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notmuchtoconceal · 2 years

Text

V -- I

( o ) goodimpressionofmyself

28.03.2021 - 6 monts ago ( + 9)

–

sir yes sir

(he was clacking up the steps. clack. clack. clack. you could hear him over the crowd. crowd to roaring crowd.

wood buckling through the vibrations. the vibrations of his little feet. such thunderous applause from such little feet.

since that first night. eyes on him.

light streaking through panes of glass. color bleeding through faces of glass. a nebula of city lights drifting with the roar of the freeway.

the way he spoke. it made you alert.

you knew. always knew. there were entities. roaming our borders. the borders of our bodies and minds. a fortified body--which was a fortified mind--was always on the alert. always on the defensive.

the way he spoke. it made you brave.

you knew. always knew. that this thing within you--this thing which spurred you to action--was the best and greatest in man. there were things about you, you knew -- which they could never allow you to forget -- that were, oh how shall we put it... less than suitable to, shall we say? respectable company.

you saw the broken glass glimmer behind the mess hall. she was folded over crying. bundled up in stained lap linens.

they were sheep. you were too big for sheep’s clothing.

they knew this. you knew this. nothing could be done. it was a material phenomenon, as observable as the fact that water will overflow from a bucket with gold at the bottom. if you stood in line, you wouldn’t be attacked. if they stood in line, they wouldn’t be attacked.

nobody would have to get hurt -- long as everyone followed the rules.

you followed the rules. on the side of the road. blindfolded. shivering in the cold. the cigar marshy in your mouth. any minute now. any minute comes the blow of the popgun. nothin but your briefs.

fuckin dumbass.

are you an admirer of minoan pottery, by chance? or synapsidia?

they took you in the back. hands tied behind your back. you were on your hands and knees. boots up on your back. mud flaking off your back. your broad back. the oak coffee table -- strong enough no doubt -- to support the weight of three or four lesser men.

i hope you won’t think it too crass to suggest, but i would like to scatter a few tomes across the breadth of you.

school was marching ahead.single file. straight line. (forward.)

left. right. (backward.)

i can see the tagline now -- hardbacks for a hardback.

you saw an opening. you took it.

your boots tapped across the tile with theirs.

tap. tap. tap.

there could be only motion. you could be only motion.

negotiation was a tactic of stillness. when two forces in opposition meet there will be combat until a time comes when combat is exhausted into stillness. when we are engulfed in stillness, we may at last speak cordially.

he took to the podium. with your spine straight, you stood.

your spine magnetically repelled from the rod -- two inches off the lowlands of your shoulder blades.

the way you stood that first night. the night you met him.

perhaps, if you are to find the results to your liking, we could go so far as to include the garish touch of a fruit bowl.

the way you stood when your brothers stripped you. lead you barefoot through the autumn air. the cold air. the wet air. the compost which clung to the pads of your feet. the swamp muck congealed between your toes. when you could see the paw prints tracked across the blondewood. the filth of your arches demure beneath the heft of your leather manacle. the chains clinking around your ankles. one of your brothers -- anchored by an elbow and three other hands -- sat in position.

staring down the bottoms of your feet.

his eyes grew dewy on the approach. protests muffled by fingers prying apart his teeth. you watched his eyes as he panted. panted against the dry mud. his breath warm on your feet. steam between the cracks and pores of your feet. you could see it in his eyes. how little he could fight. how when the tip of his tongue crawled forth from his mouth -- eyes sliding shut in submission -- there could be no doubt that surrender had been made a choice. that this choice was the inevitable consequence of previous actions. that a man funneled into regret, be it by insobriety or indolence, has none to blame but himself.

there was no rope binding your wrists crosswise. against your back.

the sun warmed your face. the smell of spring blew in your hair. you watched the people. the people and their longing.

their longing to believe and to belong.

