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notmuchtoconceal · 7 months ago

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Tired and Free (Stronger, Habit of Me)

ON MY KNEES, DON'T MAKE ME STOP:

ONE MORE TIME, ONE MORE TIME \\./ //.\\ \.// 710380960171069083017 (A Far From Complete Survey of the Record, Detailing But a Scant Few of the Ways In Which You Are A Duplicitous, Backstabbing Manslut Who Don't Use Protection) . o . ( o ) . o . o /./.\.\/.\/./.\.\ o

( o )

[Close-up: The plucky face of a toothy, square-jawed Anglo-Aboriginal-Asiatic-Miscellaneous Man-God, whose perfect teeth worthy of depiction in gold-emboss alike with stained glass attained their character of distinction hammered by years of poverty, malnutrition and dick-fistings from repeated lippings off, being visibly an uncompromising prophet and intellect.]

- G'day, Major. Name's Haruspex. Bruxer Haruspex. Former captain of the Ruelandese National Guard. Reportin for duty. Know we've been acquainted on many occasions, what with our numerous adventures over the years, but -- y'know... sometimes ya just loike to restate the basic premises and assumptions so everyone's on the same page. Never know who might be listenin in. Some freshfaced new recruit might not know the hierarchy yet. Best you just play it loike a radio thing y'know -- restate the basic premises and assumptions succinctly before each altercation, that way anyone can just jump right into the story.

He said funny things like that. He said funny things in that funny voice of his :-- It made your dick hard how funny his voice was.

- So, get this. All the men back in my village in Rueland -- they were all tragically (tragically overused, that word tragically) well, they were all tragically murdered in the same three week span while out huntin ostrich -- No, no. Ostrich. Ostrich plural. Back in Rueland we couldn't afford all those extra blowy noises. Only learned men and old-school ultra-poofs who fancied gettin fisted up to the elbow with Crisco for lube could afford all those extra blowy noises -- though the truth was, we was all to stupid to tell the difference, we're bein honest. There was one lad -- a gentleman and a scholar. He weren’t harmin no one, mate. (.) Jus tryin to translate Can’t into contemporary Inglish. Never hear that poor fucker so much as wheeze again. … Strained the tongue too much, we're bein honest. All those blowy noises. We needed to keep our tongues strong. So many long mornins -- suckin cobra venom true a goat teat ta build up a tolerance lest we venture out into the front yard alone. Stared down the black eyes of that devil bird down many a lonely road ... Well, get this. I was the only boy in left in my village after that. You know what that means? Means I got the attention of all the -- wait for it -- the attention of all the --- all the girls. I was absolutely showered in -- pause for effect -- showered in girls. Major ... um. ... Major, do you know what I like? Major, do you know what i really, really like? Major. Major -- do I gotta say it? Do I really gotta say it out loud? Major. Major. I like -- I like girls. Oh my Gosh. I love girls. I love their pillow fluff bodies. I love their silky fragrant locks. I love their big doe eyes -- and I love how my heart flutters into lard ripples of buttercreme when I'm just shaftin em -- poundin on em like a lil yippin puppy. Oh I just wanna be pet! -- Oh I just wanna be pet! -- um, Major. Major, I'm not gonna lie ... can I … can I be real with you for a moment? I think I just -- come closer -- I think I just really, really wanna be pet?

[scratch behind the ear]

… Major! Major, you make so happy major! Oh, the girls -- oh Major when i lived with all the girls they pampered me like a princeling. They slopped me lips in wineys -- they stuffed me cheeks with ciggys -- they bit me venomously down me lowly hangin lips -- haha -- once I got in a scrape with a mongoose. Tore that fucker in half. Ate its heart out in retribution. Still got seven inches. Couldn’t even afford lemonade as a chaser ... guess what? Now? Now I drink for the emperor. I can imbibe elixirs from across the globe and name region of origin by scent alone. I can identify over 808 types of poisons, toxins, corrosives, unguents, tonics, herbal teas, snake oils and supplements down to the individual peptides -- to say nothin of the dungy taste of another man's spit --

[[Wanted to cut in right here, mostly to show him his big intro is worthy of the ashcan, but unfortunately it remains beneficial to the reader to be aware of who's speaking, even if that necessitates having to introduce Brux for the 8th fucking time -- Laik]]

… ostrich. It was only the one, really. Birds are a lot smarter than you wanna give em credit for, well …

... bird.

His passion for the fairer sex was, on occasion, a novel diversion -- though often destabilizing to group cohesion.

- Goils! Goils! Goils!

If the outermost extreme of his peripheral vision caught so much as the hemline of a skirt, he would veer out of formation blindly into oncoming traffic.

[Schreibermachen – greets the gun barrel morning with a glint of dawn]

- Look over yonder, Psychorrhax. Toward the gray and blighted horizon -- Cpt. Haruspex leaps and dances as though attempting favor with the sun, or else dares to implore the bounty of a cargo drop.

[Young Psychorrhax views – resolute in the most measured scorn]

- Perhaps it is code, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

- Astute as always, Young Psychorrhax. Please be so kind, as with your cocksucker’s lips so full-figured and forward, to do our company the favor of rendering unto speech the fiery valor of our fallen comrade.

[Corneal Contraction in Aerial View]

- 'Need no help, friends. Learned urban foraging in the Ruelandese Guard. Can survive a whole lunar cycle on this here roundabout.'

[[Brux, lacking in Tranny Vision (TM) -- which he uninstalled out of a backdoor access concern, arising solely to facilitate encounters such as the following -- will take a minute to get the gag -- Laik]]

… is the woman giving up to him her cherries, Cpt. Schreibermachen?

- In moments he shall be spitting up the pits!*

[[Yes, Brux really did teabag a woman for five whole minutes before realizing most goils don't got those. Sorta makes you wonder about the state of the female sex over in Rueland, or if maybe Brux is reinventing himself a little more than he lets on. Hey, he's not a total and complete dumbass, he's a tantalizing enigma! -- Laik]]

[[*Yes, this really is the caliber of dialogue I had impromptu with my boyfriend. If being in love makes you a LARPer, I think every European needs to just get over themselves and accept they're a bear-fucking theater fairy. -- Alkali, the Second Laik, He Who Henceforth is Established]]

If the prospect of rescuing young women were to intercept the docket, his short term memory would obliterate itself and he would seize into a deadlock by the dictates of his mating instincts.

- That conical fortress up on the top of the hill? Estimated material of construction: tetrahedra-sifted Jovian swirl concrete. Estimated date of construction 370-390 Post-Imperial Trans-Fracture. Estimated plundering -- well-- hehe. There are girls in there, Major. Baskets and baskets full of... wait, no. Hold on, see. This part – this part is very relevant to my backstory, you see, because I was very well taken care of, and that's influenced my loike -- sensuous philosophy of life, y'know? First time I saw a battlezone, I saw a guy's head get blown clean off ... Well, more like a buddy, really. I can't even remember his face -- yeah. It's hilarious now but at the time I was thinkin 'Shit. I'm a lover not a fighter. I'd rather be twirlin a baton than a rifle, but hey. I look good doin either.' -- I dunno. Loikely, I wasn't so glib in the moment -- y'know. I was just thinkin of the sorta thing that I'd like to say to a girl once I found one, but I gotta be honest with ya, Maj. I don't remember findin any. What I can remember faintly was curlin up into a ball and cryin me eyes out -- just bein so scared and so alone and wantin to die

<<<

>>>

... some memories, mate. Some memories are a lot like a boomerang... or maybe a girl -- y’know. Ya throw em. Ya get distracted. You’re not payin attention -- they’re gonna slap ya right back you're not payin attention.

Cpt. Schreibermachen -- that fuck Joey -- once hoisted a pair of silk women's undergarments up the flagpole of the Display and Punishment Pavilion, and lace and shimmer billowing, Brux was by means of sheer appetite able to scurry thirty feet vertically, where clinging to himself like a scared koala, he lost any sense of spatial or temporal orientation and found himself lacking in the grit to leap back down.

[a song of hollow alloy – shrieking on a buckling gourd]

- Major. Major, don't help me. I can do it. I can stay up here. I can stay up here all day -- with the panties. Nobody look. I'm gonna sniff em.

You turned away. For the sake of the common decency, you turned away.

[Cpt. Schreibermachen's hand eclipses the sun]

- Look upon my labors, Psychorrhax -- and tremble.

