A desk in the shape of a box sat in the living room of one Mr. David Nashe. Mr. Nashe, having vacated the putrescent premises of his abode this particular evening, distributed sequentially a series of ego-contents in spurts of fantastically phantasmagorical rapidity, his consciousness plastered about the total surface area of one Ms. Nora Veronica, seated and situated adjacent his person, seeping duly purposeful magnitudes of that superbly feminine magniloquence. Poised in the manner of a tiger in constructive possession of that great misfortune (that is, having been stuffed), she breathed slowly. A species of Caucasians adorned in (imitation) African dresses passed by the automobile in which they were stationed, a large Cadillac.
She spoke, each word tinged with the acrimony of repressed vehemence.
“Dinner was excellent, David.”
“It was lovely, wasn’t it dear?” He replied, obliviously. Inhaling naturally, as he exhaled his breath staggered and circulated, as if it were some transcendentally separate noose, about the circumference of his throat. Parked atop asphalt Symplegades composed of proscribed Dionysian bliss, they were occupants of a 10’ by 7’ space, articulated using execrably state-sanctioned paint. Beauty! Beautiful!
He placed his hand atop hers. They kissed.
And as they kissed, as they mangled and writhed the peristaltic excretion of infinite, impenetrable histories, they appeared to be mouthing some sort of word, or perhaps phrase, or one supposes it could just as easily be a sentence, a perpetually penultimate sentencing of all semiotic phrases, all denotata, all significations, and were this the case, they appeared to be screaming it over and over again, constantly interrupted by the other, the infusion, in these moments the interruptions constructing the coherence, nimbose facsimiles of ianthine verandas, drawing rooms dedicated to the preservation of ichnological artifacts, they trailed their alterations upon their securitizations of their insecurities, and they proceeded to travel upon a timeline iterating and re-iterating endlessly a distinctly spatial relationship, groaning the facinorous absorptions of a million inflictions into the net; kinetically etched ingraining of two-tone relief, their bodies,eleven and a half feet of warped papyrus scrolls, bearing some ancient mandate interestingly and uniquely applicable to the present day, or moment, or passage, which evokes the phraseology of an exodus- or the birth and psychosocial development of a child, or a genesis, or a flower blossoming like a moistened headline upon a morning paper carefully tossed within a puddle on your, their, or someone’s bloodied, asphalt driveway.
“Have you ever seen Ireland?”
“No, why?”
“It’s absolutely stunning. I’d say it’s the most beautiful occasion I’ve ever had God’s grace to encounter, but Id be lying.”
At that, Ms. Veronica blushed, and smiling said, “I like honesty in a man- it’s as rare as a glandular disorder potentiated by certain biochemical imbalances known throughout the aspiring medical community for facilitating severe depression of the central nervous system.”
He thought to himself, “Oh, how eloquent- how eloquent for a secretary. Oh, she’s perfect, now, if only she were violent!”
“Kiss me again, Nora.” They kissed.
“Once more.” They kissed.
“Again.” They kissed.
“Again.” They kissed.
“Kiss me, Nora.” They kissed.
He spoke, issuing his sentiments arduously, expelling each word with the force necessary to seal a sarcophagus the length of the Rhine.
“I’ve been lonely, Nora. So lonely, for such a long time.”
Laughing, she replied, “Oh, really?”
Bearing all the purified solemnity of solidified somnolence, he replied, “Yes, I have.”
“Oh, please, David.”
“No, Nora… I have been. You see? Past tense.”
“Ah, and now you’re, I presume, freed of your isolation?”
“No, not yet.”
“Oh? Well, may I be of any assistance, Mr. Nashe?” She asked, feigning both interest and sublimated subordination.
“Oh, perhaps. I’d have to acquaint myself with your credentials.”
“Ah, of course you would.”
And there they sat, breathing and occasionally talking, betraying the suppression of the subject each moment, each to each conspiring to attempt paroxysms of specialized alliteration. Mr. Nashe granted a casual glance to the myriad displays of the storefronts. Many days they had seen the stores, the images. The advertisements, cloaking the destitution of their own daily crucifixions in a paucity of opacity- the image of the female, beneath whose sunglasses lie in beauty or ubiquity the veiled truth of her eyes, reflecting perfectly the process by which proudly born cloth lacerations of quotidian demure cloak the veiled truth of their lives- nothingness or Being, imprinted upon a static yet seasonal collection of dyes, ink and pulp- material whose instantiation is the residual realization of that which was once, but is no longer, alive. And they knew then, that we were torn limb from limb, our intestinal sinews institutionalized, our sinecures of central nervous systems extracted and used to bind crosses, mortal significations placating our gravesites, the cemetery being the image of the body in which we sleep, affixing prosthetic prophecies by way of our umbilical cord of somnambulism, gently faltering across the peripheries of our own poverty, and…
Then it is lost, it is all lost, it is given, there is nothing but the moment, there is, and all starvation withers in the laborious susurrus of a new beauty, in which we find our lives, of which we had only previously experienced beautiful premonitions, foretastes of feasts, and we return once more, to be honored by the menstrual spit of the dead.
Fixing his gaze upon her thigh, he spoke.
“The alphabet is the flesh of the spectrally disengaged,” he stated.
“To love is to speak. To be in love is to speak a language known to only two. To be a polyglot is then to be so desperately in love that each word uttered takes the form of a fall. Care to formulate an ambiguous genitive construct?”
“What about foreplay?” she said incredulously.
“Call it an afterthought, a punctuation.” His face twitched, teeming with that anxiety autochthonous to the Coliseum that is overt confidence.
He looked away, to the exterior façade of the strip mall. Bricks. Cement. Disintegrates to sand. He felt the urge to move. Twisting the keys with a fatal, mechanical stab, he shifted the wheel and turned on the radio. Two bodies instantaneously immersed in a sonic architecture, they palpitated within the throes of those motionless gyrations known as thoughts. A thigh shifted the car, an automatic, into drive. Being perched atop a slight incline, the car began to move. Gradually they sifted through isolated patches of emotional sediment. Rather suddenly and certainly unexpectedly, the car smashed headlong into a large tree. The blood of a classical antiquity slithered tenuously from the drab staging of this oft-romanticized scene. Silence in the manner of a post-coital embrace sculpted the valley, the remaining scraps of clay wandering about the horizons of an aptly prophesized non-entity.
—
Bromius Brakne is a 17 year old student living beneath a group of attractively uniform paving stones somewhere in NJ, USA.
