"forgive me," said the limping hunchback, scuttling out of the way. "i must console my master." i let the stinking & tatterdemalion thing go to spend its last few hours with its now thread-bare lord. it's master had been the last of the coven i'd been hounding on & off for the past few months, dybbuk things of ichor & wriggling nightfall. i'd trephenated that shadow & taken from it what i wanted, an irreplacable darkness. it layed now in its sanctuary, beneath the skyscraper pipes of its organ, bleeding & dreaming of ages long lost to it.
while the igor was away, i took the opportunity to slip the tenebrae i had clutched in my hand into a glass phial, capping it with a crystal stopper. it swarmed there thus enclosed, tendrils of jet strewn into filaments like umbral tangleweed. i put it into my black surgeons bag with the other phials, pushing scalpals & other things aside. while i rooted through it i pulled out my .357 snub. better safe than sorry.
these symbiotic friendships are swell. by which i mean, people who like to drink till falling down is the only reasonable course of action. you know how i am about falling. that irresistable imitations of how the whole thing started. that whole angry flash of lightning collision. fuck the thrown & fuck the crown & fuck the temple. here is my warrent & weapon, my diadem & sovreign blade. i hold them in defiance against the tyrrany of heaven. i will be no hierodule.
what i'm trying to say is, last night jenny & i went over to david's for dinner, at his behest. its a fucking nice behest, too, what with david's belly a furnace who's fires are stoked through hospitality. while we waited for him to finish up in the kitchen, jenny & peter & i watched the night of the living dead ("they're dead. they're all messed up.") & then episodes of space ghost: coast to coast ("BANJO!"). the soup course was oysters in a guiness sauce, the main course was pork & grey potato cakes of some kind in a guiness gravy, & desert was bread pudding with whisky sauce. all throughout, punctuated with scotch & burbon. we three magi left before any real hammers could come down- there were miles to go before we slept. i'm sure david met his mjolnir afterwords. at least we rode the synchonicity highway home most of the way- the q train treated me just fine.
so, it turns out that i enjoy the beach boys. this is probably really obvious to anyone who knows dick about music, seeing as the pixies were a surfer band, but what do i know? i'm half-retarded when it comes to music, & my exposure to the beach boys to date had been listening to "babaran" on the oldies station during car rides with my parents. man, fuck the oldies station, fuck the same 12 songs in rotation till doomsday.
man i've got a stomach full of anger about so many things. ha ha ha oh man. i want to be the boy who messes girls up. thats my mojo! i'm cruel, & a bastard, & i linger around just to see you curl up like fetal smoke! my middle name is pulling scabs off of other people's wounds. i want to be the one who sends a few words into your gut & twists them. here is me like dead wood, sides squirming with bark beetles. you love me & i love you so how am i supposed to hurt you? or i mean, with panache. sure i could monkey wrench the whole thing, but i'm over that impulse. i'm just saying- i'm jealous when other boys make you sad. so i'm always going to be mad at exes, always hating people who have that casual hand. who poison what we have with their having ever layed hand on you.