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

Part IV - With Hands Open [Death by Water]

It doesn't get much purer than this, being barely able to decipher the dance of the hand, which brings me to a certain phase: this boy, this old boy, but boy still the same, you see, he came up from the beach, all those stars and shells still in his head, tangled in his hair, and he, well, he came right up to us pulled out his thang and spanked the waddle doody, know what I mean? Two seconds later mushrooming into the too bright light we all know and love but know and love and singing that sailor's song:

Oh my love, I need to go a' sailing
The ocean calls me from so very far away.
Oh my love, well, don't you ever worry
I'll come back to you some day.

Oh my love, I'll bring you golden sunsets
And stars that shine like diamonds in the sky.
Oh my love, I'll sing you songs of heaven
I'll warm your heart with laughter and desire.

Oh my love, if you could only see me
Standing tall and proud up in the mast so high
Oh my love, I'm watching over you
I'll keep you from all _____ until the day
    you die.

Well, shall I mock myself? Or shall I fill in the blank? We all know our boy or do we? These days I'm beginning to suspect a few of you. Puns all intended and being kept warm in the oven, entendez-vous? What are you waiting for?

Slowly, slowly, Oh I see...

Men amidst the milky white ocean of our mutual indolence sitting here still horse whipping the thing to the ear, dig and don't you go go go, no, swelling though, as the boy floats the ream of the dark seam we all have mined at least a million times in out little lives squelching out the cherries of left over born spasms the day before the eggs all got left unbroken, spoken of in the past tense, at least not third person, no, yes, no, yes, it was, up there, kiss of death for any main character in the soap operation going on deep between the two bellies of the third world dancers. There were jewels there I was told and you were tight on top of it all, there in the sea swell becoming sea sick and only being able to whisper into your closed fist bent back and joyfully poised upon the brink of a household holders meeting in the industry of psy kick, side kick de fense, pleading just for the raft, your honor, just give me the raft, and the judge smiles, lest ye?, and I think there, just for an instant, I remember that hypodermic glance of the left upper bicuspid gleaming with a rich creamy drop of the deep blue sea, in whispers I tell you, in whispers.

Staking out this dusty claim and decodeing the symbols right here before my very yellow tinged eyes, slightly nostaligic, sepia gazed gone glanced and floating on the homemade bathtub rigged raft of condemnation, twine creaking, no wind, water knocking on wood, and the bare breast swelling and falling with the waves being rocked in the very soul of the Cosmost or cos lost, because, because, I traveled, once again, tripped over the couch, so to peak of the dead, just taking it all to not have to deal with all of the shit over and over like the plagued in Arrowsmith's newborn nightmare, my how my mythology has expanded since I traveled so extensively in the realm of lost beam moon queen and factory scenes, all screaming "Gloria" and trying to break through the fuckin door, like they didn't even know it was a fuckin door (but it was). And the dignity of the old world slides away on the oily shadows of last months desperate ship of fools lost of the coast of America, like a dream mist, no compass, get out of here, already I can hear the cry of the gulls, the winged chariot that will bring me and you and you to all our bloody knees bent in dire supplication for the mercy that you didn't receive through the brick bat fund, mortared in with that fine wine and the mortage, knocking against the raft, the waves were ....

Still melting, but not enough melted? All this heat has got to go. From now on only dying, I meant drying, right? What does the angel say? Your Freudian slip is ... hanging out of the dread diseased vacancy left after the morning TV shows have faded into ceaseless chatter and gladder than you can even believe to put that hat on and, well, yes, dance.

So to get the holy rollers rolling the man had to place his cad amongst the bad and let loose of some winging, ing ing ing yee hah, y’all get gone on the late night skull crusher's swing of the clock striking the celluloid daydream flickering, flick, flick, super ... ate too many of them damn tuna petunia sprout out fajitas mam, there went the whole shebang, one go, picked and whispered in sotto voice into my innermost suspicions, trailing behind us like great bloody battle flags, whose removing all those lls? But its true the flames for the true brethren, trouble trouble toil and bubble, were stoked by those unfortunate missing lls. But such sweet smoke there in those last days, mouthful of mushroom futures that cass and cass and ra, you know, and ra into the world, word, lls, and split the perfect beam below the fifth embedded pearl, in a pearl, ina pearl, in a purr ... fect lee reptured risk through bent back phor memes, grask crask mrask wallooop rooop roop rooop schma schuma Itis you man or hu men, you men, begin again at the stop, here skipping a heart beat, now bumpbumpbumpbump ooo willy oop, ooh get down with you funky bad self there hearing the cries of the gulls in your maple syrup log cabin rafter house of bone own own own, mama you heard that. And that, that Miss is that your? no, well ... Miss? Yes, listen: hear the turning waters of the widening gyre, hear, hear, it comes for us resting in such still waters: the Maelstrom.

