Arse Poetica!
A pallid Moon’s lonely pilgrimage
posted by Duck @ 1:14 PM
5 Comments
Several years ago -three to be exact- I volunteered to participate in a psychological experiment. I was to undergo various tests that would assess my cognitive functions. Before the actual tests, however, they had to examine my blood to see that I fit the bill, in terms of a normal and healthy person. It was then that they found that my blood's blood, or Spea, was dying. The well groomed, suit clad, business minded individuals dwelling inside my circulatory vessels were unaware of their being part of a complex, multi-cellular organism. Their universe was a human and their human was irresponsible. The case was brought in front of the Supreme Court. The doctor's daughter, who had fallen in love with me, had no choice but to banish any thoughts of us and move on. She still loves me but has a practical side that I cannot bring myself to resent. I was told that the French/German poet, Croixan Sawnt was my only hope if i were to escape but i have been unable to contact him. I have found out only recently that ever since he lost his leg in the famed 'War of the Arachnids', Sawnt has gone into hiding. Neither of his daughters has heard from him in five years.
5 Comments:
quiet, very.
if your heart is that shallow.
i doubt i have much to fear from it.
depth is more dangerous...and uneasy.
by the way, any happy posts popping up anytime soon?
*Waits*
i don't know what you're talking about. i don't like your anonymity. therefore, i would prefer it if you leave because you annoy me.
As Bjorklund Rosenbaum grew older and greyer in his windowed prison, the one all embroidered with blades of leaves, convoluted tangles of ivy and intricately intertwined creepers, he stopped caring about all the pretty bushes that had quietly taken his garden over the years. He had watched them slink around and often he would water them and appreciate their fragrance and comment on their beauty to a neighbour or an inmate but as time rolled over him and crushed his spine, he stopped caring. Now he could hear them creak at night as they spread out all over his garden. ‘Who planted them? Not I...no not I.’
Sometimes when he would look out the window or come back from a stroll, he would stare at the bushes and feel nothing but sickness and disease. His heart would vomit inside him and he would wish entropy would act quicker. He waited and watched, biding his time, wondering who had planted them and why.
In the final year of his life, as the decanter of March’s wine slowly began to empty, all the colours grew ever more vibrant and a verdant spring infested his little garden and induced loathing within for which he could not find an outlet. Was it loathing or was it a sense of loss? At times he would sit in the coffee room and make gargling noises just to see what it would be like to do that. Was it a sense of loss or waste? ‘I have failed to understand what I have failed to understand.’ such thoughts would often make him want to walk around in his house in the nude. Sometimes he would hop downstairs and say ‘Hah!’ to his shadow and enjoy the sound his genitals made as they flapped against his abdomen. His pubic hair was neatly cropped but he could not remember what for.
One day, he went out to the local flower shop, brought home a young sapling of some one or the other flower or tree or bush; he didn’t much care about the species; he asked for something young and fresh and that was all he asked for and all that he got. He placed it in the middle of his garden, gently laid it down on the soft ground, looking at it fondly but with a mad glint in his eyes. Then, making extra sure that he was not being watched, although he wished dearly in the depths of his heart that someone was watching, he squatted upon it like a toad, unzipped his fly, let out a long stream of golden piss on it and then began to masturbate in quick jerky motions. The entire spectacle took some twelve minutes of his time, after which he took off his pants altogether and wept in his own filth, beating his chest and grabbing the grass as if it were handfuls of lost memories that he could eat and restore. And indeed he ate some of that grass, howling in a way that was pitiable but he made sure he wasn’t loud enough for trouble. An era of quiet solitude had passed and in its wake all that was left was impossible to express and yet painful to withhold.
Mrs. Weiss watched this performance from her drawing room window in silence, with a look of understanding that would have shocked her mother and stunned her dead husband had he been alive. She watched the presentation as a professional watches an amateur -with a critical eye full of helpful advice; with an eye that sees potential because it has already experienced and tread all possible routes; she saw with the eye of a teacher as he gazes fondly at the work of a student and knows that what he sees is the truth and the future and the outcome of not his endeavours but of what was meant to be; she saw more than just the act and had she possessed the ability to do so, she would have cheered him on or clapped or farted or died. An hour later, her nurse came by and positioned her wheelchair so that she could watch an old vase for the rest of the evening and when luck would have it, blink.
