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, let’s 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 I’d 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, them’s the breaks," he’d sort of
mumble, aim-
ing most of one
arm at a bit of a discolored (newish) grave in the mid-
distance. It’d 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
it’s the both
of them, I
suppose, and there’d 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.
come to their senses just in time for
another romp,
another mid-cen-
tury, mid-Spring, early afternoon.
