The resting place of Madame Cassie
Peace be with you! It is your humble servant, Frater Peppas. I apologise for the lengthy delay in my correspondence. I had been away shaving monkeys with Thomas again.
My readers, you will surely think it as odd as me, but I could not help but wonder whether, in some strange way, I was partly responsible for the death of the hoor, whose skeleton was found last month completely raked of it is flesh. (One fat puss remained trapped in her rib cage - silly thing, it had made a glutton of itself in Cassie's chest cavity, stuffing itself with so much viscera that it was too big to make its way out again!)
My own priestly sense of obligation compelled me to visit her lonely grave, a dumpster out the back of a restaurant in China Town. In a sweet gesture, someone had lovingly strewn the bin with hundreds and hundreds of soggy bok choy. Even more touching was the epitaph that had been spray painted on the side of the bin. It was an adaptation of Yeat's poem, The Second Coming, capturing brilliantly the passion of the Arseflower - its tantilizingly brief blooming, its olfactory splendour, and its inexorably withering (which of course, effected Cassie's righteous death):
Turning and turning in the widening sphincter
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere shite-stink is loosed upon the world
Beautiful words.
posted by Phillip @ 3:29 PM
6 comments
6 Comments:
This a touching elegy. Cassie is not the first street-loitering woman to receive Phillip's blessing: he will never be forgotten by that Thai lady of the night who reduced her offer to ten dollars after a mere ten seconds of haggling and was then left with nothing but the high pitched laughter of William Street to reflect upon her station in life.
I think Phillip has captured the beauty of Yeat's initial drafting which he drew down from the Spritus Mundi. The draft was revised when he caught the clap from a Constantinoplean lady boy:
"A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs in sordid gyration..
Cometh then the sexmuck unto mine eyes"
Both excellent comments from Masters Louie and Conqumba.
Louie, you seem to remember the events of that night well (although I think it generous to call that throat-peddler a lady without adding the word 'boy' immediately after. As Conqumba has said, 'IT' would have inspired have Yeats, no doubt) . But do you also recall a tall, thin shadow flicker behind us as we ran away? Now Jack Barter is a fashionable man, no doubt, but he is not so discerning when it comes to throat-chummery and knows a bargain when he sees one. Recall, how he joined us much later on, his eyes brimming like the proverbial oyster...
Conqumba, it is a fine poem and I thank you for reminding me of it. I see also that that ghoul Scatmann has resurfaced and now I wait in fear for what evil he will manufacture next...
Phillip, sadly the Scatmann is indeed abroad once again. Further, my extensive researches have revealed that his genetic / quantum heritage has much devilment behind it, akin perhaps even to the vile one, Fiff. Scatteman Johannes is customarily known as the Ghost of Ken Dodd (and occasionally the Ghost of the Ghost of Ken Dodd when he particularly anaemic). I have come to the conclusion that Dodd was the product of an unholy union twixt Bill Cosby in his capacity as "Ghost Dad" and Scatman Crothers (now deceased). Dodd then gave birth to the concept of Johannes. I shall tell you how so. One evening he was tugging his furless trouser ulcer and attempting to imagine himself in a triumvirate of shamedom with his parents, Crothers and Ghost Dad, but his fantasy kept going sour because in his mind's eye he could see himself as an ugly worthless piece of shit. A fair representation of his true form of course. Therefore he imagined himself as a young man but retaining the necessary toothery and coiffurery that he believed still it was himself in receipt of a throatful of Alabama blacksnake. This imagining sadly created sufficiently troublesome ghost particles that in this iteration of the series of infinite parallel universes a real Scatteman Johannes appeared. The sky was rent and Our Lord shifted uncomfortably upon the cosmic toilet before issuing forth his jaundiced cocksnot. Apologies for the rambling message but I thought I should set it out for posterity's sake. Good day to you sir, and to Louie.
Conqumba, this is a most helpful background. Prior to this, I had mistakenly thought Scattman was one of Fiff's many evil minions, conjured up by him in a furious spell in the cubicles. I had been wrongly told that the 'imagining' that was used to summon the ghost here was done by Fiff and had placed him in receipt of that most unholy sacrament which is had when you read from the Book of Ake from back to front. It was administered by the ugly priestess Sa-to and created a terrible mess on his face.
Fiff's has a hand in this filthery that is one thing we can all be sure of. Unfortunately, My researches have not yet revealed his precise machinations in this regard. The sooner he is burnt at the bumstake the better and may his secrets go with him to Hell.
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