an evening with the bucky rage

 

 

 

 

 

 

now:  the merry old gentleman, the jew, this hideous teacher, finds his fingerless gloved hands once again in another dank ginhouse in another part of some vile town in another state of ruinous chemical shock.  his scarf, his scarf is a noose around his scraggy neck.  his long graying coat, that festering paupers coat hides many secrets.  his scars he flaunts, invisible to all but the seasoned eyes of bulging, professional salesmen and deafblind monsters.  an army of bitterblack children await instructions outside among the night-time twinklings of broken glass and forgotten kittycats in these shadowed alleys.  strike now, strike with all the vicarious black venom your fucked little hearts can muster, he prays.  he swallows.  he drifts.      

the change rattles around his pockets, so many bones in so many too-big coffins; thrown across the bar into the hooverlike hands of the tattooed beauty languishing like a long-forgotten klimt behind the damp wooden barrier of the bar.  medicine, he needs his medicine; screeching.  she’s stealing from him, pushing three more glasses of warm green syrup away/towards.  sweet jeebus, he needs this. 

flashbacktwentyfourhours.  my name’s on a list and i’m paraded past the queued, exquisitely-haired ovine like royal-fucking-tee.  soon my ravaged hand clutches a drink like it’s my bloody last.  i’m in a room with nine hundred lesbians in various stages of grim experience.  is this some wintery opium haze fancy?  have my addled braingaskets finally blown leaving me in some unsexed heavenly hell?  the delirium proves too much.  can i keep this pen? they ask.  slogans emblazoned tightly across chests with the unbridled abandon of newyorknewyork.  the tears, they come easily.   

a phone call, handed to me by some distant and abandoned hand, from some long forgotten throat, seductive yet bountiful in it’s pain and longing.  the voice tells me three things; a name, a place, a time.  i ask nothing more.  i recognise all, with the sweatstained horror of bedsheets long soiled but only now realised, as the girl shifts clothesless between the damp linen.  what rights do i have here?  where is the goddam court appointed lawyer?  i stink of yesterdays dinner and this morning’s depravity.  i wonder how it came to this… 

now:  he finds himself befriending a small but perfectly formed burlesque dancer.  her words like an oil slick in his ear.  she talks of politics and the space that exists only where you don’t look.  she talks of many things he’ll forget soon after.  it all drips too easily between his outstretched fingers.  he rifles for paper and pen among the manymany pockets he’s made for himself, trying to jot down and sketch this wondrous made-up language.  all he can find is an open vein and a ticket for some long-past train journey he doesn’t remember taking.  by this time she’s gone only to come back againagainagain. 

the gangs start collecting like crisp packets in a corner of some council house scheme; black clad and un-named, spewing their unfettered bluster like so much beige noise around the room.  i steady myself knowing that the women must be protected at all costs.  i catch someone in a mirror yawning.  it must be me.  somehow.  i look pocked and drawn.  but i don’t fucking smoke.  except when on fire. 

the rumblings start.  those masked bastards are here already, walking among us like duane eddys’ stillalive ghost.  steeled and ready i pour the remnants of some stinging liquid into my slack gob.  unsubconsciously my fingers twist and tighten into a semblance of a fist.  they appear from somewhere, drifting perhaps from an old seventies gonzo wrestling movie or the works of russ myer with the tits removed.   

cocky in their ambivalence, the first trebled notes and tribal drums work their way from the monolithic black soundboxes, pummeling all those who stand in the way of their grotesquery.  i catch a snippet of link wrays rumble before falling to my knees.  there is no god.  the tiny dancer holds me close.  perhaps confused she refuses my marriage request citing disinterest in domesticity and a grubby collection of eighties hairmetal vinyl.  if she could smoke in this lawful hell she’d stub her cigarette out on my one good eyeball.  as it is she smiles benignly.   

the surf thrash continues unabated in a brainfucked mélange of guitar wrestling and sexfiend bandidos.  some guy, yeah just some guy, turns to me asking who the hell these bastards are?  who the hell these bastards are, i swing back at him rabid-foam-flecks spatter against his anguished, angular cheekbones, these bastards are your mothers favourite wet dream.  they’re siphoning petrol from your motorvehicle while you babble unwanted inanities into my headspace.  they’re putting things into yr girlfriend and eating all the red smarties.  take a goddam hike you mango-smelling motherfucker.  in actuality there is no fruitish odour but the fleeting possibility is enough to scare him off, scurrying into the damp black with the sleazy grace of roadkill rabbit. 

they play, these ugly thugs, with the faint crunchy tang of handbag-lost cough sweets and of truths not yet told.  they play like the cramps reimagined by swollen glaswegians.  they play like dick dales’ venereal disease-bloated genitals hammering gently against your face.  they play in the manner of gaol house perverts, shower-room bound in hats and crappy t-shirts.    

i say goodbye to tony danza and she tells me we’ve met before.  am i going sdrawkcab?  have i denied her a jesus-like thrice?  i imagine i would have remembered this shiny coin but cannot recall anything more than the faint taint of oldpaper and broken dreams. 

i am bundled out into the vomitty fresh air, into the back of a strange lady autocar, not bound or gagged, and driven fastly somewhere vague and recognizable, like an old mans ramblings.  i find a key in my pocket.  i find myself at a door.  somehow both come together in pornographic symmetry and the nightmare ends. 

it seems darker in here than it is out there…          

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