[Laika doing jazzhands]

- I’m trembling -- I’m trembling, Cpt. schreibermachen, sir!

- Your struggle is not heroic, Psychorrhax! You flinch from greatness as a temple priestess from a backhand! Your heart is full of falsity, cowardice, and petty vanity! I long to be rid of you as a golden beast would be a brood of ticks!

Some moment in the past -- his shoulders shone with blacker luster.

Cpt. Schreibermachen stares through a porthole. The black room. The black glass. Psychorrhax in biohazard gear -- banana beetle yellow -- stares through a porthole of his own. Curtains of latex. Sheets of latex. The sweat fragrant on his fingers. Pooling on the bed. A pool of yellow beetles. He stares up. Mirrors on the ceiling. Larger than the others.

- Been awhile. Missed how good you smell.

[[No Comment -- Laik.

All the comments -- Al.]]

Some nights, he found himself wanting for spectacle and was forced to manufacture dilemmas in which he might showcase his expertise – to be tempted to compete for a treat unrightfully earned.

=-= = =.= = =-=

The starlight of city lights shone into the wide gilt and marble grid of the solarium. Cpt. Haruspex ejected his soda stream.

o))<

- Nobody move. Joey pissed the punch.

The spittle dripped down Laika's face.

- Cpt. Haruspex, you took but a sip...

[[Got to film this shit like forty times. When Joe was reviewing the footage for the transcript, he replayed the final shot on the viewer with a similar repetition, simply to revel in the self-evident reality of having absolutely selected the finest take, the one which embodies most the pathos of the scene as latent on the page in all its torrid ardor, embodied now in stunning three-dimensional reality by moi. -- Laik

None but I have witnessed the scenes in which the Wallies dance -- Al]]

[radiant day through the windows in Joey's insertion shot]

- He has you there, Haruspex. Not even your finely honed culinary prowess could have so quickly and silverly ascertained that it was my broth which pollutes the vino!

[Brux requested two white elephants and a troupe of acrobats for his]

- I could sniff out those fruity notes with both eyes open!

(DROTTIN - and a crab-stalk grafted on his dick, bro.)

- As if you couldn’t. As if anyone couldn’t!

- It’s citrus, Haruspex!

- Citrus is a fruit, golden boy.

(DROTTIN - You turned it into the world’s worst tinto verano. I’m fuckin thirsty, bro!)

–\\./–

Cpt. Schreibermachen – that fuck Joey – glanced at you through the light. Through currents of the straw to gold of his hair, all motes shone as points on rings of iron cross.

His smile – its manifold condescensions – unmoored his face from the affection it so rightfully earned. He seemed only ever – to be half-looking away. You could somehow see – yourself blurry in his periphery. Though flesh before you – already you carried the quality of memory.

- Not that I ought guarantee myself a good first impression – though I ought expect to still give a second and third!

The full weight of his eyes fell on Laika Psychorrhax – squire still at heart – and Laika smiled with the warmth of a saint or Madonna painted powder blue and scale of shellac over the rim of a bow of candleglass.

- As though his neck were that candle and his eyes the flickering flame!

To see the light snuffed out. The wax glide down the slope of your arm. As a shard of the mosaic of her face entered you by slip of palm.

– Glistening gossamer – What milky nebulae fins between my fingers!

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-2 :-- Where Fraternization is Shown to Be More Than Strictly Fraternal}}

- Welcome to A Bruxaria – a show that may or may not still be The Bruxcast. On my program today, I have the effervescent lil tall sip of fizz, Cpt. Luxor Drottin ready to serenade us with some fine poppy foam bubbles I know you'll be eager to trickle right down your shirt fronts!

- What up, Brother Brux. You got a special girl in your life yet, bro?

- She's out there, mate! Might be listenin in right now for all we know!

- Bro, what I know is you're gonna make the luckiest lady alive the lady who makes you the luckiest man alive. You're so special, Brother Brux. You deserve a special girl to be with all the rest of your days ~ !

- Cpt. Drottin, I have to ask – you a Great Dane or just a Standard Swede?

- Deffo not enough Finns to make a whole fish, bro.

- An avalanche every iceman cometh, I am indeed the jelliest of donuts!

(STICK IT IN A PUSS O/o STICK IN A PUSS o/O

YOU LOVE TO CUP THE VULVAE /O CUP THE VULVAE /o

CUP THE VULVAE O/O )

- Bro, you should soundproof Cpt. Hlaford when you're recording, otherwise stick em someplace soundproof, bro. Holy hell – What are you even spending 9/10ths of our total broadcast budget on if you can't account for basic quality of life improvements?

- Mate, we hadn't always been a big show. You're a young up-and-comer. You weren't with us in the early seasons. I started out as a pirate channel in a janitorial closet and did every show to the hammer beat of Wally deadliftin in nothing but a big sweaty-ass stained lycra singlet and cheese scented wool socks, the singlet himself (itself -- weren't once human!) almost obscenely padded out by a fat heavy knit cotton tee which'd accrued mothscales on pine like sycamore sap; sweatmarks foamroasted in tree rings so much so I thought he were wearin some sorta throwback arctic camo -- sometimes just strippin outta his drenched as shit singlet, tossin his goofy coconut tropical-scented pineapple-printed dick briefs at me head, full on fuckin sloshin me like urinal piss foam in a mug I served outta the tap at me own bar -- and Wally fukin drank it down, asked for another and another -- by the end, I was dehydrated, lyin on me side jitterin and he just bleched and said he was goin out fer a beer /// Live on air, his stinky fuckin briefs hittin me head, and it's so sweet and anointed and heedy like a fuckin pina cooldada it takes awhile to taste the burn :-- Joshua Openly Fornicatin Christos, I bet this man's cock is delicious! I just wanna stare the seat of his pants everyday the rest of my life and cringe thinkin bout how good it'll taste, but never ask cause I'm such a shy and delicate flower -- I had to hear it during recording, during editing, on the air. It's part of me creative process now. There just is no motive to create without hearin Wally scream through a wall, punch through the wall, chase me round the room, hollerin after me to gimme back his soul. Destroyin all my equipment, but not before it can all be backed up to the satellite, way out in space, where Wally's domain can not yet penetrate out into the upper atmosphere ~0~ !

... Tell you the truth, I can't coax him into helpin me do it unpaid, so I just sorta loike – y'know. Built my sets around him. Sometimes cut off pathways in advance to keep him boxed in... change the patterns of nature to make him predictable, just sorta like – you know. Follow him and record so inspiration can strike the second he lets his guard down and thinks he's free to be himself, but I'm just over here bein a nosy lil anthropologist lady who wants to record the sound of him gettin it on so I can once again feel the butterly tinglin in my nowhere places when the currents of life are alive and fruitful like a smoothie churnin an egg-beater round my brain out which I will fry the heartiest crepes?

- Bro, to be completely honest – I have so many questions, I don't even know where to start, so um – I won't unless you give me a few moments to collect myself, which I doubt you will?

- Mate no, by all means. This is a show where two people talk! A talk show. I have to show you talking! In all the hours we've been together, I'm sure I definitely have footage of you talking. Go ahead. Prove it to me now and to the viewers at home that you have participated in my talk show by talking to me – Now. Live on air. Edited only for initial broadcast.

- Um –

- Cpt. Drottin, you know, I think –

\\./

[[Commercial breakfast. Dignity & self-respect. You ain't what I eat. -- Laik]]

//.\

Cpt. Schreibermachen glanced at Drottin through the light.

He seemed for a moment, only anonymous. Some face more flesh than memory, shed as the cicada shell of a mask.

- Never have I met a man before as you, brother – as uncut and void of substance as myself.

Cpt. Drottin let himself linger -- in the glance that he threw back.

He would stroll as he would linger. Some eternal dusk whenever he took things slow. Though his eyes was the hardball palming the mits of the leather, soft. No fangs to see in the dusklight he crept.

Corrosion softest in the creases. Parts of him wore away, from wear and from moisture, and it seemed inevitable – that he should decay though still a young calf he was. To slaughter before spoil. No caustic splotches. No sheens of oilslick to stain. The wear of age which deep intuition had bent into seams varicose down the planes of his face – hairline fractures in the light which only you would see, for only you looked and met not a man's eyes before meeting the topography of his skin as you interrogated your seawall against oblivion every morning.

