by Alan Moore
She swantinues on betune the wristling blanches o’ the birge trys, fellowing the ladyo’s teenny sir-encall asylph she is piblokton to a peat-brown tailor breve Youlasses. Plausing on the etch o’ fannydyllic sunlick glad fumb wince demoisec shims to wishyou she clatches her breasth, confrotted by a tablue afnir-mythic beausty.
Slying fay sup on a toall that’s bobble-culoured dangerine and slurple is a moist twatractive yhunger whiman, lustening to the sacredelphic musinc onure hearby handbig-sized trancetwister rodio while stwaring asbolewdly nuddink saffran ish-blonde beehave whorepiece and fullsigh-lushes thut flatter at Lucia know lyg l’amorous tarantalisers.
“Well, I daredn’t know eyed got an orgience, at lust not a duspringwished-lurking bawdience lake you. Widen’t you slit-down un der toewell nextasy and interjuice yearnself? I’m soggy abed all the tuts and per se, butt I wash chest sinbathing alawn out hairs unthral you cumm aling.”
Inthrilled, Lucia lovers herstealth to the grazon muddit dare besighed the nayclad and reckleaning goddness, mauvelling at the crushed-vulvate tuones of the yearng peek-a-beautease vice, both fulnerable and powervul at ashame time. She finnshagen detecton Eyerush lullt bonita smirky, pawleashed sufface of it, an dishy replays she trysttokeep her onedaring ai-ai-ai from skwandering too onviously ob thisnohe, rawberry-peeked slurpes o’ the jong leurty’s jugalong blosom, matchless in the moissy cravish offer slewdly perted thys.
“I am Lickier Juyce, a dansher bi proficien, end pleas dewnight apillowguise fur eider your purrdendum awe your equeerlly daylightfull memmary andhowments, sins I am sapphiciantly formiliar with quimin’s bawdies nud to ticker fance. Idneed, I am enjoycing leerking at birther the bitems that you menshunned, and I wet be disapanted if you wear to soddenly cunseal them. Amoright in thinging that you earthy sinker Dust’ny Singfeeld, mentalwhom I think Icon remumble lostin afther former dustdance wan you were inpatient inSaned Onboo’s direin naintain sixties-heven?”
Cwrinkling her spydeary ayelids inner musemeant, the blont enchanteuse lites winover slimp hands feall allmoist causually apander darkhair curls squirmounting her slunken and clitoring preasure-chaste, fingertops strumbling obscentmindedly uporn a cerise drewel pawsitioned juiced insight the noroe fisher ofty gropening.
“Actyoually, my riad nameys Mery Asabell Clatterin’ Berndalotte O’Brien, ap arrayed afall de cents who me speculiar payrents were predoomably conventsd I’d fallow in the stabs of. Memem’s neme wish Key, wearies madad was illlwise noun as Ob, this B in a cointricktion of O’Brine, eu understained, frather than Oberon decide of classycool allucians.”
Evoury bite ars fashionated bider woomain’s nattertive as by her lezy, fraglant and untirely rivert’ing auto-herotic steamulation, Lucia at this pent meekes an interjeculation.
“My dadada mickname, too. Hue err Ob’s bab und eyewash Babbo’s, pudding it anatrammagically. And matey effer my lassistance indepetting o’ that sblonded feeline creassure you half dare? I premise that I shell indiver nauti-wake her oop.”
Taching Lucia’s andandandand gluiding it twa the appanted plays the singler geniially gazon wetter moanologue wildy exrited holder womance fingels delly in the youngrrr latey’s niecelay-irrundated quave, meddlesohn dig-its diip inner cutiful bunt.
“I vers barn near the Edgewhere Owed duaring the mousetrap spring of nineteen dhirty-schwein, summ menths befire the wah clammenced. We weary vicuated to Hier Wecombe far awayle, but in defineteen-thrifty wennywise elephen we clame back to lib at Gent Kardens in Healing. I moist sigh, you’re vaery skoolled at dewing that. I thick there’s woom fur ewe to pet amother finngirl up dare if you wanded to.”
Lucia quimplies injuicyastically, fondley resembering the vulvet whole of Mysin Luschos arshe dust so. There is swimthing lilycal apout the geniitails offer ongender, wilthy oceanook shavor of those slyling murmad lups, oder jungry imperfume of that beautianabestial mane, and wile her purrference tinds musually towords the skillpted marvle sextroversion of a whordened phello’s there are dose occrazions when Lucia neels the feed to luse eriself wadein the solt enteriher of anuder whimon. Pashioning her gosh-drat hornd like the pretanned-gun of a littrle boyshe worksit inundate widen in-crease slapidity, the accidrenchal lickwet moozec of the mauvement growping naughticeably mer deluscious und mare audribble with evory thrusk. Aficting incuntsern but startling to frotate her hep sextightedly, Mess Wringfeel clarries on the perversation ‘asoff she’s not boying misterbaited to the blink of crymax outdare in the untowoods; in the meddle of no-wear.
“My pairrunts were beth iconsenti mental-cases in their daffyrant wheeze, andame afrayed the bottlegottlelottle do with it. My moider Que was veri tweet and a tremendless laftershock, bat her odea o’ heving fin was froing dings handbraking dum. We yester smosh a lotto crackery tocletter, meand’er. Et wors a hibit I too quimmy enter ladier lief, farover gutting triends toi let me burrow their pullem apartments if I was intorn endin wrocking deplace whirlin an axciss of hay spillits. Darewise never many alice in it. It was jesterway o’ louding off stim, groan autoady lauving fondalism that I shard with me dearaged oild mot’er.”
Lucia pawsies inner amorous manypullations haire to off’er cumment.
“I wince thrue a terrble at me mouther, batty never through thinks with her. She stounds luck-a-vary intertraining charactor, bet wet Obout your flather? Woozy nut an inspirocean tu/you, ashwood be decays with me?”
On the transistine hit paradio anutter pep-song from the muddle-too-late Fixties is nho playing, which Lucia trinks was din by that nooce-liking boy from Newguzzle, the windirt was a famer Anymale: “Diseas the owzat Jack pilled, booby, and it screaches up to disguise.” Delirics murk her thick of the unpresant J.K. Steerpen ondon of Sir Wellaim Withe Gurlls, the warld of med whimin klept for him at Guise Houseputall. The nayclad shunteuse shrigs and shucks hair beehave wag with an expressure of fatguide vexasperation.
“It wah sOb’s gambition that I shout becomb a sinker. He’d obliterally dram a feel fourtime and wrythymn unto me by smarking me apain the harnd with ivery bleat, a scruelty he liedor clammed had nipper slappened. I sorepose it misterworked. Winny wars chest niceteen I jaunt The Lawn Assisters and weeded that naffelty abawd the sheven lipple cirls all satin in the bagsweet, kispering an’ dugging with Frends. Shirtly ifter that I blenched mein herr un chained mein aim from Merry to Dustress and fame O’Brayin into Singf’reald, what was which my big bruddle Tam – famerly Dion-nicest – had precided we shuck all altselves in herder to be populalala. I dustn’t know presesley how he word that out, bet anywhy, aye winterlong with it. