Sniffle teary those few months after Spencer died. Poor sterile sod burned through life oh man as if stung by a thousand bees. Dirty miser thought himself. Special. And Spencer believed Everybody loved him. I loved him. But I hated him more. Hate at first sight. My ached bonkers under the bed sheets. We fantasied the same Theme. Of killing and killing. Ourselves. Without suffering. Nobody wanted Pain.
Miss Mort misunderstood. Miss Mort crude result of a séance. Her puzzling at me,
Birdie how could you!
Impossible to love just any old celibate man but my Patience Explained,
We were opposites. Can’t you tell? Look at me now.
Clumsy woman on the prowl. Small trip wire hands. Smeared of cold cream. Haystack hair. Bitch funk on fire. BBQ sauced seasoned sucked of brains before.
I wandered into The Shop of Unwanted Flotsam. Dusty crammed. Bric-a-brac, odds & ends. Endings eeried dankness. Ugh. Missing. Him. The absence of hatred within. Second-hand hopes monstrous empty of what customers. Dodder my future groped. For? Rummage guts searching. Didn’t know. I wanted to throw up. Hey over by the door. Shop assistant sucked a cigarette. Smoke wisps orbit his thick grey beard. A stained yellow rimmed hidden mouth. The void of a half-eaten banana at his elbow. Fruit spat,
Change jingling in my pocket. Intension to buy turnips and vodka and marmalade and meat and marshmallows but dug compelled into. Old metal chest lined with brown paper. Trunk treasure, unjust junk behind a tailor’s dummy. Surprise pulled from under piles of linen, a feather duvet. Cast-off looked fine okay silk no stains. Oooh. Seemed to glow. Noticed a label stitched into the seam. Square patch embroidered. Of hooded figure waving a broom. Maybe a rake. A sickle. Sick. I put on my reading glasses. MADE IN… Mmmm. Black mark. covered the last word. Faint letters guessed. H…V…N. Pure. 95% Rayon. 5% Spandex. And visible below tagged these lines.
Small Print. 85% duck feathers. It is recommended to duck down. 100% protection from life. Romanticism measures 210 cm x 210 cm. Weight wait 100,000 grams Love. 700 grams Eternal Pleasure. 300 grams Indestructible Passion. 5 blanket powering The Totality of Real Penetration.
Even smaller print. Machine wash dead body cold with like colours. Boredom bugger gentle cycle non-chlorine bleach. Desire lickers tumble low cool iron or dry clean. Do not let wither.
Wow this. Interesting. Information instructions washed wide through my wondering. I stared awe into cavern plummet space……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….zoom the.
Mesmerized beautiful ran both hands over the fabric. Might be a blessing absorbed weird pattern. Those tadpoles, curved skulls, naked figures entwined vines of vivid reds, fairydinky pinks, loosed puce, purple chinks. Bastard cherries. Bunches of bacchanalian grapes. Reminded me yep! Mad Medieval anti-Christ barbarism lisped drunken rag church leadlight window. See reverse for care. I flipped quick the label over. Here always another side to. Compressed volume allows incredible expansion combining strong clusters of prolonged ecstasy. Fill power equals countless frenzied grams of Miraculous Joy. Sateen, a haven generating rapturous rushes. Hand-harvested feathers endowed with bliss. Needle stitching intended for Hot Spots.
Gothic erotic what. Poem? Cult? Obscure creed? From that abandoned monastery. But quilt seemed too lurid, silky, sexy. For a priest beast. More likely owned a porn star. Hypoallergenic baffle construction. Retains thrilling orgiastic shifting clumping. 350 thread-count provides durable delight.
Bless. My confusion. I crashed into the tailor’s dummy. Knocked it over stammering,
Sorry So Silly So Sorry.
Dummy as stiff as a cadaver.
Don’t worry about me.
Store manager pretended to stack dog-eared paperbacks on a shelf. Glanced. In My Direction. Stupid blundering woman apologizing to a mannequin. My red face pointing embarrassed. No price tag.
Excuse me. How much?
The counter he slouched false cheerful leer cheer mighty fibber.
Ah ha! A stunning example of hand-painted silk. Ten bucks. Cheap at the price.
A tidy up at the asylum. Matron said it belonged to a Henry something-oh-yes Miller. Went insane he did.
