God of the Game (Dreamstate) (18 page)

   “But as I was saying,” he resumed the pr
evious topic of conversation, “making love to her Ladyship is an awesome adoration and act of surrender. She doesn’t look at the physical. To her, sex is spiritual, and when we tangle, we are merely two spirits doing the tango.” He was tipsy by now, “Now, this is excellent stuff,” he held up the plump fruit as if it were an Olympic torch, and said, “By the way, did I mention that the Lady likes to be watched when we fuck?” 

34

When we got to her sanctum, Elizabeth Amber was robed in white linen as of a high priestess in an olden court. She had in one hand a kitchen knife, and the other an orange. Two Village Idiots in meditative states flanked her. To my surprise, a crowd gathered at her presence. And as if we were patrons of a cinema, popcorn and junk food were being sold at a corner. The fuck fest was to begin; but not in the way any of us imagined. We took our seats, and she sliced the fruit. An aroma emanated, and an acidic vapour brought tears to our eyes. We became blind. In darkness, a tune danced across our ears, made up of timbres and instruments never before heard; a haunting pipe sound caught my attention, neither natural nor electronic. Then Amber’s voice drifted across the music, and she said hypnotically, “Prepare yourself for the sound of silence, for the resonance of scent. Choose for yourself a pong or a fragrance; be a nose and experience hot, spicy sexual excitement calming the coitus.” Her voice, together with melody and rhythm, faded off, and it was blackness once again. But odd, for even in the dark, when the song played, and when she spoke, light and rainbow contrasted the night as though they were belly-dancing shadows. 

    Now
, in the enormous empty, without sight and sound, came fleeting in my remaining senses an armada of smells - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry to name a few; cinnamon, banana, toffee marching like infantry to battle; a cavalry of cheeses commanded my nostrils. I was hungry, and knew intercourse had begun. 

    In overpowering ecstasy baking in an oven, I was no more a being, but mere spirit. A psyche stripped of all faculties except for the acute ability to whiff out the tiniest tang. I joined to the kitchen odours, sweet and salty, pungent
, yet pleasurably mild. A banquet was in the midst of preparation, a bouquet of strange herbs and spices; and the Mistress Chef, along with her Sous, was cooking up dinner by manner of meshing up flavours till heavenly dishes were concocted; one after the other, waves and waves of orgasm, a perpetual climax, a Venus Butterfly of tastes; international cuisine, many I recognize, others I don’t. Indian curry-powder, fried onion and garlic, prawn paste, barbeque sauce, tomato puree, all brought up to a simmering heat that zesty essences may be released unto meats marinated. Then served as proud pieces of art, garnished by fresh mint and other condiments; tongues lolled round succulent chunks to absorb juices, flavours melt out in the mouth, savoured by saliva; a mild shiver trembles through the spirit-body, a fluttering of the invisible eyelids, a final surge of euphoria, a satisfied diner and, a satiated lover…          

35

   “That was great!” I exclaimed and interrupted the Village Idiot when he was bringing me up to the summit.

    Indeed,
the experience the night before had unveiled for me new frontiers. I died a broken man, convinced the only pathway to pleasure was separated by sex. And so, this viewpoint had coloured my interpretation of eternity lived, causing me to chase bliss between the legs throughout my afterlife. It was all hype and sensation, walking with my everlasting zipper down; seduced by fleshly and worldly desires of beauty cultivated while on Earth, and gravitating towards genital gratification.

    I am in Forever After with infinity at my disposal, and yet all I can conjure for a good time is a cock and cunt. How sad and pathetic is that
?! My encounter with Elizabeth and her slave(s) was a revelation. True delight is higher evolved. We were made in
The Image
, and on Earth, split to male and female. This paints our disposition, two incomplete species joining and breaking for flakes of satisfaction. The comedy of intercourse, a man and a woman naked, aroused by their differences; dick cannot wait to detonate, and all she wants is to feel warm and fuzzy. But we are, in reality, spirits. Our bodies perish, but our souls remain after. And our psyche is sexless.  

    Transcend the private part and know pure pleasure. I
had an essence of it last night; merely as a nose, a tongue, eating food, sniffing soups and sauces. The joy that emancipates is a fellowship endowed. The value of friendship and family, whereof Elizabeth and the Village Idiot had so generously allowed for us to partake at their supper table, cuts in me the vision I want in my own existence, the existence ordained by ‘god’ on all his creatures.         

