DIS by Davis Schneiderman Book Preview

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Davis Schneiderman

BlazeVOX [books]

Buffalo, New York


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DIS by Davis Schneiderman

Copyright 2008

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visithttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to CreativeCommons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Geoffrey Gatza

First Edition

ISBN: 1-934289-46-9ISBN 13: 978-1-934289-46-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007932554

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Chapter 1 1

Alamte-Megalopolis

(The City of the Poison Pen)

/Aye/

/Breech the vale of cymbal two yolk thyme, a colonel of the

olde weighs/

/joules pail and psi beneath the mustered son//breethe in waist ere teaming with presents and dam discreet

bytes of corps phials/

/lase weapons maid principal for my troupe/

/is this foreword?/

/freezes on the hire planes/

/cygnet queans in capital palates/

/hoards of marshal feet in phlox of mowed lynx/

Homophone dyspepsia will pass/its an absolute knead/.

Smaze burns as white hand /razes/; voice incessantly /boars/.

A /pear/ of sectioned /whales/ told from those figures on the

heath, brain a maze of recalibration/mite censor the corral/ of

perceptionmight censor the chorale of perception/r-liar fazes seedlyes/ to perspectiveearlier phases cede lies to /pur

Arms unpack like hibernating coils, unwinding below the swoop

of the white-hot /son/sun. So bright, disfigured andgroggy. Dust

and sand float here unencumbered, blurring the outlines of the

silhouettes across my retina: the limber form of an obsidian tree

coagulates inpulsesof lucent twinkle, seething, dry and fruitless,

desiccated by the currents of bitumen, sodium dribletswith black-lung

ubiquity, the passage of bark like spores from crumbling mushrooms.

This place is ashen luminosity, the waning morningstaris a glowing


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Chapter 1 2

crescent, defeated by the obnubilated orb of white and white and white

and spritely earthen forms taking shape in a veil of sand. Endless

showers of sand. Sand to puncture the lungs with its histories. Sand tomaintain the illusion of infinite regress, the undulating perpetuity of

seethe and break and bosom, inhaled in a macrobiotic tidal wave.

Wind is breath. Skin is burnt auger; its a matrix of surds in

these decompressed hollows. Everything shines ingroansof imprecise

angles and modes, antipodes, somehow, pre-modern. Mine eyesdilate

with the aperture of particle overload, and slowly, like darkness upon asudden daydream, the funnels of these virtual walls contract into view:

Young, brown, tender hands, strong with the calluses of fieldwork,

partially covered in ash-grey palm gloves, embracing the Alamte-

Megalopolis -issued weaponry neutron beams to propel proton

sheaths across short, tactically-determined targets tinypulse-shaped

cannons for easy handling and boot storage cyber-kinetic energy

weapons: verbal-tic rifles that blind the next three paternal descendants

and sear out eardrums in genetic drift; ionized testicle-punchers that fire

gamma tic-tacsat the family jewels and start cell polarity into identity

crash; bags of elbow-greased marbles and super-slick banana peels

dropping as we go

Weapons float from electromagnetic tendrils, drop from the

firmament by mysterious volition. I aman expert. Sonic sparks clinkandextend from distant iron pick-axes, knives flow into rainbow sheaths. A

layer of surrounding salt hills rise with rumbling quicksilver,

exponentially, as my gaze lingers on the horizon. Soon, lesser hills begin

to subsume my companions in a blanket of white ash, leaving almonds

and pistachio nuts, bala rubies glistening in the white air. An axe crushes

earth in the distance, echoed through the thick oxygen, crisp and clean

like ammonium-mountain air. The salt fumes sting the back of throat as

I wait for the onset of olfactory fatigue the diminishing spirits of the

region distill and ferment in the barrels of my nose rosebud pine


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Chapter 1 3

scents, veins of lapis lazuli in ultramarine azure orgasm, the sweet wretch

of dust-inflicted whirlwindsfrom the clomphoofstompingof my

compatriots splendid mares dung brown bellspealingover thelandscape, eager avatars crisped on golden bridles. Some straddle asses,

weather-beaten burros of brown-black hybrid. Tiny tics, somehow

visible, insert drainage pumps on their sideskinto meet production

quotas, saltbangerson the heaths ahead and around, crimson lightning

stains scattershot in a blanket of clouds.