I shivered what if. Unknown. Obscure Henry, moth-eaten deviant. Anyway bargain. Paid shop assistant grinning I folded. It’s inside sort of squishy bumpy Bumps. As if full of floppy mini sausages. A million squillion little porkies. Fatted grubs, tiny cat turds, sand snails, spongey nose cleaners, dry cornichons.
What peculiar feathers! It’s light as a cream puff.
The receipt of resignation.
If you say so, lady. You got yerself a bargain. Not a single customer fancied it.
He handed me buttony beige a remote control.
It comes with the quilt. Self-heating. I assume the green button means on.
Outside. On Extinct Street. I followed spied deadly. Miss Mort. Skulking like a skinny sloth. Saw her. Pawing at brands of laxatives lining supermarket shelves. Miss Mort swallowing Prunelax. The worst Miss Mort blue-ish veined. Miss Mort avoided acting on a whim. I meant breakfast she marvelled at burn and texture of toast facing butter-side up. Her bossy, fastidious deathly. That shocking perm shade of blood. Face sheen of a churned cream with blackheads. Her lashes lashed stern. Scrawny, hairy being of. Soft menacing. And strong sinewy arms, the better to carry me. Younger than the world imagined. Kind of unfeminine wore slacks. But hint of blouse frills on thrills. Her killer laugh. I followed her home.
How grateful to Miss Mort extinguishing Spencer. The following court case. Heaven thanked a jury full of bitter women. Case dismissed. Let Miss Mort off. Suspicion faded. She unable to help her actions. She was her job. Spencer never knew her real identity. And what happened. How I. Gushed. Blushed.
My melodrama. Soap opera. Sob story. Wha wha wha wailed the stereo. Struck a clue well now howling for you. I twisted the volume knob of
Remember how he pronounced Birdie? Yodelling. That whopper yell BURRRDEEE.
That hideous sickening nickname. Notion of a Birdie raised unbearable. Fussy f-f-f-female conjured cunt in turmoil. The fluff bimbo lacked substance. No girl wanted to be an island. Isle of the dead trudging the sand dunes in high heels. Lace teddy. I tried. Sadder satin thong. Fierce pointy underwire bra swelled breastings. From staggered sag. Distraught rose buds sewn onto lace. Pitiful knickers longed for a bloke with a loaded gun. To save me oh please begged for it. Spencer refused to fire his pistol. A product of religion dedicated to idols minus a cock. His purity appetite frowned on sin of rev panting, rubbing the rose bush between my legs, all manner of insertions banned the bomb. Snuffed out seductions his command stop it. Motherfucker bulge-less trousers unzipped. Limp penis peeping. I reached for the superglue.
What’s the use of having one of those.
I tugged deflate.
Mine doesn’t work.
Has the well run dry? Is it the clap? Parasites? Worms?
His spitfire shriek hooted alarm.
It’s a personal choice. To withhold.
I laughed so hard start sprayed wet my undies. Spencer the monk bottled rum. Blunt hair, crowning bald patch and crisped his voicing,
Buurrdeee. Sex isn’t love.
I unbelievable pressure cooker pent up. Came in my sleep. Woke damp thrilled. Spencer heard moans in the night.
God won’t forgive you for doing that.
Didn’t scare me. The Mountain of Resentment. Greasy plates piled in the sink. Monotonous drip of a tap. A cartoon pinned to my grimy kitchen noticeboard. No woman ever shot a man while he washed the dishes. Bang Bang, right through the bum cheeks. Loner contemplated how. Everything tasted of celery. Saw a butterfly unfurling meditated nice nice. I cleaned the house with vanilla essence. Read Virtue Triumphant. What I pondered. Sexless future. Ripped the medicine cabinet from the bathroom wall and threw it out the window
Of tick tick blast thump thumping irrelevant Facts. Irrelevance mangled reality. Hit me over. Ran me down. Nod nuzzle noodled jay walking a Fact. Eye movements three per second a day. What were. The immediate effects of distraction. An express train spent two hundred seventy-five years traveling non-stop from virgin earth to disappointed sun. Fact. Semen rocket baulked to land on obvious moon. Rocketed eye train disappointment disturbance didn’t help a Birdie pounding the futon wanting to hold a gun to his head get it up man.
Now Miss Mort vulture taunted prey Birdie frump needy. I stole a deep confessed breath
Listen. What I need. Give away my heart. Rest my head on a broad shoulder. Any man will do.
Miss Mort held high hands. Spreading palms drip mock helpless. Sticked her tongue.
Birdie! A man will turn you into a trifle.
I started a cry fucked sobbing.
But I make a terrific trifle…
Miss Mort frowned,
Don’t forget to smile. Men can smell desperation.
Desperation smelled revolting.
I knew she intended to collect the remains. What I left behind. The rubbish an impractical woman bought. Plaster pears painted gold. Fob-watch missing its glass. Black vintage evening bags nailed to the wall like blackbirds perched in a row at a funeral. Fakery pearl encrusted picture frame. That photograph of me next to Spencer a figure scissors cut left jagged silhouette. His hovering a sever. Gripping my arm. Ow. Stuff buried me. That possessions barricade at least forced her distant. From a distance, Miss Mort criticized my clutter.
God, what useless crap.
Hey are you even allowed to say God?
Yes Birdie. God doesn’t care what I say.
Stood my ground defended.
I’m attached to my crap. It’s Part of Who I Am.
Miss Mort thumbed her nose snorting.
You can’t take it with you.
From the mantelpiece, she grabbed a pair of castanets. Clacking twirled circling the room. Surrender made her happy. Clickitty clack. She promised me a special journey.
Stick with me kid.
Stomach doubts burrowed. Anxious flies on that carcass risk. Distrustable her bossing.
Stop being ridiculous Birdie. Do it. Go on. This. Will. Be. Our little secret.
I shooed her away. I wasn’t ready. Yet.
Giddy muddled midnight the awkward hour. Everything difficult. Whiskied heat. How a woman, not old, but old, end up, up-ended? God-awful pathetic. Blah blah blah shrugged. I planned incredible hammering. Floated on self-soothing river of martinis. Paddled my raft with a fat olive pierced by a toothpick. Vodka deluge flood tsunami drunker than drunk. Lay in bed under bubble quilt. Wriggled a shudder. Bed knew why. It moved. Magic went bump the whole holy night. Spasmodic dreamed my eyes goat-like black horizontal slits. Blonde animal, hair leaping flames of hellfire. Pretentious hallucination. I whinged and stamped dainty hooves trotted along many paths of disquiet. Curious Miss Mort nightmare invasion asking.
Where you a scampering?
The Condition Preceding the End of Everything. This frightening concept waked me shouting at her, at the goat, at dead Spencer.
Stay away from me.
Distraught goat tormented liver panicked. Blood pressure shot into a droplet stratosphere. Roman candle ignited stupid old star scolding,
Try to exercise. Eat oats, seeds, grains, nuts. Or you will die.
Hell. Nuts. What was the point? Soon, inevitable the dying. Human fucking condition preceded the end of bloody everything. Good old Buoyancy ignorance myself afloat of. Blurry jumped off the merry-go-round. Chekhovian conundrums. Ludicrous things cracked toilet seats. Burnt light sockets. Wingless termites crawling on a hyacinth blooming beside My Purple Hysteria. I hid under the quilted. Got to get out more. Serious. Quilt surrounded me. Gift-wrapped. Quilt tighter around me. Lovely security blanket. Duvet smelled of cinnamon, fog camphor. Calmed me braver. I pushed the ‘on’ switch.
It is recommended to duck down. Billion tentacles pressed through quilt silk cover quilt fingers caressed my skin. Gentle loving strokes. Quilt alive rounded fingers pressing into my crevices canyons protrusions. It moved ripple over flesh tensing past tension. Zillion fingers pushed deeper. Reached my heart what loved. Unsure. The reason for happening. Then happy go along with it oh Romanticism measures true love. The Totality of Real Penetration Eternal Pleasure, Indestructible Passion. Million massaging muscles. I thought of course! A new-fangled electric massager. I instant worried about electrocution. Human body proved excellent conductor of electricity. Electric currents pulsated through every hair strand veins, toes, nervous system. Kept pressure over my flesh entire surface. Regret evaporated. Lethal still I lived. Blood vessels electrifying body elevated freaky levitation. Unafraid now. Beloved. The let-go threshold exceeded. Spencer dead thank God thought of his horrified at the sight of. Birdie levitating meow. Birdie burning pleasure yoweee. Birdie tingling macro-shocks aaaahhh. Birdie wriggle sweating drizzle mist deluge pleasure how. Gigantic cyclone spun wired shocker. Erratic. Hours exhilarated. Those thousand powerful climaxes. Woman plus object shaked inners together. Quilt me phenomena twinned. I disturbed the quilt stirred my body charged the roar,
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha………………………………
But spook nobody there heard. I listened hark empty.
Sounding of Miss Mort continuous emphasized.
Go Out With A Bang.
Tomorrow bullshit cankers away. Street noise morning. Rough sounded quarrelling couple out of breath, saw ya makin eyes at her just you wait until we get home. Paperboy whistled Dixie rootin tootin. Truck reversed high-pitched beep. Next door dwarfs, two shrill poodles yapped jabber, murderer. As I swished back curtains. Indian saris, unhemmed, fraying, bought for thirty bucks from a market. Dyed bright green, in a bad green way. Grass glaring emerald. Spun clothesline sunshine weeks, colour faded to who knows where. Of soft pewter hue. Hugh not his name. Reminded me of boring Bob, fuzzy Harold, picky Pete, Dave the diddler, midget Max. I fucked them all. I pined for Him. Spencer the terrible. Me greener than a pea, idiot, pushover. Hoping to change Him. Listened to every sad song. Miss Mort spoke encouragement.
Go on. Buy a dog, cat, fox, bird, pig. Give each a heart-shaped metal tag. Engraved with Bob, Harold, Pete, Dave, Max. And, keep busy do something. Read the newspaper.
Pages rustled. I smoothed the creases. I turned a page. Headline sprang. BIRD BREAKS LOOSE! Yikes. What odds. Prophetic missile sent from a firmament, past universe, whatever. directed at Birdie. Whoa put the brakes on. Make a decision. Choose.
That much I remembered. Deep in my smashing heart.
Womanland as island, real and imaginary. Inaccessible swam rough sea. I learned to swim. Alone entire Waters of Worthlessness. Lost without horrible him.
I know who you are. Death.
Miss Mort exposed indeed beyond exasperated.
Drama queen. What in the hell? For Chrissaskes.
Who do you think you are? Freaking Holly Golightly?
She mixed a potion chock of wounds, waste, a jug of whiskey. For Me, slumped in a chair. Miss Mort sniffed despair. Big nudged brained body, soul.
Are you joking?
No. It’s the appropriate time. Now. Now.
I thought roller coaster jerking one moment ecstasy next desolation fairground. I abandoned the quilt. You can’t take it with you. I kicked the kitchen. Sank to the floor. I put my head in the oven. Miss Mort ecstatic honked like a seal. What a pleasure clapped her flippers suggested several alternate methods.
Take a bath. Drop a hairdryer into the water. Press a pillow to your face. Tighten rope noose. Slash your…
No. Too messy, too painful.
Turn on the gas.
What uncertainty sheer fear hesitated. Jittery couldn’t be the end. Of big shebang. Buoyant once but dreamed. Good old buoyancy. Good old life. Circumstantial prior to the end of flipping everything. Took my head out of the oven. Breathed good reason wrong season inadequate gloom. But nothing ever good simpled. Put my head back in the oven. Took my head out of the oven again. Banged my head on the oven door.
Coward. Chicken Shit. Won’t go through It. This dying. Miss Mort claimed easypeasey. But a woman. Uneasy desperate. I drifted off for a moment startled then. Noise of airplane roared. Great. Got my chance. Hurried. Take a trip. Had to go somewhere. Catch flight. Fright. When would it finish. Maybe never.
Come with me.
Miss Mort horrified.
But we don’t have any tickets.
I made up my mind. Looked her straight in the eye shouted at her,
Stop fiddling with your keys. You’ve robbed me of enough. Leave me alone. Let your indulgence set me free. Let me think of what comes next. Oh. Say yes to my mountain flower. Head me off into the sunset. The big sky, the whisper of wind. Bear me back to the precious past. Growl. GIVE ME A HAPPY ENDING.
Miss Mort said,
I lay down, sat up, extreme fatigued had my vision. How I blissed into the perfect slice of my forever. And outside, to the strains of a violin from below, a fat tabby cat walked along the window ledge. Plump paws one in front of the other. A vertical tail ended with a black tip seemed to poke into the heart of immense darkness. The cat paused. It glared wide eyed fact how we ask each other.
What are you thinking.
Image Credit: Philippe Halsman “Dalí Atomicus” (1948)