    O
’ wretched worm that I am, short-sighted fool duped to believe in the divinity of debauched living, when in mere fact I am already condemned by karma to reincarnate, to live again and again from womb to tomb to perpetual doom, this sexual curse caught forever in my untameable groin!

Castrate me. Emasculate me. Polish out her vagina. Allow us to dance in the freedom of the universe, that I m
ay be one with it. One with you, Sha-Rronne; I want to know our glory together, a glory creation pangs for at the revealing of our birthright. Enough; I live always, infinity is my pal, and yet eternal life for me is a carcass in the wilderness where encircling vultures abound. I play the wrong games, games that drill me farther from the
father’s
heart.
Pure love’s
heart; which is of this pounding beat that quietly drums in all that breathes.

    When I was little, I loved my papa; I loved mama, too; but somewhere along the way (in adolescence I reckon) the love turned to hate. Like a back-masked recording of a rock song with satanic messages surreptitiously encoded, this hatred surfaced from sea and destroyed the coastal towns of my heart. It was many stormy years before I could forgive them for a wrong they did not commit, (compounded by my immaturity, unable to digest discipline and parental care), and when I did, they were already dead, which further wrecked my unanchored galleon against the serrated ridges of great guilt.   

    For remedy
, I found the joys of women; but my penis came to awful play. Stored in the mausoleum of memory, I recall, the happiest and most fulfilling moments came when I could penetrate beyond the sexual desire to the serene gardens of emotions; love embalming like fluid, travelling through the tunnels of time, to a place in fabled past, when humble tranquillity overcame the tyrannical domination of erotic damnations in the dark. Flaccid and placid, when the swelling is decapitated, I know for a union, immense release to divine destinations.

    Romantic junctures with girlfriends, the most intoxicating, yet most taxing to attain, are intimate episodes absent of the bloody erection. Often accomplished only after ejaculation, this heavenly allure cascades its celestial presence upon our exhausted beings.     

     But life’s instalment after Gee Ni was a downhill tumble aided by prostitutes and their massaging limbs. Progress toward twilight years drew me further, making me a stranger to purity, a forgetter of affections, a pervert addicted to a fetish. In old age I died in these abominations, and I woke up still craving for and carrying the burden of sin.       

36

Vitruvian Man

    The summit is a zit at the tip of a nose. In fact the whole of the D’Arcy is this yellow coagulated pus. But when yer immersed in the toxic fumes of the slums, your olfactory
senses are numb, or rather enlightened – depending on who you are talking to. What’s real, what’s not? One man’s meat is another’s reek.

     To germs, viruses and bacteria, the acne is heavenly (though I hear there is a big war wit
h antibodies going on in there); but to a teenager on prom night, it’s a nightmare, especially if he can’t get laid. Elizabeth Amber and the Village Idiot are probably bacterium, but don’t tell her this, she’ll go berserk. As far as she’s concerned, she’s the face of introspect elegance. But I guess if your entire world is a pimple, you’re living in denial already.

    O
’, don’t get holy on me, I’m not degrading anyone. We are our own four walls. All our material beauty may look ugly from the Hubble of advance aliens. Just like zits appear disgusting to a beauty queen, beauty queens may appear appalling to demons. In Hades’ fiery inferno, some sicko is applying makeup. Imagine that to a tormenting angel!? Or even to Hydra, or Godzilla –
What? Such insufficient flesh to consume!?
Or even to our future selves fed incessantly on fast-food, saturated fats and processed meats, when obesity is the in thing and we float about on hover-couches. Those damn skinny girls appear like elongated scarecrows in cornfields, witches and bogeywomen to an overweight nation.     

    That’s why Elizabeth escaped
into a boil of sunny discharge in the first place, to flee these dysfunctional comparisons. To live free. And if freedom is a pustule of yellowish lava swirling in a volcano that is Mount Epidermis...? So be it! We are god’s bodily secretions, the remnant dead soldier-cells of his warmongering crusades against foreign forces.  

Now let’s recap. I’m standing on the loftiest rock of the D’Arcy, on tiptoe, just touching the Eye-of-D. Lightning hurls, and the texture of the Eye, to my surprise, is soft, membranous and spongy. Here, there and again, on the venous surface, air pockets pop, but most to the sound of nothingness.

