Saturday, July 3, 2010

Tlön Trick

Tlön Trick

“a little at first, not
quite all the light, and
then all of it, all, all, all,
all, total darkness suddenly
in which you can’t cry out
because in the dark you
can’t find your voice to
call for help”—José Donoso,
The Obscene Bird of Night

Feigning facetiousness—a delicate artform.

Joking & jesting often inappropriately, trying to be witty and snide at the same time, being waggish about indelicate facetiae like who has a face lift and who doesn’t and who needs one awfully terribly bad as soon as possible. Like myself—into the Other.

It takes a special feigned fictitiousness—almost a fetid feline cattiness—to feign and felicitate with joie de vivre the various & sundry jodhpur-booted fascismo pricks—coming to us from that feverish feuilleton SF Novel of the future. It is here—Now.

Approaching us slowly but surely in fervid sickening FOX-News installments—“Disco Inferno” is its nom de plume. Apocalypto Denouement—is his name. The Gulf of Mexico—its Futural Fabulation.

Actually, the Boy has no name. At least the Boy from the Future who visits me in my sleep. Sometimes his pubes are as blond as pale corn tassels—none of that drugstore-blond fake peroxide stuff like some of the young hustlers I’ve known.

But other times, his sleek greased-back “Elvis the Pelvis” bouffant—it’s the most lovely purest jet-black octopus-inky black you’ve ever seen. Like last night he appeared to me—his slim hips inviting me to rumba with him, then tango into the deep recesses of some louche Titan nightclub without a name. He had a squid in his pants—tentacles down the side of his leg.

I’ve grown decadently expectant of his various android androgynous appearances—they seem to be much more frequent now than they used to. It’s a pity that his sugar daddy creator—Don Jerónimo de Azcoitía—insists on shaving him hairless each night.

Don Jerónimo is such a gangster grown-up thug who never quite grew-up—he’s forever and a day a hopeless interplanetary desperado. His corporate chicken-queen tastes like the Vatican—he tends to hairless rough trade roustabout Exxon choir boyz dontchaknow. BP butch trade—just ask Lord Browne.

Don Jerónimo keeps all his clone kept boyz—in suspended animation. He lets one out periodically—when he wants to divert himself. When he’s full of weltschmerz—when he gets bored with the usual offshore young riffraff & BP roustabouts.

He wines and dines them—he woos them. He takes them for jaunts to lovely tourisimo spots throughout the solar system—he flaunts his young android angels to provoke & make other queens green with jealousy. Green as the swirling clouds of Neptune—chartreuse as the green radioactive rain forests cloned on the fetid dark side of Venus.

The Boy who visits me is the latest Nexus droid to be disembalmed from Deep Sleep—knowing full well what his inevitable fate will be. Usually strangulation by the varicose-veined cruel surgeon’s hands of his Master—or if he’s lucky the other quickie way to go. The noose, the long drop, the snap of his young neck. Instead of the way Ulrich Friedrich Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop got it—for half an hour…

Neo-noir planet. I dream about him sometimes at nite. Or does he dream me? It dreams me—the young android darke one. The sullen angel of darkness—coming from all the way in the obscene future.

Was the Boy real—did he really come from the noir future? Was I the fabulated one—just a facetious fictional fag stuck in the present tense? Just a figment of his tortured droid dreams—conversing with himself as if I were really him?

How often have I felt the strange stirrings and return of some Other long-gone adolescence? How else can one explain such mysterious Proustian happenings—as waggish wetdreams or sudden nocturnal emissions in the middle of the night? Petulant tea and marmalade flashbacks—and idle toke of hashish? How strange to be—stoned in another’s dream…

All of him, savage detectives, occurring in darkness—darkness at first everywhere and then nowhere in my dreams. But usually, almost always—the disturbing presence of a certain young male fellatio facetiousness. It was him—the Boy from the future.

The one in suspended animation—dreaming telepathically back from the future. Back to me—a minor character indeed at the edge of something else. The edge of his darkness—a mere figment in the fetid light at the end of a long labyrinthine tunnel…

I couldn’t call for help—I couldn’t find my voice to call desperately in the middle of the night. The fine dark night you sink into—when you’re lost in the sudden darkness that has no name. The dark darker than darke—the darkness at the end of time.

It doesn’t require any strength—I had no strength left. It was like being chased by a monster—with that usual nightmare paradox: my feet couldn’t or wouldn’t move. They were stuck and mired down—sunk deeply into the muck and mire of some Krell quicksand horror. Soon I was up to my knees in Id—and then my frantic elbows.

I would be doing something inane—like moiling about in some fetid courtyard. There beside the pilasters—beyond the windowpanes somewhere. Whiling away the time picking pouty petunias and snide snapdragons—for a spectral bouquet to decorate my new spectral wooden coffin.

