Double Agents
Mark Coleman
I feel a strange mixture of pessimism and optimism, today. The words of a thousand dead authors somersaulting through my mind. No phrases, just a random Scrabble game. A great tumult of incongruous thoughts, and half formed ideas blotting and bloating. Confusion as to who said what, and what said who. The people who spoke, and the words that defined. This person is that phrase. That phrase is this person. A craps shoot for immortality.
A voluminous brush stroke with miniscule lettering. The binding of books shrouding the mummy. By rote be damned. Though, complete comprehension is inconceivable. Subjectivity is far more than it seems to imply. Even the most well planned tombstone will never attest to what inhabited the rot below. Or whom. Great streaks of solemnity and coarse over-indulgence. Of the sort that even one starving is apt at.
Overgrown, yellowing nails, and neat trimmings in an even neater waste basket are one in the same. The immense pool of human knowledge and the pushed in fontanel. Broken pieces of psyche confront you every where you look. Deadening always accompanies awakening. Awakening always accentuates deadening. Double agents, all.
She was dull enough to think that an existential crisis was unique to her. The self pitying, self loathing Jewish princess. The fairy girl at the bottom of the well. The one that I tried to hoist up at the cost of a crumbling facade of placidity. The pillars of salt that start with the eye. All smoke and mirrors. Absence of light towers. Only the ever engulfing source of life. Down breast, hip, mound. And in. The thrusting at a hairy halo that is never a perfect fit.
The uncomfortable squirming and the accidental erogenous zone biting. Salon parlor animal activities that compose the lives of the blessed. The ceaseless explosions that remind us that we are always at war. The howls of the maimed and the precautionary measures against life. The politics of two discriminating entities with the chimera of need.
I don’t have the courage to ask her for what I want. Though, she is quite vociferous. The absence of communication safeguarding against sexual ostracization. Puddles of ejaculation forming around semi-comatose states. Like blood around an exit wound. The sighs of that something that stands in for contentment. Even though, the lack of a very particle of fulfillment taints the entire affair. The dirty mess of physical and emotional substance. And the lack thereof.
The bitter weeping of vulva and glans on overly cliented mattresses. The byproducts of past loves moving from a dry state to a wet state. Unable to be comforted into inertia. Never receding back into the past, but always issuing from it. Remembered back room body negotiations are no trivial thing. They slip from the movers’ hands and slide down the stairs to the front door. Where they sit behind the eyes, associating and cataloguing the bared, inquisitive flesh.
Questioning whether this is a consolation prize or the real thing. The pendent breasts, the gleaming eyes, the average sized clitoris, and the ever loosening lips below. The cascading, golden hair that was used as an aid in foreplay, but now lays discarded on the pillow case. Like a healthy animal put to sleep, and thrown in the dumpster. The groans and grunts trapped in an echo chamber crusted with half regretted stalactites. And the uncertain flapping of bats.
What do the crow’s feet signify? A love of laughing or a fear of crying? What is the reason for signs of premature age? A neurotic defiance of death or death itself? These are the questions that arise during a preliminary examination, disguised as adoration, before the act itself. Which can be as much vilification as pardon. With varying degrees of satiety. If the first run through is no more than a coroner’s examination than necrophilia is much more wide spread than we’d like to believe.
