THE LAUGHING BONE‎ > ‎WORD‎ > ‎PROSE‎ > ‎Skeletons in the Waste Land‎ > ‎

Part II: And in the Darkness We Danced [A Game of Chess]

Too late at night, always it seems I am left to forge through the moments as they linger upon the sad red twilight horizon of my despondency swimming in tight circles within its ablution element but far from the confines of sanctity and land, irish raga ancestry playing in my head and raging like last summer's Yellow Stone weeping, indian spider dreams drifting across the moonlit night skies like cuts in the fabric sticking to all and every, logical disseminations of nations dying as they ponder the piles and piles of buffalo bones upon the bleak expanses of the prairies, heading west towards the melt golden obsolescence of the dream, called like sparkles from the wheel in ghost songs, praying to broken gods covered in the foliage of remors e and unknowable regret, trusts in treaties that cry tears of muddy Mississippi fidelity, nurturing that nocturnal eddy of swirling incantations, there is a place, there is a time, there is a hope, there is a vast and cornucopic splendor within the recesses of our innermost nautillic chambers that speaks of that purer time of wisdom and harmony, sapientiac edenic breathing bliss ter bliss words like summer rain falling onto the high mountain earth and smelling like eons of the upward tectonic thrust into the uterine hysteria of wombie wysteria looms that weave and unweave in figures of patient belief and rise up through the admantine rings of the great sequoia to whisper in the Sierra wind, a baby cries like that and sleeps all through the nights when we danced to pagan Dionysaic bum beats in adipose shivers of yellow globular quakes and shakes, I thought that maybe that child was autistic and sacred in her silent infancy, turning the widening gyre through the Herculean milk of the Milky Way and waging war in zipping dolphin clips that scream through the invisibility of the skies above our humble abode.

Tumbling down that river, watching epiphianic explosions to celebrate the headless prophet wandering the weighted concrete sidewalks of Austin reading Dowson to the whores in wild mad howling cries or babylon repentence, as an immense stone head rolls effortlessly away from rushmore and rushes through alcoholic gauntlets of quiet and really slumbering despair, so drunk that one drank down a scalding cup of coffee that left shreds inside his pink mouth that lost all taste amidst the frenetic insect oblivion of points inspired by the once again howling efforts of the gargoyle winds, riding that bone white barge into the very center of the congo coil coming in crazy cycles while I lingered in stoic agony with a saintlike malady or so I like to think after the Greek fashion of mimetic imitation, bobbing sun like in the center of the galactic pool, stumbling up the loft of futonic symphonic intensity under priceless stars that wandered along the Drag in arcs of misunderstood questions, quests deeper and deeper into the hollow colonial controversy of what the old chap was all about, indeed how much should we read into that skeletal tale, verse worse that the squalor of elephantine ivory formed barges drifting diffidently down the meander, she sat upon that ship in egyptian decadence and oozed out a vaginal moon slime that, after a spontaneous fashion formed tadpole tails and shook into the primordial sludge that connected her to the darkness where the infants churned about like Apaches with blinding white wings, and the males dove from the high cliffs, falling like molten cilial amoeboid asteroid descendents into her abstracted slurping boredom, sex crosses lining the banks, there hung I, distant and daydreaming amidst the American trance, suffering still stoically but with Wagnerian knowledge of the truth of twilights and unrequited love, falling faintly faintly calling like the archangel furious over slipped Annunciations and priest torn vestments that no longer cover the obscene statue of pagan lust, pounding, pounding I tell you like my life's last headache upon the stockade charges blowing tattered in the nuclear wind, Yes! she came in magnificent mammalian abandon, doing her pink nails, submerged in the life line of her palm tree oasis murders, but the males still dive from the sun splattered cliffs, arcing super hero like destiny that too much with us too much and aching like a dark spinal bruise upon our collective American Mythos.

There was a light in that marbled place, from seven stars, sisters lying in profane lust postures before the higher mind of the mosaic mogels of the holiest of all woods, still dolphinic in their oriental supplications, and wrappage of soft pink appendages around philistine circumcisions still not done too well and scarred unable to feel the lizards reptilian stares. Oh God and Son and Ghost, How I hung there, poised, and how we danced, with such quiet transcendency, in the mystical moisture of the faintly falling death of the shade, of the shadow, of the darkness.