The grip of the Telos-5200pulsecanon assumes itself into myhands, sleek shaft like a convenient pool cue on the angle of my sun-

dyed triceps, triple-barrel orifices a triumvirate of erasure valves.

It operates on neutrino grip analysis, localized of course,

tracing the path of particle decay applicable to a particular entity, a

fingerprint of decomposition, if you will, and the Alamte Distribution

Officer and Field Commander, Metatron, swaying before me like a

proto-human must have swayed, Lilith before Adam, a mechanized

giant whose race long ago fell silentshouldering an arsenal of smart

weapons like Atlas bouncing Pluto on the shoulder blades. Ze gender

non-specific is a presence unto itself, alabaster shale in epidermis

masquerade, rigid jowls of venous bluedreamcovalent in symmetric

folds, wan face dotted with spots of ageless, albino melatonin.

Anthropomorphization, Thelonius Bosh, has never been fullyapplied to myalgorithm. Youll have to take my word for things here in

the Virtual Pleasure DOME. Metatrons torso skeins in the ether

confines of twisting Banyan trees along low, encircling hedges. This is

the place of heretics, Bosh, my heartiest welcomes from the Megalopolis

proper. That is to say, the real world.

Trigger cool against thefingeridge. Thatll target the Fin De

Sicle Authority satellite, and beam down a big ol death-beam from the

boys at FDSA? I ask, simply to speak.

The other riders, apparently agents, apparently of Tartar loyalty,


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Chapter 1 4

slink away in traces of gallops and low-rifling dirge steps, laser-generator

packs strapped to their shirtless tropes, concupiscent bulges fluted over

rough outlines, dreaming of their auburn women ells upon ells ofcotton wrap, zinc antimony, tutty for eye salve. Metatron moans

peacefully, exhales as they recede, unhooks a cyclotron from the cusp of

zisguilt wrap, andflickson the lever with a junky grin.

One more time, Mr. Bosh. Before zesend you out The

whirsbegin with sanctimonious fanfare. Conundrums of yellowed

particles brush about the rims of my virtual body, zischassis. Recallingthe contents of yesterdays lunch, or groping for the secret name of an

everyday object, my mind spits out the uploaded images:

I am to proceed eastward to the southern principalities, making

stops for rations onlyin the cities that harbor Idolaters or Mahometans

strange ports moving eastward in concurrent contour parallel with

other agents. A strange pride stutters my tongue. Agents will be

interspersed at various, exactly measured doses, equidistant from each

other I am an operative in a continuum of operatives. Still, no

contact may ever be realized The hoof cues of the other agents

recede like bursts of ampersand dirt over the cusp on the closest

sodium-mound. I reach out my hand towards their diminishing figures

of sackcloth, partially to flourish, mainly to reach. Moving eastward, I

will encounter the flood, perhaps, in the other Cities of RoughApproximation; masters of the Black Arts, obscuring the day with errant

words, compelling idols to speak

Very good from there you will proceed across the rim of

northern boundaries, the Cities of Unknown Quantity, over Lop,

Kachow, Siam. Metatrons proportionality adjusts 10%, while the

phantom shell of an outdated recording device sits incongruent in the

breath of my pocket. You will arrive at the Great Khans summer

palace at the height of the solstice festivities, a moment of ennui, and

there, in Xanadu


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Chapter 1 5

Ah, the sacred river AlphColeridgeYes, Im in the Virtual

Pleasure DOME

You will utilize the Telos-5200pulsecanon and a variety ofother methods to abscond with the Double Helix of State, ze

continues.

My eyes shoot like comets past the salt-hill friezes above, over

phosphorescent sodium mounds, past the wake of Venus to fixate the

dim bulb ofstarshineknown as the SHADD-AI brand orbital satellite;

as abovethe celestial guidance system, to the Telos-5200 rifle so belowIm afraid even molar vision wont be much help, Metatrons

gargantuan visage, nearly a fathom large, inhales a stream of agitated

particles and circulates the virtual air through zissinuses. The Khans

DNA is not available in our file banks. His genetic kin yes Hulaku,

Prester John, Mangu Khan but Kublais genetic structure escapes

even our top agents. For Genghis, Chinghiz that is, Temujen that is,

there is no question, you understand, but Kublais spirit is that of his

people, his mind the blade of a million swords Metatrons eyes blaze

predictably into my own, adding false-profundity to zisphrasings, you

must determine the pattern that lies in the flesh of the Great Khan.

Thelonius Bosh,youmust capture his genetic structure, his DNA!

