Chez les Mocs [only the beginning]

Chez les Mocs (1)
Ahab Moc saw the spectrum slamming itself on the heads of the toddlers. What a paean to birth, he said, aloud and buoyed, to his wife, who at the moment was embarked on slathering and affixing labels to some exploded mushrooms he had gathered and brought in from the fields beyond the school. She, Atchoom, had been reading nonstop a pile of novels about molestation and her skin had been itching and in her mind the tender images of women and children furtively caressed by the amorous and kind molesters had engendered new horizons wherein hirsute polarities predominated, bound sooner or later to come together and crash in a rain of sparks full of new essencial notions, extremly meaningful too. In her mind the new expanding bits of ideas were swimming, like the spores of the exploded fellows, in a paradise of certitudes. She used to defer to hesitation. Not any longer. Now she sneezed and out flew the spores. How outgoing have I become, she said, pollinating the future with my spewing fertile brain. Ahab had been hunting for truffles, not plain mushrooms; this granted, and granted that he had failed miserably in finding a single stinking one, he still remained fascinated by the evolving floor of yonder woods. He answered the burning ejecta of his wife with an expostulation of his own: we, dear, are all ominously synonymous to cosmetics, you know; on balance, we dismiss as many rotten particles as we absorb reborn ones; brigades of replicae herald in other unseen worlds tiny fluctuations of ourselves, whose unheard utterances triumph in the open markets of their synthetic cities, made, I think, of phlogiston. Such learned references always left Atchoom lost in introspective attitudes. Her old inhibitions resurfaced, I’m really a cunt, I’ll never really know a thing, always so mimetic, n’est pas, following the lubies of the last book I’ve read. Ahab, still chewing a salty cufflink, came, as another blessed molester, to rescue her from her perilous oscillations on the chasm’s brink of her depressive tendencies. She called her a charm, and a talisman, and praised her massive weight, attracting an enormous magnetized zone, he said, of encroachments and accumulations from even the most remote frontiers of the universe, and with a momentous accelaration soon or about now, you bet, due to amount to the sublime and charmed measure, so that in less that it takes to live twice or thrice you’ll be already a vast repository of the wisdoms of many unexplained hyperspaces and such, and moreover about to also give birth to entities new, so new that had never actually been thought by particles none, or putting it better yet, if thou wilt, by nary a fragment of a particle unborn. Atchoo and Ahab peered, ophidian, at each other’s officious eyes. H’m, their aspects had changed. Now, wouldn’t you know, they felt like fucking. Chez les Mocs fucking was a matter obliquous enough, yellows of eggs were involved bubbling in slimy pernicious tars, and melting and molting. So nothing, there they stood, unmoved, exactly where they were nonetheless, he chewing and perched at the window, she a paralytic flatulent broadbean labeling some drenched dreck dragged in by him like the stupid dog he was. Anyhow, the dull pleasures duly reined in, the aesthetic composure regained, they again became omniscient comme il faut. Outside, the children all dead, crushed by the smashing radioactive rainbow, the abolished yard sported the rare arabesques of some robotic janitors that plowed their grainy grimy ashes. The school, its formerly pretty aristocratic façade, now a very rewarding chaos to behold. Let’s pause in admirations plentiful. A turbulent intrusion ensued. An obliterating wind sent the chafed laces of Ahab’s vest sailing into the twilight. What the fuck, he said, look at that wind, will you, it epitomizes the conflicts among the violently envious limp coincidences symmetry is proud to never regret. Atchoom didn’t get him this time either; she naturally thought this lack of understanding to be her fault, I’m such an ignoramus of an ugly ape, she scolded herself, the while slapping herself with mushy hands, without exemption I must condemn my intellectual shortcomings, shit, I must, smelling of dirty musk and all. But wait, for after this obstreperous sally they both stood expectant. For, tell me, they mused, what other putative outrages would now the windy invaders wreak upon our beatitude? Were their attitudes (the attackers’) worth arguing about, though? They both shrugged, she clenched in humiliation, he succumbing once more to his retrograde brazenness of absurd self-reliance. The haze of night tottered for days on the verge of intimacy. It were wiser, methinks, dear, to deviate the gaze from the window, he proposed, abusively massaged by our amorous eyes, the weather attenuates its struggles against its proper aims, succeeding then on never again becoming cyclical, that is, predictable enough, ok...? They consequently tackled other issues; soon they were engaged in a discussion about the raised busy intersection just sprung like a mushroom on the very purview of the other window, where the commode stood like a commodity never diametrically opposed to abortion nor for that matter to plain