I have finished the first prose draft of my new novel, Song of Songs. Now the editing process begins. I’m giving myself two months to whip the prose into shape, but we’ll see how that goes. It should be ready for publication by early summer.
My next novel, which I am very eager to get started, is an old vampire story I’ve been working on for decades. I’ll start posting the poetry for that novel here, soon.
I sat down, lazily lifting the nearly empty mixture of gin and melting ice, lifting it to my dry lips for a last wet swig. I flipped through the list of songs, the pages and pages of professional singers, rendered in history with a meager collection of printed lines, each representing four minutes, more or less, of artistic expression, melodies traced in lyrical lines, marked for a time as something to sing to pass the time, to give meaning within a long drunken evening, wailing our hearts in explorations of feeling we’d passed, we’d noticed we’d heard, defining our hearts in sudden crescendos, along brittle lines of poetic descriptions, working our ways along paths of understanding, searching for traces of lost love.
A fool’s play, played a thousand times per minutes across the suburb, people indulging their innate need to rub their sensitive fleshes together, to serve little purpose but to relieve their built-up lusts, excitements leaving them bereft of attraction, See Ya, unless in reproduction, for the world needs ever more fools to consume in famine, plague and war, worst of all to transmit diseases, specializing in mucous membranes and blood, we would as well not witness the vulgar escapade except in the details of their cavort lies the very prick of conscience, the terrors and horrors of unworthy loves, the damnedest of jesters, the self important though broken bully, the wrecking ball swinging to destroy everything in his path, even in creation he engenders destruction. And yet she could seem to love him at least for an over-long period spurred at the limits to loyalty, even some measure of fidelity, her eyes rolled back, deliberately, blind to the truth about the man poised to enter her.
The details they gave were sparse, twisted from them reluctantly, a scenario, it seemed, had been repeated in various forms over the duration of their strange, forced marriage. But the import of this incident deserves more than the three sentence, forty word description torn in laughter from the breast of the pair. The date of Delphi’s departure, still kept secret from Dudley, soon approached. In preparing to bolt in the dark inclined Delphi to feel kindly again toward the small man for a while, freeing herself from his oppression, she felt free again to appreciate the better parts of his bull-headed ignorance, to remember kindly the salvation he gave when her years in Vegas had descended into a swamp of self-destruction, in short for one last time, she felt kindly toward him. He brought home the bottle, poured two tall stiff brown glasses of sour mash over ice, and they drank deeply, laughing like an old married couple at the years they had shared, glee giving way to youthful pawing kissing intimacy, hands caressing, grabbing, tickling and kneading, finding pleasures along the undulations of flesh and clothing soon discarded with another deep swig of fierce alcohol and the tease and thrust of genitals began.
Eating bar-b-que’d iguana, I’ll be one tough act to follow. It always seemed strange when such overtly asexual people told graphic tales of very sexual encounters, incidents clearly exaggerated to portray a life style, the need to describe inappropriately being a solid measure of infrequency, believing honestly this stud and slut could count their intimacy together on a single hand, maybe two, recognizing several stories born of a single drunken party retold. Yet perhaps I am deceived. Perhaps they fucked like bunnies too long denied the chance to screw and the over familiar nature of their all-too-ribald tales derived instead from the repetitive nature of the physical act of love, absent the imagination of erotic story-tellers, even so, the tales they told did little to persuade me of their sexual naughtiness like so many radicals, essentially prudes, modest, overly shy, the party lying in their rebel yell yet never in their beds.
We lived a wild life, so full of joys, so many friends, parties all the time strolling the streets, challenging reality, obeying no rules but the thrill of survival between the lines, midnight to six when the freaks are out, freaking. Flashes of madness, hard rocking beats, the infernal glow of blacklights on white, under a table, small glass in hand peering out at the craven chaos floating around in ecstasy. Words to soothe, cries jarring, waiting for the man, yet again, the smooth brown bit to cool the ever anxious blood and bile, to hell with everybody else. The bright lights reflected off her ghastly ghostly faces, the pains within striking out boldly, laughter ringing, echoing, circling, invading her thoughts, taunting her peace, enflamed, bothered, torn to shreds from the inside out, plunge the hollow dagger into her slight vein, pouring the cold calm relief of escape down deep, the eddies of a retreating tide, the tinkle of ice cubes poured into her waiting hourglass.
My phone rang, I checked the number, returned the compact electronic device to the pocket from whence it came. “Another stalker,” I explained. Rita gave an empathetic nod and smile, a wry smile, roll of her eyes in complete expression of knowing what it meant to receive more unwanted attention than anyone has time to endure.
“Nobody talks to me – everyone who knows me knows better than call. My kids are the only calls I take.”
“So how does anyone reach you?”
“People who need to, know how.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“I have to be firm, everyone wants my time, everyone needs me, but the truth is I need my time more.”