POPOCATEPETL, Malcolm

(Jan 24. 05)
If I hear that door slam once more I will surely kill myself. The slamming, as it does, shakes and shimmies the very foundation of the home where I lodge for rent. This cannot go on, it will, I just know, feel it will go on. I have never been less happy in my life with noise, all of it, all noises including its aural constituents. Noises are marauders at best, or worse, so I have gathered from listening. Even though my hearing is deafening, I hear with the selfsame acuity of the full-hearing, perhaps more so. This contrapuntal earstone, the purpose and intent of which is to enhance acuity, is, at best, a thorn siding with the marauders. Its persistent humming and waspbuzzing is quite disconcerting. I am nonesuch unhappy with it all, as would have. Stone deafness, to put it mildly, fucks me inhospitably. I gather from the ice-shims gloating in my windowpanes that it is irregularly cold, perhaps freezing, colder for this time of the year; aspartame colder, stinging the pulpiness in this supping-machine, hereto known as a gorehole, selfsame, where foodstuff is crammed in mouthfuls. Deleuze and Guattari notwithstanding, such machinery are the bane and desire of life, oedipal cunts, as they are. A stick in the eye evoking a deterritorialization of all such nonsense seems, so it does, a reasonable panacea, rhizomes being as they are incalculably multiplicitous. Kafka’s burrows, not ass’, entrances in or out of this best of all possible worlds.
Lave-waters, tributaries, these I need and will encourage from the gorehole of my shower cleaving. Drawn to my attention, snapped into place, I now realize that the completion of my thesis is wrought with fear and self-punishment. To finish, be done with it, would certainly evince an intolerable admittance of the follies and mistreats of my oedipal territorialization, Oedipus Jihad. To be of more use than shoe-leather, that, as it is, is my pretense in life, nothing more. I cannot be done with; I must be done with it. Stephen’s Last tape, Banshees screaming, this bastard-child torn from the wastehole of my ass: sodomies, all of it, assfucked from the rectory of my muckhole. It was cold today, but not so cold as to freeze the shitscabs gadding about in this fucking gorehole screaming.
Night has fallen into the tweed-thorn pajama-lap of some Mennonite grandpa with a shotgun simmering in the folds of his whatever you may have. Moths flick at the lamplight, lipscrims and teeth mired in mouthjars not to be denied their solace and rejoicing. Each thought and rethinking rustling the nightclothes of Molly’s jiggle-lardy thighs bitten hard, cracklings, by Blaze’s indecent gorehole nibbling. This mnemonic cacophony being as it is a fine and improper way of avoiding the Banshees screeching be done with it, assfucker, in the cone and stirrups of my ears. Or it could be the dog and pony, shitscabs caking roan and russet fur. Be done with it, and be on with it. Time to include Beckett, dead so he is, in this philosophical Sodom and Gomorra, if he so desires dead as he is, poor bastard Nobel. I would have been more likely to use gonorrhea had the Biblical pretensions not been so roguishly concupiscent. I now, some twenty years too late, get the gist of Lynch’s Eraser Head. How could something so simple yet indelicate be so fucking impossible to gist? Shitscabs and goreholes, I fear have, taken up too much of my wastrels time. Sleepy Head tea, I fear, is for the dunheaded and roan. A simple yet well executed Doc Martin in the head is a much less imposing evocation into ethereal mucking about, shitscabby as it may very well be.
(Jan 25. 05)
A bluetongue sky, no scrimshaw as clouds can be. Mauls, this air, scurried with ice-brittle and brim a Brach. I awaken making a trumpet of my ass, effluvious Dantean. Neigh well colder than a well-digger’s ass. Not a scrotumtightening, snotgreensea, but a chortle-legged blue mistress, legs akimbo burbling softkisses in the cone and stirrups of my ears. Stone deafness, not as impractical as one might be want to imply; these lurid tonguedevils scalloping the deadwood marrowbone of this auricle earhearing. The day, as it is, murderously encroaching on the wellbeing of my retinal improprieties. All perceptions, after all, nothing more than once removed withering, deadwooden and shittailed. I will begin, as I must, at the beginning and be done with it all. All choices, vagaries, best left to those capable of Nietzschean laughter; not we of us tone deafened with rickets and stonedeafness.
