36. The D’Arcy
The summit is a zit at the tip of a nose. In fact the whole of the D’Arcy is this yellow coagulated pus. But when yer immersed in the toxic fumes of the slums, your olfactory senses are numb, or rather enlightened – depending on who you are talking to. What’s real, what’s not? One man’s meat is another’s reek.
To germs, viruses and bacteria, the acne is heavenly (though I hear there is a big war with antibodies going on in there); but to a teenager on prom night, it’s a nightmare, especially if he can’t get laid. Elizabeth Amber and the Village Idiot are probably bacterium, but don’t tell her this, she’ll go berserk. As far as she’s concerned, she’s the face of introspect elegance. But I guess if your entire world is a pimple, you’re living in denial already.
O’, don’t get holy on me, I’m not degrading anyone. We are our own four walls. All our material beauty may look ugly from the Hubble of advance aliens. Just like zits appear disgusting to a beauty queen, beauty queens may appear appalling to demons. In Hades’ fiery inferno, some sicko is applying makeup. Imagine that to a tormenting angel!? Or even to Hydra, or Godzilla – What? Such insufficient flesh to consume!? Or even to our future selves fed incessantly on fast-food, saturated fats and processed meats, when obesity is the in thing and we float about on hover-couches. Those damn skinny girls appear like elongated scarecrows in cornfields, witches and bogeywomen to an overweight nation.
That’s why Elizabeth escaped into a boil of sunny discharge in the first place, to flee these dysfunctional comparisons. To live free. And if freedom is a pustule of yellowish lava swirling in a volcano that is Mount Epidermis...? So be it! We are god’s bodily secretions, the remnant dead soldier-cells of his warmongering crusades.
Now let’s recap. I’m standing on the loftiest rock of the D’Arcy, on tiptoe, just touching the Eye-of-D. Lightning hurls, and the texture of the Eye, to my surprise, is soft, membranous and spongy. Here, there and again, on the venous surface, air pockets pop, but most to the sound of nothingness.
The vermillion vastness brews reverence; to the guests of the D’Arcy, it is the hallowed path to a permanent state of being. Some say even Elizabeth herself prostrates before this vast expanse, the dome of her sanctuary, the covering from another life she took flight. But not the Village Idiot; he’s too stupid. He only licks and sucks up to his mistress; and I’m thinking perhaps his is the ideal life, the real deal. Yeah, bark up the legs of a woman…the perfect kind of existence.
Occasionally the popping does give way to something more sinister. Evil spirits, I mentioned earlier, crawl out with magnificent speeds, amazing tenacity, dodging fast, sensing danger. They come in all shapes and sizes, akin to giggling whores comparing men accompanying dicks. The D’Arcy orbits no man’s land. Demons do try to get in. Some are worm-like, capable of growing meters long and securing themselves to nervous systems. A squat-tenant; everything you do, it does. Copying your movements, imitating your mannerisms; your fucking maggot doppelganger coiled round your spine.
Others are blind as bald bats, as hairless as the wrinkled skin of old men, of malnourished babies, exfoliating labia of crew-cut pussies. Diving off the D, they map the D’Arcy for mayhem using sonic radars; but ray guns fire and these perversions of creations drop like dead flies to the plantations below, like propeller jets gunned down in dogfight - shrieking dive-bombs mimicked by Floyd Rose guitar players thrusting the tremolo bar. With black smoke streaking the sky, feeding gravity’s famished husk, lopsided imps crashing in spiral patterns is quite the reverse of an air-stunt show.
Gravity, mother of the universe, holding god together. Holding gods together. One big happy family. Without her, we float away. Those injured fiends, instead of plummeting, hover off; without guidance, without law, without the attractive pull. No glue. Everything separates, even the D’Arcy. Even ZOOL.A.N.D, Hell, Syurga, Planet Muthafukker, and all things I’d yet elucidate.
Gone. Just like that, like rafts in high seas. Lone survivors waving goodbye to friends, clinging dear lives on make-shift boats; the known world shrinks in the horizon. Needing a new mother; perhaps one will reveal in the water...?
As we drift, we dream dehydrated dreams. The sun spanking us from above, the moon grinning cold on our souls. Mouths parched in hallucinations, we divulge our desires, our yearning for mother, for gravity, for peace and order. Ourmother, sagacious mother, calm the frenzy of father gods in this mindfucked world. `Cause if not, chaos sprouts, seeding new worlds, new codes of existence, new letters for creation. What do you expect, when male deities are involved? The patriarchal line of Absolutes firing semen all around; of course anarchy ensues. Born along from the wombs of fertile alabaster jars, Petri dishes and laboratory vials are grotesque hybrid dimensions, mutant spheres. But yet imminently I covet this commotion, this confusion, this deluged madness of masturbatory mausoleums. Mother, O’ Gravity, you nymphomaniac whore, greedy bitch huddling all for more.
Some evil spirits that scavenge no man’s land are four-hundred-and-fifty-feet tall. Descendents of the Nephlim, cursed to roam the Earth. The Earth back then, that is. In the neo-order, the modern reshuffling of realms, some were subpoenaed to relocate. These giants, big though they may be, are refugees after all.