She was perfumed with the impossible tangibility of the aster wand band conduction throbbing pink lacquering stink of burned fleshy peaches, burned green and orange framed by the colored stone framing the East Texas woodland scene and castle visions under broken pleasure domes, high high hi ho, how we go through these dark and pathless woods, ignoring natives and bundles of broken twigs, following the slumbrous
singing of the night and gale of out sorrowful humanity, laboring to merely wheeze out a gift or a gratitude to overly ripe others, directed at some selfish suicide that coughs up dark masses of putrified prescient blood thrombus while gazing in opium moseys through the hinterlands     of Spain and Iberia echoes, like that bird song that once was rudely forced and sought revenge in a quite Christlike manner of bacchanalian cannibalistic mystic
transsubstantiation that most lesbians find rather repugnant, rather lick that yoni bud budding that taste that infernal jesus meet, butch bet leg split bongo positions and
hearts wallowing like the bald eagle in the ozone vacancy, things are definitely not getting better. I thought often of the floss that clung with such quantum tenacity to the fishes' bright scales, weighing without vision, without contemplation the dark cloud and night approaching, following behind her, whispering malevolent curses upon the land, he lit his pipe and then her fine soft hair, which I suddenly thought looked a lot like a man of war in the phosphorent sea, glowing there as she screamed and ran towards me. I ran away, naturally, and wished quickly for either those mercurial shoes or that shield of the all too poetic imagination, that bitch would now brush her tentacles with spiders stiff limbs, weaving back the insidious web that broke all circles into lines and straight western time, removing that last hope of reflection. Oh, Mary, Windy, and Victory ah ah ah, YES! let us dance this baptismal waltz, here and now, in the vesperish night.

Oh lord please stay with me
Don't leave me hollow
A whited tomb of pearlish intensity
Give me a step
A step and another
To the door, under the door
Oh lord please dance with me
Shatter my china bone skeleton
I will dance with dust
Dust under and still
Through the dark door of darkness
Oh lord please stay with me tonight.

You little one, lying there, mangeresque, macabre infant, with those inhuman wings and clipped horns, like you father, hold out your beauty and let me taste the flesh of sacred fungal mobility and void of our discontented summers, lingering, lingering, at the night of all souls, sup thee upon my finger, woman, yeah, sup thee deeply of my print, forever unrepeatable and divine in its unique scent, Where has it been all these years? Ask me later when it' clean and sparkels with independence.

Insect cold intelligence whiping through the oaken vestiges of mid summer's late night dream qualities of ancient hip ran hemp run hands drifting through the sandy beach beating upon these silver cyber keys of gold and turning tunnelly short man funnily softening the walking man walking early, in quiet burned plate night soulstreaming, Get lost Honey she whispered delicately to her self bathing in his possible wrist splintered daydreams, cry me a river a river and beyond that I will uncover my trust in satin flannel waves of peach crystalline delights, cry me a river and a song, that night I don't know why or do I wandering down this river and fear raises up sheets of green Brazilian waves. Cymbal stalking malevolently, symbols listening and hoping in vague vast recollect section of broken dreaming now, almost tired upon the edge, tried and tied and tired as the bill folds, open closed, a buzzing accosts me in a dream I know not where and I slip, even here, upon the page, waiting to lift myself again up from the floor, from my seat againt the wall, whoa, sudden lucidity that almost overwhelms the narrator, for he is waiting too.

Too tightly wound around the ever becoming being transcendent hesitation swarming through headphone axial temptation, appreciations, procrastinations, all around this mythic tale that I watch the fates weave, falling threads like old love into the nighttime campfires of youth, threads, strings of nine or thirteen dimensions, most of them swarming inside the airy sanctity of the atom, blowing my mind in a steamroller fascination of the prose poem proem poetic mimetic kinetic god damned frenetic genetic Big Bamm: crab bomb inhalations screaming nobody, no, nobody, knows how much longer we will have, time, three years swimming along the rivers of my mind, listen: ghost ticcing kicking around the electron cloud in Hiesenberg uncertainty ....

