One Night Stan
Cruelty to Muses
Ruach Blasphemed
One night Stan is a mystery story whose basis is all this trivia, a salad of subjects and the next – well, look what we get. He has seen miseries, nights of a likeness, the roots of biography, fruitless quests, a morbid running for cover – but no time to hide: Stan is wondering about woman again, the warmth of intimacy, suspense, surely fascinated by subjections again, the warmth of woman succulent for a knight. Somewhere among the folds of flesh a beast much bigger than him situates the agency.
Invited to a plasticware party – new ways to preserve left-overs. Bidding, standing, succulent little cattle. “My! Why for a knight?” Distinct claims to expend: to love on her and to play, to stick her in stealth, to have and not halt, to laugh and to perish for wretched awful poor us.
She is riding trousers, evening dress – tear in haste, patch at ease. It had darts, sets of descents intersecting on angels; various trajectories that met (because it is said that Style begins in following the fancier dress of another.) He embraced her – they became intertwined. Do not be surprised: even in Pliny’s time a noble Roman used thus to treat a beautiful woman. He embraced it, he kissed it in the penumbra of the procuring room, he lay down under its shadow, he poured wine on its trunk. Apparently he took the wife for a goddess. The exploitation was shameless. The custom of physically marrying men and women is still practiced in some parts of the Enlightened World.
I must have blushed right down to my toes when the woman who sells this stuff arrived: human body – but apparently the owner of this one has decided to rent out the house. Not overly tall, but her thin body makes her appear to be taller than the boots. Good glasses – still, we cannot see the inhabitants of a star nor a drop of accursedness upon softness. On the coffee table, here, she, this stuff, captivating plasticware, totally exposed: a salad of perishing vegetables. (Salad of Subjectivities (organically groan in a punnet of water. (Crass))): shedded letters and celerity, partly sage rose many and thyme and tide (very slimming – weight for no man), every good herb, oiled exits, chopped unions, advocates. Genuine art? He chokes on it, longing for fields of barley and of rye – objectionably little alphalfa. Being sprouts ladles of shallots. Cue cumbrous flesh, seas on the dark places: such food is both judge and accompolice – this is also true of the recipe that deals with it: thus did I read in Tooth and Claw, journal of gothic dentistry and frightful alternatives on the coffee table.
“Have you met the gods? This is a temple; maiden priests are gathered. I’ll go through their names.”
“Because of my systematic pathology I am restrained from entering the halls of the orthodox.”
“So dine with us in our warm apartment – but more gloomy.”
Stan looks and sees only one gathered, who prays a quiet prayer under her breath: “Athena divinest patroness, smear thy deity about in my warm apartment. Attend my feast of the Apollo Eclipse. Are those shafts of light yours? – no? – but they be long, to Britomart with all manner deadly tooles, hale, merry, full of grace. Blessed art thou, a motherless woman – and blessed be the fruiterer, even vegans: all eat living beings. But can you enter vegetable worlds without becoming the enemy of humanity in all the excitement? No. For you, the battle: for me, seed fruit.”
—I can’t father – dry as dust. But I’m not bad quality, only strangely drawn, searching for tracings.
—Perhaps thy fathers have sinned, gone crazy and blasphemed and tried to breach the engine room and work the terrible levers. Joy questions paternity anyhow, maybe an illegal fiction, he said. Whereof its transbiological character?
—In the Bible, the stationery of the cross. There is a Jewish precedent for the virgin birth of Jesus: the Oral Torah suggests that the patriarch Isaac was immaculately conceived, but did have a mother. Because the Midrash states: The child was born in a miraculous manner. Because the scripture says, in a literal translation: “And Jehovah hath looked after Sarah as He hath said, and Jehovah doth to Sarah as He hath spoken;” and yet another Midrash states: “Besides ‘visiting’ Sarah, God also ‘did’ something to her in the region on high.” The Hebrews – and they invented polysyndeton for God’s sake!
—And for posterity. But that’s not the only category of conjunctive signification. I can’t have children either but I can adopt a stance. I’m a homemaker, see, the moonlight shines on oil, my appliances.
—Nature adores a vacuum cleaner.
Stan looked at the vacuum and on its body a name inscribed: AntiRuach.
—Are we the left-overs?
—We’re rooted in the earth, stuff that issued from Eden then.
Thus irresistible lay she back on the moony couch. She could be minute with an hourglass figure – Time’s Girlfriend, watch out, no-good workman he, (“yes but the clock struck off my housecoat and hung it up in the excitements back and forth, trying to be as intimate…”) or liken a passage form William Millstome Black Proverbs – Living in Dagon’s Blood! Lying l’eau indeed, one man’s flesh is another man’s. Poisson Hell! – uptight man and fish below. I lay back on the coffee table, moaned.
—Do you have a bad back?
—A difficult back. This Covenant of Monstrosity, my software: I only came out of the ward this morning.
