Blog #23: Vodka & Women, Vol. 1: The Monkey’s Spleen

Blog #23: Vodka & Women, Vol. 1: The Monkey’s Spleen

            All this blood… all this blood…

 

Bona Dea Eve.  May the ‘Good Goddess’… not rain on my parade… (I don’t have a parade.)  May she… not poop in my drink… (I don’t drink—but you must drink something!—hey, that’s what I think, too!—everybody dies—fussfussfussfuss—)  May she… (which one is she?  Athena?  Isis?  That one on ‘Baywatch’ with the Brezhnev eyebrows?)  May she be both goodly and goddessish… and bring peace and compassion and chocolate crème pie (and beer!) to all…

Eewww!  Beer with chocolate crème pie?!  I don’t think so…

But vodka goes with everything.

 

 

Ode to Vodka

 

Oh, my belove’d—

how you never fail

to lift me on high,

upon wings

of fluid inspiration

and the surging,

electrical warmth

of the invincibility

you bestow!

 

Oh, bedamn’d belove’d—

to raise me up

toward shining, pinnacled heights,

only to cast me

downward once more!

To thrash and bludgeon me,

to hurl me from the heavens

for the error

of my Hephaestan pride!…

 

Oh, bedevilishly beguiling temptress—

vainglorious, magnanimous,

savage, and wise—

the harsh mistress

of my soul…

you are as nothing to me!…

—yet who can live with nothing?…

To deny you,

is to deny myself;

I live but to embrace you,

to consume you,

to drink you in

and feel your heated passions

coursing all through me—

my mind buzzing

with the alacritous intent

of your mischievousness!…

 

Oh, belauded, besotting, bedraggling belove’d—

I don’t know anything about anything…

but I know this—

our indomitable strength

whene’er we are adjoined

allows me the brash bravery

of an immortal!…

And, all things considered,

our coupling so augments

my complete lack of fear

in all things

so as to balance quite nicely

with my overwhelming lack

of common sense!…

 

[from ‘The Vodka Diaries’ (at least):  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/15943.]

 

 

…in the Green Room, swillin’ gin and licking Moxie Roe—the hooker with nice shins…

            (Wha’th’f—?!!%@$&)

I’m halfway down the stairs to fetch more coffee ere I realize I haven’t brought my cup… (‘You rampallian! You fustilarian!’)  It doesn’t explain the blood on the bathroom floor—or how the leak occurred in the first place—but it does…

No, I suppose it doesn’t do anything at all.

 

Just BE.

            (HA!!  Bite me, True Believers!  Bite me right here… just below the coccyx…)

I don’t know anything about anything… but I know this—

 

 

Musings – #79

 

I don’t know how

she ever convinced me

to let our “Safety Word”

be:  “Again”……

 

            (No, no, no, no, no, that wasn’t it!  Just skip that last bit…)

 

 

Dzivagura’s Gams

 

Gray, bleak day

of despair in July…

almost August…

(grandeurless—blah!-)

sultry summer sin

in my soul—

and Dzivagura’s legs

burned into my brain…

 

Three days ago—

a day in dire contrast to today…

a day of sunny splendour

and steamy, sweaty—HOT!

(butanyhooo…)

clad in a black mini-skirt…

(her now—not me…)

and how I could have forgotten,

I’ll never know—

the most beautiful, sexiest,

loveliest, pulchritudinous legs

anyone, anywhere, at any time

has ever had!……

 

Perfectly fleshed,

smoothly unblemished,

delightfully tanned…

I admire them

not only aesthetically

and sexually—

but spiritually…

and (well…)

nearly cannibalistically…

(but I’ve said too much…)

 

[from (both) ‘The Brighter Side of Angst’ (and then some): https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/45503.]

 

 

I guess I didn’t know that either…

Maybe my brain is leaking.  Not in a spiritual-epistemological-esoteric sort of way, but—

            Apoplexy! Apoplexy! Apoplexy!  Ya vol!

Yes, like that.

 

She circled slowly around me—glaring with that queasy, nauseous, obscene sort of uningratiated animosity that caused me to love (and despise!) her so… she would poke me with a fish (ironically enough) and howl like a chicken!  Owwwooooooooo-bok-bok-bok-/skitter/scratch/-[phlegm]-uh…  (I have no idea…)  As she opened her torso to me, I noticed her innards looked as if she’d already been made into chili—like a twice baked potato, but a girl and with meat and just yuck—and/or yum?

But I knew it wasn’t really her anymore.  I knew—as only I could know, for ‘twas wit’ my brain (you see) what done I thunk it— (HA!!  Take that, Descartes, you bastard!)… I knew—my nightmare had delved into the waking world of my reality… (which is really rather a few blocks off the reality of anybody else, methinks; you just go up there to the giant obelisk, about six blocks up, hang a left, and keep going right until… I don’t know, ‘til you fall down and bleed a lot?  What the hell?!)

What was it?  Oh, yeah!

Nightmare—reality—boom, boom, (etc…)

I knew… it was not truly she… it was—the Monkey’s Spleen!!

 

And so I just ate it.

And I ate her…

(If only to be entirely redundant.)

And then, when I had crapped her out, I fed her to a dead dog…

And then I ate that… but vomited it back out again—and all over that whore Moxie Roe… who lay bleeding on the bathroom floor—stinking of gin… and (now) a particularly heinous gloppy goo of vomit…

And so then I went downstairs for more coffee.

 

 

CANTO XXVII:  May Day

 

Amidst springtime

blooming,

writhing—in stillness—

withering all away,

in spiritual decay…

 

I lay alone.

 

Window open—

a cold spell,

though early May,

reaches icy fingers

into the room,

first caressing—

 

then clutching…

 

eyes open,

fixated on nothingness…

 

a blurry nimbus of black

hazes the periphery

of vision—

 

the cloudy darkness

of unbeing…

ever expanding across

perceptions,

 

digging ever deeper

into my brain….

 

A light flares to life

—momentarily—

the warm image

of an angel…

 

she doesn’t seem sad anymore—

and she smiles at me…

 

at me

 

a flare of warmth within,

a brief sense of…

 

something…

 

before the light fades,

the angel disappears…

 

darkness, once more,

encompasses…

 

through silent screams

 

—soulfully—

 

I bleed……

 

[from ‘Kriego Silencieux’:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/28539.]

 

 

~ finis ~

 

 

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—Mishka Zakharin  © 2015

 

 

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