delirifacient (29 page)

and at this slight of her previous she omitted to smile but called him and his for what they were they were mere beggarly fantoccini and that was all he and his multitudes were no defending one’s beloved from their derisive muck and she cursed his unwavering availability he was as available as the wind or the streets and that hereafterward he had nothing more to seek out on her streets.

and his relief at being able in all finality now to laugh his filial duties away and out of existence was exhausting but also insuperable it choked him but still he did not laugh he purveyed for himself the more august of exits and honored her great tracking eye by ignoring it unfailingly and latching on to the under-oiled door in her small flat and opening it and dashing down her stairs and carried forward falling off the shoulders of her imprecation he forever forsook her streets and left her to the mockery of living like a word between parentheses.

and on and off he walked his sigh hungry for the other’s face, his shaggy mouth acunt, and on he stumbled into the lamppost, tripping, blinded, rising, drifting, gazing cuntward, but his surcunted orientation failed him, and his whole body tried to shake itself off, shake him off and gyrating cuntwise, and after he had mastered his cunticular movements he decided he would no longer obey the dicta of cuntum physics no he would not decunt himself further before all those serenely dogmatic non-cuntists and he would burn their gardens and from their ashes would rise a pure clean precuntic globe a globe of generous bulk goldsculpted into eternity each mourning and no of course he would do no such thing it wasn’t worth a cuntlick to him regardless regardless i say of paracuntular historicist implications and he refused to encunt the crumbs of his mind with the paintsplashes from the postcuntal blasts and the onslaying births of cuntlets myriad and varied left him cold histrionic he was crashing outside the street painting and dripping and the raining himself outside his lines as if mocked by a malevolent demiurge with a remote cuntroll and his antennæ picked it up insect being squashed by pure will head contra lamppost there was no burn from the weak light and all this was molten autumnal metaphor and it was the time of languid cuntfall.

and the browncoat regained his drowsy self after some moments of this and cheerfully recalled that across his remaining years he didn’t have much living to do after all no not living surviving enduring lasting in time – durating and so it went and so it slipped out of his control and control was like the spectral dust on a moth’s wings no use to anyone except the sadist. and the browncoat walked back across the evening and dreamed he was back in paris and on this occasion definitively in paris to stay and the thought of this made him so happy he mocked himself roundly even from within the dream.

and the streets of peterburg were empty as per their solemn custom and the brownback paraded the mangled tesseræ of his phantasms and projected them against the placid walls of the houses aligned on either side of brownback’s stroll and it was after hours of course the brownback never came out when there was work around him for he could always be blinded by splinters from its buzz saw but this night as he crawled onto a little house’s welcome mat for a nap and just as he was fishing out what precious comforts the mat could afford to part with he was accosted by a policeman a tall grasshopper of a policeman and the policeman said that what the browncoat was doing was unnatural.

and the browncoat sniffed and attempted a cackle but renounced it midway and said natural natural was what no one wanted everyone hated it natural is the little wife thinking on her groceries and the child’s kindergarten timetable while the smallish husband rains down transpiration and halitosis an exquisite few centimetres above.

and the policeman challenged the relevance and potency of the browncoat’s equivocation and was desirous of knowing what the browncoat was looking for on an empty street alone in the boredom of the night. and the browncoat avowed to the policeman that he the browncoat was merely walking and recuperating and the policeman expressed doubts as to the sufficiency of such explanations and the browncoat averred that the policeman was the most paranoid policeman the browncoat had as of yet been harassed by and the policeman said that he the policeman might be paranoid but was he paranoid
enough
.

