dogmatika
Tea at Trimalchio's XXXV
with Paul Kavanagh
work in progress #8
The bedsit was illuminated by Purcell, Corelli, Bach, Vivaldi, when Perfolesi's Stabat Mater came out of the radio Ark was euphoric. Liszt's Dante Symphony filled the room next, "ah Franz my dear Friend," said Ark softly, introspectively. Watching Lucy washing up Ark saw a hymeneal scene before him. That chthonic music stirred the wallpaper to create the face of Caroline de Saint-Cricq. "Oh Caroline," whispered Ark. "I know that song," chirped in Lucy with suddy hands. "The Beach Boys." Ark nodded like the savant he was, at the time of those sweet sighs, Lucy sighed, or moaned, suds were dissipating upon her dress leaving stains. "Non c'θ piω il dolore di essere consapevole del tempo felice nella miseria," said Ark. Lying on the unmade bed he allowed the music to carry him away. Never had the music been so mellifluous, so magical. He held the card and thought about the opportunities. Maybe he could save Lucy Applebright. Was he not the Ark after all? He had never saved anybody, not a soul. Now he was defrocked, deflocked, but not deflowered, the chance to save people had passed him by. The seminary had been a blessing, but once they set him up in a Parish, seeing the penury, the thieves, the homeless, the junkies, smelling urine on the church, seeing ordure smeared, vomit splattered, picking up condoms, hearing the confessions, seeing broken teeth, it was all too much, too damn much, when they opened a nightclub next door, he knew that the pagans had won, defeated him, he couldn't sleep, the loud music kept him awake, he couldn't think, he couldn't read, at night the drunks, the junkies spilled out and copulated in the doorway of the church, the sorrow of the world, the state of man, and it goes on and on, and so he slit his wrist and started his journey to that Seventh circle in Hell.
"Socks!"
"You've crushed my manhood!"
"Have you never had a wa..." Lucy stopped. "I have a magic trick for you," said Lucy brimming with childish vim. "Let's see it," said the smiling Ark. Lucy stood up, picked up a towel, held it like a matador. The towel undulated. The undulations increased. Ark could not believe his eyes. "Are you ready?" asked Lucy. Ark nodded.
wine table chair smoke laughing he turned his head Ark .
"He what! The dirty bugger!" curling smoke the barmaid sliced a lemon. Plop! the ice went chatter chatter chatter. that first girl was a right bitch.
no wonder he cut her up." "one more song! The ice went plop plop plop! drunkenly, Ark stood up and "Ite, missa est." somebody turned up the television. At 9.32 a.m another body was found reportedly another working girl
"I love that euphemism," said Sally, "I'm a lazy bitch!"
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wine
whine
lovers kissing
dark streets back alleys cats and rats
The axe falls, the cut is clean, the blood spurts, Ohhhhhhhhh!
The police are going to do all they can." Ark sat down.
Ark is no longer Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright XV failed suicide, bucked teeth, equine nose, hardly a chin, lanky and milky orbs, defrocked, deflocked, but not deflowered, he is Peter O'Toole playing Don Miguel de Cervantes playing Alonso Quijana playing Don Quixote and Lucy Applebright is his Aldonza Lorenzo playing Dulcinea del Toboso. To dream the impossible dream. Yes, now Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright XV is Don Miguel de Cervantes, is Alonso Quijana, is Don Quixote, is Peter O'Toole. To right the unrightable wrong.
Don Quixote standing precariously placed a brimming ashtray upon his head. A wonderful helmet for battle! Dead cigarettes cascaded over him. He was unaware of the avalanche. Next ash like snow flakes shrouded him. Unfurling, iridescent, coruscating the snowflakes produced a myriad of metamorphosing faces: Don Quixote, Alonso Quijana, Don Miguel de Cervantes, Peter O'Toole and Oswaldtwistle Crompton Arkwright XV. It was so magical!
"This is my quest!" he shouted. "To be willing to march into Hell!" "Sit down you drunken fool!" "I will not sit until
I have reached the unreachable star!"
Magic suffers from entropy
"Well, what do you think of my magic trick?" asked Lucy. The towel was nowhere to be seen. "I'm gobsmacked," confessed Ark. "Do you think I should be on the telly?" asked Lucy. Ark was speechless. "Wait," cried Lucy suddenly wrapped in a cloud of melancholy. "It didn't work, it only half worked, it didn't fully work." Lucy slumped onto the unmade bed. She was ostensibly shattered, the magic trick had left her fatigued, she closed her eyes. Ark removed her shoes and lifted her legs unto the bed. Lucy quickly vanished into sleep.
Elizabeth, most categorically not the Virgin Queen.
J.C. knows the score, you can't walk around the streets in sandals and a dirty sack, no way man, you need a fine suit and leather Italian shoes, thats right, J.C. knows that the age is modern and calls for modern dress. J.C. lives on Kellogg's cornflakes and water, they might be fooling you, but theyre not fooling J.C. Three greens and all that. He lives in a run down apartment, no television,
Even Queens die.
Sometimes with penury all that we possess are memories and he/she had a cornucopia of memories, colds, flues, chickenpox, measles, conjunctivitis, ear infections, constipation, pediculosis, fevers, and bronchiolitis. He could not believe after looking over the scars that he was still living. It was a wonder!
The landlady's gait was croaked and spoke of gin and late nights. Strands of oily hair fell about her disfiguringly. Her eyes were incased in black thick lines, her lips tumescent with red lipstick, the rills upon her face were filled in with foundation. Her paps were pendulous and were on the precipice of bursting out of her tight dress which Lord noticed was covered in a myriad of stains. Her tights were laddered, her heels broken, her knees and elbows showed eczema. She shifted with velleity and had a uric whiff about her. Her teeth were white and false. She had that omnivorous look about her. "I'll have no smoking in this room," said the landlady. "This here is the best of the lot. You're one lucky fellow." The room was shrouded in dust, particles drifted aimlessly. In one corner a pile of old newspapers had been lazily stacked. The newspapers looked as though they had never been read. A cockroach scurried out of the pile and was lost in the carpet. It was the size of a rat. A slug lugubriously moved leaving in its wake a film of slime. Each step was a task for the sole of the boot adhered to the sticky carpet. The disturbing of the carpet released new odors into the cloudy atmosphere. It was like walking over a minefield, one false step and suffocation could be the consequence. The room smelt as though somebody had only seconds ago used it for a toilet. It had that reek of insides spilled; it smarted the eyes and left a terrible taste upon the palate. The corners of the walls were blanketed in spiders' webs and mildew discolored the wallpaper. Parts of the wallpaper had come away exposing plaster. The worst case red brick peeked through. Lord rattled the bed and the smell that welcomed him was a smell of excreta, fear and death. The room was a coffin, although luckily for Lord it possessed a restroom.
© Paul Kavanagh 2008
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Kavanagh was born in England 1971. His novel, everybody is interested in pigeons, will be published by 40FT Books in Spring 2008.
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