Wednesday, July 28, 2010
early mornings give birth to mystery cloaked in red heat. the shadows are cool until the hot bricks of sunlight burn them black. I know nothing of Spain or its colonial bitch, Mexico. I have visited her plains and deserts and jungles before, but in the way that the lipless have sung hymns. now is the dynasty of my imagination, thine is the kingdom with hollow walls. Suzanne was naked again in the bright pink morning, and the luxury of her nudity was enriched by a fine American cigarette. She stared transfixed at Martin as he adjusted the belt on his pants. Outside a spanish guitar started then stopped as if silenced by the thorns that grew on the windowpane. Her violet eyes, very much like a feline's, poised triumphant beneath their brow. Martin stared at his toenails which had grown long and had cut Suzanne as they tangled together the previous night. That was one against him. Her hands were very still and the ash from the cigarette tumbled down like an ill-starred jet to rest among the snowy tops of her naked breasts. "Your hair is very red, you know." He said to her, his first words in a matter of hours. Everything seemed to be of a fiery hue, and he believed this to be a sign of the devil. "That may be because I'm Irish." her voice was hoarse from all the yelling and she took another drag from the dying cigarette. "Your pussy is bald, though." He fastened the buttons of his shirt. "You don't like a clean pussy, baby?" Suzanne stuffed the burning head of the cigarette into the headboard of the bed, suffocating it. Martin straightened up and looked at her, "I like me a natural woman." He moved to sit down on the bed but she made some feminine sound like the unfathomable snarl of a lady lioness. He swung left and rested against the white plaster wall. "If I stopped shaving and let it grow out, would you stay with me then?" She walked on all fours - paws heavy with fire - stirring the sheets up into a primeval nest. Martin shrugged his shoulders guiltily, "Naw... I'd probably get tired of picking pubes out of my teeth." But there was something in his mind, a vision, that suggested a streak of crimson running up from between her legs like a river of lava from a belching volcano. Like a crack in the dawn dripping down over the heavens and into his mouth. Suzanne was laughing and her laugh came in waves of electricity. The waves piled up on the floor and filled the whole room until Martin was trapped in his own narrow space against the wall. "Even with the window open this room smells like sex." Neither knew which of them had spoken, as if the room itself had uttered some truth, and they both breathed deeply the perfume of sweat. "Where is our miracle in the moonlight?" Martin asked her, "Where did last night disappear?" Suzanne clawed at her pillow and sulked.
She slid into a jaguar print dress that bulged around the rounder parts of her figure. Her stomach was a valley surrounded by lush and healthy mountainsides. Martin straightened his tie and then lit her cigarette. Suzanne put on dark sunglasses and pushed her hair back with a black band. She hung her purse across her arm and stood waiting by the doorway. "Breakfast?" Martin said. "Buy me a drink." was her reply. They had slept very little the previous evening and their movements were slow and purposeful. Martin felt the strings of tension pulling in his neck as the electric light inside his head flickered, about to give out. The couple stumbled down the narrow wooden staircase, and shambled through the low mexican halls that were made from planks of pine and had been dressed with gaudy religious figurines. Martin nodded to the old keeper of their intimate sanctum. They crossed the dirt street that had been baked and cooled and baked again. It took them all of sixty seconds to make the crossing and to get inside the small air-conditioned cantina, and it took all of sixty seconds for the blade of the sun to open their pours and let the sweat drip. Sitting down at a table Martin whispered something in Suzanne's ear. Suzanne's eyes percolated behind her sunglasses but the bags beneath her eyes weighed the whole expression down. He ordered a coffee and beer, she ordered whiskey sour and said "you want to do THAT with me and you're having those to drink? If you have onions with your breakfast your mouth will taste like compost."
"So I'll brush my teeth again."
"Once wont do it."
"So I'll brush them twice."
"And mouth wash?"
"And mouth wash."
Suzanne purred and ran her paw over his. She tried a smile at him but a fugitive beam of burning light broke in through the window shade and speared her eyeball turning her smile into a twisted grimace. Martin caught the tail end of the look and sat back glumly wondering what he had done to inflate her jaded turpitude. Their drinks came and their drinks went and the food arrived and they ate quickly and in silence. Another round of drinks and Martin finally opened his eyes and pressed them close against Suzanne's. In that purple afterlife he found a birthmark on the left thigh of the mother marry. He saw the carnal results of god coupled with himself in the form of castrated angels. There were giants bearing medals of honor from some war that was happening across a body of water that had no name. They wore their badges in eternal sleep as their countrymen buried them beneath mountains of flesh and foreign spices. Martin wondered what other beautiful women he could be found here with and how many of them would also be witches, sorceresses, benders of men's will and sanity. He wondered if all beauty corrupts or if it merely played suzerain to madness.
"your nipples," he began, "are the colour of wet lips. They clash horribly with your skin which is a brutal haunting white that reminds me of Russian battlefields. Your legs swim like ancient rivers and when they climb up your dress I wonder where on earth they meet your middle, I get lost in wonder, I slip into hypnotic trances, I become invisible. And where do your breasts begin from where your arms pour out of your blouse? I have seen you whole and I have seen you in pieces and bit by bit as you expose your flesh to me or when you systematically hide it again, yet I know nothing. Nothing but the red of your hair that smells like rain water and burns me when I touch it." Martin withdrew his wallet and laid several pesos on the green-painted table. Suzanne withdrew her sunglasses as if they had been a smoke screen and a sound screen all at once. As if she had suddenly realized that Martin had been speaking to her and that she might give him some attention. She cupped her ankle and looked up at him,
"It still hurts me, where your toenail cut." was all she said.
That was one against him. They rushed upwards into their chapel of wet lust, past saint joseph and his pearly gates, through gilded halls of botched crucifixions, into a room that still smelled of seraphim and heat. A spanish guitar began outside, the notes fell in through the window all covered in nicks and scratches, they had braved the thorns. Martin grew naked, his skin moist as a forest canopy after a thunder storm. All the demons revealed and the devil left a sign on the door. Suzanne was a changeling, she slipped right out of her jaguar fur and became a rose petal floating through infinite space. Those violet eyes hunted ardent jungles and dug up shallow graves. Nothing was scared but the sacred themselves and bounties reaped and clouds parted to ninety degrees. They set upon each other and devoured their ancient coats of skin and grew strong with blood on their lips. A million fingers touching, caressing, a hundred hungry mouths breathing secrets into new and smokey flesh. Cresses were made and filled and tailored to fit perfectly around the shoulders and in the crotch. Parts were loosened, others tightened, scorpions slept beneath the floorboards. A photograph captures slivers of time in its glossy finish. Time is impermanent, like honesty and love. The moment dies, the pictures age and tear and so the people in them. One day humans will make something infallible and when they do they will vanish. So says the deep throb at the bottom of the ocean and the well of light that bubbles somewhere in the universe. These mexican hills carry no sound, but the coyote barks and can be heard for miles. This is the inconsistency of a land that harbors nothing but dust and a sad wintering for living things that are coming to their end. Seasons too will disappear.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
For your Francis Bacon:
This is my soul
The blue specter of not death
Un-death and never waning
Always dying, never dead
The dust within this tunic breathes
A gust of plagues fans the fire of -
There is no flame, no spark
No glowing coals
and the lack of oxygen
The nine winds of freedom blow
But these curtains of -
These shoulders of -
The gore bodies and rotted strings
The wings of shock and meaty pride
This man is bones and dust
When will he depart?