The nurse spoke to her in soft syllables and parted her hair in the middle to hide a patch of her head where hair would never grow again. She had always wanted to breast feed her children but seeing as she had none, watched the old woman in the wheelchair drool -with mixed emotions. Had this old bitch had a daughter or two, she mightn't have become the money for my rent and bills. This old bitch is me in twenty years or maybe less considering what I have to put up with; except that nobody's gonna wipe my drool and change my shitty diapers. You're a lucky old hag you know that Mrs. Weiss? At least you was rid of him before your hair grew grey, my man ain't never gonna die; God curse him! She turned around to see old Mr. Rosenbaum get up in his garden next door, tie up his pants and walk away wiping his eyes with the ends of his palms. He had grass in his matted hair and bits of dirt sticking to his face and though she could see it, there was snot dribbling from his nostrils. ‘What the hell has he been doing in his garden? What a horrible place this is!’ The nurse turned away and for a moment watched a spider weave its web in one of the higher corners of the room.
.
Rosenbaum decided to hang himself in June and so he spent all of April and May riding in the subways and talking aloud to himself, so as to scare the people who would under normal circumstances ignore him completely. He took to frequenting the park and also waiting for the traffic to thin down before he would quickly jump in the middle of a street, remove his pants and take a shit and then run off before the next volley of cars arrived. This was his most favourite pastime; sometimes if it were a slow day, he would shit in front of the offices where he used to work and once he nearly got caught. Every now and then, whilst taking the subway across town he would smile at a young woman and whisper some profanity to make her look disgusted. ‘I know what you want you bitch, you whore, you cock sucking hypocrite! I know why you hide your tits under clothes that don’t even do the job properly…you whore...what do you think? Isn’t my dick firm enough for your wet cunt??’ He came up with various tricks to surprise his companions in the trains, such as the old-cock-in-the-hat-trick: he would take a seat in the subway, unzip his fly, pull his cock out but keep his hat on his crotch to hide his erection till an opportune moment presented itself and then he would flash some woman saying, ‘This hard enough for ya?’
The women would usually blush and move off to find another seat. Sometimes they would turn their heads around and look back at him with narrowed eyes full of disbelief and revulsion and sometimes with pity. At such times he would show them his middle finger and gesticulate lewd acts. Once a woman informed a guard of his antics and he was made to get out of the train but not handed over to the police because of his age and because he started whimpering like a child who has stepped on kittens and realizes much too late that they are dead. On another occasion he was beaten up by a bunch of boys at the behest of their mother. He pissed on himself as they stomped on his podgy body with heavy boots and spat on his face repeatedly whilst he wailed and moaned. But the moment they would begin to lose interest in him he would say something like, ‘your mother is a senile bitch!’ and the boys would be forced to renew their attack against his person. He had lost two of his teeth and was sure one of his testicles was punctured by the time he passed out and the boys left him alone. ‘That’ll teach you the manners you old bastard,’ they said and went off to strut in front of their mother and claim their prize. Rosenbaum pissed blood for a fortnight and once even fed it to a cat to see if it would partake.
Sometimes he would be sitting in the park yelling at women and soliciting sex from young boys or running after squirrels, laughing like a maniac and the dusky sun would find him footing a path homewards, meandering like a wounded dog, trying to capture everything like an overeager youngster on his first realization of freedom.
One afternoon in the park, he sat observing ants when a young girl of about seven years of age came up to him and asked him what he was doing.
‘Well miss, I’m trying to ascertain the goings on in this here house of antiques.’
‘Antiques?’
‘Yes, I believe that is the proper nomenclature for this species of creepy-crawly, most vulgarly known as ‘ants’ by the commoners.’
‘You’re a funny man.’ said the girl with a tiny laugh. It was this giggle, more than anything else, which compelled Rosenbaum to raise his head and really have a look at his visitor. It was a young girl he concluded, one who would turn into quite a pretty old girl once the tits exploded and the bum followed suit. That age old stirring in the loins excited Rosenbaum and he forgot his 'antique hill.'
‘What’s your name pretty girl?’ a hint of creepiness contaminated his previously nonchalant senile voice and a shadow seemed to fall upon his face; a fact which the little girl did not notice altogether, although she did seem hesitant suddenly in getting to know this kindly old man. Children are sometimes more in tune with what goes on behind old eyes but then again they are much accustomed to forego all instinctual advice. Such are the fruits of the labours of hardworking parents.