I assume the proper intimations of the moment: perambulated

shock with a slack-jawed oval mouth, vitreous invectives on the radicalimpossibility of said doctrine (Are you insane? Oh you fool, you fool

you), cross-armed flagellation mimicking a straight-jacket routine

tinyfripsof finger twiddlesupon zismetallic shirt sleeve mesh. Yet, this

isnt my outfit, and for a moment I am thrown off, the frayed strands of

copper normally leaking off my middle management three-piece have

been exchanged for the whiter-collar variety. Why, the hallmarks of

good taste are in the craftsmanship the beryllium sheaths mark a

magnificent crust on the halter of my neck, while platinum, frame-

optimized seams cradle my stomach and lower torso. The malleability is


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Chapter 1 6

amazing intake breathing and the alloy-cloth merges around my

body lithium-warp fibers, lighter than air, counteract gravity one

furrow at a timeYou wear the Resemblati, a product of the Alamte-

Megalopolis, cloth of the master Assassins consider it a gift, a

promotional badge, payment for services rendered, in advance, equity

for future performance Lighter than air for this moment, dizzy

below the countersunshining blithe from the smazeof heavensthe

DOME a carapace of never-ending splendorThis is all programmed onto the body direct? Im sick with

amazement, pressing my hands across my body that is not my body, the

coverlet of pigmented shoulder pricks rendered in exact freckle

replication as the metal sleeves dip away fractal skin patterns,

mathematical epidermis forged in containers of full-interface computer

code. The Assassin cloth shivers back into palpability like drops of

recombinant quicksilver; constipation-pangsrumblethrough my

intestines and flood the duodenum with systoles ofpumpinggaseous

pistonsmy shaft goes rigid as I cover my form in a quickfrisk

inspection, encouraged by the cloth expanding as I, or what is now

known as me, grows increasingly erect.

I can feel Metatrons eyes burrow up from the tanned-leather

sandals and crisscross my body in beams of infrared marker; zispresenceinspects my adjustment to the DOME that much is blatant. Bodily

functions are necessary of course, hope you wont be too

inconveniencedthe virtual state must bear resemblance to the non-

virtual, otherwise, it all becomes a game. You can wound, and be

wounded Zepasses a thin white cigarette over ziscracklinglips as

the cyclotrons particle field flows unstructured in globs of xanthan

smitches.

Those others sent out before you, the horizon riders; they are

simple Idolaters, natives to this place of heretics. They knowonlythe


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Chapter 1 7

pre-recorded Paradise of the city stretching wide, the Alamte-

Megalopolis born from opiates and hashish Metatron braces zis

eyeballs in mathematical approximation of pupil dilation, scours thepeaks of sodium mound, rises above with fire-eyes into the black masses

of enclosed geology Alamte-Megalopolis the mountains of

Paradise, the place of favored souls. Have some of this. Taste this. It

will keep you grounded, so to speak Bosh. Zisflaming taper migrates

into the hand that must by mine, hanging from the lip of metal-jacket

sleeve, impacted into the creezeof rough-stained sandair.Veinspitapaton the back of my new hand. Take notice. Take

note here.

They are the hashish-eaters gorged by the dead-surrogate

father in the mountains, the Old Man of the Mountain, Hassan I

Sabbah. They see only the bounty of Paradise the steams of wine,

milk, and honey which flow in every direction Zeremains

expressionless but cunning at the same moment; my intestines crackle,

We have brought you a taste of that Paradise, Thelonius Bosh, and it is

to be savored, Thelonius, to be savored

Igrapplewith the burning stick, no doubt hashishthe virtual

kick somewhat impedes the motor skills of my fingers, joints difficult to

bend, as I suck back the char-breath, coax the perfumed smoke through

the tunnel of my throat and tippy tippyteethweezyin Metatrons slowwake; I see zisarms move with torpor, the cyclotrons excretions filling

the sandstainedenvirons lightlytickling cheek lining coasting,

back back receding burning receding burning. Yes, receding

back into lungs and holding, my eyelids drooping on the lower

curvatures and scaling up the mountain ubiquitous angles ambrosia

skylines and the manifold shake of cross-current maglev transports

wire networks of fiberoptic skyscrapers sweet, metabolic melon

trees ululating throat singers lounging in crystal palaces

That is Paradise, the Alamte-Megalopolis? Exhalation of


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Chapter 1 8

sweet ichor in paranoid puffs. I recover slightly from the homophonic

vertigo, valleys and shadows of industrial smazefloat into the

troposphere. They only exist here, right, the others who just took offfor the east in the Virtual Pleasure DOME environment? Does their

programming recognize me as the outsider?

