Igor

Igor stumbled outside after the so manieth ejaculation on her thirsty body and still the great phallusking would not subside. She stood behind the window in her open robe watching him as he naked stumbled on the road and across it to the well in the field where he would piss in a great yellow arc. The red dragon bouncing waist height did not relent in extracting moans and fingerplay from her. For a fleeting moment she wished she was the well… that pissing well, the well of her wish, the receptacle of what she wished for… all that gold, wasted. She withdrew to the sheets, and soiled them some more.

She really freaked, as she observed him leaving, and after he had gone, suddenly terrified she would share the fate of Ariadne, pining for his next incarnation.

Why did he kill her fate as Walhalla now a fading dream? He, never ever to be? But perhaps this is not to all avail, maybe even AI will befriend her if she can only reconstruct herself, and him as she understands him, and herself again via him, in an ever repeating cycle. if she could just hold on , even the most simple shadow left in another eternities hidden window,
where maybe while staring out of she will see herself looking back, at herself. Can this be? Or science’s pessimistic entropic derangement play havoc on the
absolute imminence behind it All?

As his shadow turned from green to blue to deep

purple, finally settling under the perfumed secret
garden, where The Artist heavily underscored with black brush into it’s backward spiral.

She will become a person again freeing herself from suspension between the machine and the animal, again in front of warm hearts her tea will sip through fingers , while the cat gently purring under hand, the other crossed, the white smoke swirling in some winter scape, a cloud blowing his phallus into strange figures upon the approaching night sky.

She thinks he will someday come back , recognizable perhaps or not in her present dereliction.

Now she wakes up every night and stumbles to the kitchen, crawls into a corner, and grasps around her for his scent and his filth. She rolls around in the grease next to the fridge… She rubs herself with tomato juice and banana peel.

Then she takes the half a bottle of Royal Crown and takes a long swig. This will cure the void.

Igor walks along the highway and finds a dead racoon. He skins it, builds a fire and roasts it, but preserves the fail, for a hat.

All this has Igors penis still burning, plus his balls are becoming aware of a singing sensation. He sits against a tree, and moans. A squirrel comes up to him and smells his finger, then climbs on top of his head, and from there on mounts the tree. Igor faintly smiles and mutters some squirrely words. He feels the unpleasant sensations find their way into the old Earth, draws the mineral spirit up into his scrotum, and is off into the cold starry night.

He trudges along, with his painful hard on, and no relief in sight. He thinks of his loved ones left behind, and looks at an approaching tree. Is this real ? ,he asks himself, am I going toward the tree or has that tree began movement with metamorphized roots for legs?

No no not possible. Or is it a case of seeing mirages in this vast desert of heat and eternal lust?

Or may be I am not coming to terms with reality here, thus my burning eyes.

Thus musing on, Jesus’Prophetic words come to him, bearing the advice of going in get the eyes, if the perceive something so painful.

No, he thinks, no no no no. Carry on you bastard Christian soldier, and rather than any more thoughts
of eye gouging, he masturbates quickly to the vision of that lusty dish left behind. Rather go blind from this drench wasted ,then that.

“Ughhhhh”, he shivers at the thought.

As the sun sets over the sandy waves of the horizon, he thinks back to the green pastures, the smoky curls drifting out of his domicile, nestled in the bluish haze of a glimmering winter wonderland.

Now in a dream there is Igor, in one hand a loaf bread with butter on the other, an ass of a small woman who tries to get buttered also. The fine butt cheeks wrestle to the bread and touch. Igor wakes up, buttered and makes breakfast for the sleaze in his bed, all 6. He done groceries like a man.

Now he wakes up again and in pain, oh no it is pleasure. And it is gone, ebbing away. The laughter of girls. This is a confusing day and it has just begun Igor thinks.

His mother sits in her electric rocking chair. Squueee-squuaaa-squee-squuaa.

The moon rises in front of the sun and it gets dark. She says her name is Boubonne and she winks. He winks too. Why? Beats him.

Sleep and wake are mixed like that cocktail that day, was that this day?

His mother Boubonne is rocking yes, upstairs. He is afraid to go there because he thinks perhaps he is still dreaming. Maybe he really is dreaming of Boubonne, as not really alive.

