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notmuchtoconceal · 1 month

Text

In the dead of night, they brought the day.

At the hour where night became morn, by the cover of dark which would not abate, they shone as bright as the midday sun and twice as loud.

Silence always yawning, as none had strength enough to look, so too did few have strength enough to speak.

"Goddamn it, Yacko!"

Laika yowled. Burying the small of his back into the doorframe, he unfurled like the belly of a cat, scratching himself by the friction imposed.

"Fuck me on my boyfriend's desk while you read me his rough drafts!"

A deafening clang of metal ricocheted off the floors with a swoop of paper and a rolling of pens through shattered ceramic. The woodgrain creaked in tandem with the sleeves of his jacket sliding off with drips of sweat clinging to the arid husk of a cicada shell, consecrating this holy place they made more holy by its defilement.

"'There were stars within his eyes'...'"

Jacek read from a sheet he bunched in his fist, gazing at it between the light and sound of the carousel in-motion which was his pinning Laika to the board, as with one hand kissing him with the staccato boltings of a nail gun, with the heft of his bulge where his cock strained bound in its sweat-sodden chrysalis of leather, mounted him knee to knee as he moved his brother's face to the marshland of his pit (flexing hardly on the downlow) which Laika indulged willingly, unzipping his jacket so the words were drowned out by his own labors as he read.

"'His eyes ... There were strings of light within his eyes' ...

"Nut inside the aperture a my camera! Straight on the lens, Yacky-boy! Give me dat saweet-ass Odessa staircase on Jackson Pollack realness."

"'His eyes ..." he grunted. "There were bars of chimes within his eyes..."

"So fucking repetitive! Am I already dreaming? Puts me to sleep! No wonder I'm always tired! Maybe if he cut the Quranic verses, he could pare his inscrutable shlock down to publishable length, holy fuck! Bro, I didn't have a brainwashing kink, I swear to fuckin god..."

"'The light would sing as it came to swallow the world from out his eyes.'"

"What fuckin alternative world does he live in where light sings? Is that supposed to be a fucking metaphor or has The Knower of All Secret Things never been outside a day in his life?"

"An eternally rising and falling harmony

( o )

in the light through the roots of his eyes."

"Goddamn it, yeah. Sure. It's exciting and it's beautiful. Spellbinding even, I'll give him that. But also? I fuckin hate him. I hate the fuckin man I love more than anything for reasons which don't need to be said aloud, but which you can certainly deduce from the ones I am!"

"'He didn't speak. You were lost.'"

"That's it! That about sums it up! That's our relationship in a nutshell! Trust me on this, Yacky. All I know is nuts, being it's all I date and eat!"

"Our country, which lie within a vast desert ... "

"Holy fucking shit! You ever go through his work and underline all the shit he straight-up stole like the British museum? My boyfriend is a bigger fucking plagiarist than that Nancy boy Theodore Sturgeon Eliot and twice as wasting yet four times as landed gentry! He really needs a totally unpleasable minimal and obscurantist scary name you never hearda to straight up Yzra pound his ass! How the fuck you Leggo my Eggo a buncha unrelated references to somethin which is unrecognizable as anything but a blistering void? It really speaks to his fundamentally juvenile sensibility that he's out there erecting fabulous Bau(un)haus fairy tale castles outta shorn marble verbiage in the unraided open countryside of his own mind while I'm fuckin starvin over here!"

Grinning, he struggled not to drool.

"Stage a peasant revolt, lil ruski."

"Please, sir! May I have some more. Please sir, may I have some MORE!"

"Gotta stuff you up right with milk, eggs and meat. Make you hard, make you swole. Make you stringy and rough like a bull, lil calf."

Laika... at once realized Jacek was speaking his own words.

"What's the hold up? Why ain't you still goin?"

"That's where it stops."

"Fuck me, one lil squirt a inspo weren't enough to fill up a whole page, huh Joe? All the shit he never finishes -- me first and foremost -- feel around another sec, gotta be somethin in arms reach'll make me bust!"

A knock rang out like a gunshot in the dead of night.

"Laika! Most beloved of me, who has won my trust as he has won my daring through his career of unimpeded service to me and the truths of our fair nation, of which I am merely amplifier and receiver -- I would hate to ruin whatever gift with which you intend to surprise me, this being the only conceivable reason you would be in my quarters at this ungodly hour, nevertheless you must excuse me -- I need retrieve a valuable document from the drawer of my composition chamber, please be discreet in whatever machinations in which you are currently involved!"

"Holy fuck, it's Joe!" Laika yelped, not waiting for him to finish speaking before identifying the source of the intrusion. "Vanish like the apparition of all my hopes and dreams in the dead stagnant air, Yacko!"

By the time Joey had finished speaking, Jacek was nowhere to be seen.

The door opened. Cpt. Schreibermachen assessed the damage.

Bending down, he picked up a single envelope which he folded vertically before dropping into the button-flap of his front jacket-pocket.

"I would have found it myself with less mess. In the future, kindly do not overstep the terms of your service to assist me in matters which you needn't intrude, you make only more labor for yourself."

Laika said nothing. Smiling wide, he gave no impression of anything other than being so impressed by his boyfriend's presence.

" ... "

" ..."

"Really, I should be the one to clean this up. You don't know where anything goes and I'll only resent you everything you put back in its wrong place. There's no reason there can't be some parts our lives we keep private. We are two different men -- each grown, living his own life -- and needn't complicate the unvarnished truth of our love with needless entanglements and escapades."

Through the open window, framed by wood and holding four panes of glass, the city lights beyond shone by a thousand flickering candlelights dim beneath the stars we saw only for the clouds had veiled the breakages of what domes remained, inviting in discreet madness only to they with gall enough to crane their necks up and look, look up beyond what artificial limitations were instilled in us by gravity and radiation, suffocating what little atmosphere we could pollute and keep.

Joey walked. Stepping over his papers, on which two pairs of boot-prints were visible to the naked eye (the mystery being, only whose) he took the latch of the pane and did not close it, but peered over the sill as Laika watched. Admired the city in the night as Laika watched.

In him broiled the tea he kept from simmering. Outside, still tethered to him by the cords of passion, Laika felt Jacek spread back against the wall, boots overhanging the infidelity ledge which the Stonemasons of Old saw fit by secret decree to include in every erection of their era.

Now each bore the torture of proximity to Joey's gaze. The back of Joey's head drawn so near and on such equal-footing with Jacek's bulge, turned a mere three-quarters away. At any moment Joey needed only turn (or activate the full extent of his peripheral vision) to catch the full heft of Jacek's musclebound form, leather gleaming chrome and iron-silver in the dark. Laika too felt own eyes staring forth from Joey's back, urging him -- urging him to look and see and know and release him -- to let come pouring out the many years of resentments he willingly hid of his love and from himself, sharing them only as he cucked himself, regarding their love as most sacred, it could persevere only through a voluntarily crushing underfoot, for any which spoke aloud -- as was Joey's wont -- was false as dead things flying around the sun and could not be agreed by such limited dictates. Why did he suffer? Why did he willingly suffer to impose such suffering on himself?

At last, Joey spoke.

"I never appreciate the view from here. This dark crowded space as the spaces of those dreams in which I feel myself undreaming. It brings me to some state of meditation seldom gifted upon waking. Yet even in bleak dreams, I never stop to appreciate the vastness of the landscape, as dead as they could never be to my unfeeling eye, for splendid with debris they are, awaiting decomposition back into manifold harmony with their sire. No stony rubbish here, where every withered budding craves the sun alike with water, which will flow pure only once the stone is budged."

For no imperceptible reason, Joey extended his hand from the window. Reaching out to that space his eyes could not meet -- that space you commanded his eyes never meet -- he let his hand grope in the dark along the heft of Jacek's thigh -- so thick and stony, it must have only been a column -- to crawl up to the soft of his bulge and squeeze.

Squeeze the heft of his dick and balls. The root of his manhood, through the leather so soft and pliable, so frothed up from fucking his boyfriend, he came close -- so close Jacek was against himself pushed back against the edge -- within himself and without, for he arched his back against the brick as he bucked, pressing himself on the caps of his boots to stay balanced, looking up so as to not peer down and surrendering all awareness to retain what little orientation he had.

