smoke if at all possible less foul than everything everyone was aspersing everything else with... Otherwise, everybody else, the lot of them second-rowish wogs, at attention, as if deserving the fast retribution of an impromptu neck-shortening by having to swallow an embodied kris, from the sleeve of one of the service attendants, to the jeweled hilt.

The rabbi took now a spongy towelette and went to soak it in the piss of the cow-elephant…

The words were next understandable… Instead, the maddened screams of the elephantine baby much more clear… Clearly meaning that the whole operation couldn’t almost be viler, and swearing already atrocious revenges…

Coralline was happy that Dick was stuck for the rest of his natural walk to his particular calvary with that huge pagoda-sized barnacle of a fucking parasite on his back… Chuck agreed from the other end of the line. Such apt desserts all round the way…

They sent each other warm kisses and promised to gather more gossip to spread… For each other’s ears only. Such companionship developing. Another miracle of human warmth, and yen for healthy contact…


21.

Never so well

Never so well
nyac!

more more

Inosculated

Inosculated
anyocs de nyacs!

who the 'ell?

La meva foto
C.R. Morell his paltry efforts,

stats: