Well, I rock and roll on around in my orbit, caught in the dance of weak forces I make stronger with my own mass … that's how they say it works, my guests, strangers to their own spaces, alone in fishbowls, looking out, sometimes with instruments. They are scientists, Dog love em, dreamers of all sorts. They prowl my skin with magnifiers, picks and shovels, grow on me, pee in my face, shit and flush it if they are of a mind; their bodies grow into rinds which must be pushed inside me like useless implants, for they provide not, give no medicine. The wise burn in ovens and scatter themselves to sea and land, providing healthy ash to my substance. They hate and love one another, spill their juices into my eyes … of which there are many, by the way, so don't get your hopes up, thinking to blind me like a drunken Cyclops or Samson of the Temple. Ah, I hold their bones, too, bones of myth, the originals that once sat up and drew breath, cursing and sighing sweet breath of lyric, songs of love, gimme, gimme.
Those two: behold. They walk in the night, hand in hand … first one tentative hand reaches out, brushes the other, it's the man's first doing the reaching, hers he touches, yet she reaches for it, encloses, gives a little squeeze, that's my a girlfriend. I feel their wanting, their new lust; love, even, for they've exchanged niceties, tender confessionals. He is somewhat older … who can say how much, how can a planet determine their little times? I don't know if they are even substance yet but a dream of it, or packets of energy coming together in space somehow (this happens a lot now, a new thing, very much not of me, yet sharing in the vital force which slows as it packs itself up into such as I am). But I see them peripatetic under heaven, saying things that are often misunderstood and so they must go back over and explain it all, ruining the poetry, for there is that between them, a kind of word dance, a sex and communion of flesh in potential. He describes the crude steps of union, which she welcomes while at the same time resisting his dirty pictures in words, at least provides none of her own, or she says things like, "I could … it would be … your sper ...," beginnings and ragends of words … There are reasons, moral foundations dug into the dust which could just as easily be blown away by a sigh of admission, "I love, I love …"
"Well, I'm in a family way," she says. A funny expression. It meant something else once. Was it big with child? No, that's fuddy duddy, I think you say it that way … pregnant, yes. Only she means it as simply taken up in marriage. For him that is nothing. He is older, from a wilder time. There were old ladies and men, "My old man," she would have said then, who could just as well be replaced by the current packet of electrons, photons really, for they are all of them three parts light, the rest of my own rocks, gravel, dust and ashes …
Sometimes I emanate as a sandman to frighten them, to chase them away into hiding in small places where they must stay close, breathing each other in. There could be kisses, they could touch, have at each other like a couple of hungry ghosts … they will, I'll see to it, have, in fact. They've fucked themselves black and blue without even knowing it. He knows her every bump and blemish, as she's felt him driving into her and gone a plundering through her furrows, Oh, nice; those furrows are always so nice. This warm thing of dust and ashes, held up screaming before the lost light and whacked into unconsciousness and unremembered flight, these blundering lovers so cautious of their persons, me, mine, he and she and it out there, the strangers of space and time … come off it, shitbirds! Get a life, as they say. Did. I don't know. Their words mutate even as they are uttered: they soon need a dictionary of their own argot, what do you mean it's bitchen? Who's groovy now in a world of army issue wagons and the arrogant ordnance of commercial manslaughter? Women, too, now. Hell, they'll gut you with the heels of their shoes. They change faster while I am only changed by … Oh, acts of God as described by insurance companies, or their own cutting into me to make way or to find more … well, more of it, anything, depends on the vicissitudes of exchange values. There had been a gold standard or something. Now I think they call it simply a future. I don't know what that means. Other than no more digging, haha.
So they are hiding, hiding in a hidey hole. He begins to drool, as is his wont when in her proximity. I think some of it even winds up in her lap, which is covered by a flimsy dress with a hotdog pattern, very strange and cute. "Yukola!" she cries, and like a fool he laps it up, drinks it right off her dress, his own spittle, disgusting I can hear her thinking, all the same kind of sexy. So, she holds his head there, pushes it further into her lap until his chin rests against her mountain, and she pushes that mountain against that same chin of his. (Is this the famous "giving head", by the way?) She brings herself close with that head, that chin I mean, for it is prominent, somewhat peninsular, why it's just a stiff old peninsula poking itself out into the sea of love, you might say. Her sea is title waving, something like that. Then she makes a sort of ook! ook! ook! sound which means she has come to completion. It is her first with him. He, on the other hand, remains virgin of knowledge. Well, there is that of the head, the chin, nez paw? That is a little knowledge, very dangerous I am told. Who tells me are those thinking they are alone and talking to themselves, or it might be more polite to call it a dramatic monologue, what they are doing when they babble on like that … But aren't they even going to fuck? Here I've taken the trouble to manifest, to scare them into it, yet they take not the lubricious mudra, position A: Missionary. Go on, fuck her, you ass! Life is short. But no, but no, he flies to his books and music, his proud collection of DVD's, and she to her Family Way. They separate. Return to the Electron Blues, which is sung alone together. I could kick these puppies, had I a foot. Well, I'll emanate one, the foot only, and only long enough to kick their asses, the little ingrates. Here I've provided them opportunity for true congress, consummation, the first big bang that was promised as long ago as when crib death stalked the earth.
I'm dreaming. I can do that. Planet dreams are long and elaborate. They go on for centuries of their time. I've got these two born and dying, then reincarnating over and over in every imaginable variety of dry fucking, starting with the Dirty Boogie invented by the Great Alviso or Elviso in the dawn of time, their time certainly; what was before?: NOTHNG: wars, Frank Sinatra, blind painters and the songs of the sex-deaf. Stupidity pimpled my flesh before Don Elviso.
Only a dream. The two are immanent enough yet in my dreams they come together at last, she away from her famous Family Way, he from his toys and substitute flesh. He thinks he is too old and makes himself all tragic. She does other things, writes on dissolving paper with her own urine. This paper flutters out to him in astral form and he sniffs at it. Hmm. Urine. Hers. I will cherish it. Friends visit him. "Smells like piss in here." "Yes," he says vaguely, and lets it go at that. And then they leave the house to visit the many interesting scientific discoveries scattered all about and labeled, VIZ: Boy Reaching, caught in the lava of Pompeii hence frozen into the posture you now see; Girl Douching, same venue, cf previous exhibit, the one to your left, stupid.
This is my life. Dreaming of their life. Making it up as I go along. Is that how they have life, though my making it up? Or is it from that fool god of theirs, the one handing out cigars and those hornrimmed glasses, mustache included? I think that's the puppy. I've forgotten. It's been so long, even for me, since that factotum cooked up his mischief. They say he walked the earth but I never felt him. Said he made me, too, which is unlikely. I was here way before all those ideas about me. I was here at the birth of Chance and Natural Law, which is even funnier than god, you know (Dog, I say, capital D, just to be an asshole). It's more recent, hence more chic and hip, so to say, although once again challenged by squeaky primitives wanting to be born again. Can you imagine? Born again? Into a world made by that fat headed god of theirs?
END