Having rigmarole day into night the fucking bugger sun has sunken into the asscleave of the moon. This is not, though it may appear so, a lithograph; not this, such a thing as it is. In fact it is this, a pretension of a lithographic, a rebus, a postmortem may you have it up the assend with a shovelclove you fearless cunt. When the sun, as it must, rickets into the black muddy night sky all things proper and Vatican loose their flimsy scaffoldings. This I know, as I do, from vast and unremitting experience. In matters such as these I am somewhat of a Vatican myself; stolid ramroder with clustered miter peaking at just the appropriate angle for penitent assfucking. Mobthrilling Christ monger’s, nothing better for the hard-hearted soul. Let us fuck the Peruvians, the Guatemalans and Salvadorians, lest we forget those cunning Mescalitos, sorry cunts that they be, in the buggerhole, as it is, with godspity and stigmas flailing so be it, in God’s name, no nothing shall we fear. This, I fear, is the dumbmatter that fucks with such savage impropriety. In the name of God, Master and bearer of all, we kneel supplicant, heads cresting, not bowed, like the assfucking malcontents that we claim so not to be, God willing in excelsior. No god I know of, and I have known many, would put up with such an obscenity, as is man. One mobthrilling away, as we are, from another Auschwitz or Dachau, no good Stalinist cunts that we are. Evidence to the contrary, we have learned nothing at all.
(Jan 26. 05)
Colder than a cave-dwellers shitehole, so it is bellyblue, not cuntwarm as it was if I remember vaguely. Poultice, mustard saffron, keeping the bugbears at length as the gull-winged maul Dorothy, her dogsears slapping, piss-hairy legs jimmying like devils. A corpse-box, the best descriptor, as it is, of this hell freezing inglorious morning. No sweet softkisses nor even caresses, just a cannibal jimmying the ear-joints from the sculls of they’re moorings. This day being the first day of the rejoined of the rest of your lifelessness, in this, the best of all possible worlds. If Leibniz were still drawing breath, fiddle fucking with mathbox and conjectures, I would tear his throat out through his rectum not thinking twice of the indelicacy.
These incantations, screeching yellow-lardy crones Gauloises helmeted; these fucking arias are mal-contentious, nothing less, dare I say. I general enjoy and take great pleasures in opera, with the exception, as it is, of anything that equates beauty with malediction. This I cannot tolerated, even with ears, as they are, deafening and stone-milled. I have brittle ice-shims, not fleshgloved fingers, a tympanum, so be it, brick a braking this cursed alphabet shimming with rapturous delight. No coetaneous ablutions, nor lavations, as the water has yet to centigrade itself beyond the juncture where ice forms in inhospitable scabs. Pomaded and glistening, my hair is not; whorled and brackish, these fucking licescabs that crawl in a scalp yet cleaned, splitting what meager hair there is remitted on the skim of my head. Apple-pulp, marzipan, all these treacle sugars make a man’s head what it is, or should be, at an age when bald spots inveigle, hair-point ever receding, shimmying, the horror of an octogenarian soon to be cleaving with mice-scurries.
This Leninist-cold, it could bring on, so it will, the impetigo or some such other dialectical unease. Deaththrashers, as they were, Stalin’s vermin embargoing the passage of wheat and sheaths. Such as it was such muckraking and heavyglutting yet no food staples for those starving encircled, as they were, between the interloping and cuntwretched. I take for granted, so it is, wheat pollex and germ, not to be denied my breakfast entitlements for no man how many. Cutthroat the larded garrison, where fat bastards, their many-skirted wives tittering, eat rarebits and cashews blanched. This bitterly cold whorish night having no entitlements to tongue-lashings nor harsh vexations, however appropriate they may seem. All such rash entreaties being for the corpsegaseous and incontinent, or those monkswoolen and Vatican with mute-chaste indelicacies.
(Jan 27. 05)
In a blue simian sky a child with a ball is darting in and out of the clouds of which there are none, today being cloudless and sunned. I fear I need a scopolamine to murder the culling bone-ache, a quinine panacea to slake these persistent tremors. The sky is a Birdseye blue, all metaphors nothing more than dalliances, childish masturbation, unquenchable oedipal thirsting. Ice-castles forming in the glaciers of my windows, a garish reminder of winter’s biting intemperance. I suffered from a bone-chilling yesterday, so close and mitigated to the marrow that I came close to death, so it felt. I will have no more of that, in this lifetime or another. I have yet to centigrade my inwardness, and this is most disconcerting. The need for a recalibration, to stave off and put an end to this persistent teethjarring is dire in deed. Paddy Dignam or Stephen’s dear poor dead mother graveclothes rotting are in better stead than I. Micecorpses billow from the smokestack stack abutting the street most eastward of mine. Ice-rimes mote the blue, bluer sky, like dogsbodies flittering, tails cleaving between shit scabby legs. Blazes Boylan’s gobspit-lapping tongue slavering the liceblades from the scullery of Molly’s not so youthful thighs, larded with fat, melanin white, albuminous. I should be so lucky as he.