and the browncoat saw no immediate possibility of pacifying the policeman and merely yawned and the policeman raced on about suspicion and potentiality of erring and tenuous liminal illegality in that the browncoat had not factually perpetrated any coloring outside the proper contours but the rankling stench of exception persisted in the proper corridors and in this there was no doubting and who was the browncoat anyway and could he please furnish some identification and justification of purpose. and the brownback yoyo’d a jovial hullo up to the policeman’s nose and said that he was he and that he the browncoat was working diligently towards a Third in Mediocrity from cambridge and himself the policeman what of him and at this the policeman grew taut and revealed that he the policeman was don at oxford and horse sneeze elsewhere and all souls professor of symmetry and etiquette and the browncoat said that etiquette was a poor man’s understanding of labelling.

and the browncoat sang a song that called on the policeman and the city to swallow sperm, swallow system, swallow system of sperm. and the policeman warned him to temper his tongue fledgling lest he the fledgling so-called browncoat wish to learn a slew of new and interesting facts pertaining to his the browncoat’s grandmother and at this the browncoat could not abstain and told the policeman that talking to him -

or rather, being talked at by him the policeman – was akin to taking a freeform dive into

a

pool

of

sandpaper,

a

cheap

schoolplayproductionsimulatingtheseasbyagitatinglongblueslidesofcardboardortextile sandpaper. and this the tall thundergod could forgive no longer and he confiscated the brownback and the brownback’s person and dragged him to the nearest police station and no dogs barked in the night’s distance and this was a powerful strange omen indeed but no categorical loss for brownback absolutely loathed dogs most days of the year.

and in the police station the brownback was taken to a bored man who owned a desk and who probably wasn’t even a detective and made to sit down and the detective manqué asked browncoat what his browncoat’s problem was and the browncoat said the main issue he had been tangling with was how to exterminate all rational thought and that he the browncoat thought he’d start by stealing an opium suppository out of his the bored man’s grandmother’s ass and the bored man insisted on specifying that that in itself would constitute an eminently rational action and not irrational at all for an agent addicted to the artificial overload of subjectivation facilitated by opium and the browncoat had no answer to this and that was that and now what he the bored man suggested the browncoat do if he the browncoat was serious about this exterminating all rational thought and so it went was was the browncoat listening he should this was helpful was the browncoat should steal an opium suppository out of his own grandmother’s ass but that of course wasn’t an ideal solution either and he the bored man was afraid irrationalism wasn’t much of a career option for a young man such as the browncoat. and the bored man asked the browncoat what he did for a living how he supported himself and the browncoat said masturbation and the bored man shook his head and warned that using only pornography is surviving one’s entire life on cheeseburgers alone.

and two generously built policemen busculated a young man past the bored man’s desk and the young man’s long handcuffs scratched the wood of the desk lightly and the browncoat asked the bored man what the person shoved had perpetrated and the bored man assumed a serious expression and said that that was a young man who had declined to be buggar’d and from one such young man an hundred easily sprung and such insolence would lead ultimately to a debilitating demographic crisis and the great might of the russian cadaver would dust itself into the away and what use would this powerfully vascularised bureaucratic instrument they had been perfecting for centuries be if there were nothing to administer and no one to bore into submission.

and the bored man finally asked the brownback what he had done wrong and the brownback told him he had done no wrong and he had seen no evil but the bored man shook his head and assured the browncoat that couldn’t be so for otherwise he the browncoat would not be there in the police station and so why hold out and not confess that something that he the browncoat had done wrong and should that something just chance to be a something that the bureaucratic equation had no employ for in their sums and multipliers then the browncoat would be allowed to move on and persist in his maladroit futility and why not it was a fair chance he the browncoat was given no matter what anyone said and that the browncoat in his corde of cordum knew he had committed a wrong and the browncoat told him that his own heart could never be used as a witness contra and that it would abjure its guilty beating for clean chiselled silence should they even try to make it speak or sign their bulleting of him the lord browncoat.

