bagpipes on the riviera

by dschapman

oarfish, camel spider, asian wasp, botfly… the wicked droogs that creep beneath my sunken bed and loiter in the box springs. that old hospice spot over on calloway hill, or is it nicholson street – that milford series of popular writers, who write about the originals and by volume forty-seven still haven’t said a word. the curtains will not open enough to let the light i need into my locked little room.
when he slept he dreamt about his bed as a child with his walls painted blue. or he would try as hard as he could to scream but all he could make was a hoarse rasp in the back of his throat, and try as he may he couldn’t make a sound. that was the bad one, the one that really made him afraid. only once did he ever scream in a dream, and it was a frightening one, and he has sleeping beside his dear friend in a twin size bed helping him move to a foreign city, and his friend had to shake him awake as he found himself screaming aloud in real life almost as violently as he had been screaming in his cozy little vision. terrifying sights. and one day he met some old southern witch from his home town. she wore department store earrings and a thick paste of make-up and had just come from a manicure. the old witch ran her own awfully profitable business and knew how to use computers and drove a cherry red sports utility vehicle, as vile as the blood that gushes from a pretty boy in his first night in prison – she posed for pictures at social events and drank water purified from the filth of the natural world and shipped on the backs of oil barons with scimitar tongues and muted senses of smell, she stayed up late. and she, the wicked she-goat met him in the coffeeshop and wasted no time in telling him he that he worried her – that he had a dark aura! a dark aura! the filthy old witch, he should’ve thrown her through the windows right as she croaked the curse, for whether his aura was dark or golden or ruby red like the grapefruit juice he used to drink on sunday mornings it was now definitively, and helplessly, dark. she had him all wrong, she understood him like she understands the peruvian indians or the vacations in singapore, but she’d uttered the curse and accused him of darkness and now his spirit was raped into darkness. and it empowered him the moment he understood what it meant and like black magic it swelled from his fingertips into his heart and then condensing the coal of his mind into diamonds and encrusting his thoughts with vim and brilliance. but his aura was dark. he wanted to cry. he wanted to hug his mother and tell him he was a good son, a good son not a monster, that she had raised him perfectly and he loved her and he would lie in the folds of her fat and loving breasts and soak his salty tears into her hair.
and then there were days when he would tally up the beautiful women he had been with and remember how seriously they took him and how everything about him mattered and knew that he had a mighty persona to him to the right people. but there were not many people like that and it was luck when he found one and he had been unlucky for years and he faced a lonely struggle ahead of him if the only people to wake him up when he was screaming was that crooked friend of his who just laughed about it the next day and thought it some light hearted joke. the screams started as whorish moans and his friend thought that he was pretending to be that incredible hero, harvey keitel, uttering the moan, if thats what it is, of despair and anguish and poetry that he utters as a bad lieutenant. his only friend – whose grandmother was the witch who cast the curst. his friend in the murkiness. or if his friend wasn’t there, as he no longer was, and there was no woman there, as there may never be again courtesy misfortune, and there is simply no one to wake him up when he once again is able to scream at the terrible monsters that plague his nightmares, then will he ever wake up out of it, or he scream and scream at the monsters, until the monsters close in around his shrieking face and begin to feed and his throat is too raw to even scream anymore and so all he can do is submit…
is he the foliate head, or the disgorging head? is he even a green man at all, or is he just a peasant, his feet bound behind his back, boiling bagels at three a.m.? he sends post cards his mother.

oarfish, camel spider, asian wasp, botfly… the wicked droogs that creep beneath my sunken bed and loiter in the box springs. that old hospice spot over on calloway hill, or is it nicholson street – that milford series of popular writers, who write about the originals and by volume forty-seven still haven’t said a word. the curtains will not open enough to let the light i need into my locked little room.

when he slept he dreamt about his bed as a child with his walls painted blue. or he would try as hard as he could to scream but all he could make was a hoarse rasp in the back of his throat, and try as he may he couldn’t make a sound. that was the bad one, the one that really made him afraid. only once did he ever scream in a dream, and it was a frightening one, and he has sleeping beside his dear friend in a twin size bed helping him move to a foreign city, and his friend had to shake him awake as he found himself screaming aloud in real life almost as violently as he had been screaming in his cozy little vision. terrifying sights. and one day he met some old southern witch from his home town. she wore department store earrings and a thick paste of make-up and had just come from a manicure. the old witch ran her own awfully profitable business and knew how to use computers and drove a cherry red sports utility vehicle, as vile as the blood that gushes from a pretty boy in his first night in prison – she posed for pictures at social events and drank water purified from the filth of the natural world and shipped on the backs of oil barons with scimitar tongues and muted senses of smell, she stayed up late. and she, the wicked she-goat met him in the coffeeshop and wasted no time in telling him he that he worried her – that he had a dark aura! a dark aura! the filthy old witch, he should’ve thrown her through the windows right as she croaked the curse, for whether his aura was dark or golden or ruby red like the grapefruit juice he used to drink on sunday mornings it was now definitively, and helplessly, dark. she had him all wrong, she understood him like she understands the peruvian indians or the vacations in singapore, but she’d uttered the curse and accused him of darkness and now his spirit was raped into darkness. and it empowered him the moment he understood what it meant and like black magic it swelled from his fingertips into his heart and then condensing the coal of his mind into diamonds and encrusting his thoughts with vim and brilliance. but his aura was dark. he wanted to cry. he wanted to hug his mother and tell him he was a good son, a good son not a monster, that she had raised him perfectly and he loved her and he would lie in the folds of her fat and loving breasts and soak his salty tears into her hair.

and then there were days when he would tally up the beautiful women he had been with and remember how seriously they took him and how everything about him mattered and knew that he had a mighty persona to him to the right people. but there were not many people like that and it was luck when he found one and he had been unlucky for years and he faced a lonely struggle ahead of him if the only people to wake him up when he was screaming was that crooked friend of his who just laughed about it the next day and thought it some light hearted joke. the screams started as whorish moans and his friend thought that he was pretending to be that incredible hero, harvey keitel, uttering the moan, if thats what it is, of despair and anguish and poetry that he utters as a bad lieutenant. his only friend – whose grandmother was the witch who cast the curst. his friend in the murkiness. or if his friend wasn’t there, as he no longer was, and there was no woman there, as there may never be again courtesy misfortune, and there is simply no one to wake him up when he once again is able to scream at the terrible monsters that plague his nightmares, then will he ever wake up out of it, or he scream and scream at the monsters, until the monsters close in around his shrieking face and begin to feed and his throat is too raw to even scream anymore and so all he can do is submit…

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