Sunday, January 28, 2007

extract from Spartan

by Corpse Meditation


He naked heap wobbled before the stretched canvas. Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro" piccolo-ed from a decrepit phonograph sitting on a dead child's fireside chair. Her womb stank the mottled brew of stale oil paints and turpentine. A child crawled from that offal synagogue, welcome life slithering through viscera & trimmings of a butchered bitch. What nay-ing that child must have sounded before first breath; like a steer, bulging roars marking it's lament of infertility And when the nurse-maid carried the child's body to the furnace – what silent butchery open eyes of the dead do reap.

Audriana was painting a cathedral before the needle spun into the vinyl's fleshy disc, skipping and tearing across the paper label, bouncing off metal spike which fitted the album to spin and the needle to bore out Mozart's guffawing harmonics. Such simple mechanics – and the dead are born:

"The commoners will see that I have given defined form to the steeple where everything must be fluid. Fluid!" her mutterings amused herself.

Audriana bit into her bottom lip with such elegant ferocity the blood mixed with saliva puddle between jaw and lip seeping between pale teeth into a sort of afterbirth. She growled and reared her head back – the image of a steer; Figaro still skipping on her dead child's fire-side chair.

A halo of sunlight shone 'round her nays; back fat lurched and swung hula-hoop as if she were a teenage girl and her neck was supple and milky. A newest admirer stood watching her from the doorway; sensing his peers, Audriana lingered about drowning the flapping slabs of flesh smacking against each other by her macabre churlish guffawing - needing for him to admire her. A fawning. She spoke with her head thrust back as it had been, dripping paint brush dangling from her left hand. The boy mistook her for the Virgin de Guadalupe and hung his head.

" Please dear, fetch yourself there and cease that incessant ricochet – such unclaimed actions as yours for to gaze upon a mature heroine's supine form is dangerous; the abandoning of your want and desire, not your gazing my love."

Her fingers fluttering, like scissors cutting a dead man out of bloodied suit and underwear, delicately at the end of her arm called for him to approach. The boy did as he was told.

"Before I commence your tutoring, I always ask

my…..participants…..succumb to a provision of mine."

Lilting, like a choirboy, her voice - yet grizzled and ammonia-washed; some muscle-car brawn engine boiling from silence into drilling, eruptive, epiphany-charging gallop and roar! The boy nodded.

"Read this my lovely. If you comply, we shall begin. Otherwise, retrace the steps that brought you here and distill all memory of me into passing dust."

The boy held here with unsteady grip an index card holding a Bible verse – Matthew 8:1-4. His gaze, ever more frenetic and shifting from dead words to Audriana's face ,carved the curve of letter and sentiment of word from card to mind, drowning :

"When Jesus came down from the mountainside, large crowds followed him. A man with leprosy came and knelt before him and said 'Lord if you are willing, you can make me clean.' Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. 'I am willing.' he said 'Be clean!'

Immediately he was cleansed of his leprosy. Then Jesus said to him 'See that you don't tell anyone. But go show yourself to the priest and offer the gift Moses commanded, as a testimony to them.'"

Audriana's hand slid over his, clenching, stroking his soft fist. He wide-eyed, startled at touching, at the foreign drawing-forth from some removed place of contemplation, a vihara or torture chamber, he couldn't say only he was horrified the power touch possessed at this moment. She drew her long bony index finger up laterally to her pursed lips. The boy focused on the crucifix of lips and crooked finger – her lips moist and plump, the only record of her ardent youth.

He nodded in agreement.

She drew him into her with a wave of wrinkled hand.

"Have you thought of killing long?"

The boy weeping, shivering in white tight underwear strangling bulges of fat 'round thigh – he slumped / sweating / holding himself up by the elbows on her recaimer; she stroking his matted wheat-hued locks laying alongside him through the open back , naked / seeming a lioness drenched with moonlight / tickling his thigh with canine finger nails / the boy evaporated in the immensity of her girth .- a scene Modigliani was gladly sketching in Heaven sucking down tea and barbiturates, twisting Aphrodite's nipple with wrenching passion so she drooled on his fingers where he cleaned the paintbrush and he continued the contortion of woman into lion:

"I, I, I, I, I never knew I wanted to to to to to kill anyone. OH MY GOD! WHAT THE FUCK AM I?! I JUST WANT THINGS TO BE RIGHT !"

Slobbering, snot heaving flood from reddened nose. The boy choked mucus, gagging – coughed up revelation and bits of corn and bell-pepper.

Up from the floor came his collared, long-sleeve shirt; first in a crumpled centerpiece, than Audriana handing it to the boy – disemboweled from huddled whimpers. The boy wiped his face, blew the nose & wiped again.

"It is natural my love for a young man such as yourself to be recalcitrant. You want manifestation of the voices trapped inside the proper gentleman that your elder council demands; your parents, grandparents – they've experienced the same thing as you are undergoing. Simply put, they did not have an ally, a friend as you have in me to show you the voices must be released – they must be birthed if you are to assume masterhold over yourself. It's imperative to release the whispers my love. Ultimately, YOU are the voices."

Audriana slipped away from her softness, going to a wardrobe. The door she opened blocked her from the boy's view but his llantomuni continued its heaping in his wet shirt – smothering. She returned the door to it's latch and reproached her way to the boy carrying with her a long slender object clunking across her oak floor.

"Take this my love."

She drew him into her with a wave of wrinkled hand.


She flung her bush whispers away from his mouth; standing there, dangling this dark object from her inverted finger. The boy smelled rotten eggs & grew silent, his cries.

"Stand with me. Release the voices."

Their bodies brushing; stomach against stomach, waxing – like two smokestacks stretched against a pitch-grey-black sky of their own filth, she breathed her words, circling his lips with hers:

"This will free you. Your anger will guide – what you hold, what you attack is up to you. Use this against the ones, or, the one my love who has tried to destroy you. Lash against your enemy. Choose your recompense cautiously."

Wrapping around the boy, Audriana slithered out on her recamier again – he took his place before her, holding the dark object she passed to him in their embrace. His finger rubbed something smooth & jagged beneath cold iron.

"Who has imprisoned you my love? Your captors – assail your captors."

He snapped the belt over his shoulder; whipping, glass gouging skin, tearing a strip of flesh clean. Blood. The cold dripping. Blood poured down his humped back. He crumpled on the floor, lashing still his own body in free-fall. Skin hung off the broken glass – holes in his body opening:


Each blaspheme, each lashing an antistrophe for each captor; some chorused Black Mass where hooded figures sang castrato for Lucifer & the echo of their plea returned a bellow, shaping itself before them.

Audriana toyed her clit – pinching between thumb & pinkie. Her head reared, belching in delight.

"Ah darling – you are Christ my love. Mmmmmmmmm – you become Christ
this night."

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