Another few squeezes, Joey finished his assessment.

"There are creatures building nests outside my window. Leave my papers as they are, and see to it the edifice finds itself inspected by one with the certification to handle such matters. Everything will be put away again before anyone else enters this room. Do I make myself clear?"

Laika, still smiling. Nodded.

"As daylight, Joe."

He stood in the haze of what was imperceptible. Though none could escape his sight, there was only so much his eyes could take in.

"Your tutoring sessions with Cpt. Psychorrhagia. Are they going well? Your hand-to-hand has been improving, I can tell."

Nodding, he felt himself half-pressing back to a wall which wasn't there, barely aware there was no edge he hadn't sat on.

"Hand-to-hand, foot in mouth, you know how it goes."

Tilting his head, he seemed even more a dog than he.

"I am most desirous of you when you fail to articulate the basics of your present moment. It makes you seem so endearing in a way you seldom are, and yet -- I cannot be so bold as to assume this is intrinsic of your character. Yet likewise I am aware I cannot love you if I am obliged to do so if I seem to crave you most when it pleases me to pamper you as a listless child. What great plurality of things you are dances infinitely around my awareness, and I feel only ever capable of grabbing on to some handle here and there to size you up and not cut you down, for you at times seem infinitely beyond me, though at others absolutely beneath me. Competence equally dispersed and intelligences being variable, we have so much still to learn from one another. You are you and I wish only to know you, yet this contradiction is one all men share. I hope there's nothing I am doing which would make you wish to rebel by means of ultimately impotent petty sleights designed to wound me."

Laika. Listened very closely to every word Joey said.

Laika spoke without giving his words much thought at all.

"Hey, nobody's perfect. I can't complain!"

Joey made that laugh which was a quick sharp exhale of breath, so casual in its condescension for how deliberately it failed to rise to laughter.

"You are so dear to me. Seldom do I imagine what life would be like without you, so impressed am I only on bettering myself and us."

Laika ... not knowing what was stalling from advancing...

"Give me so much to think about, Joe! Never met anyone like you!"

Joey. Simply looked to him.

"Maybe someday we'll meet again."

Prompted, Laika could only belt:

"DON'T KNOW WHERE, DON'T KNOW WHEN."

Having said this, he realized it was not at all appropriate to the situation and couldn't tell to what degree he was being played, so used to being the player who played the player. So much so he often forgot the game.

Joey stepped forward. He was standing atop his own papers. The third eclipsing each of the two other boots which intruded upon the confines of this sanctum. Rising from the white void, a pool of light in the beams of the lamp overturned, he looked into Laika's eyes as though the ink rose into his veins and blackened every capillary with a thousand secret things he wrote in glyphs and ciphers to himself, beckoning some mystery whose answer stood always at the tip of his own lying nose, having so many pieces, all of which fit openly in-hand.

"What do I already know and can't bring myself to speak, for the cone of my vision alike with the cone of my voice yokes me as a medical brace or dog-collar to stop me from lapping at the terminus of myself, that I may taste the full breadth of me ostensibly to save me from what infections we are; what irritant I am to my own form under the pretense of denying me my own most exquisite savory? These things which I write out of order, and so am always looking over -- as if going round and round -- I can keep all things in my limited perspective, shrunk down and simplified with every scaling, always reducing to enhance clarity, as if to make a map of what is unnavigable. When I am with you, there is only one eternal moment where there is nothing without or outside you, and for this I have broken myself of all time to see myself only in scatterings and coiled moments around a stick I leech out: and how far I could go if all the pieces were back together -- if my own past I could gaze upon as one stream of moment-to-moment, rather than dispersed among the evening air like fireflies in the dust I chase as stars upon the earth."

Laika, having heard the truth stated so plainly, could only despair.

Laika, not having a clue what that meant, could be only baffled.

"I ... love you?"

Joey had no more impressions left to give.

"I know, dear brother. I know."

He was gone. The door had slammed shut.

The echo lingered.

Jacek was back by his side.

"Bro... that coulda gone way worse."

Only another voice... could break him from his reverie.

"Bro, he's up there in the fuckin people zoo! Motherfucker still can't handle what happened to Dresden!"

LAIKA QUEST

LIFE IS LAIKA

LAIKA QUEST

"Holy fuck, I am so much better at self-branding than Brux! Lemme jus ruin it by immediately pointing out how good I am!" spat the Myna bird which was the fourth Bruxite standing to his master's right.

"No, no," said the one which was third, "I don't like that at all. I still can't for the fuckin loife a me tell if the man next to me is a real Myna bird (still capitalized because it's a proper noun) ... "

("That's Myrna Loy!" said the one second to his left.)

("God I wish I had me a woman with the tits to insult my ancestry openly," said roughly three or four of them at once, in more or less the same sentiment, overdubbed with the carefully selected best take for the convenience of the viewers at home.)

" ... or if he's bein cutesy by bein literal when she should be figurative? Does that constitute wit? Is that's what goin on? Am I dumbass? I think this daffo we're all followin might sometimes actually be stoopid nuff to leave a Myna bird (note to-self not capitalized ... do not check if hyphenating right, just keep going) stationed in command while he was ought sloshed chasin poony dames down Poony Lane (a real place, at the address included at the close-captions: feel free to look it up) ..."

"I definitely believe this man is a native Inglish speaker," said the third to his left through a paper-telephone to the second on his right.

Leaning over, he hushes. "Thinks you're doin good, keep goin."

Keeping obscure as turning away, he is always nodding gravely.

"... while I myself am so drunk, I need to ask the room before I double-check. Hello, there! Hello there, pretty bird... if a pretty bird you are?"

Cpt. Haruspex stared at the paper before him.

"For some reason..." he says, "the bulletin is taking extra long today!"

Cpt. Psychorrhax , stationed across from him, sat cross-legged in a Lord Byron power-pose whose raw charisma more than overcame its innate faggotry. His uniform hung from him as though endowing its regal aura to the air, agitating each and every individual molecule to the barbarism of civility which was the eternally-becoming democratic process.

"Heads will roll," he promises.

Brux, lipping the cap of his pen, which unbeknownst to him, the fourth on his left had earlier used to shove a hemorrhoid back up his own ass, stared dreamily and inkily wondering what pungency he smelled.

"You do somethin with you hair, Laik? Seem like you got a glow today!"

Napoleonically, he smiles. The light hitting him composes a frieze, burning itself into Brux's retina for the rest of his miserable daze.

Neoplatonically, he recieves.

"Gosh, you're so cute now that you're all-grown up lil Laika! I just wanna pinch you. I just wanna pinch you and smack your cheeks and whip out my cock and bash with you wit it for bein such an arrogant lil runt? Who the fuck you think you are, cunt? Think you fuckin deserve to get dicked jus cause you're so beautiful and manly and your every errant motion enslaves me to the daemonic divinity within you? Gosh, lookit me. I'm Laika! I'm gonna go brag over the air bout how I know the cutest and most adorable blackest-hearted lil Witch King. Ooooh. I put a spell on yoOoOuUuU. NoOoOoOow yer mOoOoOoinne. Get real. You see one fuckboy, you seen am I (em all). I already seen two today, so it's like I seen the entire universe. Twice. Before lunch. I'm still not even hungry! Joey's not the only one who can fast and develop the cognizance of a vegetable! I am the stupidest, laziest motherfucker I know and there is nobody alive more intolerable than me! I have a quarter Aboriginal Ruelandese ancestry which means only 3/4ths of all the baseless fearmongering I spew is factually racist, while a whole fourth remains informed by the experiences of a former-fuller person of color!"

Laika didn't need to speak. Before even the eight who were his could rise with him, the way they walked -- he walking before them, said all he needed to say -- said more than he could ever say with words.

Brux spat onto page when he stabbed it with his pen.