- thank you, thank you. folks, it’s a fine day. a fine day. a fine day for liberty. a fine day for justice. today is a day about justice. justice -- as you know -- blind as a bat. can’t see a thing. she walks around. she carries scales. bumps into things. probably drops whatever it was she was gonna try’n weigh. what is it? what’d she have to weigh, huh? what was so important? gold? a human heart? oof. no. all over the carpet. that’s gonna leave a stain... folks, would you ask justice to bend over? would you ask justice to get on her knees and feel around -- you know, just feel around as she gets a little -- well, as she jiggles her big beautiful -- excuse me, her big beautiful behindus all over our faces -- smearing more blood in the carpet? you should. it’s a beautiful thing. that thing's still beating. she’s got that super hearing. don’t you worry, she’ll get it... folks, you can’t help justice. justice is a big girl. justice -- she’s old enough to clean up after her own messes. she can handle her own screw-ups. she knows her place. she’s very pretty. she stands right here. right outside the courthouse.

the way he spoke. it made your eyes red.

you knew. always knew. the way they talked. like you were a son. like you were a bronco. the certainty of your body. the pillar of your posture. the oats which you could sow by nature of your gift. your endowment of form. the vigor which was their evident lack. your strong heart -- your deep lungs -- held upright by your spine -- pounding in metronome with hexagons of solar light – you who conformed to the unstoppable -- you who were a bulwark before any display of force.

-/` ~\\--

the way he spoke. it made your heart yearn.

you could feel him. the glide of his hand through your hair. unseen. in the light streaking through your hair. the waves cresting in the smile on your face. the surf rocking against the shoreline your eyes couldn’t see. could only grow heavy in the cold tide -- the laps of a night concerto over black water. by night you weren’t the same. he weren’t the same. his boots, two sizes too large, padded out by three layers of wool socks, could be nothing but inadequate beside your size sixteens.

in the estrus of his face, the jowls had swollen up like dugs in a trough, and every greasy gesticulation of his lips sent vibrations through the caviar-gilt gristle clinging to his prominence.

- look upon ye mighty. i am what is most supper. i am that which is the ascendant. i am a neon sunrise at three in the AM. i am the best of nights. i am the end of today. i have only the greatest noodle houses. the best rainy nights in shanghai. i bought up time in other people’s heads -- my mental timeshare scheme. sure you’ve heard of it. i got all their names. my names are the best and the most secretive. nobody knows em. once an elephant overheard one a my names, and i gotta tell ya folks... i shot him. right in the head. it was a tragedy, sure, but he had it comin. nothin you could do. nobody’s supposed to know, and if you know, well... you’re supposed to forget, and you can’t forget, well... folks, i only got the whitest elephants.

some nights are no different from any other.

a procession of identical frames you’re moving through.

you feel some nights are an eternal night.

a night you’re plunged back into.

here. always here. this place. these faces.

eyes to the floor.

left. right. (downward.)

elbow. shoulder. (upward.)

it depends on if you see it or if it blurs.

if there’s steam on your face or grit in the brick.

if the lens goes out of focus -- if you lose yourself in the photochemical illusion -- the face becomes blurry.

in the flatness you can see the screen, clear enough to reach out and touch.

if i may risk being too forward, i must confess -- having now seen you on your knees, i much prefer you on your feet.

- look at him, grigori. look at the big guy. i know you gotta be lookin. he’s fuckin huge. that big guy belongs to me. that’s my big guy. don’t matter what kinda compromisin situation i got him in, somebody wants to sneak up on me, he could yank that six shooter outta his ass quick enough to blow the motherfucker’s head clean off before i’d even hear the click. where’s the click? i dunno. i’m deaf now. you’re fuckin dead. what happens when you mess with me and my guy, asshole. my guys, they got the biggest dicks. they got the biggest guns. i fuck the dumbest sluts with the fakest tits. i want my swimmers plungin down her neckline... like skiers. i want em on milkers like condescension on water balloons. i wanna motorboat two jumbo-size snowcones drippin with my own syrup. the syrup i produced. nobody else produced the syrup. it was me. i did it. i’m the best flavor. i'm gonna sell a pump with my face on it -- be on everybody’s tastebuds. you’re tastin me right now. i smell like sixteen filipino whores. not twelve. not fourteen. sixteen. very important. that’s two eights. eight minus two is six. one minus one is one. one plus eight is nine. see that. all the math i know. i cut the eight in half. i had another one. you didn’t see it. i smell like hibiscus and vaginal mucus. parfum de pussy. as a gentler man might say. the nocturnes. i am not gentle. not sorry to say. those chicks. those chicks with their hyena clits. mighta been hawaiisian whores. not sure. don’t keep tags on em. they’re free to go. sometimes. sometimes ya just want a chick with a big dick. bigger than yours. want her grindin up against your ass-crack. wanna feel her dry hump your p-spot til it ain’t dry. juicy. nice and juicy. til there’s so much seepage. you know -- you know you ain’t feelin sweat between your ass nah. not anymore. my girls. all my girls. they got a choice between me and the boot. i indulge em. i indulge em endlessly. great word -- indulgence. it’s tasty. don’t often think a words as tasty, but some of em. [chef’s kiss] just sayin it makes me feel like a fat broad... folks, i love the art of indulgence. that’s love. you give em what they want. they never forget to come back. not like an elephant. an elephant always remembers... to forget. me, well. my guys stick around. my girls always come back. that’s how it works... folks, i don’t make the rules, i just pocket the change. i’m gonna be licked all throughout the summer festival. i’m gonna be the dumbest bitch with the biggest flower bonnet. i want my fat cans stuffed in a dress decked out like a modern art masterpiece. i wanna be the ugliest dyke. i wanna dog faced cubit sculpture right out in the square. i wanna moan like a sow in heat -- be just the dumbest, fattest cow =/=

