four fat, blue-veined pearls
suddenly wriggled from his hollow sockets and she said,
“That’s one way to wink!”
And I shrugged with just my
eyebrows
Because I kissed my Calliope
where they blistered open with a balsamic sting
And, taking great pains to hide
my Thracian twang, said,
“Calliope, take these pearls and
adhere them to your kisses,
Put them on your kisses and they
will kiss back…please, it’s not too late…”
And to my surprise, she did it,
and was cured at once.
Slimy Calliope, my Calliope, oh,
she took me into her arms
And rested the dead boy’s head in
my lap, and a thick, clean, burgundy goo
Bespattered my tunic when these pearls
Spewed forth like a hyperbolic
tapioca and I didn’t scream or yelp with woe
But rather gobbled at the eensy
convolution in her ear which could be held in the area of my palm
Described by where my palm’s
semi-circular incision meets my not-very-Bucolic-thumb and looked at the dead
kid’s thumbs and I regarded them as powerful and imagined the sensation of them
pressing on my lids until my eyes sunk back against the daft rubber of my
brain.
But Calliope just laughed and
gobbled back.
~
a once deft tongue now swollen
wine-black poked
out from between his eternal
smirk, drivelled on
her laughing tits which quaked
like an old, sodden drunk
unwontedly clean shaven and
yuck-yuck-yuck-yucking while he gob gob gobs on dry unbuttered toast and swills
the dregs of sappy ale roaring,
“More yams! More yams! More
yams!”.
The right thing to do would be to
tell her all this, this exact second, in excruciating detail, to put her
through what she’s putting me through at this very moment, that she should feel
the same sting…well…I don’t want to be cruel for the sake of being cruel, but
rather honest, brutally honest, I aspire to be brutally honest in all of my
confrontations with mortals; after all, there really shouldn’t be any
dishonesty between two people who are meant be in love. Not that it would be a
lie to not mention it....no...but it would be dishonest nonetheless.
But could those tits be stopped?
I’d just as soon stop my father,
Boreas (a fine, firm and perspicacious God at the dusk of late-middle age
with a hearty laugh that shakes the stalactite encrusted walls of his cove
while gentle waves spume and gurgle between the inlets of his toes) or just as
soon arrest little, submarine creatures who extend their tiny pincers from
their carapace to pince, pince, pince at seaweed long-since-shredded by a
bigger, but still, all in all, a fairly little guy himself.
That this laugh would subside,
cease, end, just about anywhere: her knuckles, her nails, her toes, those
toes, those knuckles, this incident of bones and time lying back on me
now…wait, ok, she stopped
~
my calliope’s face was smeared
with that slime and i started to question
whether it, the goo, the slime,
whatever exactly it was, had come from the pearls or my kisses,
but ignored it. after all, every
relationship has its…y’know…ups and downs…it’s really, a something organic,
that both parties, uh, um, strive to keep, well, living.
she shifted and her brows were clenched almost perpendicular to one another like plates of earth moved
by the happenstance of…wait…who’s
department is that? Poseidon…the ocean, of course…zeus, well, zeus, I mean,
c’mon, I guess it would be Hades, yeah, that pale bastard, down there, in his
chthonian abode, all those pomegranate seeds scattered at his feet. Jesus, for
a dude that pale, he sure gets a lot of pussy…And my Calliope jackknifed her
knee up between my thighs and sent A THOUSAND KNIVES of pain surging through my
body
~
by then the sun was setting and
that was all I could say about it because there’s no use to describing
something like that, but if all of you could, for once, be generous and a
little patient, I think I can make you picture it because it was me reclined in
her sticky arms and the dead boy reclined in mine and the pearls rummaging his
viscera while invisible sprays of a honeysuckle perfume curled up into the
little patches of sky hanging under my nostrils and sat themselves there and everything
around us was sat as it should have been sat and the scene disclosed something
about Mother Earth and the heft of every of those ugly, angular forms she’d to
purposed to splay themselves before us now: us two, two alive, one dead, resting
after a long, backbreaking day of formalities and half-hearted competition and
the sad, lazy, attenuating hours of us Olympians who are hexed with an endless
share of living.
I heaved her off of me and said
in full Thracian, “C’mon, let’s bury this kid.”
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