T
he vermillion vastness brews reverence; to the guests of the D’Arcy, it is the hallowed path to a permanent state of being. Some say even Elizabeth herself prostrates before this vast expanse, the dome of her sanctuary, the covering from another life she took flight. But not the Village Idiot; he’s too stupid. He only licks and sucks up to his mistress; and I’m thinking perhaps his is the ideal life, the real deal. Yeah, bark up the legs of a woman…the perfect kind of existence.

    Occasionally the popping does give way to something more
sinister. Evil spirits, I mentioned earlier, crawl out with magnificent speeds, amazing tenacity, dodging fast, sensing danger. They come in all shapes and sizes, akin to giggling whores comparing men accompanying dicks. The D’Arcy orbits no man’s land. Demons do try to get in. Some are worm-like, capable of growing meters long and securing themselves to nervous systems. A squat-tenant; everything you do, it does. Copying your movements, mimicking your mannerisms; your fucking maggot doppelganger coiled round your spine.                 

Others
are blind as bald bats, as hairless as the wrinkled skin of old men, of malnourished babies, exfoliating labia of crew-cut pussies. Diving off the D, they map the D’Arcy for mayhem using sonic radars; but ray guns fire and these perversions of creations drop like dead flies to the plantations below, like propeller jets gunned down in dogfight - shrieking dive-bombs copied by Floyd Rose guitar players thrusting the tremolo bar. With black smoke streaking the sky, lopsided imps crashing in spiral patterns, it is quite the reverse of an air-stunt show; feeding gravity’s famished husk.

Gravity, mother of the universe, holding god together. Holding gods together. One big happy family. Without her, we float away. Those injured fiends, instead of plummeting, hover off; without guidance, without law, without the attractive pull. No glue. Everything separates, even the D’Arcy. Even ZOOL.A.N.D, Hell, Syurga, Planet Muthafukker, and all things I’d yet elucidate. Gone. Just like that, like rafts in high seas. Lone survivors waving goodbye to friends, clinging dear lives on make-shift boats; the known world shrinks in the horizon. Needing a new mother; perhaps one will reveal in the water...?

As we drift, we dream dehydrated dreams.
The sun spanking us from above, the moon grinning cold on our souls. Mouths parched in hallucinations, we divulge our desires, our yearning for mother, for gravity, for peace and order. Our mother, sagacious mother, calm the frenzy of father gods in this mindfucked world. `Cause if not, chaos sprouts, seedling new worlds, new codes of existence, new letters for creation. What do you expect, when male deities are involved? The patriarchal line of Absolutes firing semen all around; of course anarchy ensues. Born along from the wombs of fertile alabaster jars, Petri dishes and laboratory vials are grotesque hybrid dimensions, mutant spheres. But yet imminently I covet this commotion, this confusion, this deluged madness of masturbatory mausoleums. Mother, O’ Gravity, you nymphomaniac whore, greedy bitch huddling all for more.      

    Some evil spirits that
scavenge no man’s land are four-hundred-and-fifty-feet tall. Descendents of the
Nephlim
, cursed to roam the Earth. The Earth back then, that is. In the neo-order, the modern reshuffling of realms, some were caused to relocate. These giants, big though they may be, are refugees after all.

    Beams fire
from the D’Arcy’s defence system, the grotesquery lined up along Elizabeth Amber’s fortress, the stronghold of her living room. From the gargoyles’ glowering red eyes the lazer’s pronounced. It don’t matter the type or bulk of ghouls, nothing escapes those sharpshooter retinas. When a four-fifty-foot juggernaut comes crashing down…run. You better run. Some Idiots don’t make it in time, crushed by an ancient belief of the falling sky. An enlarging shadow over your trail in the rice field signals impending doom. Many Idiots have died this way; but no worries, Elizabeth has more. She replicates them. As for
that
particular Village Idiot turned to pulp, no worries again, it was pure pleasure for him. No higher honour than martyrdom in her Lady’s name, though in this case you can just call it collateral damage. Most of these menservants don’t even bother running. They just stand there, arms raised, lips in stupid joy, mumbling, “
Elizabeth Amber, Elizabeth Amber, Elizabeth Amber
...” a repetitive chant to welcome a messy annihilation.