Flesh and blood is only a costume of death, a rather cheap and poorly made one at that. Sort of a lifetime Halloween.

There were little bells scattered about the floor, with no clappers; tangles of

wire and hair and twine; pieces of bone and threads of nerves and blood

vessels. There was a lot and there was a little. There wasn't enough and

there was too much. It had a body attached to this sprawl, that giggled

and "hehed" sporadically clawed. It had one eye open to dull aching. It's human,

and judging by the noises it makes, it's alive. It's name is, it’s name here you go:

calypso deBulb Ringsak. Yours to have and to hold until it dies: it's on the

way there now. Clap. Clap. It's on the way there now. And we can hear it howl,

and we can hear it scream. And we can pick its little brain and peer into its

dreams. Oh and we are so happy! Oh delight. Delight! If we tickle him long

enough, we'll make his brain spew bright phrases to amaze us until we get bored

and deaf.

[There was the noise. From that oblong silver box, in the room’s corner :

a woman in a yellow mack, in Kabuki makeup, race indeterminate, a sailor's

hat, tipped over her forehead; eyes that devour. She held a small red box in

hand. The man, his back to the camera, dressed in a clown outfit, ill-fitting

and attached to clunky shoes. He held a gun in hand. We know the woman's name:

Lucy].

Lucy: I have the red box now.

Ill-fitting: You've always had the red box; you understand its power.

Lucy: Go away. Slime fox, Ill make your brain rot. Under my breath.

Ill-fitting: I think not. Time for hallucinated death.

[The scene goes to Black].

Sigh diddle deattle. I got some meatle . To stick in your garter

and make you smile and shudder you and me and the time of day. Eating the pearls of

each other. Sifting through flesh and sweat and bother. Sigh diddle oh dee,

I got some flesh for thee. Jump up and down and then you’ll spin around.

And other meandering blonde. The meaning of which may be of interest to some one---

but not calypso.

“You go somewhere. Not that I’ll follow. Ill follow, Ill fellow with drugged mind. But

you used to like that. Now you don’t like anything. Not about me. It seems like 30 years

that you haven’t wanted me. Except for something on paper. Long distance, I’m fine.

A closer view... a closer view.…

(Molly got a picture out, put it on the wall. Put a black dress on and danced the dance

of all. Smiled a little smiley, frowned a little frown. And when deBulb upset her,

put him in the ground. OH MOLLY MY DOLLY. PUSH BACK YOUR HAIR. I’VE BEEN.

I’VE BEEN. SEARCHING EVERYWHERE).

However, it will be explained. ‘Meandering blonde’ equals in some respects a

rambling train of thought. And on some occasions it is an insult to blonde-haired

people, but in a loosely, Lucy, way. More a phrase of styling? Or a style of phrase,

since styling is something altogether else.

And he typed on the typewriter:

"deep in the belly of hagsdrin,

back under the ruins of words

that I played in--- there dwells

a monster of silence so large

and naked, nattering on a

mile with a smile of black so

dark, so nothing-deep, so featureless

it's runny; under all that, there

lurks and crusts even more empty.

So much so, that I can fill balloons

until our sun goes out--- ---how

many is that? as they go floating up

and filling the space of your sight.

I am the balloon man, filling plastic

space with a stench of air that

leaves no trace except a minus.

watch me singe and dance

all the while my skin turns

like a ballerina,

and pirouettes-so-keena in a clot

of cotton for laundry to

the daughter of a farmer, years

without me in this belly,

the haven for a vacant

man to bake in."

Of course, it wasn't as pretty as that. No. It was duller and graceless, with a hint of loathing,

and self-pity, and a tin of difficult-to-tell-what-it-was-exactly. ---But not pretty. Mildly something

or other, maybe interesting; like catching the movement of a fly out of the corner of the eye

and deciding whether it's worth the effort to kill it; the next moment it's forgotten. Like

that. Only more bitter (and morbidden said the pale man who'd been smitten). A tad, a pot,

a parcel-post. Never sent, nor scented. And on and on the drool dribbles out the corner of his

mouth, thank-you-very-much.

That, realizing it dwelled even in his words, the language he tried to shape, he abruptly. Stopped.

He rose, funny flower in black, from the chair and lurched to the window sill and package of

cigarettes. "I smoke so piggly. Snort snort."

On closer view... there was a brightness in him, like a full moon: nothing but light on

dead stone. He took a cigarette from the pack lying there,

took a lighter from his pants pocket and lit it. Then his eyes went blank, went Blanko

Red Jane and the candy wrapper, bulked up in the hall with a matted-hair feel, peeling

off down the street in increments of meaning, and began to still the aching need, a tighter

drum of rants down deep in the socket that lacks but not for trying by hook or crook.

That simply lacks. He blew the smoke out and inhaled again.

ReBulb leaned against the window-casing, looked out at the street letting his eyes wander.

Then shifted his gaze to the typewriter, bit down on the filter teeth clamped, and in a swift

motion jerked the page out of the roller, tore it once, balled it up and tossed it across the floor.

In an Eskimo hut built on the plain of his brain, calypso watched a couple on a couch

make up stuff as they went along. She was dressed in a sailor suit, the hat askew (as

snow), her dark hair cut just above shoulder length. He was dressed in a yellow slicker, red

wig and darkglasses and held a gun in his left hand. She had lips that make a soda bottle

yearn. She leaned in close to his ear and whispered,

“Listen Lucy, shoot me in the head.”

He held the gun at her temple and cocked the hammer. The scene kind of faded, or melted

or ran away with the spoon. [who's Orran?]

And he was back looking out of the window of his apartment at the Maturban Hotel,

the cigarette almost gone. He lit another one with its butt. Anyway, he chain-smoked.

calypso turned away from the night streets and headed to the bathroom, to an awaiting tub

of water, and got in. He eased himself down, fully clothed, hooking an arm over the edge to

find the bottle of gin he’d left there and settled back. Cigarette in mouth, he reached into

a pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small pill bottle and found himself out of hands. He

replaced the gin by the side of the tub, sucked a puff on the cigarette, then unscrewed

the top to the brown sweet bottle; shook two red capsules out, recapped the bottle and tossed

it on the floor. He used to be able to suck pills down dry. But with a little gin

would suck-seed again. [giggle]. He was a little too pleased with his cheap rhyme,

grabbed the gin, undid the top (oh clear-haired lucy) and took a swig washing the pills

down. Then took a longer one. The burn was exquisite. Brain cells popped out.

He was residue. "Something borrowed, something blue---"

Framed with black hair cut ragged at the shoulders(void around the moon);

like the kid’s rhyme. Rather the rhyme Europe,

“Ring around the rosy,” and he was rimed, rimed through and through. Icy little fuck.

How would it go??:

"Void around the moony,

gutter full of loonies

gnashing gnashing

mauling the clown".