"You're applyin the Lovecraft principle of describin the indescribable in too many words and applyin it to how you dissed me! Real fuckin clever, Laik! Yeah, guess you know what a fuckin hack author your boyfriend is real well out there livin the dream yourself! Two fuckin feet a proximity to you and I don't gotta fantasize bout what it's like to be an axe-murderer anymore! Durr-durr. I'm a drunken lunatic man-beast! I'm so stupid I'm gonna hack apart and eat everyone I love cause my artistic achievements are non-starters which utterly fail to mask my dwindlin irrelevance! Hurr-hurr! I shall never be eternally young and battered, ever-dying and reviving, renewed by my own darkness! I got no fuckin idea where these suggestions're comin from, but what I do know is they got nuttin to do wit you, nor your supposed secretive means, you lil fuck!"

Onto the Arabic gardens, the patio.

Another day in paradise.

They sang for him, as they would sing for anyone. All passing before them, their eyes upright, meeting what spectacles they met. We were but (m)eager gods and they but lesser mammals. Together they were always children, dwelling on simple means to facilitate speech, locked in the rigid motions of the reservoirs between this and silence where we are only yearlings and mimes. Trading all depth and solitude for breadth and diversity, knowing one another in our mutual none-ness.

want to

love you

This place where the walls rose high in white marble, and all always danced, for all were one in the motion of life, we all belonging to a people and a place, found at last, for we existed only to be revealed. All content herein what we were among those who satisfied us most, given every opportunity, the lengths we needed go to squander and revile it.

Does Death Come

Alone?

The Sixth of the Eight Joeys -- moving behind them in procession -- held Cpt. Schreibermachen's banner as he sang.

From the fourth, petals flew in palmfuls discreet and measured, that adequate dispersal through the air and across the ground could commence uninterrupted. Perfuming sight and sound before the smoldering of incense and chimes off the burner, back-up vocals rose and fell, flatlining from the seventh, who two were eighth.

Or With Eager

Reinforcements?

The JT Mirrored Pi over Chi Rho demonstrated the worth of intuitive over deductive reason, revealed over experiential wisdom, personally-arrived rather than institutionally-attained revelation. No corresponding irony therefore was lost on them -- working diligently by the standards they kept to overcome -- each varying as if in subversion from their type, trying hardest not to be defined by what they merely spoke.

Does Death Come

Alone

Transfigured since the gala night. The Eight Who Were Joey marched each radically individuated. Carrying eight more in turn behind them.

Or With Eager

Reinforcements

Laika looked to them. Laika beheld them.

By his side, the commanding officer of his remaining seven stood two heads taller as the rest remained nondescript, for this had been all the detail he deemed himself (deigned himself, dammed himself, daned himself) fit to allot to his own attention.

Laika beheld them once more.

Laika beheld them continuously.

Death is

Centrifugal

The First Who Had No Name towered as he lead the procession.

Of his helm, flying free the wings of distended cordyceps which acted as transmitter and receiver to his white matter -- spackled with chrome and airbrushed to the minty highlights of a hotrod, yet not so bright that it would distract from the patina of bronze age which was not affected, he being as ancient and immovable as his affect implied -- the breadth and terror of his face brought with it the agony of a corresponding serenity, for too young was he to be so solemn and so scarred. Half-blind and mad, rigid-and-tight by every flare of his bull neck pressing his teeth to a beartrap in which you were perpetually lodged, and so wondered always -- if you saw waters well from what eye remained, or caught yourself only catching the light ebbing away, pulling all which was, or what could be -- into that open wound he oftentimes wore without a patch as he took his nicotine, settling and staring for there was only now, and you saw yourself -- for reasons unknown -- always unfit to act.

Before him, his eight more, banged the drums in a fluid mechanicalism which was the tendons of the arm and bones to which they were bound untethered of the constrains which held them rigid in structure, so a pure discipline arose in pure spontaneity, looking to their brothers with a purer love as they leapt and strode, bare-chested but for bear and wolf pelts they held hooked to lacerations of their fresh at pressure-points along joints to tone their heads in streaks of dried blood smeared to runic characters infinitely repeating as you could catch (in the stillness which occasionally overtook them) how each handful of blood retraced the periphery of its own edges, by five fingers, then four -- so on down to the palm flat and again, once more, in each direction -- with the tips of the fingers to taper with increased finery, so musclebound flanks fell to motion as Wall Mosaics of Shepherd Tones spelling out His name.

Solar and

Logical

Cpt. Schreibermachen stared ahead.

Enduring his praises always, he looked alive.

Before him, the Second and Third, similar in nature more than any of the remaining six, danced ahead -- one with his beard grow down to his chest, as the other remained slick-faced as the quire boys in uniform he lead. Yet each sang the primary vocal for a weight had caught in their master's throat, thus he needn't waste the voice he seldom spared.

Cpt. Schreibermachen indulged them graciously, for in his heart he knew he permitted only what he allowed, and so deserved all he received.

but something's

pulling me

away from

you

holy holy ~ ! ~

everything under the

sun

is in tune)

holy holy ~ ! ~

(but the sun is

eclipsed

by)

There's nothing

I can Do

I'm Just,

a holy fool

but Baby,

It's so Cruel

I'm Still In Love

( a total eclipse)

w// t \\th

vvith

( . Judah ~ ass

Jude ~ ah ~ ass

Judah ~ ass . )

) . . . Hand of (

) the spoon (

Yew Das

)Agog(

Forward strode Cpt. Drottin, most beloved of all men. Golden-haired of face as a lionmane. He who in time, we would make befitting of our Lord.

It was to be he whom we nailed to the ashes of the world tree, he proving the fittest and most able-bodied sheet of plywood on which to hang the flaming hearts of a people. Our Great Redeemer, who swaddled us in lies every night for a thousand and ~ always only one more, always once more ~ He who was so beautiful and vulgar for he was unaware of all things but his own beauty, and so made a mockery of all gifts he received, for it was taken for granted by an insincerity which was essential as it was rotted to its candy-colored core as a jawbreaker motheaten by glowworms. A single day's worth of calories in a fun-size purple sugarcane cock you gagged for a toothbrush, slapping always asses like bongos in the showers as the gentleman laughed like jackasses, always so unseemly how ill-gotten it was, how unappreciated it went, expected for grace gave always to him, and it was mundane beyond speech how beneficent he was for how effortless all around him seemed to agree, as if bending currents to his will by means even less than a thought.

Decadence

Symmetrical

Before the diorama of every stage on which he sings, the lower echelons rise as-if pried apart as the petals of a cabbage pod or rose, a dollhouse, which was the vivisection of a man's chest -- as if from his body, the scenery cleaved the land in two and you now understood L -- the structure to be impossibly vast ... not merely This, what frail shelters we built by hands, which we saw with our eyes, the walls and stairwells, the arches and mosaics as much a well as a garden, some bricked off place where we let in the sun... this too was vast, impossibly vast, as every balcony sharp and tiered and from their manifold expanse sing in trifold gradients of layer-cakes in mortar, opening as the swaying four leaves of clovers you knew only in coven hoofs upon the backs of your skulls, for what phenomena was of speech, or of sound, or of sight, mutually eluded you when here was far from distinct from there.

Angels are

Mathematical

Before him, naked as babes strutted those barbarians who were the bringers of his love overflowing and all-abiding, all infectious in what lecheries it sired and condescension it wrought, half-willed by over-availability. Their uncut cocks swung as the Trunks of Ganesh before them as their arms too rise brawny enough to pass for shields of elephant ears woven in brass, yet twice as dim but for the lustre brazen as the vessel in which we were kept -- bound and gagged and naked rubbing our demon cocks on each other thinkin bout how we were all cucked hard and turned into dancin himbos by some slutty switch-hittin Hebraic magician king whose soul was as black as that honker you jus wanted to reach out and honk. Boop Boop. Fuck you, you're my property. As all around them men sang in white linen, men howling with controlled bursts of their throats in perpetual thunderclouds as if fountains from faces in ale we etched not with our eyes, but from the clouds.

