Heloise Rape

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.