—Shouldn’t be, with these industrial model bodies. I just got back from two months skin cosmology. This is no mean apparatus when it’s complete with all the metabolic appliances. I’ve been writing a feminist science with a spinal psychology – apparently humans with tails lived here quite recently. Their spinal cords extended into modern times; the late twentieth century basis cerebri wasn’t spared either.
—Why do you hide your light under bullshit?
—Bite me on the neck. The transbiological character of paternity depends on Oral Transmission.
—Anyone could tell you that.
I lay back on the coffee table, moaned and lovely. She looked at me so inquisitively, my light body. She slid back some on the coffee table flaunting her beauty at death’s ash trays, a crash helmet on her head lest while kissing her he should fall, or slam her back against the wall or dash her down on iron floors. She had glasses and every time our eyes met I got a reflection. Take a look, bet I’m a irresistible thing! But too much has been said about the ‘double’ – finding it anywhere, in any old mirror even with eyes of soft humility, & wonder, love & awe. Stan peers down, promising body, studied, foaming into enchanting grindstones, flesh already bruised from having knocked together so much. The apartment weaves. A transcendent instantiation looms above the dark woof. Looked to me like she could Loud roll the Weights & Spindles over the whole Earth with Time and Tide, Weights for no man, something nasty with a passionate kiss, those lips. This is true engineering, down over my neck and past my heaving breasts.
She has the science of torture but not the science of teasing, even if this too would feel good or better a sex that is kinky experimentation. Serpent research promised to promote. To identify, bend back: my vegetable love should grow marvellous and the episode will be captivating on the rape recorder and her hungry and barren femininity, and you just have to, so sensitive down there – must be deficient. Wet with fancies, hunting the hug, dramatic – there, know your own back, seems it is possible and there’s eating: Not humanely, no moral man should, flying along now, working overhead, not exactly within. There’s the spot, at a distrance: there go the originators, Ash and Embla desperately trying to set fire to a blighted tree.
One night hot Style is in her for a goddess. Will we bless all the beautiful through her hot viral mouthfuls? Half of the body textual has another wife of the appliances for outrageous tasks and duties, inscribed upon, through her interpretations, such a fertile woman, shameless: the custom of physically soiling the work of his hands with pornography, the animal, she’s kinky, bestial eyes even: knot into trepidation my man.
“Stop! Bad nurses! Uniform and orderly you might be that take hold of existing Skill At Mothering, Labour, Midwifery – but you replace the heavenly ecstasies of Upjohn, Pfizer, Ciba Geigy and ITT with a totalitarian narrative that is sure to hold the audience: fault lines, Aspects of Sex, bondages. Thus do you reference the Dead watching round the Couch of Death.
“It is the best of anaesthetics, the burst of anaesthetics – universally stupifying. But this is true engineering: to make doors that none but the living dare enter, and enter they shall, smoking, sick: the gods know well those oiled exits.”
But behold, my animal hath gone beautiful! In the menagerie order, quite slipperally unreal, she comes in the shape of erotic fruit by garbled furies hauled excitement was very aroused secretions, fiery corroding waters. And thy secretions head out: upon softness kinky tubes will find with speechless kisses already becoming law; even changing sighs, the electricity from her bound explosive deep, gasps, holy waters, apparently he plunge into that loud indeed! Beautiful. Waves: we were swimming in them – or did the sea take me down and cast up another son? She’s rising and swimming in salad the ways so unnatural now we have such technology these days.
For her, a rack, all manner deadly tooles, chrome barbs, pliers: the moonlight shining in smiled on her appliances: For me, a Stretcher: the School of Elastic – or the divine limit of contractions. My excitement was notice and began to do anything: experiments with weights and spindles. Although it powers the engines of technology, electricity is a natural phenomenon. For if you are Smart consider the pussy cat: For by the stroking therof I have found out Electricity: For I perceived God’s light about both wax and fire. For the Electrical Fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies of man and beast. I lay back with arms of love. At the sight of the electrodes my breath came in pants because the electrocuted are often sexy. But in all this she sinned not nor charged me foolishly.
—God sends pliers to the insipired. They’ll know what to do with them. Like my appliances in the Convent of Chrome: the rectums of the just will be very surprised. Thus did I read in the book of rear elevation.
He looks down and surely he hath the fascinated socket. Cumbrous brides of love go to and fro on the earth, seeing the churches at their period in terror and despair, withered and wailing: “For pity’s sake when are you going to do eternity?…” Minute Particulars in slavery I behold among the brick-kilns disorganizd, but the uncompounded see with fancies: they know desire gets bogged down in there and most of the girls hath now gone all animal upon the earth.
—“For angels when they choose can either sex assume, so soft and uncompounded is their essence pure, not tied or manacled…”
—This would be called the doctrine of the assumption then: Mary Rose.
—Sounds like somebody wants a beach-head of homogeneity to let gender relax unperturbed even in the most contingent flowing shambles of temptations. The indoctrination of the carnation: that’s my systematics – but it must be exhilarating
on the coffee table, undigestable, but better than storing left-overs. So I expressed contorting pleasure, for a roll over, a sex, kinky, past the coffee table, over my heaving breasts.
