And my landlord came to me in a dream and said “O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest and not comforted! Behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires. And I will make thy windows of agates, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy borders of pleasant stones. (Call pest exterminator for blowfly infestation.)” And the Rent Regulation Board rolled over and said “Amen.”
Stalking the premises, owning them, I extend both arms down vanishing corridors, don them like the sleeves of a regal mantle. Behold, my kingdom. Princely purlieus. Ducal privileges. Stove, refrigerator and a pot to piss in. Speaking of which.
Fortune peed a puddle of gold coins on my kitchen counter.
Fortune, dear reader, squatting, peed a puddle of gold coins on my kitchen counter. Urine-colored Krugerrands trading $1321.30 per ounce on APMEX. Three hundred and eighty seven of them to be exact. (She has a big bladder I guess, the kinky young darling.) Pirate gold.
Moist palm. Lubricity. Your moisture is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead bodies. Studs and joists: corpse and bones of a tree. Mildew. Rot. Blowflies. Smell of dead rat, unseen good old man.
Dame Fortune the strumpet. Welcome to peeteenagers.com. The number one site for beautiful peeing young teen girls. This site will absolutely satisfy all your needs for peeing young girls.
And behold a wonder: Fortune’s bounty slid over my skin like slippery golden rain, in waves of liquid, splashing warmth. I felt epidermal horripilation and surprise, and an eyelid sprang open in each pore. My skin became all-seeing, golden-eyed. Poetically pockmarked, as it were, with vatic pustules. Visionary.
Like a vista I once saw in Omaha as I topped a pitted concrete road in the suburbs one evening on foot: sheer incline, close to heaven, spoonfuls, medallions of molten gold, a liquid feast, a summer fortune, scattered over the crest of the hill ogling the distant, clear sky with flushed eyes after a hard rain. Plastered wet maple leaves, agate-green, clutched the pavement for dear life with little clawed hands, trying not to fall off the steep road onto which they had been dashed by punishing hailstones. Into the void, into the perilous, picket-fenced deep. Pirate doubloons. How did the houses manage to cling to the pitched escarpment? Wondering if I could step off the summit of the hill into the pale, gilded sky, which shivered, naked, at the end of a sprawling avenue of shade trees, as if the angel of the Bethesda fountain had just emerged from a refreshing summer dip in Central Park lake, divested of all her woolen angel robes heavy with pigeon excrement and sordid human endeavor. Emma Stebbins. Into the radiant, sad cold light of evening. Friend: may the road rise for you. Convalescing from my sick bitch mother. When I lived in Omaha all I did was walk day in, day out and patiently recite myself to myself. I was afraid if I didn't fortify myself with ego vitamins I might vanish with grief.
Whatever is must be storytold. Planted in thrice-ploughed fallow and come to harvest.
A mortgage, a marriage and a car in the driveway.
All squirting out of her little fire nozzle, her honeybunch, her goddessportal. She turned on the girlhydrant and anointed me with goddessnectar. Here’s looking up you, kid.
Spun me silly. Spinning of yarns. Spinning of planets. A great spinning is taking place, I've always felt, winding everything up.
Reverse metamorphosis. Girl in yard. Tree in yard. Girl from tree. Tree from girl. Ovid. Divo.
Fortune. She's a very kinky girl. But sweet too, the cozy little slut. Tumble-haired beauty. Hot-cheeked, with the delicate morning scent of wine, urine and apples. Like the ancient Camenae (muses). We satyrs should know!
Not scary loco like my mother. My mother, the goddess of Clinical Depression. Not hers, but everybody else's. Everybody around her. Like some kind of terrifying head nurse in life's psychiatric ward. Deranged policeman of the psyche. She emanated clinical depression like mustard gas while somehow remaining immune to it herself. Her healthy young metabolism excreted it from her skin like a poisonous cloud. Psychiatric wards erected and filled themselves up spontaneously with suffering in her vicinity. My father almost died. Kathleen Marie Brady. The Typhoid Mary of middle-class dementia.
June night filled with sweet linden-and-locust scents, fireflies and insect fairy moans. Whiskered nightjars, dusk’s whirring bull-roarers, purring, square-eyed beauties the color of charred wood, unscrew their lids, let out spook, charm, like captured junebugs. Thelkteria: charm, spell, enchantment. Zone of stars. The girdle of Aphrodite. The enchantment of Aphrodite’s diaphanous knickers.
(What is “dusk”? No one can say for sure but it has a voice, impossible to localize: the plaintive whisper of a nightjar, like the mew of a kitten hungry for milk—a sound you cannot localize but can nevertheless feel on all your exposed flesh as if it issued from a cardboard toiletpaper tube. The brush of nightwings against the skin. It flies on dislocated shoulders like a crippled spider. Its spindly bent wings are marked with white moon-squadron insignia. It manages astonishing feats of spatial agility in aerial love-dance with its prey, small winged insects. I call it by its European name “nightjar” because at dusk, when you unscrew the lid, something magic comes out. Night itself issues from the nightjar. Isn’t beauty always jarring, queen of smoke and darkness?)
Wild celery and rue at the garden borders. Two wreathes of celery crowned Xenophon son of Thessalos at the Isthmian games in 464 B.C. Wedding parsley. Funeral parsley. Oak leaf clusters. Coronets of ivy. The laurel, the bay crown. Herbs of grace. Memorial herbs. My father’s oak leaf clusters. Where are mine? They withered on the branch. Doused with a mother’s sweet herbicide. Milk of her murderous breasts. Nursed in smiling secrecy on the fountains of an immemorial hate. Hatred for my father. Hatred for his son. Pah! I spit the milky venom from my mouth. From my withered antlers sprout Jove’s own green, not even Diana can turn my hunting dogs from their scented prey.
Tomorrow again. On the hunt. After I have showered and gargled and sung my morning battle song. My prayer to Zeus, the Allfather.
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