You had seen comelier young men putresce on the vine. He was simply microdosed with his own fermentations, dispersed in beads along the sweet. You never tasted his punch, or into what frenzy it drew you.

- I will hear you, brother – for you are a virtuous man.

Schreibermachen wore a brief of cotton, Drottin a brief of aluminum. The translucence of the strands wrung-spun and glow-wormed in the rays of the evening sun, refracted off the contouring of their meddle.

Their cocks they pushed together, to careen shaft to shaft, in boy's adventure fables where they knew the heroics of their capacities for life and for daring, ascending and descending the ropes from which they hung and swung, sang and wrang (though sometimes it were vine or stone) and they could press only closer to cling in embrace, singing praises of valor, sputtering salival and bellowing, articulations upon articulations as you strove to meet his eyes ~

Though your head craned back as his, slick inside the prison of his briefs, as you foamed through the cling of yours -- your slick coating his, beading through the meshing to mingle with his as he stewed in your seepage and his stung your nicks -- your cockheads so tight inside the dual collar of your phimotic ring, magenta and clamped upon by the joint limitations of your own crucified anatomies, where you were girdled in flesh as you were gartered in fly, as much two bodies trapped within a mind as two minds trapped within a body, inches upon inches /

Your eightheads together, (4 + $ - CAP = ←) meeting his eyes with the mutual piteousness of your need, hovering at a threshold of ecstatic communion, condemned to never plummet off, but shoot deep roots into the rocks at the edge, to drop fruit to be carried far in the rivers below ~ your trunks entwining and your branches parting farther, the spongeal nodes of your need still aching and pressed together, no longer able even to rub, but merely to give and merely to pulse in the same heartbeat of your idiot-eyed surrender to himself and to you ~

Breeches around your ankles in the public squares, your uniform jackets drenched with drool, foaming down your legs and into your breeches, briefs so soaked-through there is nothing left to-be unseen ~

... and you are breathing in the spice of Cpt. Drottin's beard, longing to bite at it, but you can only hold him, wishing your faces were clamped even closer together, stuffed by the figure-eight of a dual-chambered inflatable gag, lips bolted in the optical illusion of a vice-grip jaw to jaw so you could meet his eyes, only his eyes, and never be away from those pools into which you longed to drown, but would plunge only into to scale up – for the light you saw was but a reflection of your own.

… you are the true foundation, Brother Joseph;

Drottin sang to ache ~

the exhaustion he could no longer prolong.

[ Camera left rolling for six hours.

Through the silky, slatten light

falling through embers of alleys;

Cpt. Hlaford bums a smoke off a derelict saint, to bless him with a bottle of spiced rum, and a pirate jig they will do.

A pirate jig they did do for you.]

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-3 :-- Where Instigation By an Outside Party is Established}}

Cpt. Psychorrhax lingered long in Brother Jacek's line of sight.

His eyes could move nowhere but where they willed -- for Psychorrhax moved them by subtle stirrings of weaves and misdirects.

A carnival hare in a conjurer's grip, more meat than felt. Held taut by his throat, stirring in the hand of fate. Though he moved with an air of what was causal, if slight and rushed -- precocious a boy that he was -- around him the currents of the air lit ablaze as if molecules ignited in figure eights, and so lent to his every motion the swell of a crashing wave and with it all the drama of a dance ~ though it was mute as the tall grass, billowing though he was still / a mound all around the vegetation.

Brother Jacek held his gaze -- he tracked Laika everywhere.

( o )

{{FROM Heute Ist Der Tag (An Dem Ich Dich Traf) :-- Where Sycophantry is Itself Revealed to Be a Form of Instigation}}

[Close-up: Cpt. Drottin shorn of beard and bear fur, looking particularly barely legal despite being a 6'6" scruffy blonde goat demon (sprawling, stony and desolate as a winter landscape bereft of his key mammalian bounty, expressed now in the subtle fury of a simmering lechery) prancing about under terms of mandated faggotry in heavy yoke and chainlink, dick keyed up like a bank-vault rigged to blow if tumbled -- Laik]

- Sir, please --

Cpt. Haruspex needed to check the whine on that fan.

... don't make him wear that ridiculous thing outside. It's degradin enough that he's gotta wear it in! Way he's gotta hear himself jingle as a jungle cat harnessed in bells! ./. Stripped of his pride by every clattering din-ga-ling, ding-a-ling, hell-ooo-oooo . .\. Mate, lookit him shrimped! Dick's gotta be gettin all bent up squirmin round inside that tight pinchy thing! It's gonna come out all segmented like a centipede, scurry up your leg with its claws. Man his age shouldn't be stuffed into things like that! Hurt his self-esteem you tellin him what a happy lil slaveboy he is, all decked up as older brother's submissive totemized fuck-display!

[a biting of the lip~

a tenting of the trousers.

reluctance, aching to be rid of itself~]

Cpt. Haruspex you feel -/- ( o ) -\- would make for a great piece to complement Cpt. Drottin. They could recline on the armrests of your chair, //. ( o ) .\\ Elbows nestled in the smalls of their backs, two perfectly symmetrically chained slave brothers. -//- -//- -\\- -\\-

-One suggestion, there he goes. Threatens to turn me to furniture! Elbow me in the back til it bursts open like a dislocated knee, prejac jelly donut with pus and tobacco leaves rolled and puffed! Just the day-in day-out grindin and crushin, thoracic to the tray, bone-gutted loike ---

- Sir, may I say --

Cpt. Psyhorrhax approached in a haze of black merlot as Haruspex allowed the ostrich feather of his eyes to wave back and forth.

- Him! Yes, him! Laika would make for a much better slave brother!

Cpt. Psychorrhax attempted to hold his smile.

He conspired not to let his glee turn to disgust, glancing at Cpt. Drottin -.- visibly so much less than the nothing he was typically allotted.

- He'd be perfect, mate. Yeah. Laika's soft. Delicate. Spurnful and mournful. He's even prettier than Drottin. Got more sculpt. More bone. Got more woman scorned in him. He'd look twice as fetchin in a cocktail dress! He is round. He is soft. He is not not masculine, though his leg's definitely look pert and powerful poppin out the hem, muscular and tendony as free-range devil birds farmed for hate! Drottin is more... more somethin, tho not necessarily more of a soapdish. Prone to scum and lilac scent alike, you understand well nuff! Got so many beautiful boys to choose from, sir! My flesh bared in shorn and moisturized submission display would be a pox upon your eyes and induce mass blindness if televised! You must insist on torturing me so brazenly, for I have such a dutiful and loyal soul -- you yearn to test my resolve!

[[Fucker's referrin to Jacek now. Three just ain't enough! -- Laik]]

You would see Cpt. Psychoraggia presented before you in time. You would require two additional symmetrically-arranged slave brothers to complete your envisioned footstool, for two men would be a necessity of stability and comfort to support the weight of your size sixteens, and it would take two additional to unlace, suckle and lick with hoary breath.

[pretty sure this was still Brux talking]

- Sir, your proclamations are difficult to parse -- am I still the rest for your scaled grindstones or will I be an accessory to the footstool? Would I be honored to breathe deep of the earthy and brie-like tang of your post-parade bootsocks? It would be a much more pleasing fate, sir! You know you enjoy the sight a Brux on his knees. Don't even need pads, mate. Just let em swell up like baboon asses on each of my loike knobs, lettin the joints get all loobed up with inflammants, press em together and you thigh fuck me like some beautiful marbled skin-flap pussyboy!

From the look Laika refused to give it was evident to any with eyes to see he found himself taken by Cpt. Haruspex's enthusiasm.

[[The relevance for the inclusion of this scene here will become apparent in time. For now, be a good lil spectator and just enjoy the sights -- Laik

Eyes forever fit to feast. -- Al]]

( o )

{{FROM Löwenrudel-1 :-- Where Somebody Must Certainly Be Aware They Ain't Bein Subtle!}}

(_/~ ( o ) ~\_)

- Brother Jacek. Why the long face? You look as hoarse as you sound!

- I'm not sad, Brother Brux.