and the bored man refused to believe the browncoat was clean of wrongdoing and finally the browncoat said that indeed he was not clean holistically for he had gone to a public aquarium and had seen and learned much and towards the end of his journey he came across an open tank populated by some delectably dull fish and one of the many species in the tank was elongated, bulbous-headed, had its eyes as far apart from one another as was anatomically feasible and seemed particularly fond of emerging to the surface and jabbing its head out of the nominally protective film of water and staring at visitors out of one eye of course, the one on the other side of the fishhead couldn't possibly have been used to cast gazes at anything within the first eye's reach and while waiting for the area to be cleared of other people who were few but a steady crawl none the less the browncoat accumulated a respectable amalgamate of spit just behind his front teeth and as soon as he was left alone near the tank the browncoat took aim at the closest fish and unleashed the foamy contents of his impatient buccal apparatus but unfortunately the projectile spit was far too abundant and all it did was cataract straight downwards no forward drive whatever, a long vertical trail of dribble following the initial cannonball in a straightfall manœuvre and the spit was slow and still stuck to his mouth and he had to spit twice more and wipe his lips and chin to persuade it to fall into the tank and having missed the fish by at least twenty centimetres, he hastily wiped his mouth clean of failure and moved on and shamed himself home and there he found a fly stuck on the wrong side of his window and uselessly trying to get out and heard and saw the fly when he came back to his room and he quickly trapped it inside a napkin, nimbled on to the communal kitchen, found a random mostly full milk bottle and deposited the still struggling fly inside and the critter made a respectable dash to escape but the browncoat’s bottle cap handling skills fatally established their superiority with great alacrity and efficacy and the fly was trapped inside the bottle of milk and the browncoat left the kitchen and the day had been seized after all.

the bored man contemplated this but ultimately relinquished his right to expectorate a claim of arthropod abuse and pollution of public non-potable water and its barely vertebrated inhabitants and knew or suspected that the brownback knew the mysteries of the bored man’s work and the bored man told him not to live by his the bored one’s magic for there was truly nothing to be gained by draining a bored man of his automatisms. and the browncoat told him that the bored man could kill all the giants in the browncoat’s head if he wanted but he the browncoat would still die in new york.

and the bored man felt at that time the many blessings of impotence in active homosexuals and decided he could not simply release the browncoat for there had been enough trampling on his the bored man’s dignity by strings of men united under horse costumes and he decided to employ the abysses of recessed psychology to worm a confession out of his interlocutor or perhaps he didn’t perhaps he simply was curious and had nothing better to do and the bored man asked the brownback what his the brownback’s absolutest most recurring phantasm was, the most obsessive mytheme of his ever so irascible consciousness, and the browncoat said that he would write it down for him and that it was a story of his dying away without any natural cause and being reborn with his former, adult cerebral self, complete with knowledge and americana speech patterns and emotional self-withering, intact and safely lodged within the newborn monster and that he the babe of browncoat instantaneously after maculation should think and talk and will and speak french and idealist german and read dostoevskii and write horrorpictureshow shortstories and grotesque novels of surrealist blood and get into harvard at the age of three months and bully and alienate his parents and make them hate him and slip brandy in his milk and as soon as his hands could slap he would draw an intellectual beard on his flawless fat face with a permanent marker or perhaps scratch it on using the sharper thin end of his rattler for his parents would have bought the new browncoat a rattler before he would even bore on this new earth and then of course he should age and age and his writing would gradually come to be described as adolescent and self-indulging and unpolished and far too generous to himself but indifferent of others and his intellectual prowess should not grow and he should loathe the mere phrasal proximity of the words 'child' and 'star' or ‘prodigy’ and should become an alcoholic and/or a junkie by age three or four and cultivate wrinkles [through some artificial method yet to be determined, preferably and ironically to be given moderate scientific plausibility] and his biological family should avoid him around the house and he has not determined whether he should be reborn into his old family his present family immediately after the death of his twenty eight year old self, into a new family, or into the old one as himself, in 1840, with his 1868 intellect and the ending of course – if any – he had left to be written later, save a chapter for blacker days what’s right was only right.