I should like to discover a crime the effect of which would be actively felt forever, long after my own active efforts had ceased, so that every single instant of my life, even when sleeping, would become the cause of some sort of disorder, which would then spread so widely as to bring on such general corruption that the effect of it would be prolonged far beyond my on lifetime.
D. A. F. De Sade

I cannot expect the day to await my arrival; I must get on and be done with it. This littering of paperwork, stacked precisely at the foot of my couch, must be attended to forthwith, hastiness is the devil’s avocation, so it is said. I must make application for the reimbursement of both medicaments and eye-spectacles. Once this is done, this penurious impropriety will lift itself from my shoulders and wrenching-gut for the time being, as I hope. Money is for the rich, not the poor. A beading-hot shower might well discourage a slothful disposition, such as is my mien. As for the hammering in my skullcap, that, I suppose, I deserve, more so than not. I was once told, by whom is incidental, that a meager glazing of mink’s oil on one’s lips encourages the pleasures of cunnilingus. This I must try, perhaps on Molly or Beatrice, should they see fit to acquiesce. I have occasion on days of cold bitterness to apply a mint-balm on the chapped-most bevels of my lips, to prevent, and perhaps stave off, further chapping. It seems to work, and best savored on the tip-most of one’s tongue. If I were by chance to meet up with Robert Walser, in a sanatorium or leprosarium, as may have it, I would feel encouraged to drink liquors and wine-spirits with a slothful abandon known only to a drunkard such as I. The Robber has changed the way and manner in which I see and participate in all fictional encounters, and for this I am most ever so grateful.
I will try with valiant effort to finish Walser’s The Robber, then move on to Goytisolo’s Count Julian, from which I anticipate a most Joycean scurrility.

…I am alive, I am active, I do as I please, I neither toil nor spin. I hop up and down, I’m never still
a squirrel!
Juan Goytisolo

Perhaps this is an Andvarian sun, from whom gold and precious magic rings are stolen. This Loki, he is one on which one’s eye must be kept trained if the larded jewels and rubies are not to go missing again. I am smoking like a gonorrheal mischiefmaker, Gauloises smoldering carbons in the ashtray, which is a candy dish, not a receiver of burnt offerings as would have it. I have ministered to several dower evacuations thus far, it being but forty-nine past twelve, and anticipate yet more ministrations to come issuing from the gorehole of my ass. If I could, I would most certainly magistrate a solipsistic otherness and be done with it. I can’t stop staring at the sky, a burnt offering blue as it is. A retinal detachment, I can just imagine, is waiting to stoke my already crossing-in eyes. Perhaps a laving of allspice, cumin and mortuaries salt might best improve my Borgean sightlessness as it is. I knew, if I recall, a scalawag once with such baleful nitty eyes that the sclera were moth-bitten like nothing I had ever seen before nor after.

I have just been operated on and have been inhabiting the darkness for some days now (days which certainly do not deserve the honor of being recalled) and which do not permit me any rhetorical elaboration or detailed exploration on paper. This is why I write to you by the hand of another and with the simplicity born of haste…
Jorge Luis Borges

I am no more a writer than a scullery-maid is a chief magistrate. Kafka, as would have it, was repelled by and unable to eat apples after the completion of The Metamorphosis. Max Brod, so it is said, carved faces into apple-sculls thinking, as he did, they might soften Kafka’s intractable apple-neuroses. I am more of the opinion that he suffered, paralytic, with a scolding oedipal strangulation, not a fearfulness of russet-brown apples. Although one volleyed into the hard-carapace of one’s aching back would be most inhospitable, if not wholly disconcerting as one could only imagine. If I do not clothe and leave the house soon I may never will. Scarab beetles, so I was told, by whom again is of little importance, are immune to the scalding horror of a midday sun. Perhaps this is why the Egyptians used them to shim and mortise the pyramids, the sun being as it was a most inhospitable and persistent marauder. I cannot leave my home; I must leave, and soon, if I am to make anything of the day or what remains of it.
I bough a cock-rooster at the Loblaws warehouse late this afternoon. It sits, or more so perches, on top of my writing monitor away from which I sit several unbridgeable inches or so. It has, the cock, husk-dried tail feathers and is painted deepest adobe-brown, as would be with its character. There is, or are, unflattering leaf-patterns painted, daubed, as it seems, on the body of this cock-rooster, and what appears to be coconut-husking skirting the pediment itself. Its eyes are two beady yellow motes in the centre of which have been daubed black dots, to effect pupils, one might conjecture. The beak on this cock is curd-like and of pine-yellow timbers fashioned with an awl or a handyman’s knife. I have nothing of any more importance to say about this cock-rooster. I will leave it at that and be done with it, the cock.
Egyptians, if I am correct, ate cocks, cock-roosters specifically, with vinegary-spiced wines and an assortment of bland and unvaried vegetables, such as leeks and rutabaga, if these were in plenty or agrarian, sand being a most inhospitable loom. They in turn, the Egyptians, gorged themselves on cat’s viscera and boiled scarab-beetles, fingered from between limestone crevasses and papyrus joists. Shims, as would have it, were stirred gritty with Japanese moxa to counter effect the leaching of tars and adherents. I am more inclined to believe, more so, that a less caustic lineament was used to ensure the annealing, as it would, instead of an herbaceous admixture, one more commonly used for medicinal applications not structural integralities. Of course I could very well be sorely mistaken and reprobating up the wrong tree, as would be the case. It is hotter than vellum, if that is possible. My apartment lodging has gone from bitterly cold to inhospitably equatorial in one scant day, so it has. I will louver my windows in an attempt to centigrade a more pleasing environment for sleep. Failing that, I will try cinching-up the covers around the foot of the bed to discourage heat prostration, a counterbalance to an endemic swelling of feet and hands. I would be besotted and mischievous of intent if keeping the company of either Robert Walser or Malcolm Lowery, or them both, should they so acquiesce, given the unchaste vagaries of my past indelicacies and a concomitance of strong spirits and malt whiskies. Of that I can very well assure you.
(Jan 28. 05)
This is not a sky, but the appearance of one. The chimney is stoking like a fucking mercenary. I sit here, as I do, hocking a book unreadable at best. The mnemonic stammering as is my head will see fit to that, this unchaste nunnery in which I cloister my cursed thoughts. I pray, which far often I do not, that the coffee has been stoked and bled, as I am in need of its fiery-bitter transubstantiation. Without it the morning is not worth the effort of my flatulent ass. Since risen, I have been coughing like a fucking mercenary, more so. I churned with sawtooth precision the beans that were to rapture my muck-dower gorehole. The melange, I prefer blend, the French can go fuck themselves, is tongue-savory and hinted with a bitter lye-caustic, such as I prefer. Whomever, is unimportant, made a trumpet of his ass to greet the morning-gory with Dantean ass-trumpeting. I can imagine nothing more so encouraging or raptly-symphonic. There are mice scurrying in the blue sky, not vermin, as some are wont to suggest. I will make a trumpet of my thoughts and blare-incoherent. There is an evacuation to be attended to; attenuated perhaps; I so often get the two inverted, indelicately.

What a jest, what a miserable jest, this life is after all!
August Strindberg

Having a headache is a blessing not a baneful chore. This head-splitting, as it is, keeps me engaged honestly with the reaming sodomies of this life, the miserable jest this life is after all. The coke-furnace, slagoven, if you prefer, is kiln me. I haven’t the potter’s hands to scull and smooth rounded the clay-mother that sits in judgement of my mien. Perhaps I was spore-born and not ejaculated from the nethermouth, most splitting, of my mother. Of course I write this in jest, as all life, in Strindberg’s words, is a miserable jesting after at best. A grievous sun is scorching the retinas of my eyes, a detachment most wearying will soon follow, if Borges is to be paid due respect. I believe, which I so often do not, anything whatsoever, that one mug of coffee-bitters is left steeping in the cistern. All this nonsense that coffee encourages is sewage, nothing more. Yet, as with all things septic and indelicate, I will drink greedily of its menstrual-sweet treacle. Blackstrap molasses is far more succoring nourishment, as it tars and bitters the lambs-wool of one’s gorehole most delicately. Smoking fiendishly as I am, I cannot, nor will I, expect a day unfettered with coughing and whooping. Such is my mien, as would have it, sadly so. I will presently check the postbox for bills and other such citations. I have many; I am inclined to believe. Forethought, as suggested at the commencement of this garishness, is a whorish trickster, nothing more.
There are far too many poor people milling about in this city for wont of anything else to do. I have money, but not much more then they: my monies, as they do, going towards the purchase of such luxuries as goatsmilk soap and scrubbing abrasives. Lemony-scented such as poor cuckolded Bloom, wrapper-torn and cake crumbling, pocketed full-stride on his peregrinations through Dublin before dirt was to be shoveled on poor Paddy Dignam’s veal-milky soon to be bone-ashen face. Hard scabby-trilobites, these I could most certainly do without when the final votive of dirt is thrown willy-nilly into my hardsquinting eyes, crossing-in on themselves, indelicately, as will be the case.
I am cleaving a staunch in the scalp of my bonecap. Through this hole, or rent, I will pull a rabbit, perhaps a fucking toadjacket, ill consumed with such nonsense as I am. I have not a fucking idea nor notion what a toadjacket is, or should do if a toad were to be appareled with one. Listening as I am to Johann Strauss’ Der Zigeuner Baron, I am increasing with operatic urgency the stonedeafness in my ears, already so cleaved that they are drone and indifferent to poor dear dead Johann.s precious music. The German language, idiomatic and absurd as it is, is far too guttering and self-absorbed for the pleasure of a not so tolerant music aficionado as is the case, or mien, of one such as I. I am reasonably certain that I am fucking insane; whomever. What in the fuck is a trilobite doing in an otherwise cogent digression, dirt eating Paleocene cunt? I am none too smart, nor am I capable of accruement of selfsameness.