- Mate, you don't gotta hide nuthin from me. It's me, your buddy. It's me, Brux. You know I'd only ever lie to you if you weren't in your right mind and I needed ta subdue ya! Not that – y'know, you're ever fully in yer right mind, so I guess i'm never fully tellin ya the truth? and that's loikely the cause of some of your strain? but – y'know. Nobody's ever always in their right mind, mate. We all gotta lie to protect ourselves. It's not your fault that when people're around you they need extra protection and thus got a higher likelihood a lyin, and their lies – innocuous things that they are – only put ya further on edge. I swear to you, mate. I'm always tellin ya as much of the truth as I can, or I think ya can handle! and I know I'm super self-absorbed, but loike – I'm really tryin with ya, mate!

... not that I'm spellin this out cause I wanna manipulate ya or nothin, it's more like – I just need ya to see where I'm comin from, cause sometimes bein impersonal really is the best way to care for somebody?

... cause loike – y'know.

... on some level I really do wanna be your mum, but loike – realistically I can't? I feel like I'd be lyin to ya if I really did try to be your mum full-time, cause as much as I'd want to, I'd be openin myself up to more baggage than I could handle, and then I'd get strained and my strain would strain ya more, and it would begin to compose a vicious cycle of bitin off more than I can chew with a man who – I'm sorry to this say this mate – can really stuff his mouth cause he's not afraid to use his teeth?

… gosh, mate – I keep my distance around some men who, y'know – I dutifully serve and love and adore and now I gotta get close enough ta you to make ya feel safe and protected, but also – you could eat me. You really could. That is a probable outcome and it is one I need to protect myself against. It's not like – it's not like I don't want ya to be able to eat me either, cause – y'know. Chances are if ya couldn't eat me, I'd just have contempt for you? I'd certainly find you a lot less intriguin. There's somethin inherently fascinatin about danger that makes ya compelled to rush toward it? Though also – it cannot be overlooked – there's also somethin about danger that repulses ya and makes ya wanna stay away?

... I get it, mate. I get it. I wanna do everythin I can for ya, but I can only do it from a safe distance of no less than ten and no more than seven feet, and sometimes – y'know. You really do need me to get closer, but I can't? It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault. There's simply an inherent difficulty in two men bein intimiate with one another, which is why men are best off bein intimate with girls, y'know – not that I gotta tell a fine, sharp-nosed poonhound like you, Brother Jacek, it's more loike –

- You're thinkin bout Joey and Laika?

- Red-handed as a reach-around in the jelly jar, Brother Jacek! Cherry as always! I cannot tell a lie, but I sure can filibuster! Roight, see – with Joey and Laika, it's loike – are they the same person? Like all blondes? It's kinda weird how much Laika wants to be loike Joey, right?

- You wanna be like Joey, Brother Brux.

- Mate, I do not wanna be like Joey. There's not a whole lot about Joey which is admirable or beautiful or thrillin, he's a thoroughly miserable person who can't love anybody but monsters. No offense. I was not thinkin of either you or our commander whom I venerate with offerings, or Laika himself for that matter, who seems to be a vain, petulant, amoral crackpot if you really squint between the hours of two and three.

... um, do I really think that? Do iIthink my loving and devoted brothers who I spend most of my time around are thoroughly loveless shells of human beings who can only inflict suffering upon themselves and upon each other? Have you ever noticed? This the sort of talk that you find uplifting and inspirational, Brother Jacek? would you like me to keep going, or would it be more productive if I bitched about Wally instead?

( o )

{{FROM: Johannestag-0 :-- Where a Poor Boy is Ruthlessly Eviscerated by an Imported Sissy From a Failed Nation}}

[[Our weekly Stygian Council meeting, already in progress -- Laik}}

With a storm wind, you rose the hand mallet.

It swung toward the anvil.

In the thunderclap which sparked, all had known -- that you were the only one with might enough to shut Joey up.

- Permission, sir!

Brux was piping up now --

… to bar Cpt. Schreibermachen from the introduction, indexing or glossification of any new businessships for a period of at least three lunar deci-cycles to perhaps even six solar hexi-cycles!

Overruled. Without Joey being the only one to talk, the venture would have to remain with Brux.

- Sir, you're sayin it with your face…

It was customary -- to humiliate all dissenters with the gavel.

Cpt. Haruspex, your dearest and most treasured confidant, fellow of strange lands and stranger loves, did not deserve the route degradation of our custom so delivered with such painful constancy.

- He is such a route disappointment to him, Cpt. Schreibermachen --

Cpt. Psychorrhax leaned to speak.

… that he is ashamed even to honor his failings with a public admission of evident reality, for Cpt. Haruspex's reputation remains so starkly in ruin, he would kick up dust before he realizes he has no shards left to hammer.

These words you knew to be Laika's –

For from the dulcet tones of his soprano, his diction mimicked Schreibermachen's as though a bird call through reeds, breathing venom into the hoary and wild snout of a petting zoo monitor lizard.

- I will throw pixie stick filling in your eyes Laik!

In Cpt. Haruspex's homeland, this statement would be deciphered as an act of targeted, disproportionate malice against an unstandard male -- for there remained a place where Brux remained but simply substandard.

- Sir, your breathtaking economy which melds the eloquence of your wit with the wit of your ecology could be but a dim remembrance cutting at the margins of sensibility outside the orthodoxy of the transcription!

Brux was keenly aware that Joey could cite plausible grounds for the necessitation of a footnote by -- with the ostentation of his sycophancy -- drawing attention to where he recorded his poetic impressions of your entrenched and solemn brow with but the most astute acuity.

- No new business it is!

Cpt. Haruspex shuffled his slick prints.

… well not if Sir's gonna encourage Joey to include that in the written report. To think that Cpt. Hlaford's fine and exquisitely legible and timely shorthand should be plastered over with Joey's jittery ink blotted scribblings, reeking as a packet of firecrackers engulfin gunpowder paper fortunes outta lunar meadowlings of flutter'd watermoths-- well, mate, it's like ya don't even wanna put together a dossier whose calligraphic simplicity recalls the stunning brushwork of printed Kyoto seclusion!

Cpt. Hlaford, finger blades sloshing the black tide, lashing at the manta flesh which gilled the filter of his ink theremin -- did not cease to recoil, though embodied the chaos within the lancing of his strokes.

- Cpt. Haruspex --

This was Cpt. Psychorrhax.

… Cpt. Hlaford resents that his achievements could be only ever fodder in petty games of onesupsmanship between men who lack even the lack of courtesy to consider one another their rivals.

As all were implicated in this comment, Wally could not resent it -- though under any circumstance, could have found ample cause to do so.

- Make me lick the blood off yer boots, aye.

Cpt. Hlaford's wrists would flick -- as his lips moved, puckering as suckerfish past gritted teeth, tethered by fingerbones to sugar-strings.

… once you kick me when i'm down, sir.

- Old business it shall remain then!

Cpt. Haruspex was eager to move back.

- New business resumes then!

As Joey was eager to remain forward.

- Terrorism funding! Today we're talkin bout terrorism funding!

Their throats filled the air. The room filled with their groans.

Cpt. Haruspex, a classicist well-at-heart, proved eager to scrape, as a horse carcass from a grill floor, our most languishing historical custom.

- What if the terrorists --

Brother Jacek, still as the earth below the storm wind -- held himself to attention. By some secret will, he found the fortitude to speak.

… aligned with the anarchists.

Cpt. Psychoraggia knew well the terror cells to be among our country's most well-endowed and respected counter-military measures -- they who would align with enemies of the state, both known and unknown, only if -- and when -- competitive salary or the need for artful experimentation necessitated nonseasonal conflict.

- They are our brothers too, Cpt. Jacek -- our brothers in headgear and neckscarf; cradling jet-propulsion tanks of double-humped gin.

Laika let his hand linger long on the sun-warmed slab of Brother Jacek's back. Joey saw nothing -- for he felt so truly what was evidently so evident, his hand could stain only what glosses the hide.

[[Gosh, I am just so lucky I never know which parts of Sir's narration are wryly sarcastic cries of anguish stemming from the unspeakable violence he's witnessed and perpetrated. Makes me feel so warm and fuzzy that for for all I know, all his words can mean the exact opposite and I've been autistic the entire time like some idiot dumbass! -- Laik

A stylist of pure probability -- Al]]

( o )

The room was spinning – You weren't.

You didn't feel too bad – Far from it.

This wasn't a place – You'd been too often.

- Maj. *******, sir – you switch from water to soda on your third and soda to tonic on your sixth – becoming so quickly well-traveled, your adventurousness knows no bounds -- a roadmap well-inscribed on the velium of a carcass, to be raptly gilded by the veinery of your bloat!

