Monday, September 10, 2007

Peach-Meat and Bumble-Butt

Peach-meat and bumble-butt walked into a party. Peach-meat whispered soft and low in bumble-butt’s ear, “It smells like pussy in here.” Bumble-butt nodded gravely… “Not our scene”.


Walking out into the cool-night air, the two inhaled deep, and from the depths of the stinkpot sewers a smell of posies wafted into their nostrils.


“Everything’s okay here,” whispered Bumble-butt.


The two held hands, walking in perfect syncopation, and never a bit out of time.


“Oh glorious glorious glorious, Ben,” Bumble-butt sang. “When will you find my arms again. When will you wake, when will you sleep? When will I be yours to hold and to keep?”


They walked on in silence for a while.


An ape flew over the moon. Peach-meat raped it with his eye. Bumble-butt was startled.


Everything got quiet.


Their pace slowed…


Slowed…



Sllllllllllllllloowwwwwwwwwwd…



Stopped.


They watched their feet intently. Surely an answer lay hidden in a toenail.


Bumble-butt spoke first. “I’m not happy.”


“I know,” Peach meat admitted. “It pours off of you like milk.”


“I’ve got to walk away.”


Peach-meat thought of pig’s feet. Plum brandy. Exhibitionists. Head-lice. Harpo’s lampoon. Lampo’s Harpoon. Fish-eggs, Adam’s apples, butter-scotch-brie… Robin Williams, Adolf’s arse, and marijuana tea.


They’d had good times.


He blew his nose on the side-walk.


The sidewalk sizzled.


He smiled.


He laughed.


He burped.


He put some gum in his mouth. He waited for the sun to go down. He ate supper, and had tea.
Bumble-butt didn’t blink.


“Define this moment with a decision,” Peach-meat finally said.


“I already have, my sugar-tit-blue. I already have.”


Bumble-butt took one step. Then another. Then another. Each step cracked like a hammer on ice.


Peach-meat began to tremble. Bumble-butt thudded onward.


Peach-meat fell. He hit the ground hard, nearly shattering his glass jar. Sick rose in his throat. He expelled it. His stomach turned with the violence of a whaler’s gun, and he wept like a dead chimney-man’s wife.


No display would turn Bumble-butt around. With fishy eyes, he tried to keep his shoulders from shaking, and just kept walking away.


-BR 7/28/03 Oakland, CA

1 comment:

Lizette said...

Holy Moly.