Heloise Rape
Mark Coleman
She seems to think
that silver fork bull is still in style, that I belong to the castrati caste
with Abelard: incompetent, impotent, and incomplete. Of course, being the fool
I am, I had fallen in love with her knowing full well she was of the Magdalene
Laundry Order. Like the nut in a comfit, I sought the heart buried in her
breast, heedless of her wanton past. (Striking out, proof-wise, the lovers once
attendant upon that slippery mound of Venus. Which waned elastic in accommodation
of the alpha serpents. Tightening its Mother-Nature-Documentary-Jaws against
the puny axolotl.)
Wanting nothing more
than for her to be desirous of me in turn. Feel the abundance of perdition
passion that was rending me asunder. (A foul, besmirched, and blood spattered Bosch
revenant and gouging and prodding and tearing. Wearing my insides as
headdresses and ear-hole streamers. Setting the table with my very soul, and
craving in as though it was a Thanksgiving turkey.)
A glistering pair of
eyes that just take me in despite an appalling belly tacked onto my otherwise
feeble form. Without a blench, knowing my worth was entombed in the fat that
was mortifying my adolescent frame. Those hazel lozenges meeting me in specie to
my own unwavering, unflinching glare. The curiosity innate in the tilt of a
dog’s head, when you are preparing a meal, mermaiding down fathomless pupils.
A wedding ring, in a
pocket, in a jacinth-jeweled velvet box, with a band of storks repasting on
snakes. The divestment (presentiment) of which seemed fairly premature. Just as
a quiver on a pair of salmoned lips signals the man to a kiss, so the romantic
recognition and interchangeable bat of the lashes in guinea candlelight signals
a proposal.
Affreight and bed her ticker in a crate full
of straw (its constitution being such that the introduction of ice seems
unnecessary); nailing it shut against organ-harvesting highwaymen, and its own
possible hasty retreat and emigration. An emigration that would be sure to end
in the beefed-up-and-out arms of a sultry subaltern. The harem drought dry
without so much as the glistening of expelled seed on a thigh.
Foreskin dispelled from boudoir makeup. Going
back to cap baby cock. The Mother Superior hitting you across your snitch-scarred
face with a yardstick, and whispering that you will be chained from the rafters
and beaten. A girl bruised along her cheeks with black eyes and blood coming
out of both of her mouths begging mercy. Saying she won’t tell and will pray
for and bead you.
A nail between the
teeth at the ready. The cacophonous neighbor-beating-wife hammering in the
stockyard. The abattoir scarlet vomited from the blistering bilge in gutsy
cascade. A deluge of hoofed monstrosities square dancing, can-canning,
charlestoning to an upside down phonograph dangling at the end of a hawser.
Bubbling out the sister crank confession necessitated by water torture. The new
plank to be walked in chorus to the shiver-me-timber good cop/bad cop
shakedown.
The stevedores
contortioning in an attempt to ascertain the source of the slaughter. Knocking
about the steamer-shrouded gangway with their far inferior cargo. Grimacing at
the intrusion upon their relative workaday peace. Biding the knockoff and punch
out. Divers decantered whiskeys, with the relaxed hues of a beige-to-bole color
wheel, preening and priming at their twofold reflection while they await the
off-duty rakehelling. Sailors, with their proudly presented passes, thinking
they’ve earned the right to bed down with twelve-year-olds under their parents’
roofs.
Offspring brought
forth while on a tour of the Pacific Theater. Howling and bleating like
Anneliese Michel. Shunning a suckle from a wet nurse as though dentata crept up
from the humid, lichen-growing depths, twaining itself, and divan-reclining on
the divine orbs. Licorice flavored charcoal drops before frenching an
oft-written sweetheart back in some angel-less city. Ridding the breath of
Munich’s rathskellers and Paris’ bordellos. The pussy stink, unwilling to be
ignored, fulminates out the pores. Gunboats full of cunt-ammunition firing at
the shore. The scent alone is unmistakably bald. Smells of a baby boomed
infant.
Drag it off to Union
Hall to enlist against its will. Remind ‘em they were chamberers before they
got one between the eyes. Stethoscope out and at the ready. Want to listen one
more time. Recall all that child doctor-playing. The sunflower aroma of her
hair. The stolen berry taste on her lips. The tender way in which she kissed
your navel and the nape of your neck, and later put a flower in your lapel when
you took a prettier version of her to the dance.
Remembering. Wishing
those days would come again. Waking up in cold sweats, and shooting morphine
into collapsed veins. Coagulated night terrors browning the sheets. The pillow
full of reminiscences that is painful to lay your head on. The sheep you count
turning goat. Turning vicious faces to you. Overflowing with hatred.
Twisting spasmodically around damnation. Turning biped, and
dragging you out of bed by your feet. The canopy parting to flame that your
tears cannot extinguish. Screaming and blowing your whistle all the way down.