Pitt’s Fragmentary Remembrance.
desirable Glass, stripped stark in under 2 minutes
glasses left on
slithers back upon the bed
sheets kicked to an invitational catastrophe
-shall we come to an agreement?
he nods, undressing with what he hopes is mimed detachment
she rests on her elbows, spreads her legs slowly wide
a ruby fingernail points down, draws his attention to the slim white tail of her tampon
he crawls, shrugs, ingratiates himself
he takes the string between his teeth, pulls gently out
cat and mouse
she turns on her side, reaches, opens her tiny wallet
tossed tampon sogs the rim of the wastebasket
2 points
she holds up a tube of vaseline
Jocko: flared nostrils, deep breathing
Emma: deep breathing, arched eyebrows
seriously though she
as if it were
tangling, wiry
-you have done this before? with a live one?
he considers slapping her
doesn’t
-looks like you’re ready, she says
thick sjambok gawks at ceiling fan
she squeezes vaseline onto his open palm
she dabs, then slathers
-two for you, one for me, one for me, two for you
sits up
turns her face from his attempted kiss
runs cool fingers down his back
stops, looks at him
-scars?
-yes
-how?
-doesn’t matter
she pushes him onto his back
her knees nuzzle his armpits
she steadies, aims, and drops
Emma Ledas him
Danaes him
Europas him
swanfuck
goldfuck
bullfuck
she knows what she wants
rising, falling, kipping
she plows like a talented bully
his fingers pet arpeggios slowly the undercurves of her breasts
her nipples have a bright rouged look
her pussy rides his prick like Armageddon
he groans and gambles and thrusts a finger up her vulnerable mouse
Emma’s eyes go boxer rebellion
-yes!
and it’s almost a question
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In the tintlit backseat Baron Sunday taps His neat nails on the whitestockinged knees of his current mistress. She’s a dead ringer for Goya’s aristocratic inspiration. The recumbent one. Maria del Pilar Teresa Cayetana de Silva Alvarez de Toledo. Duquesa de Alba, to be exact. 1762-1802, to be pedantic.
-Are we having fun yet? she cries.
And giggles fetchingly, showing her tongue in the process. The color of boiled lobster. Sunday grins out of the side of His mouth. He reaches into the small box snugged between them.
-Suck on this, He says.
And plops a lozenge of cream-filled chocolate onto the duchess’s laughing tongue.
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Sgt. Emma Glass and Lt. Jocko Pitt darken the doorway of Tattler’s Tavern.
From the far end of the long, war-torn bar, Adelaide hails them with lifted cigarette and smokeladen laughter. She is, as expected, coherently drunk. A one-time looker, snob manqué, her very real sexual allure on the downslope of déclassé.
-Here’s pissing in the wind, Emma says softly.
Jocko can’t shake her tune from his head. He’s not about to ask her. Not that nor her theory of the killings. Perspective wears a hanged man’s face. His stormtossed zeppelin swings in drained gratitude.
-Buy me a drink? Adelaide purrs.
Jocko produces his wallet. But not before a little gruff playacting.
-What’s in it for us, Adelaide?
Adelaide Querelle taps her jaunty cigarette. The column of ash spills wide of the ashtray.
-I know who done it! she whispers, with a fierce smile.
And arches her back with an audible snap.
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Poor girl.
Poor Gwendolyn Peach.
A signature and a postage stamp away from grim postmarital gaiety. No longer bitter, just fagged out with Catholic self-reproach. An exchange of gifts on their wedding night. I gave him my virginity and he gave me crabs.
Gwenju pads behind her down the narrow corridor to the kitchen. She lets him out the door to the garden. To romp his boredom away. Till something, a hovering dragonfly, a blown leaf touching down, a cloud snooding the buttery sun, will startle, frighten, stun and turn him, yapping terror back to Mum.
Gwendolyn watches his compact exploratory bundle through the open door. A gust of wind shakes raindrops from the rusted awning. A neighbor’s wind chimes trill lonely from across the fence. She tilts her glass, echoes the same triplet with a flourish of ice cubes. Girl that she was. Anthem of doomed youth. To have been in love with someone more than half a swine. Secretly to suffer and to cling. While mantras void and redeem ……. ‘he is enjoying me’ … (Innocence as yet unruptured, a fortnight past the honeymoon.) Could she have guessed, and guessing, twinge her eyes wide open from their clamped obedience?