Beams fire from the D’Arcy’s defence system, the grotesquery lined up along Elizabeth Amber’s fortress, the stronghold of her living room. From the gargoyles’ glowering red eyes the lazer’s pronounced. It don’t matter the type or bulk of ghouls, nothing escapes those sharpshooter retinas.
When a four-fifty-foot juggernaut comes crashing down…run. You better run. Some Idiots don’t make it in time, crushed by an ancient belief of the falling sky. An enlarging shadow over your trail in the rice field signals impending doom. Many Idiots have died this way; but no worries, Elizabeth has more. She replicates them. As for that particular Village Idiot turned to pulp, no worries again, it was pure pleasure for him. No higher honour than martyrdom in her Lady’s name, though in this case you can just call it collateral damage. Most of these menservants don’t even bother running. They just stand there, arms raised, lips in stupid joy, mumbling, “Elizabeth Amber, Elizabeth Amber, Elizabeth Amber...” a repetitive chant to welcome a messy annihilation.
“It’s time to go at it alone,” Village Idiot who was not flattened said.
“Where?”
He pointed up at the gelatinous skin.
I mirrored his action, dumb as an ass’ stare. I didn’t want to climb into gooey surface, let alone while ‘pregnant’ with Sha-Rronne. I was carrying her in the spaces between my molecular structure. Figured it easier we journeyed through this self-discovery ordeal in singular frame rather than in two. She voted mine, and might as well, `cos she’d been frequenting so much of Elizabeth’s kitchen, my sexy female-incarnate was now a tri-coloured beach ball – flesh tone with un-matching bra and panties.
So imagine me yoked to three orbs of flesh: one planet-sized sex doll with a fattened face and four sad excuses for limbs, and two satellite moons meteor-crashed and impaled onto her front continent – the acme of her world, never allowing Sha-Rronne to ever see her feet.
She was stuck to my solar plexus with her belly button right on top of my cock and in a way my balls saw her face. Up north, my chin rested on her cunt. If I tilt forward, I can smell her asshole and tell what Elizabeth Amber had just fed her for lunch. In fact, if I sniff real hard, I can document, to the minute detail, everything she’d chow down since our arrival at the D’Arcy. Then, when I erect, my member sits snug between two vigorous pink jugs, and in the short spell which follows, murky river flows past the valley sandwiched by Mount Titties. Torrents jump a waterfall into the pool called Sha-Rronne’s Mouth.
Very practical this; instant porn. Do-it-yourself mutant intercourse. Immediate gratification this arrangement allows.
Believe me, somewhere in the solitary confinement of my imaginarium exists a world such beings are done justice. A world Siamese twins are norm, stuck together at odd angles as a varied puzzle.
You don’t want homophobia; not just plain old boring male to female.
You don’t want zoophobia; equal rights for animals too. Greek Mythology 2.0.
You don’t want xenophobia; (in the widest sense of the word) ETs have to be treated with equal respect. Just because you don’t understand their private parts doesn’t mean they should be ostracized and discriminated and not get wedged to common man.
And not just two-by-two.
Puzzles are meant to form larger puzzles. Like some Decepticons and Autobots humping to fuse bigger machines, these allied creatures can merge into, for example, a house of flesh, or a tree made of skin and bones. Now envision an entire Earth formed by splicing terrestrials together in myriad poses (a photographer’s orgasm), making up nature – hills of meat piled up one on top of another, not unlike mass genocide graves, but only alive; or a botanical garden of genitals, torsos and talking heads. Fashion designers have a fun time clothing this symbiotic system of beings. Their theme: Unity of Domain. Rolls and rolls of silk and muslin weaved around figures; sometimes teasing with cleavage; and at others, unabashed, flashing pubes on purpose; and still at times, conservative, but with class like that little black dress, or the turtle-neck woollen one-piece with matching jackets. Only problem is, with the uncanny combinations of synthesis, where does one outfit end and another begin?
Human ball of a world and its touchy-touchy trendsetting angels buoyant in atmosphere, makes you wonder what collective consciousness is when all denizens combined is but one body, one soul shared deep in the complex threads of organs and fluids, becoming deeper and darker in the recesses, even as the seraphic stylists plunge to clothe the spirit as they have the flesh.
How does the human planet interact with other human planets in this universe? By human, I mean intelligent species; or the human sun for this matter, or human dark matter? In creation not composed of dead dust but living tissue joined, where life is not the anomaly but rather the norm, life not separated but linked even in farthest space, not enlightenment mumbo-jumbo but biology, by a single string even, to an arm or leg, a head or even just a penis, that segregated body part suspended in the remotest corner of the universe, that prick at the final frontier of this dimension going in-out-in-out into an unknown celestial vagina, that extremity will never know loneliness, isolation, for even in its solitary standing, it is nourished by the galaxies pumping blood through veins to engorge its purpose, its destiny, however fucked up it may be.