Listen again: affirmation that doesn't affirm anything, all assumptions that spin in rainbow fragments and pots of hot gold vermillion at the end of epsitemological earthquakes, spinning, winning the pressure pump there at the cosmic comic joke, choked out and poked through the very fabric of our neuronal sheaths, beats out in protoplasmic quick sick licking of bad bad nerve burnout ....

I've laid there on the futon in the thought fire of a billion cells burning in bright acid dissolves and I didn't care, but yeah, I guess so, huh: my nerves are bad tonight, wicked, electric evil smiling in the dark chemical recesses of a dopamine dream, serotonergic spotlights, you don't know, you really don't know, but speak to me anyway about this intensity city sitting bull, slish through the trail of poison tears, ah my son, by another: I never wanted it this way, never wanted it this way, today or any other day, not by that one but here and now, her, here, earlobes slithering across the walls listening to me scream like the razor snails, walking through Soho under a neon hurricane with a baby covered in blood, ah my son, blinding me with potential misery, memory, caught there upon the strand, staring in the window looking out and around at my long neck, tribal now suddenly the witch doctor is checking my passport. You'll have to step off the train, he says jeckling madly as I hide and try to watch the sad pantomime of God lying in dusty waste under the volcano of molten angel ecstasies dancing in the darkness of the dead red world too weighted down with words of those fucking mindless reptilian parasitic snail men and frog women with their tummy tucked religions and triple chinned laws corrupting the very fabric of rat's alley and soft glass the they melt into and spit mouthfulls at the sky to praise the cannibal god's son, going nova on the Nova Express to the Western land of Jesus H. Ah give me peace, give me peace from these tissue memories and burned down matrix nerve melts, phasers that no one can see of even understand, she told me, and man is no taller than he ever was, my friend by the sea cries because he is too human and I tell him that the manta ray explodes like a star as it reenters the void of my heart, boom like no lights, man, like click and a flash of a whisper that you kinda wonder about and then vomit up your legs and walk away inside out to where the dead men lost their bones. Haaaaa Haaaa Haar hardy har har hard as a diamond smiling from those pearly white ivory keys, play it again and we will dance with those angels, but oh... how I once fell ... so far ...

The wind under the door
Was a sphere of dragon's wings
Rips in time
The great illusion of temporality
Leave me alone to ponder my bone
It is bleeding now
As I do with the angels in the darkness

Oh, my prince, my lost and broken man, like a nest of birds broken into a Milky Way dripping into the broken rays of the black sun, antlike porcessions, a letter, I letter, let her, lay in the sun... hot ... heat ... blue ablution and burned baby meat me on the far side of your labial palp and I will sing to you, sing to you about the wreck of myself there languishing upon the Cyclades coral made, pearls that were suspended upon her tan stomach in the sea exchange, quivering in quee quegg ishamaelic male whirls of cotton soft protein positions of protean letters let her thanks, she smooths it all in and calls it a name in some ancient Mayan dialect, like Huck finished quetzl caught dream tides and coral caves ringing under the tides like so many bells, calling out viscitudes of time hurrying over the sandy floor like, white pearls rolling off her tan eel flesh on this deserted greek isle, why I'll ... I'll lift you out of the bass beat of that jammed box and sweeten my bluesy delta songsmithery: sun going down, bleeding, gold vermillion, hey kamasabi, two pictures and a video rodeo bronco radio poingo pango weasel pop pump that pedal into the home of the heartbeating shark of the Maldive Sea, Oh pilot fish... distract me from my fate!

