chapter vii and he cant read through the music and he saw the baker whose daughter had died of consumption and the landlady whose brother had died in an early skirmish with the turks and the amateur composer whose wife had died in siberia after proclaiming dubious politics in suspect articles in questionable journals and they all rejoiced and the baked and the landed and the composed danced with their arms entwined and their room spun and he hurt in their ears and he tried a story below them to contain their jubilation in a spilt drop of ink but in the end the writer is not even allowed to live in his writing and the spiller can not hide in his spill though it be dark as a murder and the man of the east can not take partygoers or any other revellers seriously he feels they are actively missing the point the apical engorged point for want of imagination no less a wilted ostentation than that and their joy no rather the contentedness of reasonably happy reasonably fucked up people is a refusal of interpretation and their reasonable affable practicality combed as it is in pink utiles the yoke and the mute of fat pink flesh their practicality is a closing of the eye and from the primacy of practical reason it was always only a step to an hatred of theory and in a culture as theirs there is a bale on storytelling and a quiver in the obstinacy for resolution the skulk and the hiding from the unkindness that read down atop the tablets the husk reared on the stone of the tablets and its descent into the inevitables of the mind its murmuration into the ears of the cry of possibility the leap of understanding that all is not to their pride reason was not a monologic absolute there was always a mouth speaking reason and that mouth was the leash and the truth of reason was in its speaker in his mouth he has an amazing mouth in his gaze in his electric and in the ascension there are no ideas in themselves and in the descent an idea is always somebodys idea and the clutching of the neck of the reasonspeaker and the cowardice overflying the creak and the sloth of the ideationist there was a family of suffering in their immanency and mouths can be stuffed and bodies can be brought into the crash and the bloat of flesh behind reason and the bouquet of larval flesh behind ideas its richness and implausibility these their temporal drift and the intrusion of their decay flesh can be stopped ideas are not immortal merely persistent they are ugly creatures insinuating themselves under the skin and theirs a venereal kindle and their call of ideas their song unsmotherable in flesh untrampled in lamentation unanswerable in kind ideas can not be reasoned with the flesh of men their barren bed and from fleshs death reason draws light feeding on its godgiven flesh even as it dies symbiotically with its prey or rather male man mating with reasons praying mantis the history of ideas littered with signposts of phosphorescent cadavers and so because of death because death is metaphysics circulus vitiosus circulus otiosus fleshs search for truth mans search outside the clamour of reason and its strangled parliaments is a spiritual quest of no finality no aspiration to end no not merely intellectual the quest for truth truth was infinite the intellect was not and flesh could only grasp specks of it reflections in the spectral ice liquefied of broken mirrors and aliquis flesh always longed for times when truth was not so far not enshrined in its own transcendence in childhood yes childhood and a word from the father a word from the mother sufficed to place a lid on the fleshs universe and with the names of objects flesh was given their truth and as the flesh grows and races the father dies away runs off into the crepitation of a dark hallway and can impart no more no nothing merely the viscidity of mumbles down his beard and truth is not given any longer and flesh seeks a truthgiver and god of course is the terminal surrogate father but one who also is capable of abandonment gods abandonment of truth and the flesh seeks truth yearns for its warmth and its light even if it must burn its own meleagrian brand to ignite the truth and in russia the truth of russia was togetherness was love of hearth and family or so the flesh was incessantly told and he was told that god gave one family peoples so that one could through them learn how to love and such were the mythic origins of family and in them the origins of truth and all this all so distant was simply imprinted into the browncoats flesh and his struggles and his myopia in the bright rooms of his childhood where he was taught greek and testament and mental hygiene but of course even then before or perhaps after thought itself had become hygiene he knew he riddled that the brightest rooms are the secret domains of fces and the dances above him were unbearable and he left his room and took to the street and two minutes in the browncoat saw an overturned hackney-carriage and there were four people inside and they had not been able to revert to verticality for lack of space and their heads still pointed downwards and their feet fought against the floor which was now roof and their bodies writhed diagonally and they were trying to get out but the doors were stuck and whenever the passengers put their hands out through the small windows to try to unlock the doors from without the driver who was perched atop the bottom of the carriage now serving as its roof and whenever the driver saw an hand snaking out of the windows he would snap at the hand with his whip as hard as he could and he appeared never to miss and the hand would be forced to withdraw and another hand would try again on the other side and sometimes hands were put out on both sides of the carriage so as to divide and lessen the drivers attention but his instincts were swift and his execution impeccable and the passengers were screaming and pushing and kicking against each other like dogs of war caged before a conflict with enemies riding elephants and there was no room inside them and the men became stuck in the womens elaborate dresses not fit for such travel mens greasy feet upward their tired cunts and they all needed to get out and even when all four passengers let all their hands their hands already marked corroded and dripping skin and sacrificed inflame their hands point