Gossipworthy Wallflowers

–Outside Two Muffins in an Oven–

And like the proverb-speaking homeless I measure out the screaming trash as though it spoke a bitter form of English instead of its belchlike coo. Who are you serenading, thrifty? Who can give the day a lining of gold and amber gilded over its core of guilt, deceit, lameness? Bored here in the shadow of the muffin store—alleyway obstacles impede the flow of air. There could be a vortex of air sweeping away the fallen leaves. Too still to allow such phenomena.

Cut-Eye squeezes the juice out of an orange with a black plate of mold on its side. He doesn’t eat it or drink from its fruity loins. Antiseptic. He doesn’t know it burns as much as it doesn’t sanitise. Flagellation in the darkness of a city’s cracks and there are few to witness it, none to aid—people with suits and children fly above the city and regard the ants underneath them to be mere abstractions. Abstract lungs and hearts and muscles to starve for the fifth night over.

Who here is hungry enough to fight? Cockfights for all of you? Too suckled by the nipple of laze to get a job?

Get a job? That requires clothes that smell of lavender, not rafflesia, and teeth the exact shade of off-white wallpaper, not the dirt underfoot. The black man asks again his query. You.

He points to a bearded man in rags cleaner than most of the other rags and the breeze carries with it dust and viruses. Some of these people manufacture broad-range antibiotics in their bodies; scraping their toes could result in a culture of penicillin. His beard has no crumbs and it smells like the temperature has simply scorched everyone’s nostrils and left their scent receptors impotent.

There is grease under his eyes. He says in ignorant brogue found in the countryside: Me? What? Me fight? Fight who? For what? Who are you? Go away?

Everything a question, the black man steps closer and pulls a knife far too dull to be shiny—it is thus not so threatening, a butter knife, a stunted shoto—and gives it to the man who needs to shave. I, fly resting on the wallflower, expect to see a bloody fight. There isn’t enough strength in this alley to breathe with the full breadth of a lung.

Pick your match. If he dies, you will eat well for a week.

Is that conscience I see in the bearded man’s ragged peepers? It is unsurety. Maybe fear, hunger? All things too common to alter his appearance.

He is contemplating. There will be murder and there will be week-old maroon stains on the brick walls. I don’t care to see this. There are wallflowers to witness atrocity and history all over this city.

I could stand some height. The bluesuits downtown and their yuppie conflicts always provide for lighter entertainment than desperation and staggered pugilism.

–Corner Office, 156th



–An Elongation Found by Scavenge–

He says he’s Bill, though he looks more Judy. His lips denote his vampirism, as they’re redder than blood, and his stench is honey for me and very likely naughty death to those surrounding him with less-than-blessed olfaction. It once amazed me how large and connected the homeless groups can be; it now stands as disappointment that the groups aren’t more populous, as they could apply to the powers that be for veto privileges and legislate their own communities. This fellow is a keen essense of neurosis the likes of which any self-respecting psychiatrist would adore to regard and any cop would adore to arrest if just for the satisfaction following the reaction. The Judy’s likely been arrested for the sale of flesh. At least the other bags of meat prowling for propagation, his customers, aren’t there to lose any innocence.

The Judy squanders the morning pounding a few people; they limp away slightly poorer and Judy spends his earnings on other Judies apt to entrap themselves in a cycle of sex and starvation. His cheeks don’t look appealing. I don’t know the significance of that observation. Simply by his cheeks this man is a depression on the face of a titan. Too fat to whore, that poet once said. Too wolflike to whore, Judy.

The little thing, alone, grabs from a for-him-familiar niche of trash an elongated rainbow made of either rubber or something much fouler and cheaper and runs it along his arms, slowly. I can smell banana scent; I don’t know if it’s being transmitted by the object Judy holds or if it decided to enter the scene at this time. Bananas are much more mythic than what I expect Judy is about to perform, but the lesson one can learn from the thumps and bumps of a homeless prostitute who never gets his fill of sweaty bustle is enormous.

I won’t describe the event as erotic, or as though I’m attempting to elicit a particular response from whoever reads this written on the walls. I find no pleasure in the nature of the event, merely its brief existence in my memory.

Trash to one man is, evidently, an object of great sexual attraction to another, more liberal man. I remember an anecdote with which I’ll quickly dispense: a homeless woman remarked to a rather young homeless man, who was rubbing his calves as though out of discomfort, alleviation rests in his appetite. She told him to have a raunchy orgasm at whoever’s or whatever’s expense and his pain would recede in a hot wash. Her words were less florid if more urbanly extravagant than mine; let that rest on whichever side of your conscience lets you rest. He pulled his dirty jeans to his dirty ankles and proceeded to nullify himself. The woman paid no mind, as though the young man were eating a cracker when he wanted a steak and she were wiping steaksauce from her lips. When one’s abode isn’t limited to the area of its walls, one uses everything for anything and the results are either pleasing or deadly. As can be expected, the young man, once sated, ceased the therapeutic massaging of his calves. He was robbed and killed the next week because he looked so young and probably carried some money from his old less adventurous life. C’est la vie et mort.

Judy finishes. He seems contented now. I would wait to see if he eats what he just used, either for the neurosis involved or the scant nutrition, but seeing this has reminded of the opera. I’ve written on the opera’s window many times.

Section Eight

The Shanty (disparate histories?)

If they kept up with the Joneses, they’d don wigs and eat pigs and poetise strenuously but produce little but gilded excrement and status, the first being worth two pence to a beggar. The latter is, in terms of the hungering body, as worthless as the shit of a starving beetle. “I’ll never be as good as the neighbors, and I won’t beat my kids either.”

Larid Hervey

Orgasm like a slap across the back

Honorable Prostitute

A daily torture–creativity from the gutter to Onassis’ grave, making soup of previously empty craters…

These lying Puritans need realise seventy years if you’re lucky can’t compare to the good split seconds of mutual dopamine. That dope is abundant as mess in a crackhouse. Smells like hot metal, which smells like what it really is–blood rushing to your brain.

12 sheep can judge me guilty; none can deny my life. Someone out there’s smiling. Better give him a shock–fondle his neck before you rope it, else he’ll actually think misery begets persecution, rather than a little solitude and basic privilege. The Sophist naked intellectuals aren’t as villainous as the well-to-do and intuitive. No scorn like the swirl in the skull of an addict’s mother.

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~ by Jeremy on October 1, 2008.

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