grigori. oh my gosh. grigori. grigori, my titties. my titties’re swellin up. i’m gonna drench myself in my own spunk. gonna fry in my own marinade. gosh. oh gosh. light the gas. bash his skull in with the nine-iron if i get there. i wanna be seein stars from the pasture mooooooooo

you never used to not see.

sometimes -- you realize -- you’re not really here. it's like there’s a key in your head, winding you. making you nod along with the clockwork. sometimes -- it dawns on you -- you’re there and not there. you’re doing a thing and a system is running on repeat. you’re doing a thing without being aware. you’re having thoughts which aren’t becoming actions. a plan formulated but not put into place will self-refine into confabulation. a plan -- formulated -- must be put into action as quickly as possible.

you were standing that night.

you weren’t standing any longer.

the straps tighten around your thighs. the edges of the leather raw. the smell of leather black and raw.

tobacco fumes condense into matter.

the colt -- slick against your prostate. preserved. in the breathing mask. the milker pumps. breathing his smoke.

one battery. eight nozzles. the slurp ripples through your blood. sparks of static cling grind against your bones.

i don’t suppose you even mean to hide it, but i can tell you’re a man with a particularly profound depth of feeling.

time would march forward. you could count the seconds.

from which station did you last depart? on which side of the border did this train derail --

the cargo hauled up a mountainside by the valor of your hands -- your hands battered by rock and calloused by rope.

the cresting cliff face of your lats. rapt with tension.

a wedge of leather. different from the straps. different from the mask. teasing the soft flesh of your inner thigh. quickening for impact.

the warm mouth wrapped around you. the betrayal of your manhood.

musical notation ringing up calves to strapped ass. the gullet pounding your tight ring. mechanical suction slobbering and sputtering.

something stuck in your throat. the taste of ash.

a groan as the trigger presses deeper.

teeth bared. you could feel your lips curling. curling through the tube. the anatomy of contortion triggering a sympathetic cast.

the memory of another. another night. the same night.

your little brother’s face. masked in mud and slobber.

borne through the anguish.

brother. brother. your cockhead. man. so fuckin sensitive.

makes ya yip like a dog. yip. yip.

fuckin dumbass.

the way you don’t need to smile. it does so much without needing to do much at all...

the way he spoke. it made you remember.

his words. when he wasn’t this. when he wore suits. when they didn't hang off him in folds -- you could believe. when he spoke, unburnt and unmarred -- sharp as the razor of his tongue and the chisel of his jaw. when he burnt hot as a cherry in the smoking lounge.

when his words sunk into your ears, acrid as the billows from the smokestack in his snout. when he was a young man. when you were a young man. rapt to other young men. when you and they were conduits awaiting a charge. a mass of potential energy. inert without the word. when you went where you went. when you fucked who you fucked. when you who strut like a stallion would still brood like a mare.

sometimes i wonder if all the things i say... sometimes i wonder if all the things i say could ever amount to some of the things you don’t.

there was another time. you were standing.

the day the buzzer rang. the day the gates slammed shut. day you first became a trigger-finger. a killer for the state.

