Blog #46: The Focative Syllogism

Blog #46:  The Focative Syllogism

—or:  ‘Disgusting and Itchy’!


(Just nevermind.)


So I’ve been on hiatus with the writing.  I needed a break, I needed to replenish, I needed to remake myself, I needed… to conquer and plunder and destroy and read some junk for a while…  And so shall I continue to do.  But I also have to start writing again.  Not just ‘writery-related’ stuff—like the promoting and publicizing and looking for reviews or publishers or whatever—because that’s what depletes my energy and my creativity and my mojo and my [something French] and my… chutzpah?  (Probably not chutzpah…)


Well, whatever.  My plan, writing-wise, is to come back this fall and finish off my third novel, ‘More than Kin and Less than Kind’ (which was being problematic)—but over the summer I would also like to start (continue) plotting out the notions I’m having for a fourth novel:  ‘Weasel in the Rough’(I’m very excited!  Well, not that excited… I’m… nebulously not unenthused?  But nowhere near nipple-tingly.  Let’s say… moderately optimistic.)


In the meanwhile, one of the little side projects I’ve been (hardly at all) working on is an expurgated version of Daemon Mishka, volumes 2, 3, and 4, collectively to be entitled ‘Potemkin’s Umbrage’… which I hope to publish this year, but it’s slow going (what, with the not working on it so much, and all…).  So we’ll have to wait and see.  But there was a bit—from spring of 2002, so (holy crud!) 15 years ago (bloodyhellstinkrot—how—?!)—which I just read and thought to share in blog-like fashion… which is nice, mesupposes, as I just never write blogs anymore… and they were kind of fun… and mayhap I should do more of them again… butanyhoo—


So this amused and/or entertained me, so here’s a bit o’ stuff…


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from ‘Potemkin’s Umbrage’ (forthcoming):


You know, you can’t write a romantically lyrical poem using the term “skull-fuck”.  I mean, you could start out with something about how beautiful her eyes are—move into the passion they imbrue within… and then—no, no, no, no, no!  Not at all, not even a little bit—just cannot happen… unless perhaps it was done in French?  (And, in this case, when I say “it was done in French” I am referring to the presumed writing of such a poem.)  Of course, even that’s no guarantee—what if in French “skull-fuck” is still just “skull-fuck”?  (Or, vernacularly, I suppose, something like “fukke’-la-skule’”?)  Oh, Well!

Butt at any rate…


            She obsesses me—though I know, merely because she’s all there is… (and there isn’t even her).  I am a toy—an ego-boost—a fun, little game to play before returning to her other…  And I say that with the bitterness of denial—not only hers, but mine as well……


What’s that I smell?  It smells like winter, the wind pressing firmly against the window—like my engorged loins when we danced, pressed to the soft, feminine underbelly of her being… hands pulling, probing, her scent filling my senses, my awareness reeling, no thoughts remain—nothing now but feeling… my lips find her neck, to taste her, to imbibe upon the sustenance of her flesh—

……the gray, bleak, barren sky, the wintry grip that refuses to give way to spring…

……Gray, bleak, barren winter grips my soul…  Yes, I would rather have Everything… (though not with her—with whom I should be…)—but Everything goes unoffered… and so I am reduced to base intentions, dwindled to carnal desire, shriveled to all that I loathe and abhor in others… and in myself.

I long for her breasts—their modestly plump, firmly nubile, pert perfection… the pale nipples running out to greet me upon my return, responding to my kisses and licks and pinches with the very supple buoyancy of their protuberant elation… my adroit member swells with yearning at the thought of once more knowing the feel of her hands upon me, the touch of her lips on my lips, our tongues reunited, intermingling and writhing and—

The harsh bitterness that arises is deflected off of me, to be displaced onto her… rationality only just barely helps to keep perspective—but even that is obscured across a sea of vodka…

So just run away and hide—no, no, not from her… she is but an on-again/off-again sort of an obsession… just to pass the time, to take my mind off more nagging concerns of frustration and futility and utter purposelessness of being and what have you…  But she is a part of that from which I must run and hide… that which forces me to go away, to recreate myself—and, hopefully, to never again return from whence I have come… to start over with all that has come before as but the footnote to all that might yet be…

(But I ain’t holding my breath.)


             Today, then, shall be the day that lasts nine years and seventeen minutes!

What else?  What else?!  Where now, from the mental morass of my cluttered dreams and chaotic imaginings and nebulous musings—wherefore shalt I draw forth much needed inspiration?  From which nook or cranny might I lure thoughts profound or clever or wise?  Whilest the barrens of my mind are swept clear of uningratiating tumbleweeds of heinous distraction, the cold, dark loneliness of the soul masquerades itself as night… forcing my gradual descent into the abyss that is ultimate death—the loss of spirit, the snuffing out of my soul… an intellectual sort of a death, from which not even truly, carnally, and righteously hot sex can bring me back!

(Well, I suppose it started out nice enough… but then my head gets all muddled by phantom breastings and what not, and it all goes to hell… forsooth!—hob nob.)

My knees are cold—but I’ll not put on pants!


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(Uh!  That was neither focatative nor syllogisticish.  Forsoothly—anon…)


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—Mishka Zakharin  © 2017



My first published novel, ‘Natalya’s Tale’


My second published novel, ‘The Telemachy’


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