Ceres
in a car
In the back of a car with Ceres and the reading girl. The reading girl seems to have been seeing Ceres for a while now. He claims she is madly in love with him but she never looks up from her book. The car judders and trembles at every pothole, rolling partially digested lunches around gently lurching lurching like submariners in a whirlpool funnel of seamen jokes, waiting to touchdown into the navel of the beast, the swarming, fishsucking, pustule of it all, funnelling slowly except in reverse, towards the mouthhole where the gorge begins to rise. I look greenly at her, and her calm alabaster corpseface engrossed in the seductive wordmonsters of her book make me retch, more greenness, until it surrounds me like a blue haze. Ceres stares wildly at the road ahead of him, wearing a black bowler hat and an undertakers costume, hooked nose protruding phalluslike no beaklike into the windscreen. Occasionally he gibbers on about people who are not to be trusted, bastards the very existence of which guarantee us our own private journey into the pustule. We are heading for the border, not to cross, but for a picnic apparently. His eyes scream incohate hatred into the road ahead of him, as his nose probes the steering wheel gently. Occasionally he removes his hands from the wheel and allows his nose to steer. On these occasions, a happy gurgling noise issues forth from the recesses of his sinuses, and the steering wheel is gripped by the tough, stringy embrace of his snotstrands, as they expertly steer the vehicle into the most vicious of potholes, lurching our lunches ever loser to the gorge. I can see his eyes and nose in the rear view mirror, and they seem to leak some sort of phosphorescent green fluid, almost a gas, but viscous, like the condensation of some sort of superheated vile contempt and disgust. Ceres loves me like a brother and trusts me with all he holds dear, including his life and his collection of snotchildren. The fool. For some reason, the looks very funny, in an amusing sort of hahawatch those ribcages crackle and pop sort of way, not in a deadfish deadrat way. I try to pry at the source of this funniness, the reason for this sudden uprush of the mirths at the sight of his hate smeared, disgust and contempt spewing visage, and it begins to worry me like a piece of gristle in my tooth that has somehow come lodged in an inextrciable position and I try and try to work it loose with a tongue but to no avail and all around me grandparents, relatives, bosses and priests stare open mouthed at something that clearly appears to be a stroke and then subtly subtly I cover my mouth and try to work it free with my fingers but its slippery this disgusting thrice damned goatligament and eventually the subtle mask slips free as I wrestle with the innards of my mouth, loose sections of gum and teeth flying, small ruby gobbets of blood splattering clean white lungis in an effort to yankyankyank and finally the unbelievable pleasure, the undeniable salt-copper tang of blood fills my mouth as I extract it and the subtle sweet satisfation of wallowing the offending offal as offended relatives ogle my destroyed mouthhole.
"Why Ceres", I exclaim jauntily, " you look just like a crow over there". The I begin to laugh hysterically, braying like a donkey, , and look about the car conspiratorially. Ceres says nothing, hooked beak of a nose, offended, blows rude noises out at me while he continues to glower with zombielike concentration at the potholes ahead. The reading girl turns and looks at me, smiles, and then returns her gaze to her book, her eyes glazed over like a coma patient.
Ceres is sitting next to me in the car, at the window. I am sandwiched between him and the reading girl whom I hardly notice for some reason. Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of her foot, the colour of alabaster corpse, if alabaster corpse was a place in the sky where there were free handjobs all day. My gaze travels up to her skirt, a blue calf-length summer skirt, with strange exotic flowers, captured in various stages of décolletage, some of them caught up in the most lascivious poses imaginable, queer flowers with stamens entwined, paedophile fruits sodomising a young bud, bouquets of debauched orgymaking, pollen spraying in every direction imaginable. My pants bunch up uncomfortably around my waist as I stare down into this beautiful kaleidoscope of floral lust. Suddenly, I snap my head up and look to the reading girl. She remains engrossed in her book, but the porcelain dollness of her face is flushed by twin blooms of red across her cheeks, like impossible to remove bloostains on an otherwise pristine washbasin. I smile at her feigned alabastercorpse innocence, and look away, to find Ceres missing. So lost was I in attempting to hide the uncomfortable loneliness of my crotch from the seeking eyes of frotting flora that I failed to notice that the vehicle had stopped and dislodged Ceres like a reeling, raving craven raven into the night, his undertaker's gown flapping behind him, his nose probing into the mists ahead, carving a path straight through, his eyes lighting up the mist like some sort of green monstrosity probing through the night to frighten little children and put the fear of slit throats and drowning in their mouths, their screams unable to give full vent to the delicious, all-consuming horror that is childhood fear. The readingalabastercorpsegirl parts her lips for the first time, and I see that her teeth too are alabaster and porcelain, and her lips in contrast so deep and dark a red as to be almost black. With her lips slightly parted and her teeth barely visible, her lips look like a gaudy last-minute addition to a beautiful, symmetrical whole, like a fake moustache slapped onto the Venus deMilo. I imagine her without those gaudy bloodlips, with no break between face and mouth and teeth, her jaws snapping delicately like crocodile mating calls in the night, and none of those pink gaudy gums either. I realise that if I were to see her skull right now, I would find it most beautiful, enthralling, erotic even, and I make a mental note. She parts her lips to speak. "He forgot his wallet in the apartment" she breathes theatrically, like one of those noir actresses who smoked too many cigarettes. Ironic that it was the cancer that made their voices beautiful so.
