A Muse

Stephen D. said something about the briny spume and all the punters – Daisy, Moustache, Faulkner, Hunter, Davida, Johnson, and Bartholomew, got into a brand new Taureg just off the lot and drove to the beach. The beach was snot-green and Moustache had a cold and a cough. Moustache’s cough caused the mucous to spray the dying embers of a bonfire left behind by bohemiams hoping for a new world. They’d burned their underpinnings. This was not relevant to Faulkner, Hunter, Johnson, or Davida. Daisy wanted to be a dominatrix or a writer. Moustache was hurting from the sinuses. The stars, too. They were circling somehow behind the sun and clouds. They were waiting. Moustache knew this like he knew he had a clavicle. Like he knew his uncle’d jerked off to a young girl masturbating. It was all written down somewhere. Bartholomew was not writing it because Bartholomew was entranced by the orifices of tiger lilies. Not Daisy’s orifice, although, Daisy had several, which she would hide behind giggles, perfume, and someday a whip or a pen. Daisy was a smart girl and she wanted to go to university. University of life. Bad art.

Davida, Hunter, Faulkner, and Johnson set up an ant colony. They were the ants within the glass frames but they didn’t know how to find food. They were bourgeois and insufficient. They were elitists and where was Moustache? They were waiting for Ben Dollard to intuit them. To sing and let it be. There was no starving in their glass frames. They were still at the beach and so dug themselves tunnels. In the tunnels they encountered Daisy with a whip. She was the queen. A queen of faeries. Hunter, Faulkner, and Davida didn’t believe in faeries. Johnson did. Johnson’d never attended a black mass while Hunter, Faulkner, Davida, and Moustache had all lapped goat’s blood and laughed. There were talking streetlamps. Big throbbing poles of light spewing.

Utterly different he is in this scene, Moustache, oh, your mouth is wide with wonder and it is shaped like an O. Blue becomes freemasons. Moustache fights the power; Moustache quotes the Prison Gate Girls: “If you see Kay…See you in tea, yo.” Circe and a piggy (bank?) play kick the can with Moustache’s poor head. Pin the Moustache down with a knee to the chest. Piggy pin the baton to Moustache’s ass and piggy zip ties to Moustachey wrists. Poor Moustachey. He should’ve joined the bourgeoisies before the encampers scared them off. He should have burned his things and rocketed between his uncle’s jerk off and Daisy’s clavicles, the goddess that could have gladdened the days of his youth. Yes. Not Bernhard’s yes although some, like Johnson who’ve never black massed or pole danced, might say Bernhard’s yes was better than that other yes.

Ryder Collins

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Ryder Collins’ debut novel ‘Homegirl!‘ is out now, priced £8.99/$13.99.

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