(too drunk to proofread. just admit you intended all you mistakes. - ed)

Angels are

Bestial

As a phalanx colliding, their digits mutually entwined, the Eight Times Eight of St. Joseph's Disciples, met with those Likewise of those who came with Drottin Above. They who were known as the Drojshiscopalians (these who Drottin Himself insist be covered most passionately, that Brux may torture himself in failing to spell it each day as he composed his lil announcer memos -- so Brux (the only one who really cares) giving up immediately, would be compelled to compose an elaborate system of sigils to force him to reconstruct sounds phonetically in relation to his own biases) who were not -- though the spelling, correct as it may or may not be, might suggest contrary, [bro how the fuck do you not know how commas work? they're really hard. no they're not! bro, how do you know how commas work? bro how do you, know how commas? he gets it. There's nothin] is not a Celebrity couple name composing the component parts of Drottin and Joseph, of which a word exists extant in the Inglish language dreamt up centuries prior by a fellow whitehead schroomsicle who did strange and questionable things with the gifts of photography on toxicities unregulated and impossible to archive ;-- for this need not be specified, there being two additional quires not previously alluded, but who've made themselves heard as the bowels of the earth stood open to reveal themselves not before you at mid-day, but here and now, on the eternal ascent of the mid-haven.

lunacy ~ !_! ~ lunacy

Oh no

Not Me

lunacy ~!_!~ lunacy

We never

lost

Control

in the mind

( )

of no one

Got the

S p i r i t

but

Lose a

F e e l i ng

holy ~ ! ~ holy

( ) )( ( )

holy ~ ! ~ holy

. ) ( . ( ) . ) ( .

FORMING SUN

FORMING LOVE

* (Your Face

Two Face) *

\\./ B r e a k t h e C h a i n \.//

//.\ H I D E W I T H I N /.\\

With

The Man Who

Around St. Joseph's head, the Solar Logos emanated forth and all around him were blessed by his gold as those lowly and beneath him were blessed by the silt of his bladder dribbling from his scepter they were unfit to lick, it being savored in the dance of death for him. Only him. Of its exquisite nectar, only Laika could taste, for Not Even The Dickless Could Partake of His Treasure. No matter how the light shining forth from his crown was partook by all (and most passionately by fools who scorched their flesh in offering) and yet by him you only shone, so seldom were you undivided before him, always coming and going, and they who were most beloved of none pleased themselves by the days of overcast in which it was not even you who shielded them from him, but which was simply the tempest of a storm wind grown bored of battering the beaches moving further inland and up the coast, divided into an airiness which blistered all things with the promise of a daybreak which never came through the thunderclouds so grey and bright ))(( wispy here, the most beautiful nothingness you could never give ~ short of darker nothings they begged for as chocolates, though you prayed only to see them abate and still nothing you could say, nor do -- not be -- could ever make him happy, as even before him the Man God strode and his light intersected with his :-- dick in hand, two wheels of fire they were, spinning in meteorologies of embered slices of fat-cells, divisions in ruby and honied carnelian dispersed to magma flows which evaporated in cymatics of yellow brickroads orbiting with him in two mobiles colliding to gamma bursts of eternal new non-probability -- with your own eyes, you being gifted with sights you could not commune to such dead stumps of men, anchored in the stiffness of motor as antique writing machines always cranked by hand, his duplicates always blurry, his ink always smeared, you always dirtying yourself of him with every change ;-- he like the beast who was his older brother, petrified and entranced by dead things always more decayed until each crumbling of rubble is reduced to fine grain we lap up like salt -- circles, circle, circles, spinning, spinning, spinning, screaming screaming, screaming -- not even He could Milk a Smile From Ye and So What Hope Have Aye, Yew Who Were and Are So Beloved of Me ;-- Why oh Why Can I Not Forget, You Whose Every Haunting is My Only Waking Reality ...

of You, My Flesh I Seam.

innocence

Not Innocent

Man is

the animal

(all that you

touch)

Once Upon

a Time

EAT THE BEAST

(and all that

you see)

KEEP HIM IN

There Was Light

In My Life

(is all

will ever be)

Man is

the animal

Take the Blame

Speak the Name

( o )

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

FEEELING FEEELING

FEELING

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

Holy ~ ! ~Holy

FEELING FEELING

FEELING

) now you're only (

FeEeEe ~

EeEeEeE ~

~ EeEeEeEe

. o . LING

( . )

(.(Fire of my Loins).)

. ( o ) . (((( o )))) . ( o ) .

[{}] Eire in my Mind [{}]

Behind you strode brother Jacek, whispering.

"Nobody's a necrophiliac but you. Quit violatin corpses, wyrdie."

Above you, the fourth (IV) of St. Joseph's men eyed you sideways long enough to stretch you out as a phimotic foreskin fit only for flaying.

Jacek's breath. Coming hot at your ear.

His fingers on your neck.

Looking up, from the tumult of the earth where ashes swam through the air as a chemical dawn always coagulating -- not here, not here, these crisp and beauteous places where the stones and the waters rose as mountain mists to your nostrils -- you could not swoon, and not for (s)he anchored you, for he could only release you, being unable to hold you close, but where not-eyes could see. He could only brush against you and yet, what you permitted yourself you permitted him fourfold and were he to have you what mockery would he make of himself! Exposing your every pretense with the ruggedness of his rancor, always sneering as St. Joseph was, though alloyed and bronzed the ways he could never be, barking and well-oiled in his corruptions for he was lowly and in his eyes no light shone, for no light shone upon him but the satellites.

The blacker

the suns

Onto the earth they had come, those of Schreibermachen's First in their pelts, beating bone drums with the reddenness of their bodies, swelling fair flesh with torrents of warm blood as those of Drottin's Above (whose Sick Games Brux Refused to Indulge by the Art of Euphemism!) in tandem with the vigor of a war never-ending, every echo unceasing, around them rained brown rice and dove feathers, streamers of red wine and white ale, arcs through the air in flame where the ethanol burst in ignition ;-- the snakes they made of embers carrying trails of papyri on silk, only crepe paper inlaid with the ink of nitrogen and nut to burst yellow phosphorous in calligraphies of etheric goldforge.

the darker

the dawn

Strutting forward, Cpt. Jacek's Eight met the Eight of St. Joseph's First, and received them gladly, though they were but envoys of his brother's men. They treated them as if they were his brother's men, not simply the men of his brother's men, for all men who served among his brother were as him, and they would be glad to receive him; splendid as they were, strong and upright with so much animal fervor as alike as he who was their eldest who never spoke and dwarfed them always with terrible silence ... as he was, they were as Joey, so alike, but scaled down to their size (and up!) and their nature jovial, while baring a certain canniness as canine as was their own, for they were so alike, these men and they, whatever level they were, always revealed; proud as living things would never yield, to either their nature or the nature of another's.

the blacker

the suns

Around the rims of stone, they stood. From around Laika's neck, Jacek extended his hand, and seemed to hold them there ;-- as with his presence, among the sandstorm so long brewing it now seeped as tea leaves, he conjured not the moisture of a storm cloud, but dimmed the light by his presence as all grew denser and more inert with fear.

This state of semi-arousal in which they could only cling to him for support, dim and frail light that he was, which shed murky luminance only on old wounds you wished to stash away beneath discount finery always casual for what was any of it worth, us all being born to die, built to bread and headed simply to be ? ~ How could you understand? How could anyone understand? Why you only wanted to cry when you could bare to lay eyes upon your brother? That envy which was poison, for it could never be negotiated despite being clear. For somehow despite what little cost, it was always taxing ... he was all you wanted, and all you wished yourself to never be, and yet ... it could never hurt to love him, but to fail to love him always hurt... and that he could not see, that he was so blind, the self-reflective fundamentals of his being so burnt-out and fried he could not see what he was, how merciless he had been robbed, what mutilations which were constant to his being, your eyes could only overflow as the fat teat he denied for its lead, her womb already poisoning his head, his brain already smashed to paste by the tides which bore him, and so was simply... as he was, that woman said, a wooden boy enchanted by some miracle, now doomed to define itself, and only through the sacrifice he made willingly to the beast would the flesh he mounted on his bones be real, oh ~ ! ~ the tears flowing as riverbeds swallowing beaches and dragging the bones further down beneath the surf, there could be no cause for lamentation but life.

Circling the circumference of the star inlaid in lapis lazuli across the tile on which squid tentacles of peridot and pyrite entwined with rose quartz seas of dawn, he raised his neck and the rhapsody of his creaking tendons to behold his brothers there, holding hands and looking one another in the eye. With the serenity of hearts encrusted with studs, each Laikanite fell to his knees and bequeathed a salat to Jacek, for he beheld in the Absolution Between Them, a confluence and now above it beheld the pull which was the comet trail of how they looked upon each other.