Get get git gwan own down, thousands of ants covered my head, three bites, now there in the dunes holding the pulse and flicker of her scarlet heart in the bleached white cage of her skeleton, there in the sand, cast up and away, dejected but not rejected, standing for some martyr's trickery concerning the whole host of demons he used to boast of once knowing in the most biblical sense, so tired her so tired, my hands broken, holding her heart, letting her bleed, my hands broken, paralyzed half open, kneeling in the bleached white temple of her soul, all I ever wanted, rather He or It or She, was this token broken vow of sanctimonious ceremonial sacrifice, lying before her now, bent back and broken, swaying the cruel and swelling the bruise fading there gone like a sparrow on the Apocalyptic Last Triptych.

To the right, the antithesis of fire and rebirth in the soft sigh of her immaculate pleasure domed dance of veils, slipping against the brick born house of our mutual ill born nearing busted rust encrusted lie of failure. Is this the lie of failure, this egg torn dripping galleon of ghost green splendor, heading now for the icy blue absolution of the Ant Arctic coast of souls, great white birds flying, gliding, high above like crosses, thousands of them, turning about the still point of Jesus's silent siren scream, mournfully embracing science and the American Indian's Terpshichorean prowness. Clare Voyant, the lady with the tight chains of chair, of human flu esh, twisted bound and braided sensations of summated pleasure factories there pumping out stars on the West Coast of Maya, my illusion, pounding the shamanic drumskins, their skins, I am I am I am, real fast, over and over, twisting into the word spoken in the soft coral buildup not too long passed by us. But here and now in the slammed door of an angry sigh, pulling me away, turning me quickly away and into the possibilities of the eight month of the forty fifth year, when Enola Gay kissed my psychic ancestry on the burning lips of our dust filled crypt, soft stirrings impressions, Zen like koan qualities of salvation, there in the cicada's delicate dance, in the starfish's slow rotation, the fingerings and tracings, over the sentences darkly given, gone through and told, telling in between the heaven and the hell of your received letters, all cast up upon the beach with the strange red and grey bones, the silver chalice coated, the unsupported face, the told and telling, a deck of cards, all royals, all faces, skulless and traveled, well traveled, bags of puppets, hands within, exploring your expressions, there on the sand, crawling over with crabs, is who? The alphabet man, the phonetical freemason, the venetian blind man, tired, easy as us, stumbled on the snakes, or seeing all outside the glorious wall, the swaying curtain revealing the sailor, wasted upon the raft of his own belief, cruel tides still swelling and swailing under sweating grey skies swant and swept and sweely sweet with soft bird cries, upon the beach you found him, at the threshold of the tide of opinion turned against you, there, the sailor, the the seaweed, the seashell whispering, the crabs dancing Byronically, the raised fist, ruling in Hell, the horizon's line shimmering, there he was washed up, broken and boneless, the one foretold by her, there lying exposed to please us, flee us, bus, phone each of us, say, one, say... and you bend down and kiss the one-eyed merchant, needing no bone, frozen in rictus, proud and high, oozing, your lips burning with communion, clap, and la sida's latent mystery, but now infected with God, you dance, twirling the rigorus corpse around your head like a shaman's hemp blanket, full of stars, the milky white ocean spray, sticky, sweet, and potent. Visions of God and the Satan, mental excruciations, nails screaming, dancing with the immaculate ecstasy of the star's mushroom intercourse, the too bright light, the poetic burden: Maintenant je suis maudit, j'ai horreur de la patrie. Le meilleur, c’est un sommeil bien ivre sur la greve. Et j'ai dit qu'il n’y a pas de choix, huis clos.

The profit of our unclothed intentions, there stark, there swinging, horses all drowned and bloated upon the beach, yes America, meaning? Everything and nothing, the rose infolded, the crowned knot of fire, stuck in your throat. Oh mother, oh father, we ask you for forgiveness. We are not better than you. 04~iife has been lost in living. But those horses and their wild wide eyes frozen. How can I tell you all? I stole one and carry it with me all the time.

Too lucid. The hand trying to stretch out upon the frame of its indifference, clocking in twisting turns the gears of the Goblin and the Hem of the very truth of it all, the Mistress, Truth, veiled and winged, frozen in white marble upon the shattered globe, at least they knew that much, and yet the carved stone veil shimmers with tears, with reality, with all the tears in the seven seas. Turning the galleon broken, twisted also and broken, bashed against the coral caves of our father's eyes foretold by the woman with her nooses and wheels and three dimensional cards, waiting still there by the fields of green and waving amber, the mast and the dead man's nest, look out, tall and proud, his head full of honey, torn ripped sails, and ropes wrapped like hair around grisly bones, the torn, and the mast with its cross spins into the Maelstrom, pausing there upon the event horizon for how many years? as divine consciousness, lingering, lingering, holding hands with the adversary, but for a price, a holy price, turns the wheel, turns the flame of life itself, turns the verse, and I consider the sailor, a bag of bones and lotus petals, drying in the sun upon the winter's beach, outwards the sea, swelling with its whispers, inwards with hands open.


 Part V: And We Were Staring Into the Sun