outward at the same time they did not manage to progress at all in the unlocking of the faulty doors for the driver was restless and the blades of his whip everywhere and the hands retreated in instinct but the driver never missed and the browncoat would have liked to watch this awhile but unfortunately the two horses who were being crushed as well under the hold-back and in a torturous position they were bleating their gleaming impertinent suffering into the street also and the blare aged intolerable and the browncoat left the street and he had heard recently abducted neighbours discuss a new american fair spiked onto the outskirts of moscow and since he never had any ideas he drifted into the carnival and entered the funhouse and behind him at the entrance a clown in poor makeup was playing of course his violin and the two sets of chords violin and fiddle immixed hungrily like a couple of essentially straight young women magnetized into mutual exploration and of course someone slammed the door behind him and there was but little light inside the funhouse tunnel most of it greedily farmed by the subitaneous dark through the cracks in the thin wooden walls the outside crashing against the thinnest of walls and foaming off again and then as the browncoat walked on he walked and recoiled into a chandelier a low-hanging grand chandelier of rusty axes and mausers and leeenfields and the wooden handles of the axes and the muzzles of the mausers were alight and the browncoat could see that this was a much fatter room than the slides he had passed through to get here and the walls did not look thin and rickety and uncombative as before and despite the light from the chandelier he could not see or remember whence he had come which entrance tunnel nor could he see where he could proceed how he could move forward so the browncoat circles the room and tested the walls and it was not such a large room the circumference was only ten seconds long but he kept missing the connecting tunnels there appeared to be no connecting tunnels and then the brownback tired of walking and sat down under the chandelier and the axe blades rustled and silvered against each other and they sang like a womans voice he was thinking he heard it like a song of escape and opening and the womans song soon perished as did the rustling and brownback thought woman after all is a sometime thing but such a slave of limits of reasonable restricting rules of collaborative social and moral intelligence and perpetuator of denial the murder of self selfhood to serfdom and he the browncoat would sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires but that of course was only an hypothetical he had never had a desire in his conscious life nothing beyond satisfying the amoral physical necessities food air drink masturbation and neither man nor woman had been inside his desire and such as he was desireless he was an inhabitant of the empyrean of sorts not polluted by the convolutions of desire of the psyche a clean expanse before the unconscious and before the moral but of course man had been there may have been there in the prior many have speculated of eden and its philosophy and the fall of course was caused by eve copulating with the serpent for such was womans blood even in the starkest numinous vapidity ( of perfection ) she could find hope dig and claw the interesting out of the tedium an archologist of the entrenched platitude such was woman at her best but after her finest moment she seemed to shrink grew small under her own psychoses and madame for the most played no more and acquired rather expertise at refereeing away from the game and referees are abominated by one and all and as the game changed neither did woman and christ himself the fattest elephant sideways took much after his mother and in so far he was one of the worst of men and outside drowning in a roman well archologists always risk dying moles dying as moles and even so woman and mankind for all their cracked old skin were metaphysical creatures illegible pathic instances of specious apologetics serpent reasonings scuppered theodicies but so prevalent the fatty layers in the human the browncoat could not stop thinking him the human in his the browncoats dark under the chandelier and loath as he was for most introversion the browncoat intuited that his real loathing and his the browncoats real fear is of anything in the plural but insight was cheap and mass reproducible and the browncoat could track no plurality no windy multitudes in his aloneness and solitude was insomnia not the brooding adult insomnia of bike rides across the province but the babys nauseous insomnia the methodical rational trituration of others sleep and of others dare he he dare selfhood through shaking and making the dark ones toy and solitude and the plurals only lesson he the browncoat had ever drawn from plurals was the mathematically fixated il faut tre conome de son mpris tant donn le grand nombre de ncessiteux and the browncoat tracked the dust of the ground with his finger and found many small rocks and he thought rocks were good solid things to have in situations such as his and consequently filled his pockets with them and when all his pockets were reasonably full he picked up the last rock he could find around him without having to relinquish his seating stance to crawl around and look for more rocks under the chandelier and the browncoat threw this last his 37th rock into the air and it turned into a bird a real bird of wings and claw and flew away and flew straight into the chandelier of axes and died hacked to death by its own impetus and the fierce quality of the rocks suicide forced itself on the browncoat like closed mouth vomit one has to swallow again for ones inordinate fear of making a mess below downwards where only cowards gaze no eyes below and he remembered that pleasant fulfilled dreams and thoughts of uncastrated loft are actually as rare as happy music music of the very real and endless sheets flowing white and needless every inch a slave and were the lost feathers floating down on him and sticking to his lips in the vacillating cohesion of newly drawn blood were these feathers art had he made art by investing the room with death for after all every work of art is an uncommitted crime a blushing crime that preserves not