WM_0010 ::::::::: Ridgeback
April 18, 2003
Even in times of exultation, it rolls in.
Take this week. Received some fantastic feedback
on Nunt, started making some final changes in
preparation for print. There's a low rumble on
the horizon that perhaps some press may be on
the way.
But the fucking rage continues unabated. It's
a series of ridges on my back, long wicked spines
that extend when inflamed, knots of bone that
grow down through vertebrae, piercing the skin
along the spine.
These ridges don't let me sleep at night. And
they disturb my fucking.
The other night, old Chloe's stoking the hammer
of god and I got her flipped over and I'm fucking
away, slamming it in there solid crank like. And
it's supposed to be goddamned great, and it is,
it's a feeling great and I should be looking at
that bouncing mane and imagining movie stars or
the Olsen Twins or imagining her face in a reflecting
pool.
But I'm not.
All I can think of is old Rummy, the grey haired
bastard poet Rumsfeld calling the destruction
of the world's first writing 'untidy'. Untidy.
The burning of the library of Alexandra. Untidy.
Myopic old bastard.
Fuck fuck away. Throw the shoulders into it, and
lift up that ass a little higher. Looks like the
planet venus split nicely in two and stacked side
by side for my personal satisfaction.
So Rummy's face is gone, but there's the fucking
cunt, old GB, at the Abattoir smiling back at
me from the mirror. I keep thinking of what it
would be like to bury a shovel in the back of
his skull. And there is nothing to be done about
it. But fuck. And I am fucking, but the spines
are tearing skin and covering my back in blood.
They are ruining my fuck.
And the faces change. The giggling beaver leaves,
old friends who have fucked me over replace him.
Judas and company. Face of the ever so handsome
police officer who pulled us all over after the
little demonstration two weeks ago. He was particularly
handsome, and so here I am, fucking a police officer
with his feathered auburn hair in his new grown
cunt. It is simply too much.
And so flip the bitch over and gnash the teeth
and hammer away and look for absolution in hollow
eyes that really couldn't give a damn about reading
or writing or Stendahl or Chomsky or Basho or
anyone, and just want a mean cock and a man who
can make a few dollars and has a few jokes and
what the hell. So I'm fucking you Chloe, and the
spines are stiffening and the harder I fuck, the
longer the vertebrae grow and your nails are stuck
in my back and your head cracks open like a snake
and your tongue twists and snaps in the air and
finally there's a click and the spine extends
and flicks out through the tip of my cock and
injects you with the juice you're looking for
and something cracks.
Rotten spine salve leaking from the tip of my
cock. My back covered in blood. Spines retracting
slowly, slinking up under the skin, just out of
view. And what can I do about this? What can be
done to get rid of bone spurs, what can be done
with this condition?
Because really, this has to change somehow. If
a man can't sleep or fuck properly, chances are
it's not long before he either takes a round out
of someone's skull or simply walks out of his
current life, shaves his head and starts hitchhiking
again for wherever strangers will take him. Cause
this is where it's at.
the great unbroken roaring bull
Pulling the ploughshare untended
mounting lost cattle and standing
stranded in the drizzling field
strapped to a broken engine
bellowing to the wind
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