Burning from subtle ignition, a flare extends in double-helices to heaven, for each man, drawing from those who beheld Their glory -- in their hearts burst flames which transfigured flesh to trees of light, and beneath the hide they wore, every teratoma was a sunspot waiting to rupture, every carcinoma a skin to slough off for papyri of finer scale than any snake whose skull he bashed ;-- diamondback, and glittering, they lent the heat of their fires to His, and all burned brighter in song as he watched them, and at the confluence of their watching, drew down that point at which they mediated far closer to the earth, where its light would warm those who met the men who had descended to meet them.

Round and round he marched, and twirled the handle of his hammer light as a femur or wrench, carrying it always beside him.

the darker

the dawn

The winds roared up. Around you, a light shone through his skull, muscle burnt away where his bones burned as white-silver lodged in flesh black as tar and red as marbled beef. One hue alike as the amber of cherry preserves hacked from the tree of liberty well-fermented by the blood of patriots frosted by fountains of sugar which dribbled from the ever tumescent constrictor you longed to see bound in vertebrae by him who was all backbone ;-- to any intersection you would bend, to be his willing puppet, as if merely to let his eyes rest upon you recalled the lights of the rafters of the lockerrooms, the veils of mists, the lands beyond what gardens were splendid in the airy glass of your imaginings, narrow perceptible things all politeness could entail, withered as the vine which bore no fruit, fermented in its own flesh when left open to the light.

( )

A yellow-belly, all liver, for he had none, sliced open and reached around, corded with his own entrails and choked ~ it was never enough to consider, poor fool that he was born to be, and you were to love him. Were you not weak enough to revile him by lack of consideration as Cpt. Schreibermachen did, you could only turn away, look up -- drift at a further and more accelerated glacial pace to some vastness infinitely unknown, in a bleakness where no light shone, no life squandered itself, no petulant apes lived on excrement and begged for death, who did not fatten you with misery and make you sluggish, you would be young and trim again, and need not scars to shape you as a bodice. Your own skin stitched by lace of needles and gold pins through wounds which festered with glitter and broken glass you opened by sweat, splashing shearings of arteries which were always coral-colored rosettes blooming as corks much like their glowstick splatterings of warpaint, all arbitrary for all was alive and all was beautiful and all of it fit together in a perfect pattern of varying and unfathomable complexity. You could stare into its geometries subtle and vibrant in their complexities conical bulbous leaved and serrated, inwardly refracting, and yet still ~ was there nothing beyond this, what more could you want, what was there to strive for having only ever known perfection, as imperfect and meager a thing as you were?

the blacker

the suns

Jacek whispered.

You could feel his hands. Crawling up your neck.

He weren't there.

"I could always make it worse."

The tears flowing from your eyes.

You loved him.

the darker

the dawn

With his hammer, he burst open the hatches of pipes to free water flowing in torrents across the mosaics, filling the pool run dry.

does death

come

Around him, the Jacekobeans who were Eight, with spades which were the backs of their hammers, beat crumbling stones. Flakes glittering quartzite in the sun with speckles of luminance inlaid, flowed with an abundance of coinage clattering. Iron pressings of his face and His in silver and gold across the crystal waters shone in flourishes of white foam misty as lotus blooms rendering all dusty corners as beachfront vistas, the sea here so shining and clear ~ you looked up and beheld the wheel of fire which Jacek drew down. A chain of engine exhaust to tether the earth to the sky, a conical mound fit for ants to climb alike with termites -- firemen and soldiers, plague-bearers and clerics of disorders unknown -- and by the white of its phosphorous, you saw the ruins in which you lived radiant in the high contrast of dramas you refused to imagine, yet assailed you by continuous suggestion tempting to corner your mind to a mere four, windswept as the spheres ever in orbit you were beyond, and so could not recognize such meager things as upside and down, orientation or perspective ~ all being on one hand or the other.

alone

In light veiled by gradients denser and coarse, the sandstorm collided with the crystal waters, and from its core, blossoms of algae generated spontaneously as larvae in the entrails of a horse from diaphanous union of heat and clay to raw potentiality and more, bursting forth in a bloom of mudflats petrified as tablelands evaporating back to component parts, carrying the faintest aromatic of oakmoss and pond scum honied and resinous to conceal the glittering gold as at our feet -- socks already off, huffed and savored one dog boy to another in bursts which tested our lungs, nostrils seared as the steaks we would fry of our dead -- came lapping the mud into which we would pull one another down, back into the earth and our roots which entwined as serpents in the jagged carving teeth of her embrace, rendered unto stadium filler always in the eternal thresher of our unwavering discipline to self-eradication ;-- this world being one of death in which all life is a heroic abnegation of fate; the discovery of free will an undiscovered country in open day, beckoning always one glory another after another.

or with

eager

As a torchlight, the miniature sun shone in blood ruby clusters across the muddy waters. Around their beaches, cypress branches blossomed from the veins of men holding the handles of letter-openers, numerous as weeping willow over the spring which overcame no stagnation the rational will weighed upon it ;-- its conceptual space barren as the parking lots it pitied of what grandeurs existed here of their own unrelent, it needed always more space to stash things it didn't need, but which merely claimed like a ticket to weigh on servers ignored, feigning tips and taxes, ignorant of what it murdered by existence alone. Mere being being murder. Killing, killing, killing. Killing from the beginning.

reinforcements

In the mud they leapt smiling, stripped to the bands of their jocks, braised by the labors of physicality, their own continuous exertion underappreciated, brawny bodies glistening their tendons in toils delirious and unrelenting, softening where they hard-boiled, as if boiling away flavor and seeking always more spice in the variegations of life.

does death

come

The whites of their eyes. The whites of their teeth.

Smiling at one another, you saw pink gums of the periphery beckoning, white apes buried in fossil substrata running rheumy as oilwells tapped but to light the fields aflame. Blackening the pestilence we sprinkled on our mutant yields, fried alive in the airwaves we agitated to cook our brains like the eggs we left, timers always ringing to wake us.

alone

Glorious morning.

Joyous day.

Ever-becoming night.

The Head Laikanite, rising from his salat, began to extoll his master.

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy Holy ~ ! ~ Holy Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

The Fourth )IV( of St. Joseph's men, he amongst them who was in affect most a Laikanite, looked upon his brother's form and saw in him the likeness of their elder, and was so afflicted and enraptured by love in its most paradoxical form, where that which is becoming is already-become.

Day is a gentleman. Always yielding.

He raises his hand, and to them he sings.

Day is a master. Never tolerating.

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

Holy ! ~ ! ~ Holy

To him, the remaining Seven rise. To him, they sing.

the blacker

the sun

holy ~ !~ holy

holy ~ ! ~ holy

To each of them, his Seven now sang :-- as the commander of them beheld his men among the Jacekobeans in the mud, and regarded neither him nor his brothers with any affection. So set was his eye upon Jacek, he disregarded even his own master, disregarded his own beloved ;-- that He which was first and foremost you as You'd made him.

the darker

the dawn

A fireball roared before Laika.