The peculiar dull skull rattle of nothing huffing and puffing as the sun rises like a romance erection rooting itself into the dawn's red fingers that grasp the blonde hair of wrath and paths diverge on distant archipelagoes goes goes that rag hag jerking across this famous dead land in a hormonal leg rub insectoid hunger, slavering gnashing at my veined testicular exposure, like the head of a pin drumming upon my vast differential heartbreak---- aah, I can't really can't stand this incessant vacuousness, this lifeless, passionless, dusty dry heart poofs like locomotive love racing into the tunnels of quiet desperation bored into the stoned cheese perfume of all those whores, that I slash myself away from like Gulliver and old old satires that rip I mean slip like poison, that really black scary neuroleptic short circuit circus that has no clown there at all only a crowd of pinhead encephalo mini geniuses, give me a break, snap, broke my throb right into a horse that drinks sweet tears of growing up with an old man in a weird crab dance sideways into the circle of flaming tongue cunnilingus alphabets, double you's and doppleganger glory holes giving you such a view of the dirty old men pulling pearls out of all their eyes that roll like jiggy boos dancing the rag across the triangle of the cotton lands, twisted amongst the megaliths, slaughtered upon a field of puckered pink lips all holding out for the one man that I could have save but ... Oh well, it's over for him in that way, weigh your promises on a silver spoon and see the strange inversion of your distorted character that slides like snot beneath the door like sewer water, and my my daughter, I ought not have caught you in this crumpled position, mother, NO, and watch all my life swirl down the hole drain in the color filled reflection of the street of queens, still trying to step into my bag of bones and skin, I saw that man with his laser guitar and I blew his face away like powder with a frightening rumble of shotgun shack thunder. Behold the thunder man with his book of butterfly poems, so although, so, so clean he smiled with no teeth and poofed into gravity smoke, falling and tapping upon my broken window, my mirror, my brother, moe, more ugly as sin racing into god's infinite sadness over the ham of his political funeral, hanging in a semen drip over the tank of burning gasoline, my ears tremble and that horse beat licks them clean- I am filled with internal wounds of lancelotian dilemnas; no one knows this punctuational stoking and back flipping thin air desire and I scorched the back of my throat taking in the Jesus meat my meat baby, yeah, whack it ...

Can you sleep like a horse and never ever ever close your eyes? An urban myth that wails about the fog ridden land and memory lips like her soft lip over the broken branch, bough and I went through that Hadian place where Pluto mutated into a dog, Wow, imagine that Disneyian nightmare really, actual Dantean glee as he kicks those enemies and all that for a babe, major corporate allusions here but I am militantly a political and never vote for all those Henries who are always knocking upon my door wanting me to play that Graille game with them cause they know I never sleep, only dream with my eyes open and I can find no exit as I stare at two lesbians rocking on a thirty three inch animal that might swing a little too never happened but I couldn't even make the grip, know what I mean? Not the first time I have handled a fatalist, you know. I saw him ram his hole fist into that horse's ass: Ee luks tit ya no en eye luk tit tooo ooohh luk up ta ma elboo pooh choo choo roo whistle blow: I do believe that the man wants us to leave: hurry up Louise, it's mine- no that's not quite what I wanted at all, red light byproduct with a metal plate in her forehead carved to resemble a star, jewish no doubt, but underneath a void, no I'm not big enough, pretty woe man, hormoanal A toes piddlin in dat big o cweeek fo dat bog o fiss, yessum: Nice behind mirror black shades that give me mind to see my hand so distorted into a culpable chimera, falling in the snow of memory. There were fingerprints deep inside his rods and cones and when I knocked he only wanted to.. well ... uh, well ... and in the darkness we danced. Yes, again. Any questions?

It is all this romance that with a touch in the night comes so undone, letters never sent, thanks for that, BITCH, bleed under the blood moon, BITCH in the blue moon, bitch come kiss me, but bitch, ah my son, I never wanted it this way, so haunting in piles of rich pungent shit spit out of my octopus mentality strange as a sea change, telling like my Moby, What? Hairy cup release tits his mind: NO still not quite it. Stoned again and writing my mind away with a knife of letters. I will die soon, in the moonless night, BITCH with no pants on, cu mere, bay bee bay hay hay bee boom.