you had seen men. men who roared with nodes more shredded than you. men who moved with cruelty more quicksilver than you. seen them reduced to whimpering children by the aftermath of processing a woman.

a fickle sentimentality, the love of woman. their breeding hips, their docile natures. for a man who lies with woman, his instinct is to shield and to nurture -- to be the sun which shines for the bloom of his wives and daughters.

the tears and the storm. the parting seas.

could you ever love.

could you ever love with the intensity they love.

engulfed in that singular passion. that which consumes the spirits and ravishes the senses. that which makes you bashful and silently woman-like... as though reassurance played on repeat in your head. that which lends your frame a fleshy cast -- rendering you clay-like and pliable.

how would you look to a man whom you never expected to see again?

they were brave men. they were worthy men.

they were not men whose lead you could follow.

one who was about to embark upon a journey from which you knew he would not return?

some--you realize--never realized. we were always making choices. we could choose to look away. be as disloyal as we could permit within the bonds of loyalty. we could look away even if we couldn’t speak.

you didn’t look away. every encounter leaves a trace.

there was no neutral contact. when you’ve seen them and they’ve seen you -- they’re recording a recording. recording over themselves with a recording of you. our minds are chemical reactions. syncopated darkrooms. he who sees most clearly takes control of the situation. you see him. you know him. you master him. to put it simply. to look is to assert. to look is to condemn. to look is to conquer.

to be alone is always to be disloyal.

you looked at her. she was lovely in her way.

she would be lovelier with a jaw more square, a brow more protruding, cheeks more angular and broad -- but she was lovely nonetheless.

perhaps she thought you were lovely, too.

what was most lovely about women -- that of which their siren-ensnared prey could dream but never escape -- was the sleekness, the elegance of their snake-like bodies; their curves like jungle cats, their dells like carnivorous plants; the coy predation which parted their bodies to make men grovel with a glance. writhing in cruel imitation of sensuous submission display, slowly they’d slink in their teeth -- a baptism in rosewater. lilies of the delicatessen; the worm rapt with her foliage.

she was a creature who could kill.

don’t forget that.

you looked into her eyes. her eyes were lovely. eyes were seldom more lovely in men than they were in women.

when you thought about women, you thought about what they lacked.

no hardness. no defined lines. their bodies weren’t constructions -- their bodies were facsimiles -- carved from ivory and painted in pastels. women made you feel flat. you looked at them and found yourself thinking less. silently drifting. frost on a distant shore.

men fight to win. women fight to kill.

she was different in her way.

the way an agitation oscillated beneath her sedation. it was as if her body were composed of resonance. the very matter of her being seemed to vibrate at a level slightly below audible detection.

you feel on some level that to look at a woman and to think is an offense to taste.

keep looking. she’s not going anywhere.

it’s more noble, you think, to think about what women have.

their hair. their breasts. their hips. the delta which flowed beneath the navel. women were most lovely when they spoke. they were often their loveliest when they sang. they were sublime when their faces were twenty feet tall -- crystallized in the molecules of nitrate film. entombed in the pyramid amphitheater at the museum of mineral and metallurgical arts. silently viewing midday.

what could she do? she had no time.

it was a foolish sentiment, the mad veneration of women. this attribution of fragility which reduced them to the level of chattel. no man would entrust his son to a weak woman any more than a woman would trust a weak man to her son -- not a stud like you. some men found women the most beautiful things. the allure of the pearls which overflowed from their clam-shell bodies, beading the mud where the pigs would roll. their opalescent bodies stirred the most vicious passions. every act of love was mirrored in an act of hate. it could never be done. their incompatible natures. a man could only ever be equals with a man, as he could hate no man the way he hates a woman. a man has no interest in any individual woman -- he is concerned only in constructing her.

he de-fangs her. he saps her venom and stuffs her with saccharine and sawdust. he vulgarizes and degrades her -- leaves her little more than a child in her eyes. your head would spin as they would speak. in the whirlpool of thought, you found yourself ready to capsize. they must have loved it. it would make sense for them to have loved it. they simply had to love being told what to do by meannders –

there could be nothing done. nothing without the lie of equality. what kept people going were foolish sentiments. beauty. truth. justice. love. they settled you, and they stilled you. when you weren’t fighting, you were dying. one doesn’t inhabit a neutral state without shutting down. one simply oscillates between two boundaries at such a speed that the agitation advances to a state which creates the illusion of stillness.