him the artist but mens impossibilities and was art so very different from his isolation from the crushing of him by the funhouse asserting itself as a painter in need of fresh pigments dried of the ground browncoat and in the last couplet always the downfall of art itself is perennial the goal of every work of art in that it seeks to bring death to all others all art aims to end art and in it such bastardy such agitation and game mastery all to stifle competing lines to extinguish the unknown running fathers runaway seed in all but one riverbed surviving art killer of marlowe is heir to a mongrel bitch but at this time of aberration the browncoats powers were crescent and he knew so and in his mumbles quiescent language was dictated by hunger for the silent chew their words to fill their bellies many infinite taxonomies for hunger and the browncoat looked upon the blind chandelier and the ostentatious arrogant walls and he remembered of course that [ the ] night was his idea and he walked on into the next tunnel out of the enclosed room but as soon as the cell of the chandelier had reached behind him the browncoat looked back and moved uneasily and he did not quite wish to go where his will was dull demiurge he shifted like an emperors young newly transplanted power-drinking kidney suffering with a crush of ostalgie over its ancient alcoholic dung-farmer master but such was the nature of his prolix indulgence in fine whines they kept him rooted in the particular but afforded him voyeuristic peeks at the general for there is but negative thought satiation was weakness most positive thought is expired ideology and the distance of thought from reality is itself nothing other than the precipitate of history of deaths lineage into concepts but then the browncoat stopped and heard and he was in a thin loose tunnel again and on the other side of the wall outside there was a map of the fayre with large colorful symbols on it pinned to the funhouse wall and an elderly woman was consulting it in the slow blurring of a splintered bores concentration and he the browncoat still locked inside the funhouse on the other side of the map threw his hand out and waved it about quickly and he so slapped that futile cunt on the hand through the wall and made her lose track of where she her finger had been on the map and the elderly woman went away and he was left alone with the map on the other side of the wall and the map was probably wrong anyway and the browncoat moved on muttering that the best samaritans name was simon and that walk no further that way sodomy lies or perhaps happiness either way turn around and so he did but he could not go back since back would somersault him in limber taunts whenever he turned to go back and point the nether way and he knew not the way and he thought he could solve the antinomy of going back on himself simply by walking backwards without turning around first and he did this awhile but nothing came of it nothing much for the slide tunnels did not end and the browncoat resigned his person to the forward movement forward was arbitrary what did he know regardless slashing the air and possibly the dark in two with his clutched face walking his hazy drip of a walk a walk and face that very dogs disdained pissing on him in his midwalk in the lower alleys running up next to him and walking next to him and pissing on him in their the dogs midstride the browncoat had a wasted take on walking and this he thought strange for walking seemed ever to be most of what he the browncoat did on any given night but he walked across the calendar and hopped across the red splashes the red days and walked into the basements of the calendar and thus the long tunnels of the funhouse were no novelty to him the browncoat merely told the thin walls to still their esperance for he did not intend to collapse under them and he should not seep under them and root them up but also did the brownback know that as a rule a smart man is someone who can not tell a lie without believing it himself rules of self-preservation the budding art of living with oneself didactic blossoms short words long smiles nights of the long smiles but at least the standing man could boast that he and his were not boring what would the brownback say nothing why would he why want to say something any thing at all and the brownback remembered a child yelling in the street tearing out of one eye just one his mother pacing the staircase of a nearby house and the child yelling that he the child could hold his own and quieter yeah hold his own simply by not having one an own he meant or so the brownback understood it the childs release of his own and the brownbacks thoughts and caprices whirred around his cranium alight the thoughts like benevolent overgrown globules of fat rapt in a game of american football malevolent globules of fact but fact was not to his the brownbacks liking he erected refuge in imagination but for most imagination is weak susceptible well-trod divided imagination is inflamed by women who lack precisely imagination and such women confront their imaginers portraits and phantasies of them the women and tear and have at them with a ravens fury why the problem of originality their beautiful sin is not to be idolised outside themselves their sublime sinning a guarantee of ink defying magnetism an altar to ones originality seals one in ones discarded artefacts renders ones every novelty or young act an icon of ones ankylosis and so what is left why murdering ones followers for standing men and superb women alike in viability but at present murder is so so wheres the poise so newspapery and with or without murder one seeks constance of some sorts tis weak but inevitable for no knowledge of changing objects if knowledge changes tis sterile speculation the ontology of gossip but what is constant is not an invariant quantity of suffering but its progress towards hell and hereinafter would he the brownback no longer fall tangled into the unscratchables of his cranium no more would he descend into the whirls and mists of transverberation and so the brownback walked but he did not have long to walk since one of the panels of the rickety tunnel walls arrested him he heard a dialogue outside they were a man and a woman voices rusty enough to betray their middling ages and the man assured