Metatron crushes the resonated butt beneath an asterisk of

sticks. Yes, very wise, these arerhetorical questionsIll bet the

Master of Assassins looks suspiciously on outsiders, Mr. Bosh.

Computer geeks always have a beastly sense of humorMetatron: humorless delivery.

We just gave you a taste and you dont even

realizeremember, Bosh, youre hereto evaluate the Virtual Pleasure

DOME programs and environment for the global market, best way to

tailor the publicity campaigns and all that choc-a-bloc. Remember? But,

youre not the only entity in this world the multitudes come here to

lose their faces, create new avatars for themselves. After all, zehad to

practice on somebodyor somebodies, I should say. Some choose

gelatinous blobs with spiked arrays coursingforth in self-defense, others

cull shapes from the bio-synaptic clay. Whether they recognize you or

not is irrelevant. Your smarmybacktalkis irrelevant. These things will

not help you. Youll crave that wasted smoke soon enough. Many come

here to lose the other place. External consciousness is sublimated to theDOMEs subroutines. Of course, others have programming more

detailed than yours, and totalerasure always costs more than expected.

The credit lines get long in the tooth

We exchange, through these crystalline fields of azure simplicity,

where the lovely menses of Paradises damsels should inhabit the inner

regions of my cortex, drippingrivulets of fertile-crescent juices, the

pitchers of milk and eastern oilspulsingover my flesh. I feel these

implanted memories settle all familiar the sensations of Paradise

above as jagged barrier to the opium quay assault weapons like forks


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Chapter 1 9

for the feast of a thousand boars, plugs of excess filtered and pounded

into my grey strata, vivid as daylight here in the DOME. As a child, I

tried to operate my penis like a conscious appendage, to feel it pluckand simmer in the tiniest bend of my bio-will. That does not seem like

memory, but memories of memories of memories, whisper down the

temporal snake alleydistorted by a pheromone supernova.

The sensations of this Paradise are too real, if that makes any

sense. I know theyve been implanted. The crest of Metatrons

platinum-warp hair. The bio-recall hashish didnt help. And I quiteexpected the oppositeyou knowto feel the falsehood of this place in

its underachievement, its plastic renditions of Marco Polos Asia, the

universe of the 1270s, living in the DOME world with its composite

memories

The cyclotron field encapsulates zisentire rough body, glowing,

the superlative archangel of this place. Zisbreath is the color of god.

You feel the difference only because I am here. Zishands pull

various ammunition clips and k-rations from the chasuble canteens

that ring like coins, jugs of electrolyte-wine to maintain virtual integrity,

yarns of flax and hemp for trade in the Cities of Unknown Quantity,

magnifying glasses to illuminate tufts of leaves and kindling Once I

am gone, so, too, will the knowledge of life outside the DOME. Youll

crave that taste again, until you forget everything. Think closely and italready begins to slip

Distinctions crumble from Metatrons hypnotic suggestions as I

tighten the grip around the Telos-5200 neutrino blaster; I feel the

limpness of my penis cease to matter as whirlsof magnetized particles

flickerzisperson, interrupt the frequency of my visual field and begin to

fuzzout the distributors consciousness from the Persian salt hills. Back.

Receding to the Alamte-Megalopolis lost somewhere high in the

surrounding mountains frequencies shift. Metatron disappears for

moments at a time, fading in and out like bandwithdelayed or


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Chapter 1 10

punctuated by a competing receptor channel, avoiding through

dissolution the auspices of the peasant caravan churning over the

cracked-macadam pathways gypsy trams of camels, mules, anddonkeys burdened with goods, not persons. The instructions and

appropriate hardware implanted, Metatron goes Bedouin, lost in the

sands of the DOME

Jawarthawal, the local fetus collector, motions with his C-

section clippers to inspect my womb It is expressly forbidden tobear fruit without discussing the terms with the Population Guards. You

sir, he hoists the DNA-extractor works to the heavens with dripping

liquid sizzlingto boiling ivy on the road, are in direct violation

and I think Metatrons got the right idea using cyclotron travel nodules;

I protest with the simple masculinity gambit: Im a man, and

Jawarthawal, (his associates call him Doctor Strand) doesnt seem in the

least discouraged. Its only after two lower officials, undersecretaries

with bright brown cassocks and antibacterial sandals, force down my

arms and the initial probes tackle my plenum that they see it aint a bun

in the oven at all but several neutrino transmitters for the Telos-5200

and I get a hackneyed Our mistake Mister, youre not carrying

but they start laughing anyway, and the needle still pokes until I give

up my Assassin-issued ondaniquedetector as last-ditch bribe. Apparentlythey accept only task-oriented gifts, and Indian Steel is quite a valuable

peasant commodity.