‘Alice Cooper the Third.’ she said. Rosenbaum eyed her tiny body with growing interest. It was small and somewhat fragile and of course untouched, unspoilt, innocent and so on.
‘My oh my how big my cock would seem inside you, little Alice the Malice the turd?’ he licked his lips and wondered with a vacant gaze.
‘So are you playing with ants then? My mom says it’s ok to look at them but you can’t touch them or anything because they get hurt and die.’
‘Ha-ha, yes indeed I play with ants, in fact I’m playing with an ant right now and I do wonder if it’ll hurt if I touch it but I don’t know if it would die or not. My mommy is dead , you know? And I peed on her grave!’
‘That’s gross…I’ll tell my mom on you!’ she said, but only playfully.
‘Hey Alice, can you do me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘Come sit on my knee here first, I’ve got to show you something…something funny.’ Rosenbaum was beginning to gently rub his dick inside his pants as it grew harder and harder and he looked around to see where the damned mother could be, quite frantically looking for her girl perhaps even as he sat there conversing with the little bitch.
‘Umm what is it?’ she said apprehensively but her curiosity roused.
‘Well I’m not sure myself; I found it here an hour ago and I don’t know what it is…maybe it’s magic!’ he could sense that his dick had already begun to exude some pre-coitus fluids for the necessary lubrication and his patience had begun to fade.
Oh hell and damnations! The mother appeared shouting her name over and over again in a wretched sing-song voice that only mothers can compose. Damn it to hell, the little bitch is running off!
With tears in his eyes, Rosenbaum finished the job in his lonesome and went off to find his way home.
.
On another such evening, as the sun disappeared leaving nothing but a few pointy traces behind -trails of light that made him wonder if the sun had gone away so fast that these trails were left lagging or had gone away so slowly that they hadn’t yet realized they were supposed to go too- he came upon a dumpster in a dark, deserted alleyway. He could hear something rummaging in the dumpster and was convinced that it must be a cat or a rat.
‘I shall teach you to pilfer in the trash you dirty filthy animal. I shall teach you morality and self control.’ And thus yelling he climbed into the dumpster and fell in head over heels laughing -as was his custom now. In the dumpster he came upon a body. It was the body of a young woman. She was brutally slashed, he could tell because of the speckled bloodstains on her blouse, which was torn till the navel and left covering her breasts -only in the most by-the-way sort of manner. Like a bed sheet in a brothel, it was only there as a formality. Her throat had been slit but not all the way and now as blood bubbled and trickled down her side she convulsed and stared at some point in the sky wherein there were no stars tonight because the city had stolen all the darkness from the universe, and from inside this blackhole no light could be seen.
At first Rosenbaum felt frightened like a schoolboy who has pissed his pants and so turned his head around to see if there was a policeman he could beckon or some stranger he could ask for help. Then he turned back to the dying woman, lying in the trash. On noticing that he had an erection growing in his pants, Rosenbaum felt a bit ashamed but then wondered why. He touched the fair skin of the young woman, which was soft to his touch and sweet to his senses, and this compounded those feelings of lust that had already taken root within him. He uncovered her breasts and felt a tingle in the base of his stomach; they were firm and full but marked here and there with what appeared to be reddish semi-circles made by teeth and one of the nipples had been nearly torn off, perhaps by whomever it was that had left her there. He looked her in those hollow eyes and felt so close to her, as if they were one, as if they were meant to be, same peas in the pod. He quickly undid his belt and slid his pants down to his knees and parting the woman’s bruised-kneed legs he entered her cunt and began this final act of copulation. A cat mewed behind him, perhaps asking him when he would be done so it could use the dumpster to look for food.
‘Shoo! Go away; can’t you see I’m having a private moment? Shoo! Get out of here!’ he threw an empty soda can at the cat, which hissed and fled the scene. Rosenbaum felt shy in company and did not appreciate being watched as he made love. He was pleased with his close cropped pubic hair as he did not wish to appear coarse and unkempt to the young lady.