Angel fight then: first was God and his angels against some soup – depths of impotence and indifference. We were swimming then but compelled to combine into Form by Satan making bad waters worse, borrowing one thing and another from the convulsions of the waters. So sharp are hunger’s teeth that the contours of Time, Matter and Nature are givens.
And God calleth to the expanse “Heavens above!” and there is evening. Now most of the girls I went to school with are divorced and living hell, graduated first class horrors, fell towards the center or strayed to the antique ruins of the Circumference: but this is our own justice: no utopian tricks for inspiration, my words try to remain composed, springing, gushing – we are fish and the daughters of fish but don’t you see? – I can’t breathe without oxymoron – Ruach! Ruach! Holy Ventilation, air conditioning the living earth. Bodily invention? Vented spleen? Holy shit! It will end in uncleanness of thing. This is the limit! Imagine breathing becomes you: or else you’re only fish for turning earth. Drown under my neck and past my heaving breasts, across my garbled nature; surely this will be difficult for some and impossible for others. The Emanations tremble, but I feel quite insipired, bound up on the coffee table, cumbrous flesh tied joint and limb or I would surely escape through the ventilation shaft (I hear the moon has chambers). My heart was lifted up because of beauty. Who has corrupted wisdom by reason of brightness? “I will bring forth a fire from thy rose skirt…” So we married the igniter to the ignified in matchless irony: and look! For God's sake! Father! Can’t you see that I am burning? We plunge into that loud indeed as it is written “a fire not blown shall produce decibels at the flick of a switch.” Then thunders was huge, sticking straight out as she zoomed in. Light rises upon her. She becomes full moon exactly on the day when the sun sets in the west. And in that day she gone crazy, blasphemed, breached the temple to operate on the terrible Levites. Yes! Thus she do continually.
We turn now to the dark withdrawal of this. Heaven knows, I'm thinking about you. All over, the transbiological quality substance dries up, a nightly incrustation on the coffee table. No matter. At least he held an object like an ox, ass, goat. And was held, for behold! on your back – the parabola of the talons: inscribed upon.
“Most of the birds around here can do car alarms and telephones.”
Sure enough: first eer the morning breaks joy opens the flowery bosoms, the carnation, the wallflower, a ghost on golden daffodils, and the birds begin their unorthodox song. “Good morning distinctness!”
Ritual calm, planes of rock: these are the Efficiencies of Light, the coda of courtly love. They wondered, lonely, asinine. Smiles: “Now there’s a subdivision of the grimace,” Stan thinks with a smirk. What to say then?
“You’re greatly… something.”
“My pressure.”
Bondages, someone’s insides insistent about their own tragic future, scooping all of their hell out. In true manifesto form an enactment; a well-passed woman, objectionably sensitive, scorned eyes, hell picked judge and accomplice garbled looking at me woman, things she said, stuff that issued from her tilted centre. Bad nurse, her fingers reference live patients, yellowing index cards – on each one is written something literally true. To give her readers feeling for this reality she ironically deploys the rush of warmth into the body. She glories in the excitement even while she adds to the modalities of her patient’s negation.
I heard that Style is also in this fall, a stranger wearing the garb of grammar and syntax in the central nervous system. Loneliest virtue, you are in manipulation itself, clash helmet on your divine head, lest from kissing us you should fall, or get knocked up against the wall. Because, listen here and thou shalt know: If style is the person herself or himself, is it not first the person for whom one’s excitement rammed up? No not you Calliope: bugger off and sulk with Thalia howling and shuddering. Good news people. She and the other impossible members of the Vain Secretariat have been completely snubbed. I had to give her such a smack for dangerous and evil sentimentalism, not to mention the institutional backup and disciplinary procedures for guiding the reader. You know that by her Apollo produced the castrate priesthood. Even I myself was doctored as an infant – circumscribed after the tradition of the Jews. So over to you Jesus. (So soft, and one compounded by the doctrine of the incarnation: rocks.)
“Listen here, soft pants, something nasty mounts on your light body, blackness on a nerve with a passionate kiss to display Nature’s cruel holiness: you will find out in the end, despite treading carefully. Black kiss, the colour of, might rue loves here. When will you back up? – when your head is withered, deficient of blood? – or after you have become completely Mortal and Vegetable in sexuality? Seems like your god laughs, he’s got you by then. He looks like a goat and you’re only fit for monster worship. You would even consume at your mirage when your enormous whores conceal her. Grind up thy loins now like a man: do you really imagine this is the divine limit? But there are chambers in each soul that Satan cannot find, and in those centres Eternity expands: the thing was never known that the holy dead would forbid and true energetic beings cannot sin. Fact is, if I say, ‘I will forget my complaint,’ I will.
“But if there’s no god – no, not one to hold a grudge – all is forbidden darling and no-good deeds will go unvarnished since I have got something on thy father and thy mother.”
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