maybe i’ll try it your way for once... maybe i’ll shut the fuck up for a moment.

the way he spoke. it made you still.

his words. they gave a form to things.

you saw. saw the things that people did.

when they spoke their words grew heavy and less certain. when they spoke, the smoke would spew from their mouths and they would look away -- look off into nothing.

what did speaking do for men -- what function did it serve in maintaining group cohesion? how did it become a way for the speaker to assert something which is felt but not seen. look.

look at how men are using words.

when you told yourself to look. you had to do it.

you were always doing what you were told.

starting now...

1 --

2 --

( o ) --

you saw them talking. saw their words grow dimmer and dimmer. staler and sludgier. a mire which hung in the air too transparent to be viscous. that was talking. talking served as a pretense to align some inner discord with the outer world, to spew an unending smog between the speaker and their senses -- his words were brick. familiar enough to scrape the hands. as he spoke, he laid them in concentric circles.

he spoke, and he built walls -- and the walls climbed high and blotted out the sun. you couldn't see. the specs of clouds interred here with none to shield your eyes from the dirge which filled the empty well.

where in the darkness, the smoke spewed forth without divergence from their mouths -- the pillars of their heavenward cries, where the grey gave way to black and black to blacker grey -- where the clouds which seared your eyes found relief only by shutting out the world, but still the smoke still spewed and spewed. until nobody could see.

until his was the only voice which rung across the hacking tide.

until, finally, silence became unknowable.

[ ]

- holy fuck. holy fuck, grigori. you saw it. you saw it. i didn’t blow my load. i didn’t bust my nut. the nut, let the record show, remains unbusted. gotta get one a my guys on that. streets are fulla nuts. the panties. grigori. the silky smooth... the lace, the satin... the crack between my ass. they are unspoiled. my little soldier. he knows how to march. it’s a figure of speech. there ain’t nuthin little about him. i’m like an animal. grigori. you see. i get so carried away. lotta other guys. they couldn’t keep it under control. not me. i’m all about control. grigori. you see. other guys. they couldn’t handle sittin here. not with twenty pounds of medical grade silicone chewin off their nips. inner and outer suction. crushes the lungs. not me. my chest is still strong. i’m built like a bull. drink it straight from the tap. sangria. santa sangre. hombre de leche. wanna feel that OJ pumpin through my heart. i wanna feel the bran pumpin through these veins. wanna be the heartiest breakfast. breakfast of champions. ooh la la ra ah ah. gosh i’m sweaty. so gosh damn sweaty. put me on the tubes, grigori. my oratory prowess requires... annotation. i said. i said so many things. i bet i could wring the sweat outta these knockers myself. i ain’t gonna turn back. not tonight. not into a pretty little cowgirl. uh uh. not me. i’m a cow man. i got my boots. i got those pointy things that go on the boots. i got a saddle. i got it all, basically. i do it all. grigori. grigori you saw. i don’t gotta tell you. grigori. grigori please help. get this thing off a me. grigori. grigori now. feels like a squid died on my chest -- i can feel it licking. can feel it teasing. it's giving me squishy kisses grigori i think it wantsta get frisky.

while i would certainly hate to impose, i think you ought show at least some concern. it’s a particularly nasty cut, and it looks as though you’ve been letting it steep all night.

- oh fuck. grigori. grigori. the panties. the panties got caught in the stirs. no -- no. don’t tug. they’re gonna rip. grigori. grigori stop. those belong to svetlana. sweet svetlana. she ain't got a clue i got em.

a man in your position ought know it’s flattery to struggle so fruitlessly.

- listen to that leather. got those proper breachers. wide load.

i swear i shan’t breathe a word of this to the other uniforms.

- makes my ass look like a stallion. i'm a bull. look at me. i could pull a carriage.

better attention ought be given to the nails -- they resemble claws, oh friend to man.

- right, big buy. let’s get that octopus off ya.

it must be terribly cramped for them. strapped up in those big briny boots all day... it’s truly spectacular how broad they are.

