Sunday, July 09, 2006

Laurie's Story:May 29, 1992
Day 50th after Her Abduction By the Man Called Abel

In my dream, I held pieces of my skull. Have you ever looked at any skull inside out or upside down? Million grooves and a thousand possible paths before this calm mystery stretched too far, or imploded, allowing some dense wall to encircle soft words, barely more than a whistle.

What was different and what kept me alive in all of this. Henry believed in my life. His tenderness, retaining it during all of this was my triumph. How his hands caressed every space known to my pain. How Henry could laugh.

I wasn't afraid. My child churns inside, now awake, part of the account of the dream and it pushes backward, banging against the inside of my mouths. I am not empty. My cunt is filled, and the pulse inside, shifts, and I watch the skull emerge, more horrible than the clean artifacts. Mine held parts of skin, eyes, veins, but an empty cave, the brain having drained with the blood and the rotten meat days prior to this exhilaration, and when you watch your personal mouth shift, warble at the lips and then return closed biting at the air, holding up my skull, the brain, as a lull, when the wind passing through the drains and undigested remains, there is the spirit of its wood land, and I cannot released to accept it all, because my death had a vision, and I tremble when I stop, hold my voice back, and then resume sensing how the vibration of my throat and the calm flutter inside when I tense, release, clasp, and then push open, extending diaphragm, as if that helped, to relax my arse, and push the veil out, make my secondary lips whole, as I felt, in the dream the dry head emerge, backward through my sucking cunny

I absorbed my death, as a curse relieved, or the funeral so quiet nothing was left at the grave site.

There were no flowers, none held or displayed, except the pink bud of my shaved parts, and I felt soft, wet, and I seemed to dream waking, as I felt my twin lips, running them through and up my shaft, clit, and then quickly inside to slow the tension, as if I were full, and dangerous. I reached up and my nipples sore, from my Devil. I can't imagine a more handsome fiend. Bright eyes. Fucking, I am aroused from my self and my child, and massaging nipple, it leaks soft, not true milk, but the moisture from inside my fingers, transferred from cunt to breast, then mouth, and full of my belly, I shift, and quietly, almost innocent, like the reach I felt as a child when mother washed my privates, softly opening the parts, and making me laugh, climbing into her arms. More warm then tension. A brief pause and then grief after my dance: I have come, and the fates resume, as if I cannot stand the skull, held, as I wearing just loose shift, expose myself, and let it go, knowing ever second of my pleasure has made dear Tony as he calls himself, blend his prick with the clouds, and then when I pee, the irritation, a sharp pain, as infected, swollen, uncomfortable I am relieved unsettling my bowels, without privacy, and then the skull shifts, and I am trapped inside the socket. Part of the bridge of nose and cheek, inside the mouth, at the top, and then below beyond the tongue, space quiets as breath is forgotten. Drowning or choking is a muscular reflex, a pulling backward from gagging deaths as defined bones scatter. Blood, as rich as loam, underplays the chorus. What was the temperature of heat, I asked feeling the turgid spark of the shaft, pulling it out, ablating it, dissolved. I would be neuter, which is not this clitoridectomy, no respect, nor given out like palms before Easter, forgiveness for death. My child nurses or some mouth, like Maria did, blindfolded, tied, foot to hand and bound with another woman, named Ava, no not a bird but Tony's older twin, and then on screen names flood a carefully kept chart. Assembled, we cannot start the broken schools soon to be fixed by distractions. Attempting to read, to go beyond the primitive had been one direction. There on screen, a chart disguised by layers of books displayed over voice in a blatant real life, no kidding, action and drama.