excrement. A modicum of reiterating is of the order: commodities are machineries of beauty never vulnerable to the blurred dichotomy of subjugation; we fought centuries upon centuries for it to be thus; never forget it, my son; forfeit thy modest spite and swim indestructible up the utopian waters of the fait accompli, you know. For now they had a son, and he had to be endroctinated too. The accostumed aggressors of puberty with their percussions and repercussions of redundant sound meaning shit, are, poor folk, otherwise insecure, much like another daughter whose antiquated excitation was so tangibly dismal that we had to drown her down the well. It was frustrating to try to extricate her from the mainstream of promiscuity. She was stronger than either of us. Anyway, the depressing period is fading even from our fucking memories. And, hey, transgression is always aphrodisiac, that’s how we engenderd you. All this with plenty of subtitled stuff, for the child was easily exhausted, and thinly, and small, and his brain lacked courage, and his parents, the erotic veterans, wanted him however to rightly conform. Outside, the realm flowed untethered, its utopic rivers sour, with surfaces profusely rampant with imitation waves. Ah, the slumbering durability of the inscrutable, my son. Atchoom excused herself, she felt exempted from the shameful lesson. She took, ashamed then, her unscrupulous chair and rolled pell-mell to her supposedly idyllic greenhouse. She sacrificed therein her doomed specimens, who succumbed eagerly, like exemplary pictures of cosmic scorn. Her cosmic anger a mirror to theirs. I had committed incest with a stinking beggar, she said to them, this archaic sequence runs through me like a chorus of paranoia. It was Summer, know, my lovelies, and I was still bodiless. Be advised that there the deceased are authorized to exhibit many angles elsewhere interdicted. But her children demurred. Again the fucking calamity tale, they screamed, such another abhorrent fragment of her shitty soi-disant life. They looped a few mock kisses toward her insistent flesh now stigmatized by millennia of paralysis. It ain’t hygienic, children, she coughed, to spread such lethal bobards morbid as a bubonic whiplash; now refrain like the good mites I know you can be if you so choose, thereby putting together your phosphoric tiny heads to the task... But nothing doing, ma’am, for sporadic they jumped, murderous and whimsical, like mucous hallucinations, and her knees at lenghth transgressed also; and she fell, and in her woe she spied the vilest dystopian future; in her provoked pain, phenomena curiously unconcised had a notion to view the shattered geometry of their simultaneity as if photons were from then on magically forbidden, and thus in a panic regarded themselves as zoned structures sourly looking for the absent key to their raison d’être, baby. A static frisson unaestheticaly crossed her discombobulated frame. The chronology of that frisson couldn’t be ascertained other than by allowing the scissors of her obnubilated mind to pare spontaneously many of the fluctuating laws of her other frame, the one, more trite still, of reference. Luckily, an epidemic of sparks came to vaccine her against the many-chambered echoes of the contempt she heard without cessation like a deafening tinnitus whose source already exists in the punishing immediate thereafter. The unbridled engines of her dread pivoted on the brink of utter coincidence. Ardent and emphatic, she sought some elaborate agreement between the warrying parts, something that would perhaps de-emphasize the tension, you know. But Ahab said: no way, an absence of abstinence will always be a mission to misery. So, hit hard with that other sententious turd, at last she quit thinking, in a dead faint. Flew meanwhile the spores of his wit, impregnating many of the attending letawitzae. I was going to say the elves, Ahab said, the elder elves, to be precise, but why them and not the others, who at least sound female...? Atchoom, lost in her unconscious dreams, agreed before she glittered ephemeral and wet like a failed synapse. Behind her, and him for that matter, unfathomable grew the ever-expanding, apparently all-consuming heat. Atop the table, his head bobbed on the unholy rotten black brine like a tiny silly cork dancing a waltz. The letawitzae waltz, baby, bien sûr.

~0~0~

Chez les Mocs (2)

I find no worst irritant than when the sorceress’ withered gourd penetrates my dream. Ahab asked: which gourd? Atchoom Moc had felt the impact of the new weather, its abstract dangers contemporary to the vicious omens, the portentous mirrorings of flies coming in dishevelled troupes and their insistent sayings savagely reverberating in her inner ear. The trope about the gourd impinging on the dream echoed other recent epiphanies haunting the selfsame vacuous territory of her mind: those skeleton ritually juxtapositing quaint cadences, those dichotomous prisms correlating hostile weaknesses with flamboyant perspicacities; one needed at least an encyclopedic month to decipher in detail so many euphemisms. For instance, astutely she exposed, shrimps. Ahab looked at his rudimentary tail, teeny and limp-wristed as a fasting leech, what shrimps...? A soaked broadbean, its eye, hypnotic,