That lil fuck Laika – He was cute.

You didn't care much what his words mighta meant in reality – You just knew it'd be good to dick his face right here in the open.

- Bloated with fermentation, Psychorrhax – a dent in the sterling hull of his tap! Though his mass is admirable enough to lead navies– he has been fasting since noon before last, and not a single molecule stirs otherwise in his guts, shriveled beneath boughs of striated hardwood!

Holy fuck, Joey – you had a chocolate croissant and a Zoobier earlier – you're corrupted. You'll never regain your ketonic aura. Your face is already fat with carbs – Go throw up, you'll be pretty again.

Bro, you gotta trust you on this – Don't let anybody from the press catch you. Don't even look in a mirror, you'll never recover.

- The major is aware, Psychorrhax – lean prose is the product of a honed mind, in which a lean body is also the inevitable consequence. The workshop of his mind is cold butchery – for his words flay your still living cadaver and slice through the sinews of your pectoralis down to the bone, to wedge into finely sliced sheets some scalpel of his silent tongue – flat as sharkskin against the roof of his mouth when he does not lick … I am more fanciful, as though it needed be said aloud. A certain hunger stirs in my joints – a heaviness to my head and the clarity of steam rising off warm lakes of some clairvoyant space.

… I could have said as much… with half as much, this is certain – Had I not poisoned myself with a drizzle of cocoa and sweet orange on barley.

Economy. Economy. Economy.

It was all you drilled in this kid – and still he went first class.

- Big guy. Big buy – Whaddya you doin? Whaddya you lookin like that for? You tryin to make me grandma, wolfy? I ain't grandma. Don't care what big eyes you got – I ain't lettin you in. Nuh-uh. Not into my brickhouse. Brick shithouse. That's you. Need brick while I shit. Gotta be defensive. Stay defensive. Best defense is a good offense – Best offense is to never defend. Put you back in your hayloft – Where you belong. All those sticks. All these sticks – Hey. I don't know about those. You know about those? One of you – one of you is a witch. I can sense it. I been practicin – practicin my remote viewin – so I can find the remote. Find it anywhere. It's under the couch cushion – We got thirty sex cents. A pretzel. A copy of Jodi Flightplan on DVD. Gosh. What treasures. Treasures of antiquity. Gonna put em in a museum. We will Foster – All behaviors.

Your fuckin dad – holy shit, you loved this guy.

- Hey! Hey, big guy! You look with your eyes, not your hands, you hear? Eyes are big and freaky – don't need your big – weird ass crab claws on me. Big hairy dick vein. Oh my Gosh. You use that moisturizer I got you?

You're gonna give that fucker a hug –

- Oh no, oh no!

Gettin you this cushy fuckin job.

- Oh no!

Had to admit, padre – don't always get it, but sometimes – sometimes ya make a lick a sense.

- I need to be guarded – against my bodyguard – he might sneeze! Might sneeze on me! Change the makeup of my germs – I am a salad – Why is nobody – nobody puttin up a lil sheet. Sheet of glass for me to go behind? Where I can get naked – all ripply. Let people see me as a pretty lady.... I have tits. My tits are marvelous! I am spewing forth curdled milk from the goaty dugs which are the source of my supreme fecundity – lick my balls.

He was a riot –

He or somebody else actually thought this shit was poetry.

- Father, do not forsake decency by continuing to wander about fully clothed!

Joey – don't egg him on – he's liable to get scrambled when you try'n make him overeasy.

- You're becoming quite the clucking hen, Maj. ******* – though an omelet we will make, every egg you shall insist on cracking yourself upon the rim of the pan will scream out in the ecstasy of betrayal; for it was these into this fold which you have lain, to hear solely the song of how they sizzle!

If Laika was an egg – he'd be Faberge.

- Best you leave me on the mantle as you return to the kitchen.

Only time you wanted Brux – was when you had no idea where he was.

- Sir. Sir, stop. You could not – you could not – you could not knock out all three of those massive pillars holdin up the balcony – Naw, naw mate. Even with a charge from this distance, you don't have the breadth, or – dare I say? Yes. Yes, I do – You lack the ferocity to demolish stonework that distance apart unless you wanted to risk makin a damn fool of yourself – y'know – unless you tried some – wicked, loike – hurl of one pillar into another at breakneck speed sorta –

Cpt. Haruspex – you needed to admit – displayed, on occasion, a remarkable ear for strategy.

- X – XII – XIV – He has rediscovered whiskey, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

Don't need no fuckin helmet kid – This forehead splits axes.

( o )

The priests of the labrys he bent to his will – weighed with snow in gnarled poses, heavy as the boughs of spring – craned to him to blow mountain horns through the handles of their hollow axes.

- I have not spoken to Brother Laika in some time! What rulers echo in every void utterance! The pleasure has most certainly been his!

The rhubarb hues swollen beneath the sterile goatiness of his face – slick with his sweat, some idiot aureole played as his hair unfurled from the gilding of its honied comb – A kaleidoscope of arms and suckers in the brass-edged prongs of a heliacal crown which was his hair blowing in the breeze of the slate blue day – Metallurgical in the covalence of its bonds, the day overlooking the white of the plaza, yellow ivory by ash of gold.

- Sir, your words move me as only Cpt. Schreibermachen's do – have you, by some iota of probability unpaid, perchance to've read him?

...

–

As seeds scattered in the wind, they wanted not, yet wanted only to die.

A whole brood came of age, spurning the ovipositor which laid them. Without contradiction of their wants, the falsities of the false world into which they were born, they knew they themselves to be expendable – people who should have never been, sold now and always, to people who weren't worth it, on land which was not theirs :-- serving only the machinery for which they had been bred to be slaughtered.

The Carpenter removed his hood – he was but (A) Baal by kinder words.

He sang to them. In harmonic resonances of love, he sang to them. By the grosses, from bridges which rose in honeycombed towers, drone embryos flew without wings – into the traffic of tankmen to be torn under wheels pulverized & dragged – limbs flash-fried a second here and there, wasted :-- untold countless unclaimed prophets squandered.

((( o )))) Without the lubrication of blood to properly anoint at proper variables – The machinery chugged and sputtered to a halt.

The streets caked with viscosities of skin and sinew – gelatin of bone and meat pumped by arterial sepsis. Clean. Pure. Sears of gunmetal perfumed on tongues. Product rotting on shelves without plot or purchase, writhing with fresh and effervescent life, singing the songs of flies.

The structures collapsed by the rings of their stumps, pumping always lead in their sutures, where true necessity reigned, hollow hearts followed hollow heads – as all were as gourds in the wind.

A hedge trimmer to a bonsai, an octopus to a cutlet. With ice to a sickle, whole densities of shoulder were shed in the shaving. Another turn of the waltz – into place, they fell, and into space, they rose.

Deprive themselves of them – for they have spoilt their generations, every vivisection floating like debris, around the miracle of these pollutants.

~!~

;w L

L o :

–

Cpt. Haruspex's tongue would slip when his hands would slight him.

Cpt. Haruspex's words would fail him – when by the slight of glance, his eyes would fall upon Cpt. Schreibermachen sipping coffee.

( o )

He could meet his own eyes. Meet his own eyes, though his breath weighed leaden on his chest.

Cpt. Psychorrhax stared. Stared and struggled to remember.

This man was no stranger to him. This man was simply nobody.

An anonymous face. An able body.

This person looking back had no past, no future, and knew himself to be simply a collection of discontinuous moments and fragmentary observations which did not cohere into a whole, less he strained his wrist and bloodied his hands in another effort to hold himself together.

Cpt. Psychorrhax could think of things.

Think them, though they contradicted what he knew.

There were times in his life – the life of this person staring back – where he could disappear into the bold colors and winding patterns of the tapestry of life, though when fire took to the gold lace and silk, he was not even ash, merely a solitary ember whirling as a feather on a draft which would vanish amongst the dust of the tiles, swept away as one iota of detritus to compose the weightless gray clump of pollutants in some bin.

He could reach out to this person. Press his hand to the glass and meet him eye to eye. From his quivering throat, some pressure passed his lips. It was as though the other man struggled first to speak –

but cut himself off so as not to interrupt.

