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Paul Kavanagh

The characters within are all inventions and bear no resemblance to living persons. Only the writer is real.


artha Smith-Winstanley arrives predictably late apologetic Russian literature apologetic red in the face blowing (Joyce’s Ulysses couldn’t help myself) and sits afore removing her raindrenched coat and silk scarf. Afore Martha Smith-Winstanley sits Henry Montegut and betwixt is the table not incongruous of a restaurant in London Paris New York with ornate decorations and three candles aflame. “Martha my dear,” says Henry. Martha Smith-Winstanley titters afore apologizing once again and then ignores Henry to survey the byzantine room. “This is serpentine,” says Martha. This is her first occasion her first occasion within but not without. The sustenance is splendid she has been told from without and without she inhales and agrees. Henry Montegut already with wine pours two glasses but a grimace betrays. Finally, Martha Smith-Winstanley divests the raindrenched coat and silk scarf. Wait. Let’s continue. “Yes,” admits Henry, “I’ve already indulged.” An obsequious waiter takes away the raindrenched coat and silk scarf. “The lips betrayed you,” says Martha. Henry Montegut swills. Martha aims for the light. Henry smells. Martha Smith-Winstanley empties the glass in one movement and sighs as she recognizes the chamber music. Henry Montegut tuts loudly also recognizing the chamber music. Martha Smith-Winstanley offers her glass and hums flagrantly. Henry Montegut pours and spills wine. Numerous tables in the environs are disturbed. A patron complains to an obsequious waiter. Another patron complains. Martha Smith-Winstanley pleads for support but is still defiant. Henry Montegut pours and spills more wine. The Doyenne approaches the table and politely but firmly asks for equanimity. Martha Smith-Winstanley guffaws manifesting her joy at the disequilibrium spreading. Henry Montegut points and says, “Ophelia no Desdemona must perform.” The Doyenne pleads for composure. Martha Smith-Winstanley drinks the wine laughing wine spilling a breast slipping and sliding the wine cascading down her chin upon the now exposed breast. A protrude of little to no merit. Henry Montegut swears. The Doyenne demands decorum. Patrons coalesce. Martha Smith-Winstanley shatters a glass. The Doyenne points to the double doors and with fingers folding and straightening articulates action. The double doors open. Four waiters push forward the Bull of Phalaris. Disturbed and perturbed the Patrons stand and briskly and excitedly (Romans at the Colosseum) congregate at the undisciplined table. There we witness drooling dribbling spitting erect nipples flushed skin sweat beads the size of hardons galore. The Doyenne gives the command. The Patrons stand Martha Smith-Winstanley and Henry Montegut and remove the clothing of Martha Smith-Winstanley and Henry Montegut. A waiter strikes a match off the sole of a boot (A match is a tool for starting a fire. Typically, matches are made of small wooden sticks or stiff paper. One end is coated with a material that can be ignited by friction generated by striking the match against a suitable surface.) and lights the fire under the Bull of Phalaris. Through the bronze opened door Martha Smith-Winstanley and Henry Montegut are jostled into the hollow belly of the Bull. The door is locked from the outside. Flames rage. Through the nostrils of the Bull Martha Smith-Winstanley and Henry Montegut screams are metamorphosed into the grunt of a Bull sexed. Out of the ascending smoke of spicy clouds of incense appears Emily Darling. A petite girl with a proclivity for floral dresses and staid shoes. Under her arm without ostentatiousness but inevitably ostentatious you will see Milton’s Paradise Lost. Emily Darling is waiting for the train to take her home. Emily Darling has spent a delightful day in the city. The train approaches. Emily Darling sighs remorsefully. Soon the city will be a dream an ignis fatuous. The book slips. Emily Darling stoops. The train slows. Emily Darling trips and like Anna Karenina is cut in two by the train’s myriad impassive steel wheels. Out of the blood and the guts and the weeping of pure sorrow at the loss of an innocent sighs Alan Boorman. He stands afore us bored of life of sex of death. Alan Boorman is nondescript and happily overjoyed to be nondescript and fashionably bored. “To be is to –“ I stop Alan Boorman mid-sentence. Enough I say. With the wave of a hand I conjure Malacoda Scarmiglione Alichino Calcabrina Cagnazzo Libicocco Draghignazzo Ciriatto Graffiacane Farfarello Rubicante and the unnamed one and at my bidding they (awful beasts that they are) drag Alan Boorman screaming and pissing and shitting and vomiting down to Malebolge. John Jacobs was never happy. Already I am sick of John Jacobs. The name makes me want to puke. I hate the name thus the man. Blistering boils and putrid pus I cover his body with from head to toe from arse to tit. What a body thin and frail creaking and groaning. He pisses yellow flux and shits worms. I hate the body the more I see of it with its plights and gripes it pollutes the mind. Cabbages under the armpits and sores hemorrhaging running up and down the legs and arms. Death will not appear for another hundred years I guess a biblical death I surmise. Alice Little stands before me naked as the day she was born I cherish her breasts firm and nipples erect and desire her pudenda lightly trimmed and lips magnetic to my lips I am helpless I must gravitate I want her I want her she must be mine and mine alone her hair is a cascade of fire and her eyes emerald green the cliches worry me not her skin white as alabaster and not a hint of superfluous fat (well some on her lovely derriere and her nape Oh I love a fat nape) she is no Botticellian babe mustered out of scum with incongruously large hands and elongated chubby belly no but wait here is Alice Little and Alice Little will not succumb to my charms for she is Aristocracy and I am a Pauper. So, for a thousand years Alice Little will stand before me and I will fashion her to my will and whims and I will open the pit the stage the gallery (think Elizabethan shitholes) and Alice Little will be molested by me and only me and the pox the syphilis will spread and the thieves the soldiers the mercenaries will fight a myriad of Iagos and drink and copulate and expectorate and micturate and defecate and the alchemists will cast spells and Alice Little will sigh a Shakespearean sigh may be too Shakespearean may be more than a hint Sophoclean yes Sophoclean it has to be Sophoclean (I hate myself with all this Greek Stuff) “Why was I birthed” she will cry I will cry and I have no answer except may be vanity yes vanity and this torture chamber should be designed and built by Giovanni Battista Piranesi and housed by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra and Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy and made into a movie by Peter Greenaway for that is what I deserve for this chamber I have fashioned.


Paul Kavanagh