- all that shit. get it off.

a carving knife. an emery board. a hearty whiff.

- off, off.

you are quite earthy between the toes. you have notes comparable to mushroom tea.

- can't spell it without mental.

gin. vera. rainwater.

- can't spell it at all.

the unburdenable bearing of lightness.

- i am the first consciousness.

it will sting.

- saddle up. see how much you can carry.

i’m hardly stroking the outer fold. i’m going to have to press in deeper.

- fuckin love how you buckle. just like a belt

it’s red. red like a lip

- there you go, boy. there you go big guy.

you have such splendidly formed ankles, i hope you don’t mind my saying so. between the taper of your foot and calf, they appear strangely elongated. strangely elegant.

- that’s it. spread it out. get me nice and even.

it’s hard to believe that such subtle contours could possibly support the weight of you.

- know how much you love this part, big guy. open up.

have you ever had a kid brother?

- that’s it. love the feelin. that in your mouth. don’t ya, big guy.

did he ever press his lips to where it hurt, to attempt to heal -- with the balm of affection alone -- some tear in the flesh?

- love the taste. love bein this. love havin it locked in. nice and firm. right between the teeth. love bein my horse. love knowin i decide where you go. how fast you go. how far you go. how much you carry. how much you wear. how much you eat. how much you cock. i make the decisions. i'm the decision maker. i decide. me.

a provincial sentiment, perhaps. i am a sentimental man.

- i’m the real man.

you’ve been such a gentleman

- i am no man.

to humor my indulgence with such resolve.

people came to you. people wanted things. when people came to you and didn’t want things. you didn’t know what to do. you looked inside yourself. there was no map. only terrain.

there were people, you saw, who were always engulfed in stillness.

they spoke, and they spoke, and their words never stirred anything but the rheumy balm of their own melancholy.

these opium clouds -- these wisps of silvery haze, which drifted but did not sting, would merely numb. something weighed on them. within them. something which stifled their urge to move. something which could not be seen with the eyes, but could be heard in the fractures of their voices and the fear wet in the sharp breaths between their words.

you ate with them. the other tables weren't full. you didn’t like to eat when people watched. the way your arms stuck out. how they looked at your hands. they would get on your face. what you needed. the intensity of your need. it made them sick. their little bodies didn’t need as much.

they jumped. they stared. they didn’t seem to have anything to say when you were there. marionettes of satellite signals. a vague sickness. comfort had made them leprous. maybe once they had been beautiful. so beautiful they had to be destroyed. could only be destroyed by virtue of their frail bodies existing in the same sphere as beings like you.

the most beautiful things, you could see more clearly, carried that quality of stillness. these things which were fragile and seemed to sparkle as though quartz flowed through their veins. they brought you into starker focus by revealing to you what you were not. all which is not angular, but curved. all which is not severe, but merciful -- the lead free crystal goblet of an eagle’s tear. that which is strong will inevitably shine bright -- as that which shines bright will inevitably be strong.

your hand reached out. it was fragile in yours.

she was still that day. you could see it in her throat.

they did things like that in those days. left you to rely on ingenuity. there were people without names. too many people to name.

helena... helena…

you didn’t know him. his face was a pin cushion.

purple. pearly white.

she had such slender hands. hands like a piano player’s.

he was your brother. you’d seen him here.

father…

her hands wrapped around your wrists. yours around her throat.

her face was getting fat. her teeth were yellow. yellow like a cat’s.

sopping bread. crustacean roe.

the worst was how they smelled.

her eyes lost the hate. her eyes lost the fear.

she seemed slower somehow.

a fly had been living in her throat.

yes son

you went to where she lived. he was sitting on you. purring. you scratched his ear. he had neck. so much neck. you grabbed him by the flap.

you let him tear up your arm.

they were few. they were heavy.

on occasion, the sadness which clung to the lips of the opium eaters would turn your heart to wine, and you would find yourself swayed out of line, to upon approach be met always with a defensive measure. sudden evasion. unnanounced open fire. some would send out an SOS and deny all hope of rescue. some got lost solely to procure sponsorships for their wanderings. what was this. this negation of life -- to loathe opportunity for its impropriety -- the supreme arrogance of the indolent who by virtue of sloth come to believe that motion must surrender to stillness solely by the proclamation of an arbitrary moral right.