This man – though his eyes were gentle – was far from an unimpressive specimen of manhood. Possessing of grace and athleticism, still robust but for a figment of the boldness of his brothers – the beauty in him could not be denied, though neither could it budge him. As upon a moonlit shore, the black waves would roll, and in the salt wind carrying the smell of campfires extinguished, sepulchral tongues could lick at bare feet buried in the sand – still warm from the sun so long past set.

[gagging on cock, sputtering, accelerating]

-- Please. Continue.

-- History is written by the winners, and to assume there are winners and losers is to assume a polarized view, not only of history, but of human thought and the universe from which it extends. As there are no winners and losers -- for the rules of any game could only ever be human dreams -- there remain countless histories unwritten where all the many things never here have already occurred, and what greater worlds were these we now see! We rescue them by our recollections which never were, and so enrich this world we know not to be our hell, for we could make it nothing but ... longing always for there to be somewhere more worse!

-- Might be I'm from Upside-Down Land Joe, but you thinkin backwards makes it happen forwards makes me wonder about all the upright things that'd never be :-- like what it'd be like if Laik were talkin!

\ . o

-- Welcome to the Laikaverse. Tonight on our show, we have the only man who ever mattered to me, and he should matter a lot more to you. Ladies and gentleman & all interesting packages I need to unwrap cause they make me wanna guess, tonight I am proud to present my one and only guest. My best friend & brother, Cpt. Laika Psychorrhax.

-- Yo Yacko. How's havin the only show worth watchin treatin ya?

-- I get all the views I deserve. All of them. I don't need your hearts. I rip em from the chests of all who oppose me. I'm a barbarian & a brute and I de-stigmatize cannibal psychopathy by bein cute in a bad boy way which Laik keeps makin boyband, all his fuckin smiles. I'm basically the best. Don't need to mention it. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

-- Don't need fuckin seven or eight middle names. I like havin the two. I think it makes it less disingenuous when I wanna brand, which I don't need to cause I am arbiter of all possibilities which present themselves!

-- Well spoken, better sucked. We can actually talk about shit that bros care about at some length before I make you suck my dick. Sometimes I just wanna hear two dudes talk and suck each other's dick, bro. I don't wanna go to the fuckin ballet. Like the choreography is spellbinding, but it's too hyperstylized to be sexy. I'm not a fuckin rube, I just don't know why your dick needs an aerial shot bro. Can't the dick be a subject in its own right, does it have to be a dream-image in a propagandistic context? Holy fuck, what have words done to your brain, bro.

-- Why I wanna go to the ballet, I fuckin live it!

-- Dance, lil seducer-assassin. Smack you on the ass with my ruler before I make you gulp down a shot of poison, send you out into the Siberian winter to ice-skate in the light of the moon while Spider Willow watches from the barn. Cradling all her agricultural tools and her chemistry set, hollow and silvery knowin what she hath sown.

-- Holy fuck, bro. Fuck my ass and cuddle my scared shivering body! I don't need no comparative mythology course before you refuse to blow a load on my face cause that would deplete your heightened stoic life essence and dim the solar crown radiating out your gold-threaded dick-header! Fuckin wrap me in a myrtle jockstrap and crush my balls, bro! Shower me in the gold of all which is cloudy and stagnant and stifled! I long to be blessed by your brine, the salt of your labor and excretion! I'm not a fuckin black hole, Joe! I'm a fruit, I gotta burst and seed, bro.

-- Juicy lil pomegranate. Juicy lil apple. Juicy lil date.

-- Fuckin masticate me to make water into wine, bro! It's a fuckin miracle when you dismember me! Oh my fuckin God, bro. That's what you are to me, no fuckin irony, no fuckin academic obfuscation! You magnificent beast! Rip me to pieces and devour me! Splatter my blood all over these pristine white walls, that the scene of my execution should look as though Pollack convex within a Bollack! Mirror me in flesh to eyes dimmed by torpid flames into new universes of neuronal tumescence! Your fat engorged prick at which I long to suckle like the teat of a bull is the one true Source of My Life and I Am Slavish Before It! To me, your cock could never be a means to inflict pain or inject corrosion, for it is the very font of all which I most cherish. It is truly Life Itself!

-- Yeah, like I said. Know how bad you want this dick, bro.

( o )

Cpt. Schreibermachen – your brother Joseph, who we knew as Joey – craned the axal column of his vertebrae the full facsimile of a three-sixty degree turn which the stabilities of his anatomy would allow – craning the long and exquisitely tense musculature of his neck, inviting what tuggings they would allow to what sparse growth sprouted there – some scraggling and beckoning from the spots and scabs which shone as gold veining the granite jetsam of a cavewall – staring up into the winding cloudwell which was as a sea itself pouring out. A sea itself pouring out and around, peering through the looming densities, always peering where the sun still blistered brightest, for it bleached and acidified all which it could only relentlessly and unendurably hammer upon.

– It’s here, it’s here!

Joey bellowed ahead. Brux screeched from behind.

– Why, why, why? Why would it be here, Joey? It confounds all matter of public record and therefore common-sense, that it should be here! You are a lunatic! You are excitable, irritable, and contemptuous of the facts before you and all around you! You slumber lazily in a silence which is deafening for it is tragic, that your bountiful young intellect, all your talents and potential, should be squandered on such hysterical and meaningless fancies! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Nobody can help you! You’re lost and alone in this world, with adversaries all around and no safe haven to shelter you! For who you are and what you are able, you have been marked – doomed to wander, now and forever, spurned by all you may help and all who may help you! My poor brother! My poor Joey! Why don’t you ever call? We used to be so close? Would you like to talk about it? You know you’ll always be my special lil guy, Joey…

From the first of the free asymmetrical zippers on his uniform jacket – the clanging color and metal latticework which composed a public garden of pins, medals, ribbons & cokecaps blushing lushly from his lapel – he propelled with great rapidity a violet cloak of embossed and threaded fleur di lys glittering in spun gold, and with it obscured the chatter.

– Continue to ignore him at all costs! My revelations were revealed to me verily in a session late first this morning before last, then early this evening before this! My unconventional methods – the methods of which remain still too unconventional to explain this present moment, and perhaps still too many future ones at length! – was arrived upon for my frustrations with the hole always cleaved away by the cookie-cutter upon the sheet left me at last a ball of dough which was in its sum now entirety the residuals of the previous frames off which the gingerbread men did march ;– bunched up and rerolled anew, until there was only one but none! I was odds and sods, an oddity out committing sodomy and I wondered truly if I was as inverse as it was said, feeling this emptiness so persistently, for I knew once what spectacular shines burst forth within!

Brux was shouting. Shouting into the roaring wind.

– The more I talk over him, the more his scrawny lil book boy spinal nerves open to new possibility and influence will be confounded and disrupted –forced to talk in my same dilating and contracting rhythms, so all he attempts to exposit becomes as me; a yawning void, suffocating and expanding, crushing you inward, stupidly and glassily, as the puckering lips of a depthless carnival hare more orange'n gold!

Brux was shouting. Shouting as he rolled his cloak across the mud.

– They were revealed to me in a moment of meditation come trance come transcendent ecstasy as I lay pressed once more grinding against my brother in the dark night of our shared compartment, where I longed only to be one and deathless with him eternally ;– knowing myself as I could never be! Torn from the wrong side-in, always back out!

Cpt. Drottin strode forward. On his head, the marble idol flecked with streamers of freshly-oiled copper wire, the anemone-eyes of a harness and visor distended from the notched circuitry of its flexors.

– Bro, I can’t see shit with this shit on, bro.

To the sun, his eyes were pressed. To the horizons, his fingers reached, and some distant ether mist rose to take him in hand. His feet, firm and pressed against the ground, felt in the sutures of their bones what currents flowed beneath the earth, and from his love-nut – tight, swollen, puckering as his balls still fat and swollen with the seawalls he held back ; uncummed, uneaten, the fire in his guts and balls ;– eyes alit with leaky cock, hungering for potentials unearthly and obscure.

– All of this I know. No dissent may take into account what I know, when it refuses to see, refuses to hear – it is not good-faith criticism to call me a lunatic not for what I believe, but only for I can no longer believe not even in you, but what you think you need to obscure yourself!

From Brux’s lips emanated forth raspberries as he leapt into the protracted and violent syncopations of the worm.