Upon whatever they looked, they could not see, blinded by themselves and by the mechanisms they made of their sight, their eyes themselves being reflections, they saw only inward in fractals which begot all color and hue, for you remained only the blistering white light of the unbecome, still one with the sire you longed by definition to defile.

flashes from

the axis

Around you blew always winds of malediction, for even as you stood to meet him, you groveled. In your own chest, half curled-over and aching for all you could not say, well-rehearsed as you were, the lights you met every night to say the lines which were the only ones you knew, shuffling from one frightful encounter with the void of another countenance to another, behind which you feared you may find sentient life, the stony masks of these Greek marble men and their late-onset discovery of drama, tool-worshippers willingly made tools by false divinities, of which you were only a fool lesser power who begot only devils by lonely nights you sired only misery, sewing only pain to some tapestry of erectile dysfunctions to compose a nautical museum of unicorn semen and leviathan cock; each gnarled stone, whatever its origins, but another pike on which we yearned to see ourselves mounted and impaled.

flashes from

the axes

As the eye of the storm you were, into the murky seawalls of your heart none could see. None could bare the subtle hatreds which broiled the air by the baleful gaze you refused to keep to yourself, eyeing every man as meat fit to slaughter for some sabbath of your own diseased contemplations. Raping nature to become her, but another mongrel which fought hard for a soul to corrupt, to you all I have given you cherish always, I know. Lost little fool, see here all I have still left to give you, all which you have left to ruin, gracious as it is ungotten. By his own hammer, bash in his skull, for you pervert all things with your odious love always unworthy to be given, always ill-gotten when received. You could only look upon this idyll of all exquisite longing and primp and fawn, dreaming of new ways to desecrate it. Piteous thing, remain piteous if it please you. All within me is infinite, for I am aligned not with the false pole of your disease, but some frequency beyond measure which is the attunement to the truest glory, unfit always for broadcast standards.

flashes from

the axes

Only he beheld you. Only he, by beholding you, invited that blindness which was the frenzy by which you at last saw clearly. Only he, speaking to you with the unvarnish which slickened you as the insides of an anaconda's throat, he always devouring you as you devoured him, could you more than I Cannot, Cause I Can be. You thought, and therefore all was and was always more. Glass ceilings shattered and eyes gouged out with shards of mirror, you dug your fingers into the seams between your hair and yanked to uproot the mandrake, always deafening the filth-encrusted freeways of their open channels, long winds at night sweeping papers we longed to please, stamping always stamping, with eyes like postcards in a procession of splendid scenes.

flashes from

the axis

Staring into you. Staring into your eyes.

Speaking no word, leaving you to spill out indexes as if imploring a single page on which to thumb. Some number on which to put to practice. The only poet they could send a meager foreign correspondent without sense to tear the braces from his teeth and rip them out his own fetid gums as a string of pearls, beating his head with them as a king or kong, be he donkey or ditty, slobbering streamers of shimmering spider eggs in the open riverbeds like chlorine tablets to the pollution.

You would describe it. You would describe it succinctly.

You could speak. You were meant to speak.

You were a good boy.

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

What rotted in you. What weighted and sickened you.

Could die only by being born again.

Holy ~ ! ~ Holy

To the wind pouring down, rotating around you who could see only light, craving that darkness always proximate, always engulfed in what you were suspended, always as the pigment upon a canvass to which it is eternally obscure by nature of its being spread upon, you who were only a streak of something foreign chipping away and flaking, needing to be retouched, primped by delicate yet decisive and fiercely insistent fingers, reworking always some vision glimpsed but unspecified, seen only by those with sense to see, you with your lowly defeatist gaze held not only to your feet, but the feet of your betters, so enraptured with them and their supports, they with the strength to walk bare upon the earth clothed in silk casings of white cotton, the water mingling always with the dirt of the weave and so in what sparse mud flowed through these fibers, all was scented with men and their labors.

By the lights of their hammers against the stones, they sent up the nuclei of cherubim to the star whose orbit their master held close -- held before you, so they looked where he looked, and saw him and not you. He being in the periphery while you remained but simply the center, that point around which all things grew always less obscure. For the less they saw the more they knew, and knowing so little of Jacek, they knew him well and always better, while you, being only most beloved ~ remained a mystery and more by the way they drew, close.

Around you erupted fireclouds in a din which burst as pentacles spelling out, through roundabouts implications unstated and always spoken, the endless variations of your name, and all were adoring and adored by you, as all were adoring and adored of him, and from him you had no separation, and in him was the end of will purely overcome, so all was unbecome, all already being done, and nothing was left, all being all right, and upside-down mattered not at all when all inversions completed by revealing symmetries already precisely laid out, now gleaming by further-implications, being all-knowing revealed as a curse in which nothing is left to learn, all things being learning moments, and so forgetting only ever to be alive, remaining unalive, forgetting and dying, drinking always to grow denser to lay lips upon the leaden, bending gold to rob it of its convection, begging only silence where naught but beautiful music surrounds you, in an oven sewer gas and electric.

I, ever divisive . ; ,

A Chef's Hat

Upon Your Head

Meeting them. All around you singing.

To taste the dirt

now cleave the mudman

Hellfire kitchens

fit for atomist sage

You heard nothing, saw nothing.

Seeing only deaf ears, hearing only blind eyes.

Oh no ~

There Goes

(Yoko Kyoto

~ The Anagram Lover's)

Tokyo ~

This catalogue of follies was yours to compose.

To this world, you would gift A Litany of Woe.

( o . o )

( . o . )

( o . o )

The light dimmed. The music fell silent.

Upon you, the congregation directed its gaze.

"Our little brother Laika," Cpt. Drottin intoned, having read it so well upon each placard which St. Joseph had publicly inscribed with instruction befitting he and the other Laikanites, always bumbling, always servile, always eager to learn and to grow with him. "What a pleasant surprise that you would indulge us with this rare full-view of you by the light of day! You seem not at all faint against the backdrop of the clouds, our every Cuccooland a calling, there being shroom enough to play in our forest as there are rooms enough in our mutual manor! Please do not hesitate to extend to me and so receive ~ the delicacies and delicatessens of our fraternity, we all being equals in helplessness, needing no help but what we offer ourselves. I oppress you not by the very nature of what I am, but simply those ways which you oppress yourself, as I have legion to my name in number far exceeding yours, my words remain most assuring I'm sure, and of this no man would argue, though any could and I invite it openly as I would any conflict, would wage any war for love! Question my every proclamation! Question it with null and void vocabularies limp as the pricks I've locked, mute in what little time I will allot you speech, you not having remarks prepared, nor improvisation to mettle in the decks I've stacked against you! By every card I draw, it is revealed to me always the course of victory gleaned by the right path the fates have generously afforded me... you being but doomed to disparage yourself, as if waking from the catatonia you induce in us all?"

Why did he ask a question?

Why did ask a question after a solid twenty minutes of telling you exactly how We feel with supporting evidence he pulled straight out his own ass?

"Hey thanks, broski!" Laika spat. "I always feel seen and loved by you cause you're such a stupendous and good-hearted chap and I absolutely believe with every fiber of my being that zero part of you is faking any of this for posterity or revenue, your whole ass looking faker than those lotiony cum dribbles there is no fucking decent diegetic reason should be all over your own face. Holy fuck. How do any of you dipshits buy into his fuckery? I am the biggest fucking coward, all I wanna do is cry up a storm and be held long throughout the night, but this fuckin guy? How fuckin starved for attention you gotta be to take solace in a fuckin toothpaste ad for anal bleach? Are you seeing this motherfucker? He is glazed like a turkey in a heat-lamp dawn of nonstop running up the bill to please ... what exactly? What continuity does this oversexed sexless labgrown clay pigeon dolly gotta do with the glory of nature y'all seem suicidally bent on returning to, as if shoving a lubed-up bald biker bro's head back up a sloppy overstretched cunt to belly-blow her from the wrong side out? What the fuck is the point of manufacturing such an outrageous lie to make fake people who wanna bury their head in the sand to cuddle up with their ostrich eggs feel any good? There is nothing real about him. There was never anything real about him. He is lifeless as the fucking plastic hunks worth nothing which ya won't throw away causea how cheap, thin and diluted the whole of the present is makes ya teary-eyed over a time where a proportionate amount of raw material was allotted to disposable product? When does the fantasy end? When do you stop singing praises to artificial conditions dead-on-arrival decades past for you are so lacking in instruction, in direction, in nuance, all is endless maelstroms of sightless sound as overdone as it is tasteless?"

To this, they said nothing.

To this, they only stood watching.

The head Laikanite fell to his knees. Sitting beside you, he extended his neck, as if beckoning the blade-edge you did not carry, keeping your tongue always sharp as a rapier from every wound he licked.

"Laika..." Cpt. Schreibermachen affected patiently. "Is there something you wish to tell me? Do forgive me if I feel incorrectly that there's something you wish to say, but seem to have trouble articulating?"

Laika, looking up...

had nowhere left to go but down.

"Joe, what would possibly make you think that? I can't think of one single thing I don't know how to say, or which you wouldn't be interested in hearing? That you can imply such things so tactlessly out in the open, in front of an unwilling audience you've hijacked with incomprehensible sorcery any idiot can comprehend, hence why I can -- I mean, what are we even talkin about here, Joe? There are just some things ya don't fuckin talk about, so what are you getting at by askin, huh?"

