[Sisyphus] to exert any degree of effective control especially in a situation of total jungle absolute warfare but all such mental athletics did not import too very much at the time for the boy brownback was in any case swiftly defeated by a liminal degree of hunger and an overwhelming horror at having to unload his bladder in public especially in a disgusting hole in the ground well cement that was olfactorily and æsthetically repulsive and so he returned to his home and his father was there and no one said a thing and the boy browncoat’s normal existence was pacifically resumed with the tragic results the adult browncoat had before him each mourning or would have in any case if his bathroom mirrour weren’t perfectly inundated by cigarette smoke and if he ever actually looked in his mirrour in the mourning or at other times and if he actually used the bathroom or any other ersatz-sanitary facilities ever at all in his legally autonomous ec-sistence but no it would never stop and no why would it and fuckit and fuck that one-eyed girl fuck her in her empty socket would it not have been definitively preferable and seductiver had he become a vagabond and a bohemian at the age of seven at least he would have grown up a man but why all the spittle there was no spittle he was just having a bit of fun because and besides rare were the occasions upon which he ventured to produce a collector’s amount of flecks and fountains he was entitled to plan ahead and enjoy them was he not after all was he not a man no of course not he had never claimed to be and if this be a man and shut up and keep talking.
And another time when the boy browncoat had been nine or ten he ran away from his parents because all they ever talked about was politics and he took shelter with an aunt and the aunt had a son a cousin two or three baby years younger than his own browncoat self and the boy brownback suddenly did not like ceasing to be the youngest and most vulnerable of the cubs and not getting the first glass of stale goat’s milk and he christened a brief session of mockery and inept psychological torture on his cousin and his cousin culminated in a passable impression of someone losing his calm and threw a toy gun at the browncoat’s head. The six shooter was a life-size model and poured in metal and accented in wood and it was a most heavy and expensive toy and the cousin’s favourite toy and the revolver would surely have deformed the boy browncoat’s babied skull had it hit him properly and honourably but unfortunately and naturally it flew right past him for his cousin was too young and underdeveloped to kill the law would not allow it a wasted kill no credit and the toy revolver flew its course and destroyed the glass cabinet housing his aunt’s good silverware and holiday porcelains and the cabinet’s glass shelves broke down and the silvers fell into the porcelains and to this exact selfsame day the brownback was still unsure if damages could not have been minimized had the projectile realized its initial target.
And later still the boy browncoat had faced his baby brother who faced the browncoat on the carpet, seated in the Turkish manner. The boy browncoat pries open his brother’s legs, with some difficulty, and inserts his own legs between them.
Ignoring his younger’s manifest blind suffering, he caresses and pets and kisses him on the mouth. The younger drops his head, is convulsed by a tearless sob, bites at his own tongue then headbutts the browncoat in the nose as hard as the younger could, but yet again they were too young to kill, and then the younger spits in the browncoat’s mouth which is struggling to breathe while splashing out the blood flowing from above for the browncoat until a very late age had always breathed through his mouth. The browncoat smiles and asks the younger whether he honestly did not like this. The younger flashes a coy smile and the browncoat, without separating their Turkish legs, pulls the younger’s pants down and fucks him.
And his grandfather, forgiving like Ouranos, told the boy browncoat that each book is a coffin and in it is his father’s body. And his grandfather was 65, and it was wrong to be 65. And his grandfather told him that after the original eternal children were lost in the woods and to the mountains and to the labyrinthine fumes of incense darkening their white walls, and the other more vulgar new tribes preyed on the fetid corpse of the children’s poorest attempts at texts and grew up and thought they knew and thought they knew well and were thus exiled from childhood and innocence, the only children eternally worthy of the name survived in the east and there they played and they toyed with the scripts of the first children, now lost, and offered their games unto god, and god favoured this. And his grandfather told him that in Russia and elsewhere there is no excuse for being an individual but extended no further explanation. And his grandfather walked the boy browncoat through the ancestral mansion and through all the useless rooms the boy wanted to touch but it was not allowed and into the wooden and aggressively inflammable library and the family library was enormous and the browncoat walked his hand atouch the walls and dusts and walls and lines of books and he smelted these ancient literary eructations into a single rampant conquering of all their names. And the boy’s grandfather told him not to dream, for romantics end consoled, metaphysically consoled, in short, christian. And his grandfather repeated that the existence of the world is only justified as an æsthetic phenomenon and if one has the capacity to live continually surrounded by crowds of ghosts, then one is a poet and how could nature be forced to give up its secrets otherwise than by a triumphant violation, that is, through the unnatural and such an unnatural is writing, is death, for a life written, written down into hell, could only be a life approaching its end. And his grandfather entreated the boy to love Russia and to write but to write only Russia and the primitive and that Kyivan Rus that broke legends’ backs and in mercy then domesticated the legends and felled the boils in the Mongol blood even as the Mongol blood was drawing a self-portrait in theirs the spilt blood of the Rus and its people.
