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In the Cratch of a Deem (or the superb cost of one's theories)

Below all of the saints of meat, a mountain.


Howes almost had it right—according to rumor, the Club was going to be serving mammoth, not mastodon. The meat had supposedly been hacked from an icy carcass in the Aleutian Islands by a Jesuit-turned-geologist named Bernard,
Eric Boodman
Crapus mundi. Do you have any thought for what you've left behind. What a smear.
That wasn't my intention. There are entire whorls of empty mastery that clog the vines dying outside my small room here. If desired, they'll serve your purpose better or maybe more. But if you've come to share with me then you'll find that my study is empty. The paper's all gone. Who needs courage. I took prayer enough for 2 and broke what I could. Then I burned the chairs and littered the garden with the piss of my faith. Now that it's done Amberly, He tells her. You won't appreciate my work as much.
You've got the look of a spastic on you. He's wearing your skin like it's bark.
Yes, yes, I have a theory about that. But first I'm going to divulge the secret that secretly I wish to be a star of the rock. That all of my confusion will wash out in the studio's release. That the guy tweaking his ass off behind the glass will just filter my shit and leave me like a thin hiss. Voila, no more mix-tape. When you're an artist and nothing's right, well I have a theory about this. But I can't climb into bed at night and share it, no more. This is part of my theory too. I pulled these wet prints last week and they looked back at me like I was on the bottom of the glass.
It's already bat shit in here Marcus. I've been where you're heading.
But I bet you didn't stay...
Stop this. These rails are running. The math of thirds.
I don't go for that stuff Amberly. You do but I don't. It's like that time when that putty kid in the bathroom kept getting punched for saying the same thing over and over, I'm a monster. I'm a monster. I did it too. I'm guilty. It was like I was the lung of his noose but I couldn't resist.
Crow in the shrub over and again marking the devil with his bobbins and pins, She recites. Let's pick this up again Marcus. Remember we're not trading decals. This won't wash and wear.
I see where you're going, there're the green trees that we danced under and there's the huge light again. The splendid breeze is warm and your bonnet still makes for some light sport. I know this place. I've smoked cigarettes here and I've had my dry gin from the slender nozzles. I've been soothed by this place when my heart's been broken. But here’s my theory about art, It makes more sense when you’re not an asshole Mister Rich-Head, I mean it.
He says it to set himself free. Instead Marcus feels bound up with a verbal listlessness that aches in his cracked throat. There's still a shirt wrapped around his frame. It's white is bleeding out onto the floor beside the thin bed. The study drifts in and out of a 2 blankets sort of cold. Marcus rolls onto his back and mutters, I know. I know already. I have another theory Amberly. Don't you listen to me.
There are books in the corner. Some of them are tan and curled at their edges. While some are reminiscent of the heaving supplication of the cottage bridge. Oh that long night was very frustrating to me. It started as a shared concept like a dinner but it got much bigger. It was only supposed to be as simple as the table. But after we got started there was no saving us. We were many and our voices were quickly drunken. First the conversation withered into shades of every passing hue. Then when the night was throttled and dented we left it like trash in the center of the table beside the nicked saucers. It's done now Ibsen Cummings and Moore, that's steel and stone and graft by the lot. So we passed the peas and tried again. Until I stood and finally sang, Oh the wicked beat in this poem's line twas minced by the heft of your left feet.
The only door through the cellar that night was heavy and it only opened by hand. Down there are the wet stones and the silt from their ceaseless grinding. They can't be avoided. When I was a boy the jars were full of roots Amberly. The roots were from the field beside this tower. My Pap turned that soil. He turned it like it was his to turn. Pap's gone now.
I know what I said before Marcus, about being lonely.
Yes, I'm alone and I can't take it anymore.
Well I can't be this lonely either Marcus. You should know that I share a bed with someone else now. Someone that isn't you. Someone that's more tall and in the blankety haste of doom he's seemed much less withered about his bob.
But Amberly, I'm alone now.
There's a rub Marcus, always has been.

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