O gray, bleak day of Midnight in July — august, yet grandeurless — summer Sunday morning in June… with scorn and scorpions and scallops and misery and a light misting rain and despair… and woe, just a bit of woe — O bitter woe! — just a tweak, but a twinge — always, ever, and again, the sour taste of [bile!] abject woe in yer throat, in yer brain, think yer going to gag, vomit, retch, oh, retched, retched, retched Be, oh, being of humanity (like pizza, it smells nicer than it tastes)… and this thermos… / bouncing monkeys flinging poo — haranguing orangutans punching throats — chimps and bonobos, why can’t you just get along?! — gorillas run amok, cups overfloweth — gibbons need not apply (hey, that’s no fair!)… / Miralovna and Dzivagura walk into a bar — an ether’d, epistemological happenchancery aired (— wherefore angels fear to tread?)… surely now… there will be Death… / and now ‘tis outright raining — O windy, windy, blustery, woo!~ / Quandary of an Angst-ridden Vagabond: …in his vex’d abstraction, he was constantly confusing ‘fajitas’ with ‘vaginas’ — which, as one might imagine, simply caused no end to his troubles… (and then something about a Mexican night at the sorority house — and, uh!, the big, bloody mess to ensue…) / there is a sticky note (colloquially) on my desk which reads ‘Genital Herpes’; I know exactly what it is in reference to and why it is here… (only the bartender knows… and (mayhaps) Zhugovsky — who has gone away… in his muddy’d, mêlée;d, unmeshuga’d maelstrom of mookieproof’d—
Hup! Lost my train of thought. Therein — forthwith and alackly — go the whims of I… indeed, by troth, an’ forsoothly… anon.
* * *
…and maybe just a little something for the kids, too, then…
Her thighs were called Gwen—the right was Gwen-1 and the left was Gwen-2, for such was just the way the wind blew—but the rest of her was Betty-Betty-Betty-Booooooom… and everyone called her Cerise (because of her complexion, due to her infection, as caused by her indiscretion—inspired by mere misdirection, yet induced by unsought after affection, in an unfortunate moment utterly lacking… in perspicuity…)
Cerise, despite the magnanimously supernal majesty of her immaculate Gwens, felt blue. Oh, it wasn’t because she had the rickets… or the mange… or the clap… or bleeding pores… or inadvertent venom-spurting when she yawned… or someone else’s breasts, having lost her own in a climbing accident in the Himalayas, but the transplants were each from different women and so they didn’t at all get along… or an unborn male twin that manifested as an internal erection poking up from her lower belly whenever there were attractive, naked women in the locker room at the gym… No, her glumness was caused by none of those things — as none of them applied to her… though she’d once had gonorrhea, and it made her usual pinky-rose hue into an absurdly disgusting orange, and made her think of that irredeemable asshole who was Speaker of the House—
Which was neither here nor there…
The glumness of Cerise lay instead with the realization she was in love with the wrong man. She knew he must be wrong — because the Gwens were trying to kill him… She was not only glum, she felt utterly exasperated — disconsolate, at wit’s end, and expressly odds-bodkinated.
“Really, more than anything,” she said, lubing up her thighs with olive oil and lime gelatin, “it just makes me feel like an obsequious crack-whore in springtime…”
“Well, it ain’t no meaty supplication — I can tell you that much!”
And a dream within a dream within a dream within a—
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—Mishka Zakharin © 2015