"You have a most beautiful tumour" I tell her, face focussed towards the radiation of maximum earnestness, so that she may see the worship in my mouthhole.
She smiles, looks down at her book and murmurs delicately through lips that almost do not part "he'll join us soon enough". I cannot tell if she meant this statement to reassure me or to warn me, or even to inform me of the limited time that I had left at my disposal. I stare openouthed at her glorious face, peeling of skin and flesh and muscle and neural tissue with my eyes until the skull is laid bare, still reading peacefully into the distance, calm, serene alabastercorpsegirl.
We wait, at the entrance to a park. All around us, nature abounds with the chaos, the frenzy of what it does best, fuck it up for all of us and make us feel inadequate. Can you blame us if we want to dig a hole into her and fuck her with a skyscraper now and then, stupid bitch making us feel inadequate all the time. The air around s is a miasma of green beauty, meadows and woods, rolling up the gentle slopes of the hillocks as far as the eye can see. And of course, nature gets all showboaty and adds a perfect blue sky (blue as the beautiful veins on the arms of the reading girl after they are exposed to the air, just before my eyeholes peel them off her palepale alabastercorpseskull) and soothing breeze that ruffles reading girls hair and plays mischievously with the curls. Jealous beyond belief I wish to grab at the wind. If it had an arm I would break it, if it had a face, I would punch it in the mouthhole until it was capable of bleeding no more. I stare balefully into the wind, as it attempts to force bits of grit that are undoubtedly retired cowpie granules into the space between my eyeball and socket. Alabaster readingirl is sitting on a dry stone wall, feet reaching down towards the ground but not quite making it. The wind ruffles her skirt, showing me hints of alabaster and setting the flowers to flailing chaos, quick inoutinout movements and intertwinings all around, like a pervert attempting to peek up a skirt under a flight of glass stairs that would of course materialise out of nowhere. I move over to the wall and lean my elbows over it, staring balefully at passerby, disgusted at their revels in this fake mother, in this surrogate shewolf of a Goddess, sickened by their deep breaths and their self-congratulatory attempts at communication with an evil older than they could ever fathom. Reading girl reads next to me, and I ignore her, recognising her as another manifestation of this virulent evil disease that sickens us all to the core. Suddenly a foot appears out of nowhere under my forearm, followed by a knee and an inner thigh. Reading girl's inner thigh comes to rest under the knuckles of my fingers as her other leg dangles languorously over the earth. I look up to see the flowers dance their rutting dance, and a dark void in the space between her legs, with promises of must and tumescence and the other beautiful seductions this ancient evil lays down for us. Reading girl doesn't lift an iris from her book the entire time the words trap her and tell her to do things, things which she must obey as if she were under a spell, cast upon her by the unknown, mysterious author, who in another dimension walled off by time and space, must pleasure himself daily with the thoughts of the multitudes he has led down the pathways of ruinandestructiondestructionandruin with the intricate webs he has woven in the words. I open my lips to speak but the pristine clarity of this idyllic scene is shredded by toxic electronic sounds, piercing shrieks emitting plaintive paeans to the ur-gods of wires and electricity. Horrified, I look down to realise that the shrieks emanate from my crotch. I reach down fearful of what I will find, and extract a cellular phone from the front pocket of my pants.
"Dammit, is that you?" Ceres. "Are you at the border?"
"Yes" I respond, throat parched, suddenly reminded of the warm lipglossy taste of must and tumescence.
"I'm going to be late. Bloody demons and their hearts made of sealing wax. Listen, I my be very late. Beware the passerby. Beware the mugwumps. They're out to destroy us, to foil our plans, to rain on our parade, so to speak. Kep your nose pointed in the direction of trouble and run as soon as you see the evil coming. Now, there's a young man I must minister to here, so I leave you in charge. Do with the border as you see fit. And Godspeed, Jung soldier". The beelzebub voice from the phone dies and I look at it in wonder. I look up at reading girl. Her eyes are on me, for the splitsecond that it takes mine to reach hers, and I almost wonder if I imagined them flitting rapidly back into the spell of the book. Slowly a smile breaks my face and cracks my lips. I look at the phone and smile at it. Leaving it on the ground, I move up next to reading girl. My nose detects the scent of her alabastercorpseskin, sweet musk, fit to offer to the Gods if you wished to be driven mad. In one movement, my left index finger brushes gently against her inner thigh, while my right index finger moves to find a place on her page. The short electrical contact of forbidden skin on skin is far, far, far deeper than chaste sex. Amongst the gentle ministrations of the hairs of my forearm being fellated by the pores of hers, and with the orgasmic intensity of my index finger on her thigh, alive to every rising goose pimple, I lean up behind her, and my lips brush against her ear as my eyes begin to scan the page. I can feel her smile radiate in front of me, and the warmth of her body as she leans into the points of contact.
I whisper into her ears "do you mind if I read as well?"