the woman that he spoke to her in troth and confidence and the man outside who as he spoke convinced the brownback listening beyond the wall but not seeing further and further that he the man outside was in point of fact rather an old man but speaking in youth young language and the old man spoke to the woman who in silence revealed herself rather an old woman but thinking youth and the old man spoke of mummifying the orgasms plateauing the quivers nobility demanded no less of him and thus his face and tonality of body spelt out pure will sicked on cock and then the old man said to the old woman that twas not easy and that my internal monologue is performed by many people and she misheard him and thought he had said infernal and found this very savage and rebellious and rightly said for youth well embraced in the apoplexia of dialectics and theirs a task both opposed and mated to the yelping standard of unwording the world and the old woman stares ravenously at the old man and the man does not stop speaking he accelerates his ideas heat up bump into each other and deflagrate and his tongue pours nay sweats oil and acid on all their fires and all their bullets and finally the man bites his tongue in the rabid fury of his pontification bites hard and the severed portion of the mans tongue flies off and he bleeds profusely and the woman looks on and he drops his gaze to the ground which hungers for his falling blood and the man himself falls on the woman and they are both lying down and the blood is falling on the woman down his chin onto her face into her mouth inside her widening but never enough nostrils behind her ears across her neck over her breasts throughout her voluptuously spiderwebbed hair such pretty hair another occasion he would have bit into it and the man stuffs his elbow in her mouth and wraps her nose sealed in his fist and the blood still fell and they were two or perhaps they were one and then one and the blood but the blood was so many and streams directions growthrates territorial annexations and a blind red kingly smile the blood was smiling it wasnt as dramatic and literary as the blood really etching the discernible form of a smile across her clothes and the ground beneath them it was the blood just smiling at him a simple elemental smile drenching her clothes in its fulsome sapience and superiority there were whetstones and ancient hilts in that smile in every one of the many smiles of the many bloods and a darkness metallic and then he realized the blood was smiling back at him for he had been housing an infectious rictus also in the ruins of his tautened face he was smiling the blood was smiling his smile imprinted on the blood and imprisoning the blood and imprisoned in the blood as soon as the blood left the mouthmother and fell aerial to its hegemony below and the woman was laughing giggling silencing her merry tremors failing then letting loose and laughing loudly and vulgarly laughing through the fist in her mouth unable to stop and at this his smile widened the blood smiled harder as well and he bored deeper and with his other fist crushed her nose into graven skin and beaten mucus and at this she started jerking him off pulling him out of his pants caressing and stroking and tickling the undershaft and running gentle circles around the glans with the nail and the soft pillow of her index and at this the man gyrated slowly back and forth inside her hands with a monotonous passion like that of a seed bull too small to mount a larger cow of a different species and she was cradling him shelter and cupping his balls and palming his abdomen and lightly pinching his nipples and sliding her thin long-nailed fingers one by one in an humid ballet from the tip of his penis down the shaft over the testicles across the perineum and in and around his asshole and without letting go of her without releasing her air or her speech he entered the woman and it was quick and so he looked down at her and she was blank and she stared through him and this time hed lasted over a minute and the blood was part of the scenery and the blood was the scenery and he had no more to bleed for her he had stopped bleeding by now and she stared through him and he dived into her and bit into her shoulder and conquered many layers of something-dermas and a couple of slates of flesh and he emerged with skin and new blood in his mouth and he spat it all in her face and back on the spot of her shoulder whence he had wrenched it and she looked smaller now because of the blood orchid in full bloom occupying the spring of her shoulder like a rorschach guardian angel but otherwise nothing had changed and finally but not so long after the man got up shook his feet one by one and he was a small string of a man with weak arms and bad sleeveless shirts in the evening chill that highlighted and mocked the weakness of his arms which weakness mocked the bad sleeveless shirts in turn and she saw him shiver under the chill but only ever so slightly and he told the woman ever supine that if we you or i seek immortality well then tough because so does the cancer cell and upon this he spat on the funhouse wall and the listening prone browncoat recoiled and fell on his ass but the browncoat listened still and the old woman was looking at the vertical old man and then he and his adverbs walked out of her life the old womans life but there was yet crawling in his journal yet to be read and some time after the old man had disappeared the old woman got up as well and rubbed her shoulder and raised the straps of her dress onto their proper positions digging into her shoulder wound and dusted herself to a suitable if modest degree of cleanliness and walked away also and for some hours there was nothing else for the browncoat to listen to and finally he too resumed the biped and walked out of the funhouse and looked around at the fayre and some people but not many told him the browncoat that his hair had whitened and the browncoat shrugged dgueulasse and he could not think of much else to do or much place to go and so he was so bored he taking candy from the devil a novel robert p. kaye published by robert p. kaye at smashwords copyright 2010 robert p. kaye cover by ellie mathews smashwords edition , license notes this ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only .