Flashing III
Veronique
Sin and Zevon at Trader Vic’s, strangers, werewolves on the loose, Argentinean vessels of carnage, the overthrow of vellum, past participles of night. Agon abounding, vitriol in the streets. Asian men and women with Peruvian cigars, the shining path of viperous dignity. Unction, last unction, but then when is it not? Five star litanies of blood, seventh waves of starry night, spectral floods down Andean slopes.
“Paraguay,” said Frank to Warren, his plosives slipping and turning grey. Warren blushed to see the transformation; his legal paradigms were shifting.
“It grieves me deeply,” said Warren. His Olsons were coated with soot; doom is never pretty, not even sumptuous doom.
Dinner was on me, but I stayed in the background. I’d seen ambrosial success and I wanted nothing more to do with it. I wanted cast iron nausea, variant pleasures—something the dogs would never drag in. Cats at play, nocturnal mouse dreams, lush rodent life raining down on the nuns of Calle Veronica, good old Bernice, saint of the holy washcloth, wiping down the stains of dusty travelers, annihilating the merriest of holy ghosts, serving up a classic mortuary Benedictine feast.
Sin and Zevon at Trader Vic’s, strangers, werewolves on the loose, Argentinean vessels of carnage, the overthrow of vellum, past participles of night. Agon abounding, vitriol in the streets. Asian men and women with Peruvian cigars, the shining path of viperous dignity. Unction, last unction, but then when is it not? Five star litanies of blood, seventh waves of starry night, spectral floods down Andean slopes.
“Paraguay,” said Frank to Warren, his plosives slipping and turning grey. Warren blushed to see the transformation; his legal paradigms were shifting.
“It grieves me deeply,” said Warren. His Olsons were coated with soot; doom is never pretty, not even sumptuous doom.
Dinner was on me, but I stayed in the background. I’d seen ambrosial success and I wanted nothing more to do with it. I wanted cast iron nausea, variant pleasures—something the dogs would never drag in. Cats at play, nocturnal mouse dreams, lush rodent life raining down on the nuns of Calle Veronica, good old Bernice, saint of the holy washcloth, wiping down the stains of dusty travelers, annihilating the merriest of holy ghosts, serving up a classic mortuary Benedictine feast.
Labels: saints alive
posted by murat11 at 2:55 PM
2 Comments:
It looks like you are continuing your birthday celebration in this trio of posts in fine form, with such a tumble of images and rhymes that I risk simply repeating the whole thing just to point out the ones I like best.
Loved all the double-o's in that third paragraph, the "appalling bridge to nowhere," and "Calcify. It grows if you try." That's just for starters. Far beyond my fatigued left-brained, parse each word one at a time, abilities to explain why.
What fun! Your students must have loved this!
anno: It feels like the tentacles of birthday mania are beginning to slip away, but quick-flashing fictions and poems are always a fun way to pass the day with the kids. My first year at the Instituto (this is my third), I had four kids in my Language Arts class, so I had the luxury of doing all the writing assignments alongside my kids.
These being so rapid-fire, we can all sprint together to the end. The kids' writings were great.
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