Monday, July 30, 2012

Phenoptosis, the Cuckold, and the Thief of Kisses

Like a miserly accountant, perhaps a shylock, he has kept the ledgers straight amongst the chaos and mayhem and comings and goings, the spilled wine and bloodied faces. Countless could not be applied because always he has kept the score, like the tabulating of sand through his fingers. And this grievance he wears, broadcasts, and it is no stretch and takes no great divining to see the analogous Christ, to whom he would have you connect dots (and to strengthen his case did he not take her to that sand and date-filled part of the world, turn her desolation loose upon unpaved streets and shanty rooms, her sweat dried and caked on scattered floor mats and roof tops, her chalice filled and filled and filled?)

Lately your remembrances abound like so many scattered rose petals or a vast library devoted to but one author. I must assume it is a plot and extreme caution is the only protocol. And yet I desire no more than to steal recklessly from you, to capture what you most treasure - do tell: what thief makes a good sentry? Consider yourself warned.

I say you are unfit to wash my feet. And should you dare I would piss on your head and when you turned your face (how many repetitions of this expression: the hurt, the feeble indignation?) I would spit in your eye. And you knowing this as I know this would still pull the rag from the basin, still reach out your hand, and so it would be better for all that I just crack open your head with the nearest sturdiest stone.  Let us see if the maker agrees with your assessment of things, has noted your suffering, favors your endless preening.  And of her?

Make way move over it is for the better of the species. Jesus Christ! that is large. But so very sensible. (Although I am now curious why the Grim Reaper is grim - seems to me he should be happily going about his work serving mankind? Maybe it is only decorous, respectful, like at a funeral). And as I feel the push, the strong tide, it seems that I Bargain (stage of mourning: Kubler-Ross) when I attempt to create value, as if to say, Hey, you can't get rid of me yet - I'm needed. But we know that is crap. Get yer livin in while you can. Make a splash or two. Then go the fuck away and let someone else have a turn.  And for the sanity of all involved - Jesus Christ! be graceful about it.

She looks younger: her skin clear now and her muscles tightened; the hair long (as you insisted - like Mary) darkened full. Her eyes bright like the newly christened. And now when she takes them into her mouth it is with the abandon of a schoolgirl skipping rope, the vigor of a thousand whores. And when she buckles into their laps she drives deeper and deeper than can be imagined by the uninitiated or, in your case, the dead. We may say then: she is well. And she will not visit your grave. Not even to spit.

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