Give me a war of thought and I will ride like the red death through the canyons of the night, just waiting with such bated breath for that sun that never comes, and lying and listening to Neil under cloud galleons and such stars around the faerey moon and all her quays, with a bus load of turista japs in business suits mind you talking with those famous sloped cameral clicks in a mad yellow consumption there at Shiva's Point: Looky dare son young dat id dee gwand cranyon goowee gee and yaayup whoops the mighty Texan with his nympho wife who takes up the port shaft while he adjusts his f-stop all them yaponeese watchin me dog her, unch, unk, ooh, rim me on the rim and it is ... snowin ... got it and pulled out smelling like poo poo, high yall ahm frum Texass- like I didn't know, and it is really so sublime you keep waiting for Krishna to say that time is up: still not quite what he said. Almost floatin though. I could've died there in snow. Thank God for diesel. I spent all the money but I had a credit card that I burned for fuel, double entdre, dig? Like do ya man? Dance! 000h yes, mama with a lama, take me out and turn me around, snap it, black, and pass that acetyline torch, I'm doin ya. Turn off that insipid muzak: Prayin for you in a three part Vegas melody.

Passing the corners where dead men
Are lying full fathoms five
Watching diseases as they're multiplying
Those were pearls that were
His eyes of the bluest blue sky
Bald head rising
Shape without form
He's a fuckin genius man, a poet, a prophet
Why just the other day he ...

Soft imitation, intimation, information, on a vastly distorted guitar highway burning into the heart of the darkest darkness of the unknown interior of America, the American sold and night charging off to advertise the Holy War against the infidels and maidens locked in castles high, playing their clitoral games of chess and checkers, while old men lie by the side, looking on with silent perversion, the south will rise again, but not in your time, you with pissed stained pants and quick diguised pants, ripping through some young girl's mind and not really knowing why, only mumbling tired invocations and mantras of intensity and the delicate cuckoo warbles out a proud song about don't give up, there's a place where we belong, weird flat and sharp edges all over her voice, eating up her children of her husband's children- we could never be sure, I said, and she cooked it all up in her mind, I said, and the horse was galloping, galloping, I said, Oh Marie! 0 mary, how soft your imitations delight me and make me laugh in South African sighs, golden nights and deep mines into the shadow cast by Afrikkan man, mon, dere is much to rise oop ageenst, you know, mon, eh mon? My mom pads quietly through the house at midnight, like a green ghost, tapping against the trinkets of my childhood like Michael Furie against Gabriel's window, falling softly falling intimations/ I could smell her long before she ever appeared, perfume of vanilla and red glowing tracers of tobacco road running its dusty line across the Heart Land, W. L. Wallace Stevens was a Myna bird mocking all those snaking arteries filled with yellow goo and organic glop, glore, gore glorious, there again, all this prostration has taught me something, slowly and painfully as a scarification ceremony, initiations into the sevenfold mysteries of the sacred cross there in Rancho de Taos in that O'keefian church of Brother Son, holding out he haloed thing dripping dove's wings and lilting lilly pad even tides, I stood with a friend crying tears of opium induced madness, lotus land longing laying lightly upon the water of the past like flickers of morning light laughing over choppy waves cast into the screen of mine eyes that have seen, Ah yes, up there upon old smokey where my love she was killed by me ... ah what a sight, tangled in chocolate melted blood and squeaking intestinal agonies, her eye wild like the Nacht Mare running across the Waste Ed Land, take my hand wallflower and coat me in a golden haze of pollen and LSD dream makers, a bottle of wine and a vat of bubbling Amyl Nitrate. I will be king of the Zone, violating myself immaculately, over and over again, crimson and clover, calling out, take my hand, soft imitations, horse dreams, latitudes, Mayan death orgies, smoke and opium trances, take my hand, flower, bend into me, come here, rise up, take it, I hold it towards you and I am dying here in Rome, come rescue me before I go to waltz beneath the white pyramid and stone cold angels wings, frozen in a position of eternal melancholy, but don't laugh at me like she did, wanting it so badly, take my hand, don't forsake me, let us, and we will, let us, and in the darkness we- Orry yup pees tits rhyme, mine line crime sine waving good-bye, still not there to what he said, you know what I mean Wander Foot, man of the distorted hand, personal messages embedded throughout. Dig into the archo logy of the flying logos, pogos pocus locus smokus broke us loose ooo ooo ooo uselessly waiting at the top of the stairway, her harlequin lover relaxes and sighs ... Goodness me! Desperation will kill you, stop. Coming soon, stop. Thanks for the letter, stop. I will die now, stop. Hurry up please it is ... stop.

Not yet.

