Thursday, April 04, 2019

mmdcccxxx

Hot Carrion Carrying On

The proctor
may have
decided some time ago

that there
should by all
means be a long ______

at the end
of the third
to the last line. The scoop goes

(and I can
just hear the
barn-bait attempt to correct with “the

skinny” or
somesuch)
that he knew all along, the old coot.

He was a lot
of other things
of course. Besides coot. But he must

have been a
hundred or so
years of age by the time of its writing. I,

however, find the
scene entirely
antagonizing in the hilarious sexual sense.

Something
written while
laughing aloud, I suspect. In the sort of way

that might
come into
play if, lets say for a moment, the etched

barricade of
rubble might
be reminiscent of a morning when he and

a lover were
wandering
quite aimlessly around on a bit of a fog-ridden m

orning, amid
the mostly
illegible tombstones in a Boston cemetery, and,

to boot, they
were both
crepuscularly horny. Or Id change that to just

one of them.
This would
provide the perfect sort of series, if you will, of endless

geriatric jokes
gone horribly
wry. "Yeah, thems the breaks," hed sort of

mumble, aim-
ing most of one
arm at a bit of a discolored (newish) grave in the mid-

distance. Itd be
the perfect meta-
phor of the perfect sardine factory penned by an

auteur on his
final escapade.
All of which goes completely unfathomed, most

especially
by the keen
centenarian himself, as he and the lover choke

and giggle
on their
very own spittle and salty spring tears (now

its the both
of them, I
suppose, and thered be tears of contagion, of

course, it being
spring and all),
as well as a veritable plethora of additional and

supernumerary
but perfectly
normal metallic tasting bodily fluids; all while

the wonderfully
misguided meta-
phor resonates (somewhere in metaphor heaven)

while the 
two lovers
come to their senses just in time for

another romp,
another mid-cen-
tury, mid-Spring, early afternoon.

a Russian chandelier