Show me the place: A random diatribe

[An attempt at surrealism. Some very obscure references which are often incredibly dirty, you may want to google them :) Beer with me or wine away (sic).]


Her lipstick is red, cloven on the upper lip; an indication of possible assignations consummated. Dark red, indicating satiation. Throbbing red, satisfied red.

I would have preferred pink or possibly puce. Potential. Possibility. Not fait accompli.

She moves awkwardly, a young starling; a freshly birthed buck. A hex torn from the storm too early.
A grief imposed.
A gnarly nose.
A shadow without shape.
A season unseasoned.
Somewhere or something else.

And if she is not present, how shall I consume her? How? Shall I suck the essence of lemon from my keyboard. Shall I cast my burger patty from a wraith's womb?
Shall I....?
Shall.. ow.
Sallow.

Elliot, it is said, spent minutes, hours and days on a single word.
"Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

... I'm no prophet - and here's no great matter."

Haha, yes, no great matter.  E = MC². Is the energy of an un-whispered whisper  =  the mass of an un-enervated option x light of hindsight²?

The iris of a distant galaxy turns to look at you, looming in infinitesimal space. The event horizon has no upcoming events. The mind's 'I' inverts and stares into itself. Introverted, obsessive, unnamed, undirected object.

See the eight limbed flailing cephalopod of sensuality spread out on the satin. Thrashing, grasping, finally scuttling out of view, into the shadows. Unresolved Janus hunkers again in his dark doorway, back to back. "Halt! Who goes there?"

"It is the sun of  midsummer's dawn, come to shine a light through your splayed archway and enumerate the names and days of your ways."

"Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?"
Elliot again, an unwanted assignation in the middle of a mud bath.

And then another alliterative aside to an author of apposite autobiographical ardour for analogy.
"Show me the place where the suffering began
...
there were chains, so I loved you like a slave."
Cohen and Elliot. Kissing in the abyss. Senex and puer. Puer become senex. Senex sans sex. Puer profligate.
Nietzsche giggles.
"Your teeth are stuffed with underwear, suspenders torn asunder there, and buttocks in your paws." All the while Betjeman watches; writing rhymes on the skin of first year innocents, erasing errors with spaniels ears and the erstwhile tears of crushing humiliation from the then nine year old.
Yes. I remember now. The horror. Let's put that in the lower right corner. A tear-drop masked as a dacrocyte, symbol of the lasting anaemia of that moment.

So let us spiral inwards to the pseudo centre of the self. Let me let you in the antechamber of the other abyss, inside.

Yes, it is empty as a good abyss ought to be, no overwhelming questions please.

Be quiet. Close your vacant eyes for a moment and stare into your abyss.


...

...


Now open your virtual eyes and see, turn your head around and see the abyss smiling at you.

This is your perfect moment.