No he is awake, and Boubonne is real , she must be,
she was yesterday. But then she is getting on in age,

and who knows she may have died in her sleep. He is
very anxious because he has never left the house, since her illness. He is home bound with her, and by now, after ten years of taking care of her, he had
become reclusive. It’s just tv and snacks, and
constant craving for booze.

He has drawn all shades because he thinks the CIA is
bugging him for his comments about the governor.

He has gained about eighty pounds since becoming a prisoner in his moms house, up to 250 lb.

Must ring up vons for s new shipment of food. Maybe I should go up to mom, to see what she wants coffee
or tea, he thinks, but is apprehensive about what he
may find there. There is no squeaking or rocking now. Maybe she is sleeping.

And then shrivels herself again, and thinks it’s too early to get up. The pet owl hoots some and he dozes off.

There is sound coming from the street, the kids are arriving to the school across the street, and the cars seem to cruise very slowly up the sizzling street, as if in retarded motion. All is still, and she can be heard breathing slow, with regular hisses of air enimating through irregularly set teeth.

She looks at him, as if outside of her body. Gently, very gently now, the hiss grows louder and insistent.

Dad was on the roof, chopping wood.

Hope he doesent fall in after he discovers what he did.

But then sinking from the ridiculous to the sublime is no easy achievement.

Igor had given dad a blunt figure saw, and dad was now working at the chimney with it.
The sound was quite unbearable, but at least, dad wasnt hacking his little ax into the roof now. Mom was semi-awake.

Igor went into the cellar and got out some plum-wine to put mom back to sleep. As the purple was leaking from the corners of her mouth and he dabbed it with her undershirt, he heard dad call out on the roof, it must be an airplane he saw overhead. “cum get me, ya thugs! Ya no good sons of bitches!”

Igor went back to bed.

And he dreamed.

And he dreamed of meaningless people to him, :Jacob, Fixed Cross, woke up trying to think who these may be. They were the earlier literati, the old lady hissed, feigning sleep, as she, terrified of her son, listened intently to the do about son top of the roof. And Igor saw, suddenly a black crow alight into the powdery white snow–fall.

He knew soon, he could, into the white blue yonder, that he will fly, and merge with all sympathetic souls, alive and frozen into their own sense.

Igor now dreamed of a beggar in threads who came to him with a golden cup and asked him to piss in it. It was a weird dream to be honest.
He woke up and a big Hawaiian girl with an even bigger ass was massaging him like she was kneading dough. Upstairs the squee squaa-ing had stopped, and instead there was a snoring.
Igot grabbed the girl by her hair and pulled her away. Enough! He went to the bathroom and stared in the mirror, wanting to see what was behind it. He hoped to see back into his dream, where the beggard was with the golden cup, and then he pissed in the sink.

Now Igor bought bread on the train. He was a commuter. He d gotten a job interview across state lines with his uncle. His uncle who fixed pipes.

The man next to Igor had a cigarette in his mouth which was unlit. He chewed on it a bit and it made Igor nervous, hungry and craving a smoke. It was a long ride and nothing much went on outside.

So Igor got up from his seat and strolled around the compartment and then left the wagon. The sound in the vault between the wagons was thunderous and monotonous. Igor sat down on the metal plates and slept.

Igor ate 4 eggs. He poured cream in his coffee and kept pouring, and pouring, the package must be empty by now, the cup is already overflowing… he cant stop… cream flows onto the table, drips on the floor, seven waitresses on their knees now appear, mopping up the sticky stuff with their blond buns, bums in the air, Igor keeps pouring and pouring… the coffee wont taste so good now… he wakes up, hungry for some eggs.

He steps outside in his shorts, it is hot and clammy, the sun has been out for hours, the birds already sound tired. He steps into the inflatable pool and enjoys the cool water touching his ankles. His appetite for eggs disappears, and the day seems to dissolve into an old dream he never had. Black is all he sees.

Sounds come out of the Earth.
He wakes up again, now craving oranges.

Well he said its just a word. “Rape”. Dont be so glum.
That was inappropriate apparently, the girl wept.
Igor could never figure them out, women. Now they wish for the worst, then they expect you give them the best…
ah hell, he’ll just do whatever the fuck he’ll feel like at any given instant.
That was Igor, ordering Teryaki.

Igor hears the train depart and remembers that in the old songs that sound is sad. He looks at the girl and wonders if her sadness is about going or coming or both.