Exercises in style (19): à la Henry Miller

What a night! I’ve locked myself under the green-dream eaves of this month’s rental flat to escape the demented clutches of a madwoman and her drooling, liquescent cunt. Only three hours ago it was that we met at a seedy little dance hall in Montparnasse – the darkest one on Rue Giradon, the one that plays a particularly loud and purplish music – and after several dances during which she presses her small, serpentine body to mine and wiggles her ass devilishly and bats her eyelashes obviously, we slip into a lousy hotel and I give the poor pale whore a healthy fuck. When I try to leave she grabs my hand with weasel paws. I reason and bribe and plead and pry at her clasped fingers but she is like a grotesque sea creature, an amaranthine octopus suckered to my skin, a fleshy barnacle and me the hull of her chosen ship… I’m forced to march down the street with her like that, pretending all is normal. Just two lovers clamping their bodies together as lovers do…I pull her into a smoky bar, saying “a cognac for the mademoiselle?” Inside the café a lovely chaos reigns. Brutes fighting, unangelic tarts squinting sideways through their greasy hair, every man fried to the hat while the barman claims his ignorance. I tell the woman I just have to take a leak and will be right back! She finally releases her death-grip and I hightail it to the men’s room, climb through the dirty window and out to the freedom of the street.

The street is swampy and sordid, the street is deadly reason, the street is a microcosmic hemorrhage of leaking song and sagging buildings; I am home at once in the street. However, it is of utmost importance that I not be retrouvé, and so I hail the first cab that blazes up and demand the driver to make haste. When we arrive at the front door, her taxi is pulling behind!  Across the threshold she whorls like a drunken unicorn, and I rush to the topmost floor, whose single locked room I happen to know stands empty, and my luck is such that I’ve previously purloined its key.

Here I stand, blood popping and spitting in my ears like hot fat in a heated pan, feverishly sucking the air, staring at the full moon glowing like one half of an alabaster buttocks, like death boiled white, like the cold yet marvelous face of my ex-wife – and thinking I never should have messed with that crazy dancehall cunt. But when I hear her call my name the voice sounds so pitiful that my sinuses work themselves into a mirrored pain and each eye drips precisely one tiny diamond. And then the twisting, vine-laden jungle wallpaper begins to shimmy. Fauna two-steps and flora falls and billows into the room, everything is vibrating with chaotic, maniacal life, bromeliads, dragon lilies, strangler figs, lianas, Kapok trees, starlings, red-breasted warblers, dragonflies, killer ants, praying mantises, boas, okapis, tapirs, chimpanzees. They swarm in phantasmal flux, and I am frozen at the skylight. When an electric orange bird-of-paradise alights on my nose I inhale its heavy rich fragrance, suddenly thinking that life and death and a good piss and a good drink and a good meal and a good fuck are all one and the same, everything and nothing, and how we jump from one to the next like monomaniacs, without ever being able to take pleasure in the whole of it. Except I will be joyful, no matter what! No longer do I care about the girl. At this moment, I care about nothing at all. The moon was soft waxing gibbous cheese, now it is new. The rainforest closes in and I feel as if in the womb again – everything is warm, humid, and absolutely meaningless.

~ by kingzoko on September 3, 2017.

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