Recession Talk
Hag is troubled in a bony type of disaster. The whores are waiting outside the shanty-house, holding their breath and saving it for the moonlit country shop to solidify the wisps of smoky exhalations. Shaving Desdemona as a tree, perceiving the curling bark sliding away onto the brown and green wren crayon ground. Here we all are, the gang of candelabras, dancing a graceful and ethereal dance backwards in a circle treading on everyone else’s train. Destructive limbo of the heart, and yet a wedding dress will always seem like a great idea to any function but a funeral in a graveyard for automobiles. For sanitary reasons, one must assume. Shellfish will doze like little anchors without boats, eternally being inched towards displacement by the soothing bosom of the sea. Leaning against the vacant outhouse is a wizened old man wearing suspenders and a white tank top. He wants to smoke; he can’t because if he does he’ll die. The bivalves are incapable of perceptible pity, but he feels it emanating from them in the harbor, waves of their compassion oozing through the atmosphere like a gelatinous smog. He suddenly feels like the victim of an oil spill; he does not need their charity. Rustily, a player piano gives up the ghost a block away. It will be betrayed and abandoned by its owners, shunned to the side of the lonely street. For weeks it will stand there hunched over itself and not understanding why it is unloved as it grows ever rustier. Coral opalescent columns zigzagging every which way in blues and teals and outlandish hues of a slick rainbow-tinged black obfuscate the path to victory, little cousin. Put your hand in mine, and we will float to a marsh of great distinction. Apparitions and flickering images project themselves onto the hollow trunks of nicotine-stained trees that stand thigh-deep in the scabrous muck culled from slaughterhouse floors. It shall be glorious, and there a great chorus of nuns shall with their silvery voices coax open our locked cuffs. What a hideous thinness we must then come into, so gaunt and stretched tall and oblong we are nigh two-dimensional. Using our light-post corpses as a beanpole or a ladder, the ivy creeps to heaven, and our destiny is fulfilled. Once in God’s realms, the treacherous plant begins its intricate designs anew. Whilst ensconced in the finer points of appreciating a harp, Gabriel will first fall prey to its iniquitous salacity. It wends its way about his ankle, tenderly spiraling his calf. Now! Oh, now it has come to his midsection, and, progress unfettered, surmounts his Adam’s apple! It pauses a moment at his delicate, ruby lips. It rears back, it quivers. Is this its portal? It is hesitant. It lays itself flat upon his chin. It readies itself. It hastens first up the trestle of his lower lip, and marches through the valley between. Traversing the noble upper promontory takes but a moment’s notice, and then- oh horrors- it penetrates his feminine, unflared nostril! Some days later, lumps of cancer expunged themselves from the clouds, and multitudinously availed themselves upon the harbor. They slapped the pavements, and rendered the fishmonger a bygone necessity. In a recession, barbarism is a necessity, and to put food on the table is of essence no matter what mystery the meat arouses.