‘Make your gargling noises, my pretty, soon I too shall make gargling noises. I know we’ll meet in the shallows, gargling like children of rivers and lakes…hah! You are very moist and so shall I be when I am done.’ This and other things he whispered into the ear of the woman as he moved like strange hydraulic machinery over her. He resembled somewhat a disfigured creature of cannibalistic descent, barely human, perhaps a hunchbacked leper, eating her face whilst oscillating in and out of her body. As the woman finally died, Rosenbaum climaxed inside her and pulled out his dick, covered with the semen of three other men, though he knew it not and had he known, would not have cared, as he had just experienced an incredible orgasm; the words ‘I love you,’ had escaped from his throat before he could stop himself as he came. He was somewhat alarmed though when he discovered his penis had turned black but laughed when he figured it was only blood. A beetle crawled over his deflating cock and with a sudden jerk he flicked it away and shuddered with disgust. He hated insects: Who knew what filth they lived and bred upon? Pulling up his pants, he climbed down from the dumpster and went home.
‘I love you,’ were the last and most contemptible words that the dying Ms. Andrews heard before she died. She had tried to make some noise after the gang bangers had left her dying in the dumpster so perhaps someone would hear her and save her but only this dirty old man had appeared. He was crazy she deduced, perhaps some hobo having his share of the spoils, but since she had lost the ability to speak, move or deny and was only left with a vague sense of self, she stopped caring and wondered, ‘why it had had to be him!’ -not the old man that is, she didn’t care about him or what he did, but the rapist- one of them had been her neighbour’s boy and it was only because she had recognized him that she had been left to die. The frightened boy had decided dead people don’t talk.
.
Jack determined never to do it like that again. There was something to be said about making them submit mentally as well as physically to his will. He wanted to make sure that they would offer themselves to him willingly, for in that was a sense of power, intangible and from thereon he could recreate the thrashing, struggling excitement of forcing himself upon an individual by making the act passionate and working upon the lust that was inherent within all. Of course it was the fear in the other’s eye which was truly satisfying but he was not a barbarian, he knew how to read magazines. Every now and then he would get some ugly bitch to let him screw her brains out but the initial stages of the whole sham were hard on him. He had to pretend he loved her or them and so on. After the first kiss, he had to pretend he cared: make his eyes go wide, somehow project upon his face what he assumed pure and innocent excitement and puppy love looked like. He taught himself not to grope or be rough or do anything television taught him not to do. He would be gentle and comforting and the sort who whispers and holds hands and appreciates gestures and talks with his eyes and farts from his soul. He would hide his dick when it got hard and he would wait and watch and bide his time and wonder. He realized the importance of time and investment. All he wanted was to stick a dick in her when she was done with this tomfoolery. If such a ritual would get Jack off then perhaps he won’t have to jack off. All is well. ‘I’m glad I slit her throat,’ he would think to himself at night as he played that rape over and over again in his head in bed, ‘I’m glad I slit her throat.’ It was convincing and after a while he started having wet dreams about the late Ms. Andrews.
.
‘What the hell are you doing there old man?’ said an angry voice as Rosenbaum finished taking a dump on the steps of the Town Hall. He made to leave quickly but the owner of the voice caught up with him and turning him around asked him again what he thought he was doing. ‘Did you just shit on the stairs you crazy?’
‘It sure does seem that way don’t it?’ said Rosenbaum in a diminutive voice, unable to hide his fear and panic quite satisfactorily.
‘Oh man…are you mad or what?’ said the man in utter disbelief, cringing as a whiff of Rosenbaum’s filthy body tickled his nostrils. This statement helped Rosenbaum overcome his usual fear of authority and look up straight into his aggressor’s eyes with a smirk playing around at the corners of his dried up lips.
‘Do you work here sonny?’ it was something about the way he said it which scared the official. The mad look in the old man’s eye said clearly that he no longer conformed to any concept of authority or the purpose thereof. It pretty much robbed the official of all but the most primal means of establishing dominance: brute force.
‘Yeah I do and listen mister; you’re in a hell of a lot of trouble now.’ He said with not much persuasiveness. He was beginning to panic and wonder what he’d gotten himself into so early in the morning with this decrepit looking black toothed man. God I haven’t even had my latte yet! Meanwhile Rosenbaum began to use the voice he spoke in when he was alone.