And throughout his adolescence and all the way into his young adulthood the browncoat saved every last dropuscule of pus from every pimple he ever popped and he never let them stew and ripen he always aborted them at the first sign of intent and he would wipe the often solid unified pinpricks of pus onto the edges of his mirror and later onto the mirrour itself, on the point in the mirrour corresponding to where in his reflection the pimple had been and throughout these the days of his years he always carefully placed his willowy body in the same exact position to be inspected by the mirror and in two years’ time the browncoat had painted a photograph in infinite pus of his growing expanding fattening self onto the gray blades of his mirror and the dry pus shrank but never fell off the mirrour and finally there were no more papules to perforate and the brownback’s face grew out of the mirrour ejected from time and the brownback was a beautiful new soul and could not bear to look at his young mirror and so he packed it up and hid it underneath his childhood bed and there did he bury the person that had no patience for hollow eyes nor Greek foreheads nor impetuous incessant young beards.
and the old man said to a perfectly polite crisp little slit he did not know very well
‘and your nice is bleeding’
and the girl walked past the university library, past the entrance to the university library, and there was no one there except the unrelenting ungiving librarian and one single young man who sat or rather stood before a study desk poorly illuminated before the librarian’s post and the single man masturbated violently and indignantly to a second edition leatherbound and all gold smiles of jane eyre and next to this there was an open copy of volume one of the second sex in the original and when jane eyre failed him which she did many many times the single man switched his glance to the second sex and fared much better and could afford to return to the first text. and the librarian looked at the single man with some suspicion from time to time and lingered on him but could detect no punishable wrongdoing and so the fierce librarian of sekhmet gritted the contours of her teeth and awaited the single man’s erring for it was ineluctable sin with silent white teeth.
and the girl left the city of libraries and entered her own flat and it was almost dark but there was yet a trickling of light and the girl moved her hand into the light. she stared at her hand. she moved her fingers and studied their movements and their interconnected acts, the art of their interconnectedness. she then placed her hand into the dark and focused hard on making its outlines shine through; her consciousness of a frequently alleged unitary self guided her like a thief’s blind candle. she wiggled her fingers in the dark and saw nay felt their ghostly movements, felt them send shockwaves of selfhood throughout the dark, a selfhood of guttural and candid nascency. she then placed her hand halfway between the light and the dark and wondered how she was her hand and she was both light and dark and she was master of both light and dark. she moved her fingers again and they chased away the dark and voluptuously called out to the darkness. then she realised this was bad literature so she stops.
and the next day but maybe earlier although certainly in the mourning her morning the girl looked out of her window and onto the bank of the neva she looked to where the stable cement road hadn’t snaked out yet and relative emptiness but she looked where there are still slips and muds and grass and stonemasons and there she saw an angel a white christian angel playing a desert lizard stretched long between the angel’s outspread arms and the angel was accompanying the music with his mouth.
and after a few minutes of the girl listening to the angel’s song she saw apollo raging and flying down in a rushed burn and ceding the morning and ripping the horsegut strings off his lyre and flaying and dismembering the angel alive and tossing his skin and his remnants and his lizard into the river and the lizard drowned and the severed angelhead floated for a while but the short gray waves did not help it sing and finally the angelhead sank into the river.
and maybe it was unfair of the girl to think that the angel had been skinned and quartered alive since angels often don’t know whether they move and bore among the living or the dead and whether their song touches the living or the immortality of the putrescent the tunneled light of dying phosphorus, gimlet staring itself into the uterine walls.
and with the angel’s silencing the girl intuited that she somehow had to feel the drops and drips of condemnation swirling into her, the guilt iv feeding (off) her marbled arm and she thought about the angel and about her days and the brute force of the why. knocked her breath flying through her small room and for a few instances she became this hard futile maniac of the why. and she flustered and flapped about her room but it did not last after all causal families drained her rapidly and she grew small and quiet and closed her window so as not to hear the angelhead’s silence.
so she told him that she had fallen psychotically in love with a bisexual increasingly religious former heroin junkie who was also quite tall and of course she had, he told her, and he immediately deplored having come in. but the smallness of her room and her girlish person itself and her great restless eye would not allow him to leave so quickly and females knew nothing of strategic retreat so what use none was there.
and she told him of how some nights ago the junkie had needed a place to haunt over the night and had come to her small flat and they had played the withered old farce of the single woman, the very same woman as she, desperately in love with an oblivious conquistador who thinks they are just friends but they’re not are not they could not be for if they were friends only friends she the single woman would truly have to end herself. and since circumstances decreed that he the former junkie spend the night in her ungenerous osmotic little flat the early evening found the former junkie but henceforth simply the junkie for no junkie ever truly lives to name himself former but rather his soul dies with the habit and so the evening found the junkie half-regurgitated by her tuberculous couch it was a lazy weak couch but the only one the single woman had and the junkie elected not to complain and fell asleep early in the evening because that is what some junkies do and that at least was what the single woman surmised from the junkie falling asleep as early as he had and especially on such a rejection prone couch. and later in the night as the junkie slept she walks in, red négligé silent against the night, looks at him with great longing and sadness. he shifts a little in his sleep, she reflex-retreats, scared of him waking up. he moves the blanket and adjusts his head onto the greed of the pillow – she's burning up, caressing him with every look she spews forth from her great eye. he is taken with a spurting mood of flatulence – she doesn't event flinch and the loving expression never even leaves her face.
and here he the original he firstly pronouned not the present junkie-he here he interrupted and pointed out that yes there was no further need to unspool he understood the trick was that in the situation her incandescent love was the fucking match how boundlessly seductive and yes oh yes did she have anything to eat he had not eaten anything in over five days.