Pieces of skull. Muscles flex, and early eyes look to the left over a painting of my hand. It is blue, wet blue over silk; not a painted fabric, but soft, early fields. Here's the discovery of the world, out of distant space; language turned arrival over the speeding cold sea within delicate arms and hazy brown skin; blue orchids tasted open like ripe melons when I arrived, bulging, holding it out, when I felt my involuntary orgasm, forced by electric vibrator, I was bound, blindfolded, mute, deaf, and the collapse inside, as fingers, mouths, tongues, toes, scraped at my open bound door, and then I lifted up my ass, naked beneath her gown, carefully, button by button, some hand opening my crease from the bottom, allowing dark eyes to peer outward, as his fist allowed just one brief exploration casually entered and then quietly stopped while I was forced to squat, lowering my ass, allowing his entire hand to break through the resistant wall and then drown. I resisted, and pushed back, refusing, and then at the wall between release for release's sake, I swallowed myself, and just when it happened, I felt warm fluids, more than semen flood my tits, I would have broke down the sky scrapper, and yet I endured the tease, and fragrant, oil, and then I knew, blood when some dripped inside my lips, mine, I thought, no, a pint extracted from your children, the voice echoes, and my ears, out of shape, remnant, a curious vestibule as my features are absorbed, dissolve. Nothing. My face blank. I saw the skull lose fat and skin and then baked, it whitened, and picked apart, rewired, the jaw opened and closed, and blood ran freely down my belly, and entering, drowning it seemed, a cock, or dildo was forced inside my cunt, to the hilt, and expanding I absorbed it, the skull, enemy, within, not as human specters but more a force controlled by the direction of the flood, wind, even the footsteps, and the paths you choose, as some book, the doom leads keeps going, as a fit.

"What wonderful literary conceit, Laurie, Henry said, watching Laurie pee, absorbing the account of her dream, as one would a political speech, and not knowing what went down squatting behind the bare garage wall: "Nothing. Art cannot be spent, Henry said. He listened to WFAN and IMUS every morning. He screamed at the cowboy crank. He was happy when the tabloids reported his actual and absurd relationship with a girl just out of college. Now, what girl in her twenties would like a burned out drunk and coke lord with buckets of cash. It sounded like Henry and I had migrated to the TV news. It was the fourth story on the Mike Lupica hour. Some one better hire a news director who likes women. I called that report felonious news spoken in haste about the Frankenstein killer, Abel. Abel was the hunter and not the killer. Lilith did it all after the baby was born. She laughed when she cut out the hearts of her victims. She did free the infant so it would survive. She wanted the child to know life away from its slut mother.

When the story broke, all the regular news shows pounced on it like cold shit on toast except the thought the poop was good stuff, expensive.

IMUS and some stupid side kick Grey Ralph the Bitter Beer with backup. Art must be had," I answered, angry, distracted from the confessions, realizing accomplishment and success presume another shift, back inside silence and when I felt the detached prick, real he said, enter, stiffened by a wooden mantle, I became the earth, and let my self return, the dream swallowed my lips and the girl inside, more open, shifted, and the slut, although victim, exposed my rape when self propelled on knees, splitting the pole, entered, slow, making the surge shift the speed increased, and when the raw walls of my cunt burned for hours the next day, I felt him there, holding the skull, and I made myself come again, then again, each last gasp more splendid, as it anticipated my death, blending a figure from my childhood dream when Billy riding some teenage fuck, lifting up, showing the red head, then plunging, I knew when he let go, and the girl pushed up, running down her leg, a skull grew from the slippery belly, and holding it up, the girl became Laurie, Sherry, Angela, all women I have kept. Billy was not my father, and when I reached the girl, pushing her, or attempting, the girl slapped my hands, and Billy, threw her down, made her grovel, and I saw myself, older, there with a strange man, many years older, who held my belly, and the sucked the words from my mouth. When I woke, Henry slept, years earlier, I was nine, and the poet holding a funnel, stuffed my throat, cunt, ass with that pained Christ face, the image, you imagine, before communion, or just after, when you felt presence, and then, at the cave, the stone pushed back, I entered, and was kept alive, my infant, protected, abused, and helpless, aroused, I stopped the dream, and knew death would be easier than the exigent relief that alluded the Man Called Abel as he fucked dry my ass, and my infant struck out, revived, stiff, her body paused, then release as the lake between my thighs grew marvelous moss and snails, salt and steam. Awake after birth, the blood pooled. The infant worked the nipple as the heart empty, silent, revised, became the stony wall inside my cunt.

I lived. Will live but who will know or accept the terror I endured. Silently, I need one step more. Be Laurie, so I can be Sheila. Be anyone. I will unclasp myself from my name. Henry has such beautiful hands and I will remember them always and there is tenderness at one end. No, the theater will not close yet. "Cuddle with me Laurie your heart beats faster."

Henry said it all. I am sure. I wasn’t there to exactly prove it. He was there to know the answers before the questions. Do you know how much I love and hate the son of a bitch?