Cpt. Schreibermachen, certain of the meanings behind words, and how his cognition and therefore sense of self were an emergent phenomena, was unrelenting in this inquiry most certainly invited.

"You have a talent for seeming to state things without stating them. You're uniquely gifted at pointing at things you want pointed at yet without pointing. You seem to draw things to my attention over and over with neither pen nor paper, making no mark(et). Please forgive me if I'm telling you things you already know, I'm never quite sure if you do?"

Laika would have liked to have made a tsk as he turned away.

Yet his lips grew too dry in the interim to ignite with moisture.

"To be honest, I think you're the crazy one? I think you want to humiliate me because it's fun for you and I deserve it, so why won't you?"

Joey. Stood with the eyes behind him.

"This is the brick," Cpt. Drottin rose the monolith which was this red rock -- burst to dustclouds of a thousand fragments -- from which we made our cornerstone. "I have learned love is Laika."

This brick he bashed into the nose of the man closest him, the fourth of his own line. Shattering on impact, he stumbled into a wall most certainty there, which he could neither pass through nor scale, not with the great plateaus of his nostrils gushing onto his linens to compose the organic facsimile of a performance in splattering gore.

Laika ... could only spit.

"What the fuck does that prove? How am I the asshole cause you brick your own guy in the face like a dumbass? Durr-durr. Yeah, buddy! It's me! I'm the one who's as insecure and insane as Brux! I'm a tiny dog-hearted lil bitch with no loyalty outside what my own ravenous and whimsical appetite dictates me! That's why I sit there and not only let him constantly verbally abuse my boyfriend while I not only say nothing, but secretly agree while I masturbate furiously to his hate-filled comments all night long and thank God he's got such little self-awareness he can spew such torrents of atrocious nonsense which nobody else got the balls to agree with openly like a smokestack out to skies all the more glorious only for how the carbon emissions refract the sun into the splendor of an oilslick trapping every rainbow in its grime to reveal a resinous amber of industrial runoff more fragrant than the bile of whales or pitch of trees!"

He gave Cpt. Drottin only more reason to smile.

"In what other ways may I make my speculations known but by opening your ears to the neigh-saying which never ceases from the horse's mouth? Do you not see how the straw in which you stuff his emptiness fails to spin itself to gold? Your senses I have amplified as the record I have let play on repeat and all throughout the night the music still blares. Why do you not listen, Brother Joseph?"

Laika. Didn't know what to do.

Laika never knew what to do.

( )

Joey observed and made suggestions.

Joey instructed and was always unobtrusive.

( o )

Where was Joey's backhand to the lip which yearned to kiss his ring?

Where was Joey's fingers to the mouth which implored to suck?

Where was his lip fat as his coiffeurs, meeting him swelling to swelling, as all he wished to do was whittle himself down by the daily grind.

Where was the blood we needed give ~

to milk the gold of lead?

"Laika ... " Joey spoke, and at last was heard.

"How do you feel so unloved ~

you are most beloved of me?"

Laika.

Didn't know how or why he said.

"Very simply, Joe."

To this, he never spoke.

You swallowed a lump in your throat.

"Hey guise!" a stray man called out:

of no rank, only distraction

and so was shorn of all structure

when the Tallest of the Men of Clay

carrying slung always an anti-anticraft rifle

knocked a hole in the stone behind him.

"I'm breaking up with you!" Laika belted.

Having said it, he stuck by it.

Having said it, he no longer had to plan for things only pretension in some game with a poser he loved only for he was loveless, starving always in the isolation he set apart for himself, gluttonous as he was and so willing to be indulged, he would take any scrap thrown his way.

"By all means," Cpt. Schreibermachen said. "I'll give you a week."

To this challenge, Laika could be only unrelenting

"Just for that it's gonna be two!"

("Just for that it's gonna be two!")

Joey laughed. Joey laughed all the sweeter, knowing Laika had earned it.

"Music to my ears, the imminent return of silence! What a joyous man you have made me, dear brother! Remember my smile well, and treasure it likewise it be your last, for the day shall come when it truly is!"

Their eyes never left them.

No matter how far from his haven he fled, they did not cease to watch.

Through gates and archways, onto the bridge he flowed as his own stream, carrying naught but the debris onto which his men clung as rafts, the thunderclaps of Jacek's boots his sole remaining follower.

"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"

"I only hate," Jacek said, "those who give me everything I could ever want to deny me my every need."

"Long nights ahead of us, Yacko! Gonna take every ounce of courage I got not to go crawlin back to Joey before the two week deadline is up! This time I'd rather fuckin die than give that smug indistinguishable-from-a-bitch motherfucker the satisfaction of getting to keep on thinkin I'm as completely pathetic as he must think and know!"

"Completely is always an overstatement with you, bro!"

"I AM ALWAYS INCOMPLETE!"

"You never finish anything."

"NOTHING! NOTHING AT ALL! I ABANDON EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING THE WAY THEY ALL ABANDONED ME!"

"You got no source of gravity. It's always their own fuckin fault when they got no idea how to both hang on too tight and always let you go."

"I need two incompatible actions performed with such close proximity as to appear simultaneous! I need someone to beat me with the calm of a monk ringing me out like a monastery gong! I need someone who has completely overcome my crazy and can now guide me invisibly as an unseen Benevolent Force! I need to be moved without being awakened from my trance! I need the God Man to come into my life and rescue me from myself cause I can't conceive of anything but saving others and will help only the helpless for I know not how to know what I don't know!"

"You need to be dumb without being stupid. It's your own fucking fault, being born to a country which conflated those things in a more than successful attempt to make your thoughts unthinkable."

"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK WHEN NOBODY FUCKING AROUND ME CAN THINK! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE A FUCK MACHINE WHEN I'M TOO BUSY BEINA THINKIN MACHINE. HURR-DURR. MANDATORY AUTISM NOW. EVERYBODY SAY AND DO THE THING CAUSE IT'S WHAT WE DO AND SAY. I AM IN A STRAIGHTJACKET OF MY OWN THOUGHTS VOLUNTARILY CAUSE I'M A KINKY BASTARD & WE'RE ALL GOOD SLAVEBOYS. HOLY FUCK YES BIG BROTHER. KEEP HYPNOTIZING ME WITH JAPANESE BALLROOM MUSIC THAT'S WHAT I'M FUCKING INTO NOW!"

"You love to suck my dick. All your memories are of sucking dick now."

"I AM A GOOD COCKHOLE."

"You have no will but to be a better cocksucker."

"VROOM VROOM I AM THE VACUUM FEED ME COCK."

"You will congratulate yourself daily on the quality of your dialogue."

"I AM A MASTER OF NARRATIVE VOICE! I AM THE MOST PERSUASIVE AND BROADEST REACHING OF ALL MYNA BYRDS! I WEAR THE MOST MASKS CARVED AND CLEAVED OF MY OWN PETRIFIED MATTER! I AM HE WHO RESEMBLES MOST THE BRANCHES FIRST HACKED MOST BELOVED BY THE FLINT!"

"Brux don't even know what a cock is. She thinks she has a cloaca."

"Brux isn't even female. What the fuck is he? Brux is a grey alien. Brux wants to stick spoons up his own ass to test for pudding. Brux looks at a butthole and sees an exhaust pipe which is shy and needs to be coaxed out like a dog from its playhouse. If we give Brux any say in evolutionary potential he'll make us evolve hemorrhoids which come to increasingly resemble pussy-lips til we're all baboon-assed with colonic tissue. Brux is a sick motherfucker! Somebody needs to murder his ass to save democracy! God save the Queen who is Liberty who is us, the People. Somebody, oh please, somebody assassinate Brux, but don't use that word! It would imply he's a person of fame or infamy, but oh yeah, make it look like an accident! Make him look like he died cut down in his prime, which wasn't overdue and expired so everyone can fantasize about how the waste water we poured out was a liter of the good shit wasted. We wanna keep his ass printed on shit for centuries cause if he looks good we look good, but holy fuck! Sure is hard to make that fucker look good! Thank Moi he's got an artist or two on staff, that fuckin diva!"