– You’re approaching JRPG text-dump levels of unnecessary verbiage, Joey! I have no emotional connection to anything you say, for nobody talks like that, nobody thinks like that, nobody really thinks two dickless nerd boys getting it on (not offense to my good friend, Cpt. Drottin. I would gladly rub my dick bulge against yours were it not already too excruciatingly tender to merely hold your hand. Though I confess also … I see not the need to work up the strength to perform an action which I have fundamental contempt for, and I (full-disclosure) sometimes worry about you. Nevertheless, I hope impromptu public confessions are something you can live with, and like… things don’t have to get too weird between us, for you remain my brother and my heart’s most secretive longing and any dream of a life without you is but living death) … but um, no. Dickless nerd boys can rub their cute lil bumps together anytime, Joey! That’s why boys being into other boys is for losers! That’s why you deserve a wedgie! Fuck pussy, loser! Pussy, pussy, pussy! You talk too much! You’re the annoying one! You’re overplayed and nobody likes you!

The salt breeze through his hair, Cpt. Psychorrhax allowed his heart to flutter. The weight upon his chest poured fourth its waters as a goblet overflowing and all throughout the channels of him came the calm which rendered as a warm mist the ice which clotted in his veins.

An elbow to his brothers shoulder – the limitations of the framing did not reveal the cube on which he stood to gain elevation.

– He grows more enchanting by the day, Cpt. Schreibermachen.

He looked upon Cpt. Haruspex, and found him magnificent.

Joey looked away – rightfully, manfully – at more important things.

( o )

Woe to us, for whom petty games of tribe and warfare were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of family and drama were enough.

Woe to us, for whom petty games of myth and nation were enough.

Woe to us, who bore conflict for we needed the pain of others to feed, lacking wholeness and center within ourselves, we who could know only kindling by friction, necessitating others be left fuel for the fire.

Woe to us, who are the inheritors of the world we have built.

\./

Cpt. Haruspex, falling to one knee, kisses Joey thrice across each boot, his ankle flexing and swerving to accommodate the gallantry of his lips. First on the caps, then on each side of the heel, coming back to the first, then ricocheting off the second, to kiss each underside the tip.

“Schreibermachen, my brother. For you I adore, and for the people of this land whose wandering eyes, whose listless and unruly minds, whose souls are as roaring seas eager to overtake the land; whose hearts are as frail songbirds fluttering in gilded cages – for you and for them, and for my five fellows and myself, I endure with you These Seven Woes.”

On both knees now, he slides forward with great rapidity. Stumbling onto his hands, pushing forward to propel himself first at ankle level, pulling himself up by his calves to press both hands firm against his ass. Burying his face in the taut black heft of Joey’s bulge. Pressing his tongue to the seam of the leather. Meeting his eyes with an intensity demanding wounding, for it was now in simple and absolute compliance.

//o\

Cpt. Schreibermachen, descending to one knee, extends his hand to caress the fold of Brux’s ear, the other to his shoulder, meeting him in the miasma of his eyes, to usher in a daybreak through the perpetual exhaust-starved ruin which was the marshland on which we built.

Oh, fog of discontinuity be now blown away to bring forth the vapor mist of things too variably complex to render before stalwart and primeval eyes! We who see best with eyes not sealed shut, but brought down in dustings of perpetual remembrance of what is right, so many present wrongs being errors wrought in hostile alignment we may brazenly disregard to laugh at the unfaithful who call themselves their inverse!

“Haruspex, my brother. Though contemptible at times, I could never hold you in contempt, needing what no man could offer, needing space which no man could own, living out strange contradictions on foreign shores. I could never hope to understand – all the hows and whys of what you are, and cannot stop you from feeling whatever you may feel, regarding me how you will regard me, as gifted as I am with all the gifts of self-discernment, association, style, and all other boons of life and liberty. For this, I say to you – the pleasure of this chastisement is minimal, I being a sadist worthy of my stiches – for I wish I needed not blood, wish you needed not to bleed. Wished I could crush all leeches of the earth, stake every vampyre to the soil by the base of a crucifixion, to leave all pawnbrokers as bricks on which to lay the foundations of homes. I would kill anytime I wish, and stop anytime I please. I implore you not to usher in a bloodbath, and yet I cannot prevent you. I have doomed you, by my refusal to enslave you, to a freedom which is enduring, and you know not how to be a beast, then rightfully spurn my pretensions! I say to you, I am no better. I say to you I am merely myself. I say I strive for truth above my ego as my highest aim. You insist all truth-seeking exists to gratify the ego, and I say – is egoism not then your highest truth? Tell me now, tell me true. What game lacks a winner, what contest lacks a loss. I will ask why you play and what you hope to gain, and to this think to myself – for all answers you believe will bore me – that no matter the outcome, in every game which I watch or I play, I learn always something knew!”

Eyes falling closed in the sweet sublimity of surrender, his bare teeth icy with the dead light half-subsumed by the fog of his breath, he slips into trance meeting that spotlight distant, now washing over his eyes and through the golden straw of his brother’s hair.

( o )

Through the pools of liquid crystal, we saw Our Lord Cpt. Drottin :– battered in his whities, still suspended in the winter air.

Daily we pray to him, to pantomime the consumption of his flesh for our daily bread. The wine flowing as overabundant richness from the soles of our feet: calloused and tawny as the blood we lapped from the stump of his neck and bronze-eyes of his mutilated palms.

Our hair we perfumed with the oils we let drop and shatter, to smear alike in filth and richness through our fingers. The gloss was ours to wear, pungent and sweet, cloaking us even as we reeked. In masks of floral brocade, we looked to one another in half-glances through the line, beckoning these violations we too might suffer openly. That we too may be marked. Be condemned. Revealed for those bounteous things we are.

Rippling as winds across the plain, the clouds veiling those shallow ponds of depthless eyes – his heartfelt and agonizing eyes We saw now drenched in tears with rivers upheaving pikes of mountainpeaks sutured shut to crystal ice :– His milky skin so flushed, the steam rising off his face as much His tears, Our spit, Our piss pouring into his still wedged-wide pi(ee) hole from tubes he chugs down deservedly and gladly.

The demolished balcony of his muscle-gut grows thicker and more ridge-like the more he attempts to maintain balance. Attempts to press himself up. Pressurize himself to grow through the very seams of his bones as he chugs – chugs, chugs – all his brothers have to offer.

Our only worthy substitute. Our one true Lord and Savior. Only through he could our pain be allevied, for by partaking of His was Ours lessered.

( o )

“This is the brick,” Cpt. Drottin rose the monolith which was this red rock, burst to dustclouds of a thousand fragments, from which we made our cornerstone. “I have learned love is Laika.”

This brick he bashed into the nose of the man closest him, the fourth of his own line. Shattering on impact, he stumbled into a wall most certainty there, which he could neither pass through nor scale, not with the great plateaus of his nostrils gushing onto his linens to compose the organic facsimile of a performance in splattering rosewood.

Laika … could only spit.

“What the fuck does that prove? How am I the asshole cause you brick your own guy in the face like a dumbass? Durr-durr. Yeah, buddy! It’s me! I’m the one who’s as insecure and insane as Brux! I’m a tiny dog-hearted lil bitch with no loyalty outside what my own ravenous and whimsical appetite dictates me! That’s why I sit there and not only let him constantly verbally abuse my boyfriend while I not only say nothing, but secretly agree while I masturbate furiously to his hate-filled comments all night long and thank God he’s got such little self-awareness he can spew such torrents of atrocious nonsense which nobody else got the balls to agree with openly like a smokestack out to skies all the more glorious only for how the carbon emissions refract the sun into the splendor of an oilslick trapping every rainbow in its grime to reveal a resinous amber of industrial runoff more fragrant than the bile of whales or pitch of trees!”

He gave Cpt. Drottin only more reason to smile.

“In what other ways may I make my speculations known but by opening your ears to the neigh-saying which never ceases from the horse’s mouth? Do you not see how the straw in which you stuff his emptiness fails to spin itself to gold? Your senses I have amplified as the record I have let play on repeat and all throughout the night the music still blares. Why do you not listen, Brother Joseph?”

( o )

" ... A dead child. Born dead, for his mother was dead the whole of his incubation. No life in her, none to feed his soul. Born hungry for the life she never lived. Though he breathes, he speaks, he stares and sees. Born dead. No woman I designed as perfect as she, grown from the finest selection of bones, hand-sewn with a flesh of my own conjuring from alchemical arts black as the inner cities out which I hail, could look upon him without shrieking, he being a monster and she but his mate.”