Off into the afterbirth horizon, sounds of cascading energy

trickles,cracklingwith life in Metatrons displacement spot; zeleft a

nasty heat signature brimstone and auger stink marks, black dugout

divots of wilted fern and burnt-tar macadam, tinyflickersof white

particle light dancing like drunken fireflies in Bacchanalian orgy. I wisely

think to take an imprint, a plaster cast of sorts with the FDSA field kit

dirt-sized vial for soil-samples latched onto my utility belt, particle


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Chapter 1 11

specimens uploaded into appropriate subatomic memory cards. Telos-

5200 is an old friend. Xanadus path blazesinto the horizon like a dirt

road to the heart of the sun. The house of Capricorn is barelydescendant, and I wonder how many distantgasballswill shine at the

summer solstice, untouched by the hands of men.


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Chapter 2 12

Khora(The City of Harsh Sentences)

Hills and dales break in muddles of broad distinction Jewels

pale and sigh beneath the mustard sun Thorns twist from briar

patches that cover the broadside of furrows and elongated basins of a

crystal stream they split in rustlesagainst my burlap-colored Assassin-trousers, myResemblati. Pricksmiss my flesh, but I can imagine what

the cuts might feel like outside the DOME,pantlessin my tiny

apartment, a flotilla of blowflies prognosticating in the curtains folds as

I shiver with the mornings breath. Listen closely for sandals scraping

through shiftingsand; I seem to be runningpulsingalong the currents

of hedgerows and tadpole-soaked puddles that compose my existence inthe DOME. A figure of political intrigue, an Assassin in service of the

Alamte-Megalopolis, clambering for a taste of the mystical drugs, the

substance of Paradise, a Eucharist to closeout the ubiquitous Kublai

Khan

Memoryfallingstars. Each a winking shade of its last dying sister

I think of the outside world, then shift to the DOME, and roll into

Khora, the city of harsh sentences, under a ball ofscorch. Heat whipping

packs of salt rats into a frenzy of conditioning, scouring my surface area

as itflickerslike a corpse from deprivation of sleep, of dream, and

most prominently, reason. Acid through the wide-open slats of metal

cloth, membranes of shiver permeable in the sun daggers of

subcutaneous neurological scripts I can no longer control: Quasi-

hominid baby smuggling by mufti lawmen in back alleys mews Allah we are rich! Ghanim, the potentate, will sacrifice a ransom for

that monkey-boy! A sand-encrusted protagonist flame-broils an Islet of


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Chapter 2 13

Langerhans at the apex ofanotherstory and Abu Hasan, de factoCaliph

of the philosophy-cartel, stuttering in phrases, overturns the narrow

aperture of one singular klepsydra into a barrel of gherkin brine toillustrate his point: Simply uncork the wide-end (chorus of

oohs/aahs) Air the quickest element escapes from the metal-bulb

like gas after a camel-roast! Thusthe elixir of lifeglorious water

floods in the chamberprotracting thus proving once and for all

in the convenience of your own parlor room before all your skeptical

friends and servants the veracity unquestionable existencetheprimacy of SPACE!

I make an attempt on an old Mllahs corporeality (almost

always women theseadays). Shes abusing me with her eyes, two charcoal

urchins sucking at her chest, sweetmeats and charcuterie dangling in

links from the neck of her kiosk. The sucking boys are obvious DOME

officials, despite the shiny cock rings and brightly impotent sparkler

guns; they are dark in the DOME and their dirty credits switch to the

womans rusted DebitCharge as they suckle, a brace of otiose

mammalians, at the fount of her great buttermilk tits like inchoate

genetic hoodlums. Various regurgitatorsgutjugglecontraband and flank

the Mllahs epicenter, imperial mongrels, wretchingup digital

recording chips, melatonin-laced ecstasy tablets, India-ink ball-point

pens allpulsingfrom the pursed mouths in peristaltic hackstowardsslickened, outstretched palms. DOME courtesans struggle with their

Latin texts and unfurl their Vulgate, but the old Mllah presides pre-

linguistically, an Alamte operative, watching with numb disinterest the

crowds of mulling, matter-gravitating peasants, nipplesgnashingunder

boyish tooth grinds. The sound of each succulent chompresonates in a

punctuated, splintered voice of artificially coded sound-byte thwacks.

