37. In the Eye-of-D
And that is the miracle of the pimple, the mojo of pus. In it, after we’d overcome the repulsion of climbing into slimy skin, is this lathery realm, this silky film of mucus dancing over us in crowded club. We are not alone. It’s like picnic in a packed phlegm pool. We are aquatic alien life-forms, all joined party-style. With Sha-Rronne appearing as my flamboyant cock, this fat female jutting out from my groin, my left ankle was now also latched to the head of a middle-aged man grovelling on the floor as though my foot was his brain tumour.
He in turn was one with a teenage hand harlot, thighs-to-thighs, his bestriding hers, whilst her hands were, where else…chained to his dick. Those fingers moved, at times to wipe her brow, and I can see a rat nibbling at the veins of his cock.
I heard they were a dysfunctional family in another life, now living in nursery rhymes in between worlds of the D’Arcy and Solid State. He was a single parent paedophiliac father training daughter to be male-spunk-trigger-happy, and it was a lonely rodent in her bedroom she confided in. In overprotective rage, the rat bit the mouse off from between his legs. He lost his manhood, she became a handjob specialist, and it ate the biggest meal of its life.
Now they’re here, re-enacting that tragic day with perpetual karmic jive.
Why they chose to stick to me, I don’t know, but as far as my eyes could tell is a scenery landscape populated by such succulent bonds of beings behaving badly in comic versions of Dante’s infernal dream.
Where there is no marriage of flesh, goo comes to play. This world is basically living jello. Containing us is sticky splodge, as though we are sperms in semen.
Or worse, god came on us.
Nothing operates outside of this jelly, this jelly alive. It’s the by-product of everything joined. Our breaths, our shit, body odour, ear wax, dandruff, skin-peels, all that scrap and junk of our existence growing, monstrously growing. What goes around comes around. That which we defecate ends up nourishing us, becoming our food, our air, our oxygen, our swimming life in sewer. What more, that ever swelling lump of waste breathes as one of us. In this ballooning cosmos of pustule is our succour, our breastfeeding nipple.
If someone loses a limb in a car crash accident, or disfigured in arson bombing, or simply dissatisfied with the size of her boobs, no problem. What we moult and excrete is luxurious DNA, living tissue, perfect for repair jobs, enhancement therapy. Not youthful the way you were? Inject collagen and the fats liposuctioned out from many thighs. Plentiful donors. Out one organ, in another. Shot in the face? Skin-graft outsourced fresh every day, not necessarily skinned from your own neck; that unsightly meaty beard can hang off the chin of someone half a world away. Same genetic code we share, our body does not reject. We are the world anyhow, one. When squid jaw is healed and finally teeming with healthy, beaming cells, we simply cut that living moustache, Fed Ex and paste it onto your missing face.
Use your waste, sell your waste.
Your trash is mine.
That prevalent smell is mortal burnt rubber. Odour of creatures cooked in the sauce of their own dung and leftovers. Somewhat like funky Chinese cuisine.
Pheromones float, that’s how we recognize. It’s hard to see in the gloop. Envisage a cream of lard smacked on your eyes; even Sha-Rronne in front is purely a buttery blur. With our noses (like in Elizabeth’s coital culinary closet) we make sense of our surrounding. That’s how I know of that dysfunctional family and their pet rat anchored onto my ankles. Of course I can feel something on my leg, but the details of it, I visually sniffed out. That’s how I made meaning of the entire beastly landscape cocooned in animal litter.
“Push to the top,” Village Idiot had said earlier. That was before a tubular piece of spectral shit passed out from the Eye-of-D, swallowing him whole, and tumbling to the D’Arcy below as if it were a gold-plated, florid, Georgian toilet bowl.
At the top is a travel and tour agency. The eco-adventure kind. Hordes of thrill seekers hog round the counter, all coming from Elizabeth Amber’s empire. I’d no idea she was so popular, that so many people wanted to leave ZOO.L.A.ND via the D’Arcy, or from wherever else, and to whichever sides of eternities for that matter.
Here we were told to disengage. Choose for ourselves a single, permanent image to be crafted by an Omniscient Artist, which is to remain fixed for a lifetime back on the home planet of our return. We were given catalogues. Promotional brochures. You could spray paint your skin tone. Pick from a wide variety of shades like chilli red, olive green, electric blue, silvery black, multi-vitamin riboflavin urine yellow.
Add a limb; grow angel wings, or just sparrow feathers. Of course you were advised optimal selections which combined well with the environment and physics of your world, but you needn’t have to follow; so Sha-Rronne chose punk attitude meets Japanese schoolgirl anime, and she shortened her name to Sharon. She was a cartoon next to my average Joe.