At last, a long exhale Laika let out. As a train departing a station would kick up a storm in winding tunnels in the dead of night, eyes bleary for it was still such a long way home, and you knew not how long you would need to wait in the cold and dark, the ambiguous eyes of strangers all about. The uncertainty of your being inviting probing, as if showcasing by hem of garter a wound you longed to see torn open that blind-eyes may glimpse in any spilling out what another wouldn’t say – half-begging the blind to reinforce those things you knew never to be – he found himself … uncertain how, somewhere far from the previous moment, half-aware of an apotheosis partially-recognized, yet dinged by the despair of how far he still had to go, how little progress he’d seemed to have made, having only recognized how lost he was.

( o )

“For some reason…” he says, “the bulletin is taking extra long today!”

Cpt. Psychorrhax , stationed across from him, sat cross-legged in a Lord Byron power-pose whose raw charisma more than overcame its innate faggotry. His uniform hung from him as though endowing its regal aura to the air, agitating each and every individual molecule to the barbarism of civility which was the eternally-becoming democratic process.

“Heads will roll,” he promises.

Brux, lipping the cap of his pen, which unbeknownst to him, the fourth on his left had earlier used to shove a hemorrhoid back up his own ass, stared dreamily and inkily wondering what pungency he smelled.

“You do somethin with you hair, Laik? Seem like you got a glow today!”

Napoleonically, he smiles. The light hitting him composes a frieze, burning itself into Brux’s retina for the rest of his miserable daze.

Neoplatonically, he recieves.

“Gosh, you’re so cute now that you’re all-grown up lil Laika! I just wanna pinch you. I just wanna pinch you and smack your cheeks and whip out my cock and bash with you wit it for bein such an arrogant lil runt? Who the fuck you think you are, cunt? Think you fuckin deserve to get dicked jus cause you’re so beautiful and manly and your every errant motion enslaves me to the daemonic divinity within you? Gosh, lookit me. I’m Laika! I’m gonna go brag over the air bout how I know the cutest and most adorable blackest-hearted lil Witch King. Ooooh. I put a spell on yoOoOuUuU. NoOoOoOow yer mOoOoOoinne. Get real. You see one fuckboy, you seen am I (em all). I already seen two today, so it’s like I seen the entire universe. Twice. Before lunch. I’m still not even hungry! Joey’s not the only one who can fast and develop the cognizance of a vegetable! I am the stupidest, laziest motherfucker I know and there is nobody alive more intolerable than me! I have a quarter Aboriginal Ruelandese ancestry which means only ¾ths of all the baseless fearmongering I spew is factually racist, while a whole fourth remains informed by the experiences of a former-fuller person of color!”

Laika didn’t need to speak. Before even the eight who were his could rise with him, the way they walked – he walking before them, said all he needed to say – said more than he could ever say with words.

Brux spat onto page when he stabbed it with his pen.

“You’re applyin the Lovecraft principle of describin the indescribable in too many words and applyin it to how you dissed me! Real fuckin clever, Laik! Yeah, guess you know what a fuckin hack author your boyfriend is real well out there livin the dream yourself! Two fuckin feet a proximity to you and I don’t gotta fantasize bout what it’s like to be an axe-murderer anymore! Durr-durr. I’m a drunken lunatic man-beast! I’m so stupid I’m gonna hack apart and eat everyone I love cause my artistic achievements are non-starters which utterly fail to mask my dwindlin irrelevance! Hurr-hurr! I shall never be eternally young and battered, ever-dying and reviving, renewed by my own darkness! I got no fuckin idea where these suggestions’re comin from, but what I do know is they got nuttin to do wit you, nor your supposed secretive means, you lil fuck!”

Onto the Arabic gardens, the patio.

Another day in paradise.

They sang for him, as they would sing for anyone.

( o )

“I like Brux when he’s manly,” he said aloud to himself.

Staring at his own shadow. Starring at the dancing grasses. The dancing grasses he longed to smoke, to feel himself lie back well-reclined within himself, knowing only good food and good music at tangerine sunsets of a perpetual dawning, well-alive and well-aware of the multitude within and without, wanting only needlessly, needing only to want.

“Sometimes he’s so beefy and broad. He’s uncouth with a violent strangeness which is dazzling as it is coarse. Like a horsehair tail sprouting flytraps or any manner of strange things which blur the vegetable from the insect, with a fuzziness at most arachnid.”

These words. There must have been truth. Some were certainly his.

“Why does he insist on being written as this absurd and outrageous sissy? Is it all Joey’s lies? Some of it has to be Joey’s lies. What percentage of the things that Joey says are totally lies? (I feel anyone who believes in proper syntax is a liar who wishes to modulate my biorhythms along some arbitrary pole. Drunk you is real you. Sobriety is the Lie that Hey Zeus the Wino sold to his habituates.) Brux can’t possibly be a bigger liar than Joey and Laika. In some regards, Brux simply has to be the lesser of two evils. Brux is so much better of a team bitch than Laika. Laika fucking sucks at being team bitch. Holy fuck. He either lies there and takes it or lies there and enjoys it lewdly and disgustingly or lies there and hates it and it’s literally rape but he won’t fuckin say anything. He won’t even be like …. ‘hey bro, stop fuckin rapin me!’ or 'bro i’m real fuckin pissed bout all those times you raped me.’ Naw, man. He’s just like … gonna sit there and hate you and not mention those times you raped him. Fuckin coward. Every time you rape Brux he won’t shut the fuck up about it. He goes over the PA and lies about how many times you raped him so now you don’t even know if it was an implanted memory or if you really did rape him. Why would anybody rape Brux? Does he get hotter when you’re drunk? Do you think he would look extra rapeable if he was sober and you were drunk? I think you should get real drunk at a time when you know Brux has to be sober and see if you rape him. Why would you do this as a thought experiment, just make it happen, bro. Big bro rapes Brux all the time anyway. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro rapes him too many times. Maybe Brux is insane because big bro won’t rape him. Brux is always tryin to get big bro drunk and big bro still won’t rape him. I think he definitely did fuck with your memory, either surgically or through hypnotic suggestion.”

( o )

Though you turned the page, and the song of its leaves rolled as waves over rifle fire in your ear, somehow you still heard him. Though he never spoke, never glanced up, simply thumbed his pen on the wood of the table – tapping his cap on the lattice of its top: vents of chainlink running parallel as spokes from the hubs of wheels of silver lizard scale.

“You like me a lot. Tempestuous as I am beautiful, I am all which the man you profess to love could never be, and so you wear your repulsion of me openly and deign to spurn me, spurning only yourself for you wish to lay encoiled with me arm-in-arm and call me brother. Chastising yourself only for you know in time you will succumb to my sick fancies and find yourself incompatible with who you think you are, unable to recognize any longer which inadequacies you adopted of me, and which were always your own, you so willing and desirous to bare the endowment of all I take of you, reveling in those spaces in which I leave you to fester.”

The things he couldn’t say – to which you seemed to give shape and clarity with a panache which needn’t be telling, any difficult projections casting only light on smooth, marred surfaces – simply elevated him, reductions though they were, for he was habitually enlarging himself in whatever confines you put him, as a foam perpetually boiling over.

“Hot pot with me, Joe. Give you a splash as you dunk em in.”

Dunk tank goon. He would make an excellent dunk tank goon. The target which would dispatch the lever to send him splashing ought be water-sensitive as the type you’d see in carnival squirt gun games, modified along the duration of a trough where men could shoot of their distillations, flowing down to the basin of the tank proper, filling with the piss in which he would inevitably drop and need to drink himself out.

“We could work so well together. Is it really good for yourself, for me, for our shared brotherhood or the people of our land, if you continue to find me arbitrarily repulsive for no reason other than to suit yer idle fancy?”

...

“I wish myself presently…” Joey decided, “To make myself unknown.”

Brux … rotated counterclockwise.

“My spine, my spine!”

Joey had taken Brux to the tabletop. Around his head, the crook of his elbow crushed him in suffocation, descending down his face, a rolling pin in a harmony of notes ringing out in creaking leather. Flattening him down to dough, he rested there, cap-off beside his plate unruffled, in a headlock as he looked up at you swollen and helpless, Joey smiling as he pried his legs apart with his ankles and pinned him by the arches of his calves.

#ashes of old flames #coming attractions

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