You area proper fool, I said. But she wouldn't listen, being the fool that she was, she only smiled with those tight yellow vulture lips twilling out a warbled cry of jug jug a room in rome with a view of hustlers exploding in red splash confusions with a small town sunset, Mr. Jones lives in the closet just off the piaza, Kill him cry the cognescenti consensually agreeing to end the dull charade in a mass cacophony of violet violence virtue riding the flat black motorcycle across the desert, flaming and baked Alaska, what a state of mind we are all in, dropping babies into food filled dumpsters to fend with the white perfection of the maggots and dragon eggs. Oh Sweeny beat out a conge upon your plastic chest of drawers where such secrets where hidden when we were young and believed in Pooh and Piglet, dying n a heroin fogged overdose in the early seventies. I've been disturbed by this trend towards an increasing number of environmental cues and lack of spelling expertise, I search for that old rhythm not realizing all the time that I have had it, the Grand Facade, knowing always knowing the all of these things will always end the same, again and again in poetic agonies of forlorn future drama and sitcom annihilation, I know the role that I am supposed to play and I fight against it with all of my being quite angry at the pressure under the sea with great glowing angle fish frying upon the Dr. Pepper sponsored electric crucifixion, gnarled in supreme jubilation cutting every thought short attempting to attain some slight harmony with the internal process trying though to get faster and faster until I am like a Keroacian demon spinning out a billion words a second, like the true thought itself, its elf phonetical moo coos looming with atrophine belladonnas and big black spacy eyes, the ice queen, in your eyes, picking up signals, there was someone out the with me on the grid. I will burst with the pregnancy of my promise and die giving birth to the nothingness, all wrapped within a book a child could read, sterile teenage imaginings of black leather and chrome decor and a electronic polymer odor drifting out from state of the art techno zen placements, in your daddy's arms ... never to be and I will worship Mother Nature- Do you see the pattern? I feel so much more coherent and wanting to explode with birds alighting from the lake fire confessions not even looking like a tide dreaming receiving mercy from Mary's lips, inside out in my ears shells bells timber falling splashing sounds that no one will ever hear and I am lost in those arms connecting it all to time, past and one year against the mast sung in a talking mouth style, mercy, strings flowing Miroesque through the galaxie, my reality, when is everyone coming home? I am no bought rotting in no sense pretence in the boat of water memory waves to me I wave back torn and bleed need hi there! on my way to the vortex convention in the interstate larger then life typee ee ee ing, flowing across the water like dawn rolling like the cue ball on green felt waves back to me, was that him? did he really catch that fish when it was really a turtle, snapper, yeah, snapper, whack whack whack against the cathedral walls. Here is London bridge, whack, my head explodes on Spanish steps like a local. I strive to be on time but she keep slipping out of phase phrase phaser phoner phony faux fo me and you and all ma fambly. Yes. I was born in the Mouth. I meant Trout. No, ?South? Punctuational pumice algae visions, of my past life? Invert me again. It is time. It is time. Really too late at night. Remember???? I do. I got vision, like thirties movie. I got it.

Just waiting for the return, she was martyred in the ocean, drifting down in a slow spiraling lure of madness, the river queen, muddy once a month, opening her mouth one more time and I'll sock it to ya. I got the vision. I was diddlin in da ribber and I cast out and caught me a fishy woman with my big toe, eatin melon and rind, unwinding there on the bank, she just comes floating by in all her robes, one breast exposed, smiles and says goodnight.

So I reach out and take that booby in my eye and wink her onto my purple hook, diddlin piddlin a raccoon, pictures of people rising up, I reach out my hand and my god, Watch Out, we did it right there on the last line of the shore in a catfish voodoo jig, tight really tight, Hamlet never had it so good, you know? 0 feel ee ah, drowned and in the darkness we danced, the old bone jig, bongo the dancing dog by our heaving sweat covered sides barking like a preacher and there I could hear some word, wuds, umm hmm: Hurry up please its time! Phew, finally got it right, just in time. Still coming on in the visual way. Tracers of boohoogaa titties, mama milk me dry. Doin the old bone. And in the darkness we danced. Uuhmphh! Whoowa! Unk Unk twee siddy bop da roo run funny bone, Bay Bee!

 Part III: Through the Sphere of Light