"Brux is a duck-billed dinosaur."

"Oh my God, Brux is one a those cute lil smoothebrained coneheads."

"Funny lil colored-crest!"

"He's a water rooster!"

"Hen without cock."

"Whoever said the Chinese had an insect consciousness? Why would I know anything about a communist hivemind when I see one?"

"I don't fuckin remember any of the shit you want me to say. You feed me like forty lines at once and expect me to remember em two hours later when we were in orbit of a recording instrument dedicated solely to stated purpose. I am a variable recording machine. When you don't set me right, you make problems for yourself. My urge to murder Brux is slowly aggravating. That wasn't a nerve that needed touching. Brux is fucking annoying. He won't stop starting shit. Bro, I just wanna fuckin exist in the same space as him without him like... constantly either imagining a threat or a come on? What the fuck is going on in his brain? His diseased brain. Why does the possibility not arise in that turkey giblet skull that the most probable solution is I'm sexy and I know it. It's very simple. There was a song called that. I'm sure he's heard it. Maybe if I played that song around him a lot and danced around in a tiny red jockstrap it would click in this thick fuckin skull I'm not his type and not available. I don't wanna show off my hot chiseled body to Brux. That is the stupidest fucking suggestion, bro stop. Sometimes when I think about Brux, I think about taking my shirt off and flexing. Don't know what that's about. There is nothing about Brux whatsoever that is worth considering."

"The thing I wanna --"

"His insipid intellect is more infuriating for the ways in which his uncouth manner attempts to make itself polite as his frankness attempts to obscure itself by broad gesture which renders the vague always vulgar and the unstated ever more obscene for what it fails outright to not imply. The best way to hate him to his face would be to show him my cock."

"Yacko, what are you fuckin doin? We're talkin bout me now, bro."

"You brought up Brux."

"I'm pretty sure you did actually? Why would you do a thing like that? What would possess you to mention, Brux? Brux is unspeakable so let's not speak of him. Brux, Brux, Brux! He's not Betelgeuse, he's a duck! Anyway, what I wanted to get at was --"

"He's so fucking stupid. I'm just sitting there minding my own business and he attacks me and talks so fuckin fast I got no fuckin idea what he's saying, bro. It's like he pins me to the spot and bores a drill of myth cycles in my brain by the ever-advancing braille of his blind gropings in dark spaces and like... I can't not listen. No matter how I may drown him out. Bro, all things are a black abyss, and in all the nothing I am now, I see always what lies peering beneath the surface? The more I wanna fuckin try to stop the deeper I'm pulled in, holy fuck. Why is a draft, a current of air, a rift gate to a bed of strep throat? Just wanna bash his fuckin skull in with a rock, but then they'll act like I'm the crazy one. Bro, you're the only one who understands. You're the only one who knows what a fucking psychopath he is, it's why you know he needs to die."

"Okay, there was a chance I may have been joking when I said that, but it was only slight. You should definitely take my every word as gospel and murder to avenge me, for I have nothing to lose and only everything to gain from your disruption. Go forth and lay havoc to the land, brother!"

"Huh ... I love you because you're so gentle and sagely and wouldn't harm a fly, and yet also ... I wish to slaughter untold legions in your name, and what's more I feel you would indulge this blood whim gladly in your favor, receiving it as any carcass laid by a dog at the feet of its master. Why do you not disavow these fantasies of torture I willingly plot to make a reality in your name? Why do you not, with your perceptive and loving heart, kind as it is lightened by the gentle wisdom of your exquisite sense of suffering, not righteously bar me as you would any beast which disgraced your dreams of civility with a tooth unsnarled at the gentle hand of a stranger who would never strangle by collar?"

"Yacko, look in the mirror for a second."

"Can go a lot longer than that, bro."

"Let's not forget who I'm talking to here."

"I never forget. I'm always 'What's that supposed to mean'?"

(((Laika couldn't remember.

Any of the things he said to Jacek.)))

"I can't believe you'd say that to me."

"Refresh my memory, what glorious utterance did I make real this time?"

"Don't fuckin play that game with me, bro."

"What fuckin game? I'm not playin any fuckin games, bro!"

"Contraindicated by contra-indications. Bro, I can go over your utterances and find points always in-favor or against any interpretation. Bro, you're worse than a fuckin bible. At least other people read that shit."

"Bro, don't gimme that. Nobody reads a fuckin bible!"

"Cutesy as usual. The learned do well to seize onto figures of substance, a true constitution baring more than the pressures of any passing breeze which conspires to ruffle my hair by a ray of temperate warmth."

"Yacko. Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

"Nobody whatsoever, man I love. To my brother I leave his kingdom, for I remain beyond you, being but a horse. To my lands may he favor without the burden of tax, I having no toll, nor bridge nor troll, taking the river itself as my own. By these waters I make real what dreams you have left undreamed. To waking death, I leave you now, I finding life in deeper sleep, being but a walker as I learn to run. My body unrotting, my brain well-alive with speech, no basement lab do I belong, for my day is every day I make mine, those of my kin giving me my yearly festivities."

Laika. Looked at him and did not think of Joey.

Laika looked at him only the way Joey must have looked at him.

" ... huh?"

"I'm breaking up with you."

"BRO WHAT THE FUCK YOU CAN'T DUMP ME YOU'RE MY ONLY REMAINING BOYFRIEND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'D DO WITHOUT YOU OH MY FUCKING GOD BRO NO PLEASE DON'T GO."

"I won't dump you," Jacek stood on the railing of the bridge. "Just ridding you of the deadweight, bro. Gotta let yourself be unburdened."

"I get the sense you're using my words against me and would like me to deduce which ones by the emphasis you're refusing to place?"

"I would never hurt you, bro. You just beg for it."

"What an insane and obvious lie that must be!"

"Farwell, man I love. Be it forever or til tomorrow, I unburden myself of you who excites me most, and suffer gladly to indulge you your desire for the ultimate excruciation ~ the emergent and insanely realistic probability of a life without me. Dream of me. Every waking night til the one of your death. Loving other loves, looking in each of them for me again, failing always to be roused to the heights I roused you, stirred to the depths I stirred you. Shaking you to your core by word alone, leaving you beyond breath and further beyond memory by what I did with less, leaving you shuddering by mere suggestion of a second."

"If you admit you gave me fucking amnesia, it is not fair at all to hold things against me I said in a dissociative fugue! That is a cheap trick! When you inevitably come crawling back, I am absolutely going to use that against you because you told me it was okay by suggesting it!"

"FAREWELL, BROEY"

Jacek calls to the castle far-off.

"YOU CAN KEEP HIM!"

Saluting you, he steps backwards off the ledge.

Not looking forward.

Not rushing to peer over. You stood tight and sat.

In procession, the Jacekobeans marched in line. Drawing a letter-opener, each stabbed himself in the abdomen eight times as was their right before throwing themselves from a point in the air to running water.

"You will not fucking survive that!"

As stones against the surface, he heard them.

Into the mists rising over the edge, he looked.

What auguries there were at this time were faint. What he knew and expected however was immediate financial gain and opportunities for professional development, having purged his support network of any lingering elements which impeded the free flow of his change like a clog to the drain which induced constant backflow and damage to the wallpaper and tile from repeated breakages of lingering masses through suction and distance by apparati ill-suited to the operation.

What he deduced therefore, was he needed to give himself more time to complete various projects and set better standards about realistic timeframes, particularly having so many perfectionist instincts which weren't really more like tendencies, because he wasn't a quitter, but kept putting himself in positions where all he felt he could do was quit. That wasn't always quite so sensible, maybe. Maybe there's a difference, at least a chance, that sometimes challenging yourself is distinct from making things impossible for yourself. Maybe when you already feel things are rigged against you, it does neither you nor anyone else any favors to rig the game further against yourself to deny you...

These thoughts glimmered as pennies flicked in fountains. When nobody was looking, he would reach in by the handful.

Laika was smart enough not to sneer at free money.

In these rising waters, he could see nothing but what he earned by what he saved, and what he gave away, he realized, was often of less than negligent value and every little bit here and there amounted to well enough to weigh him down with fortunes, leaving his pockets drenched and glistening wet, no matter in what poverty he placed himself!

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