‘Ha-ha, you have no idea sonny Jim; now let me go before I rip out your monkey heart and shove it up your asshole. The day your goddamn Town Hall does anything for me, I’ll come and wipe your ass but till then, if you so much as look me in the eyes as if you own me, I swear upon my dead mother’s grave I will yank your sack off and wipe my shit with it.’ Rosenbaum spat in the young man’s face, who let him go immediately, feeling himself on verge of vomiting. Rosenbaum let out a loud mad cackle and leapt downstairs, slipping, falling, rolling down a few, getting up, still laughing and running off. The time was nigh, he felt. His message had been delivered. Now all he had to do was seal the envelope and post it. Something clicked in the official's mind and he wondered if the crazy man he had met in the morning on the steps of the Town Hall had really been Bjorklund Rosenbaum...the Bjorklund Rosenbaum...shit...that's impossible!
.
As June came along and burned with desire, Bjorklund Rosenbaum ate a hearty meal. He had decided to somehow make sure that whilst he hung till death, he would shit himself, just to bother those who would, in due course, find him. He was hoping and working on the assumption that someone would indeed eventually come looking. This was not altogether an unreasonable assumption as he had planned this out in advance. He had read the newspapers with close attention and had come upon the obituary of Ms. Andrews in the Metropolitan section. He had waited until he was ready and finally yesterday he had mailed a full confession to the police, stating how he had killed the woman and raped her repeatedly before discarding her in the dumpster. He took care to describe her clothes and physical condition so the police would not doubt Rosenbaum’s guilt. With this done, he had no qualms about being found. In fact they were probably coming over now as he finished off the final preparations for his exeunt. By tomorrow he would be found. Once and for all he would be found by someone.
The garden, meanwhile, had grown wild but beautiful, ever more beautiful and flashy and colourful and fragrant, especially a small clump of well nourished grass right in the middle. So he would stand at the eyes of his windowed prison and gaze outwards or inwards, as his mind would allow. By now he always wondered whether he was the prisoner or the guard and at this juncture he would perform certain rituals to help him decide: only a few days ago he had bathed his old television in the tub, attempted to stick an entire candle up his ass, inject heroin in that big vein or artery in his dick and do all sorts of other things which he could think of. By the time he was ready, although he felt he had been ready for at least three decades, he could not think of anything he might have missed out on. Of course he had always wanted to rape a child, build a hospital for the poor, plant a tree on which a rubber tyre could be hung by children, go abroad to study foreign cultures, learn the names of all the stars, become a gardener, drive a truck for a living, go on a voyage, sleep inside a horse, eat jam with puss and toenails, remove his own appendicitis, do every drug known to man, fly a plane, crash it and survive, drown, get buried alive, eat a cat’s eyes, seduce a queen, start a new religion or end an old war and eat a woman’s breast straight from the body whilst being sodomized by a man or perhaps get a tattoo on his dick, a smiley face. But somehow he felt it all wasn’t necessary anymore. He had been trying to raise an army of rats within his house and that was working well enough for him and so he was satisfied. He had actually caught and gutted one of them and rubbed the remains all over himself pretending to be some savage barbarian chieftain. This he did under a full moon, yelling nonsense at the sky so that the sense of ritualistic practice would feel as true as it seems in books and movies.
‘Which way is out and which way is in? If I can’t go out and you can’t come in then what’s the difference? Who’s the prisoner?’ he thought as he gazed out of the sad eyes of his windowed prison.
So he ate a hearty meal and laughed and went up to his room, admired his noose, drank some laxatives and took off his clothes. He had calculated beforehand the exact spot where his shit would fall on the floor as he swung from the noose and on that particular spot he placed his books, which were on various disciplines ranging from religion and philosophy to science and art. Pictures from his past and various scriptures he had gathered as well as some bills and receipts, were also mounted atop the pile. Once satisfied with his preparations, he put his head through the noose and let the stool on which he stood fall away. As blood rushed down to the lower parts of his body, his dick became engorged with blood. It was the biggest erection he’d ever had and as he died, making gargling noises, he choked upon the thought that this strange phenomenon was known as ‘Angel Lust.’ With a reasonably loud noise that nevertheless seemed dull and far away to Bjorklund Rosenbaum, a voluminous flow of human excrement plopped out of his rectum and covered -like a dark, chunky blanket- all the proof of his existence.
Why?
reluctantly disturbed
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