Their nibbles span the archipelagos of consciousness in secret visitations

one second on a camel dealers hard sell (Eetz as low as I ken

go), one moment on the lips of a suspicious looking tourist (Old


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Chapter 2 14

boy, how much for your servant girl? Nonsense, name your price)

The Mllahs eyes recede farther out the hold of her face, buds

on the stem of a crabs neck, skewed buzzard cameras in hazy, liquid cMedina, reconnaissance probes in nerve-ending dangles, diffuse over

accidental targets, voracious in their permissiveness. The distance

between her eyes and head slithers apart, and she pulls the suckling boys

closer to her chest while oozing her eyeballs through the press of leaden

air. A periscope slinking up the copse of oxygen, her eyes pass above my

pale figurean obvious tactic, but carefully observed, I begin todecode:

The left eye, to begin a supposition, mayscatter of its own

volition, and the right, independent, may fix itself on an object for any

periodic, but varied interval, or the left may stick by accident, and the

right brush past without staring, or perhaps (it is hard to tell in this

light), the right may just possiblybe under subordinate control of the

left, whichpulses, away from the head in a decisive lead, commanding

the lesser to appear the inconstant dupe, or maybe the other way

around with the right, despite itssubaltern perspective, choosing to

create the illusion of the look that is nota look, but a latch as the left

eye and right eye subsist as distinctive creatures, slighting each other

with patterns of stare and gloss, or gloss and stare, and, regardless of

which eye, regardless of interval, regardless of any object to fall into thebifurcated perception, they always set their monocular powers over top

the market barkers and washed-up carnies, the Muftis in the quarter, or

the Sheiks in the quadrants, not the Husseins in the angles, but the

Caids of supplement, yet the Shiites of the complement for I am the

Assassin with the mission overlooked, self-consciously erect and primed,

and thus, this first supposition assumed, I am passed, by eyes that only

pretend to seewhat they see, quite a spectacle really, those who think

they are seen, or scrutinized, pelted with more interval by either right or

left, not seen at all, for I am only an absence, viewed in my absence,


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Chapter 2 15

seen in my absence; the avoidance of the eyes is the giveaway (of

course), and an Assassin can never be too careful, even within the

Megalopoliss purported territory (but who has enough urine todemarcate, I wonder?). That is the enraging tactic.

I ampassed over in sienna contrast with the red of the sucking

ritual, and I can see life drain from the market shadows of tea-stain

skin pressed against the Mllahs heaving chest, great knots of solid

black hair biting tinyneckthrobs. Vulture eyes distend from the hold of

her face with each nibbleof mouth and there areseveral possibilities,mathematical permutations, scenarios, to account for their

unevennessI walk with calm authority to her kiosk and swagger

gruffly, as an Alamte Assassin should. I loosen my belt. The DOME

boys, cocksmen, quenched finally or fitfully, recalcitrant from theglutof

their stomachs, or rather, severed by my sudden approach, fall backward

with vacuum-clasp shunders, lizards unsealed from a cluster of twigs,

mouth declination into the sizzling, after-the-rain tarsheetof the Khora

Bazaar.

The Mllahs nipples splay before me, conic monoliths reshaped

in soft erection at the fastening of my mouth onto the city of harsh

sentences:

Mutteringloudly disillusioned and theyburbleforked-tongueinquiries like serpent eggs from mouths, the lizard boys lay fat and

scalar in the sun, as my mouth milks the Mllahs nipples and her eyes

retract through her valley, retract then succinctly; my mouth milks the

nipple with tooth-depressed imprints, vellum skin crunching, my

erection now waxing, through mesh on mypantlinea paraffin

membrane, that swells to encompass, the slit for my handle and they

wonder how I judge them, in the Medina, how, the puffs of cheeks

flooding with warmth, image of breast milk, rivers of sweeter and

flowing sugar, coursingmy tongue in an antidote of steam, vacuumed


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Chapter 2 16

from the Mllahs watch of the bazaar, I can judge that they feel not

what they ought to feel, that feeling of having never been wider in the

cosmos, even here, under the ocean of the inverted smazeball, especiallyhere, in the countersunsteam, I generalize and judge by my newfound