In it tho would be poor Mercedes Barroso or miserable Menche already—both who left this earth with a scream. One dying in sheer fatness—the other after a fall from the ruined balcony. See this Coca-Cola vase—all wrapped up in Christmas wrapping paper? It’s all that’s left—that and some yellowing photographs of the Ruiz family. Just trash to most people—filthy junk for the incinerator. The last of the twenty-first century—the terrible world of the future muttering like rats in the faded wainscoting.

Back in my bedroom, I’d turn on the vidscreen—better that than my nervous fingers fidgeting with a laptop for now. The past can be so expensive—the future so very cheap. I’m sleepy so I toss back the satin quilt—and there is the Boy smirking at me in the nude. At least some expensive things—haven’t degenerated into kipple yet, I say to myself.

Somewhere far off in the distance—I hear the Mass being sung in some sinking Ardennes cathedral. Sinking down deep into the Sargasso Sea—or is it the Gulf of Mexico? The sullen Boy spreads his nefarious legs—manhandles his rude up-periscope uncut tool just teasing & tantalizing me. He’s wearing one dirty tennis shoe—and a strawberry-mauve bathing cap. How can I resist?

“Do you mind if I smoke while you eat?” he inquires with a haughty smirk. Long, wiggling, obscene nightcrawlers for pubes—he yawns nonchalantly as usual. Turns off the light—in the cheap dented motel lampshade. A light velvety soft radioactive sequin dust—covers his nude body like silky, delicate fuzz. His armpits flex and pounce on my wrap-around lips—demanding immediate suction and the usual abject swinish worship.

And then there’s that other thing—like an umbrella ready to snap open. I have to give it a quick hum-job—with plenty of obscene lip-synch locomotion. To avoid any premature ejaculation—that might stain my fine embroidered sheets. I’m all polite manners—like at a queen’s funeral. His sullen goodlooks—and male sluttish pulchritude. He’s passing the Last Judgment on my every move—he’s such a cruel taskmistress.

He’s no Pinup beauty that’s for sure—but he has that combination of hard-edged righteousness and willowy, sex-kitten poutiness that I find so virgin and vertiginous. Like many other young males I’m usually attracted to—he’s somewhat, well, actually extremely intoxicating. I’d simply lose my sanity during each visitation—the way he struts or limps to the louche bathroom afterwards. Depending on how much I got outta him—how demanding my lips were.

That’s usally when in my dream—all the old queens would come out of their hiding places under the bed or from behind the curtains. I felt sorry for them—but not much. Decrepit old queens—from some wretched, abandoned other crypt-fabulation in my mind. Complaining and suffering—their usual sexual frustration and constant penis envy.

They drove me crazy—these projections of old age anarchy from my subconscious. They wanted it all—fist call on everything. Poor old things—working themselves to death. Resurecting themselves from the dead—all because of some lousy stupid wetdream from the future. Wrinkling their noses and raising such a fuss—over too much peach-fuzz and longgone uncut Uranian roses.

Debris—simply debris and more debris everywhere, my dear. Crummy android kipple for a soap opera rummage sale—who’d want these oneric heaps of trash in my stupid dreams anyway. My mind was simply a mere hovel for future chicken-shit dystopias anyway—little could be salvaged inside me except for flotsam from a hopeless future and jizzy jetsam from a moth-eaten old gone planet called Earth.

The pretense of present future tense was sheer nonsense—my mad dreams simply minor diversions. Surely there was finer stuff in the Future—rather than these same old queens, scourges, dictators, judges inside my mind? FDR’s dog Fala and Stalin’s suspicous grin and Joan Crawford’s huge shoulder-pad gowns, her hard sharp red fingernails digging into my bored limp petulant crouch?

If this was the rustic homespun idyllic Future—then surely there was something wrong with these grarled keyboard fingers and pleading gummy eyes? They can have it if that’s what the future is gonna spawn—quick I say to myself I need an extra-dry martini fast. Fuck it—make it a double scotch & soda will you. Oh, all right—make it a sixpack of Silver Bullets.

I need it really bad, honey—my so-called fabulated imagination has got a flat tire. My Mercedes had ditched itself into the gutter. I’m down there with Harry Slime—moping in the dirty Viennese sewers. Gimme a break—let me make love to the Third Man.

But it’s always the Third Boy who shows up instead—who comes to me in my fevered faux-pas dreams each night. Just a ho-hum Boy of no importance—not a prince, soldier, warlock, wailer, screamer, healer, servant or purveyor of forbidden talents and powers.

Not a young feudal lord from postcolonial interstellar times, not a bitch-boy, mercenary or even handsome Titan hustler. Not a Jupiter he-man—even tho he’s good at sex sometimes. Not your typical gimpy hunchback Boy of Notre Dame either—running away from something he won’t or can’t talk about.

Do android boyz dream wetdreams? I have to laugh—surely I jest? What could be more fallacious—than a blowjob dream with a robot? What could be more fickle & fictive—than an android dream in the middle of the night?

What could be more spontaneous and impromptu—than a dream Boy coming outta the Titan blue? What could be more ad lib and Now in the moment—than a lucid dream cuming true? Way out there—or in here deep.

Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius—trick or treat?

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