To see her straddling Prince, but not, as in her blindness she had squirmed and hoped, not marveling at his bride’s sweat-slippery breasts, nor at her lips’ conformist pout, but staring halfway down the room. Into a mirror tilted from the wall, in which he saw with something close to Love, the rise and fall and posting skill of golden buttocks that were his alone.
Ah well, she wists with watery, boozy mist, what’s done is done, and done, undone, is gone for good, forgotten, ever.
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Punkette’s real name: Giselle Whitman. She suspects her parents of an adamsian private joke. She’d prefer however, that the details of her conception remain a mysterious zed. They don’t get on these days, this past year. Her Mum and her. Her Dad and her. A passing phase is how they define her life. What friends she has find her parents alright. Cool, even. This is a shattering embarrassment to Giselle. Until recently, they took an interest (unsolicited, unrewarded) in what racketed or burbled from her constant headphones. Going so far as to offer her rides to Death Rock Plaza On The Mall.
-Nuh-uh, Giselle dumbs.
Punkette rides the metro to no good purpose. To be alone. To be admired. To be looked at. She dreams of what might happen. Who she’ll see when she looks up. it never goes beyond her jailbait eyes. Till now. It’s the first time. To drop acid.
She’s been warned off the crowd initiations. She should have stayed in her room, playing with the cellophane, blowing rainbow bubbles, whispering the wallpaper alive.
The guy’s smile is oddly heated, given the metro’s flu-like lighting. Given how creepily close he’s sitting.
Why does she give in? Why does she shake his offered hand?
His handsome grip hurts. Her fingers moist pussywillow. Be not afraid. Her tapeplayer trembles like a mazed, cheeseless, lab rat.
-I’ve been watching you.
His voice comes out of him like it’s not really his. The train vooms a bend and lurches back to speed. For a fraction. Touched shoulders. Greenish eels strobe their faces.
‘Context!’ Giselle thinks. The cri de coeur of her English teacher. Meredith Warwick. Who adores, a-dores the Pre-Raphaelites.
A voice comes out of him.
Singing.
Tuneless.
His lips are moving. Majestically out of sync.
The song she hears is in her head.
-my body lies under the sofa
my body lies under a bridge
he’ll cut me in bits & in pieces
and hide me away in the fridge
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Baron Sunday stirs, hisses, and withdraws. His duchess falls away, into a heap of panting, sweatsoaked satin. He steps from the limousine, stretching His lizard length from dexter to sinister. Buttoning up His trousers He squints at the sun.
-Wipe that vomit from your mouth, He snarls at His nearest disciple.
-How was she, my Lord?
His minion grins up at him from all fours.
Sunday shrugs, languid playboy of the underworld.
-Like all before her. Like all yet to come.
He scratches His chin.
Thoughtlessly.
She was like …
A starbleached skull turned inside out.
His groveling assistant is vomiting again.
Dust rises eighty feet into the air, all along the edge of the city.
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Pre-twilight. Pre-bubu.
Hegel’s dream. World caged in an iron grid.
It’s Simon’s turn. But Simon’s whacked. Drunk. Slobbering ineffectually. On some other girl’s pillow. His future, that: Other Girl
His drool spells out a Roman 1,100
M C
Succubi tiptoe backwards from the chamber.
-come away sisters ….. let him sleep it off ……. there’s always tomorrow ….
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(Postcard VIII)
Nimrod of the baby Reich, Hermann Goering takes aim, arrow poised to clear the camera by four feet or so, the release a hiss like vengeance, and a crack like breaking bone.
His form is good (though who would dare tap his blackswathed bull-like shoulder to indicate some twitch of imprecision were such imprecision observed?)
Imperators of back-alley brawls, Verdun-verdant dogfights, his fingers gaudy with a pagan dragonheft of rings.
Ygdrasil towers above the Autobahn.
Trivial Thou Art Not, Dearest A,
Luftwaffe Fatso led me to this:
in the Ciller region of Styria there is a village
by the name of Oberburg, called Gornigrad
in the Slavic tongue. On display in the church
there is a huge rib, of a kind no land animal
is known to possess. It is not known when the rib
was excavated. Folk legend attributes it to a Heathen
Maiden (Slavic: Adjowska Dekliza).
The legend also maintains that each year one drop
falls from it, and when it stops dripping it will be
Judgment Day.
Hildegard, Harbinger of Happier Days