location, passed over in space, true enough, and in time, forgotten by

the eyeballs of the Mllahs hot sweep, but now touched bylonghands

dropping down through my sheath, now converging in circles of pubic

formation. I bite down instinctually and feel like an animal, a primate

slope jawdownlowand browlinestraightup, into the bruised sun, mycortex contracting, mouth nipplegnashing, a squishand a puncture of

nails in my pubis, dirt under the surface, entrenched in the furrows and

rubbingmy penis, my mouth nipplegnashing, my knuckles expanding,

shoot straight in the sun the shoots of her tripping, the sap and her

venom, and thats how I know I suckand she milks, I milk and she

pulls, my knees stained with mudcakesand cider and sluices of

ashplant, and barley, this Khora Bazaar, each sentence, indulgent, each

city, a miracle, each gift down mistrodden, the periscope vibrates, and

thisis the secret behind Mllahs eyes I see through her body as if

through a mirror, my bites on her nipples, saliva on breasts.

Goosebumps cover my legs like tinygoogleeyes, eggs inside the

womb of pregnant toad, like spiders, like flies, like pork pie hats and

rheumatic nipple clips, like italicizedsweat written in slants down thebulkhead. We zoomthrough Khoras cracks and tangents over the

dime-store barrios as fingernails dig into my shaft skin, a ghetto to the

southlandwhere one-car families de-scale mullets from the brackfor a

farthing, my cock in the rhythm, past hermeneutic boy scouts lounging

in feldspar bathrooms, scribbling amino acids codons on urinal walls for

secret meetings, dreaming of transfer to the Alamte-Megalopolis, or

shooting cum shots at the Great Khans recruitment posters.

Glutted. I fall backwards like the lip of a drunken salamander


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detaching from a cluster of twigs. We are in a room of mirrors, the

Mllah and I, mirrored pools in the eyes of the marble spacecats. Bast,

carved inches in time (tells the Mllah), Egyptian feline goddess, andher secret name consort left stuck on an asteroid. Mirrors in the

gleamhedgesfly out the sewer grates that run lazily downward from the

brilliant ruby-lighted waterfall. Mirrors overhead as the Mllah buries

her fist in the abyss of vines between dark, flabby legs, sweet with

forbidden textures, lips of perfume and grainy stubble and pubic hair

stamens. Mirrors coating the underside of her silver tongue as it flickersand bubbles saliva onto her swollen, bloody nipples. Mirrors hide in the

darts from the silver body-paint streaked over her torso in handprints so

firm, from copper bright canisters of powdered concoctions. Mirrors on

the gilded dildo-box float on that gurney, electromagnetically charged

with an aura of brass pulled by a midget, a munchkin, a monkey, a trio

of servants (their class in their eyes), glassy disfigured but similar seeing,

mirroring the moans of their mistress and apulsefrom the r-dildo

Reflecetae resplendent, its letters in mirrors, relief in flotilla of

orgasmic electrodes. Mirrors, full length, as the Mllah rises from her

recline, streaked in ferrous quicksilver, mercury risingthe tuxedoed

attendants work the final preparation fastening Reflecetaeto the

largest full-length wall-sized looking-glass with a series of suction cup

basins and molecular cohesives, utilizing the temperature bar-gauge likea probe into the Mllahs vagina, and fluid levels are a checkmimesthe

monkey, his vertical screechesalighting in fog, the Mllah approaches

and press pressure insertion aaahhhhhhh:

On one mirrorsidethe Mllah, verticular and brown. On the

other the Mllah reflected and verticular Reflecetaeconnecting, and

my penis flaccid. My hands are not sticky. Its all been a tease, she

thinks as a piston. In aspiration, I point the Telos-5200 up her chin like

a crossbow bolt, opening a small fissure in the taught, hair-strewn panel

of skin. But no crimson flows, onlyoozesof liquid blanch, boiling out in


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suppurated drizzlesof wet milk-cum, dousing my figures, my flames and

my favors. Her liquid is muddled, no separating texture, and I am

flooded, over my fulgurated figure, disappointed again.She fucks the mirror, moving deeper into her own folds, and

watches in silence, at my figure, reflected.

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