it stirred the force of your jaw. the taste of their blood in the heat flash of your hatred. clamping down on the necks of the meek, fit only to be torn asunder by the cut-throat mandibles of pack hunters like you. what is right is what can be procured. the theoretical will always collapse under the application of the practical.

i want... to…

the strength drained from her. you saw how she could move. still thrash and claw and screech. she didn’t. her head rolled back as it groaned.

your eyes weren’t on her. she was in your hands. your hands so tight. it went out from in her eyes. you could stay in position. it got easier.

her eyes enraptured with you.

the stars in the reef of her veins. the quiver of her breath. electricity hovered in the air. storm currents stirred the islets of her misty thighs.

she was only a girl. only at the end anyway.

it would be my pleasure if i might speak with you again. it would be a most dubious honor if we could speak in company less... respectable than your current employer.

- what those muscles are for ain’t they, big guy. you see this. you see him. does anything i say. can’t stress it enough. i tell him to piss he says what mouth. i say jump he says front a what bus. word association. rifle. hour. benedict. eggyweggs. marbles. corinth. pistils. lavender. wasp. all right. some of those words made me feel bad. some words. some words are very hurtful. that is a hurtful word grigori. don’t you say it. you know the one. casserole. that is the ugliest word in the english language. english. english grigori. the argot of the old empire. hotel of the peninsula calipha. have you never glanced at a cheat sheet? tsk. tsk. grigori. the people are counting on me. counting on me to keep things running smooth. the people wanna smooth count. they wanna count the babies. they wanna count the butts -- but we will not be counting baby butts uh uh. not in this country. not in my country. grigori. the number of baby butts in this country will remain a mystery. for all time. that is not knowledge which is meant to be ascertained by man. you see any man counting baby butts you let me know. i want him hanged. his guts will be ripped out his asshole. he will be yo-yo’d up and down from the palace balcony. we'll have a party. pin up his guts like streamers. it's not gruesome. it's art. it's the human body. it's a beautiful thing. invite the kids. everyone loves kids. i wanna charge the kids he abused to go for a ride. ride him up and down. put a quarter in the jar. release the quarters into a stream. let the quarters spawn. grigori. grigori. look at me. grigori. i forgot for a moment that i was ridin a man. ridin a man like a horse. look. he likes it. think he likes bein a big dumb farm animal. wanna go nibble on some hay don’t ya big guy? want this big ugly bearded monster to grab your big dumb horse cock give ya a lil squeeze? wanna blow another load in the bucket take another two months off my face? fuckin look at him grigori the dumb idiot’s startin ta drool. got such a fuckin tight reign on him he’s prolly gonna choke. you can breath good can’t ya horsey? he don’t care. he don’t care. he’s just a dumb fuckin horse all he knows how ta do is take a load. grigori. grigori you're not looking at me. grigori. who’s got more loads than me grigori huh? nobody. nobody that’s who. i give all the loads. i am the load bearer. i am a pall. i am apparent. every load you bare. that’s me. i'm the best load. the greatest load. i'm filled to the brim with loads. grigori. look at me. grigori.

i know you can see me.

you were standing. always standing.

he lead them through the crowd. they walked ahead. they thought they lead. he was parting the crowd.

these people with familiar faces and familiar masks. these people you'd always known. these people from a land you'd never known.

his leisurely gait gave eyes time to crane -- crane the unbroken fluidity of his head. his shoulders hung in pins of folded velvet. his spine was a tasseled pull-cord.

he was not, you suspected, a man who did much marching.

packs off! (in deep)

for the first time. it might have been eight years. you could see her. the woman for whom you were a son. it might have been her.

she was always talking. she wasn't talking now. she talked and she talked. she talked and you heard her. heard her emphasis and her stresses. she talked and she talked, but she never seemed to talk to you. you were always out marching.

she was beautiful. in her way. beautiful before she forgot to move.

you kept your eyes down because you cut with a glance. strength followed strength. weakness abhorred strength.

you became abhorrent.

somewhere.

somewhere there were places where people weren't always marching.

you figured you'd march until you found it.)

#revivify #addendum #i who have no need #-- I #dog brain #woof woof #/#*****#homogeneity #fraternity #good briefsboy

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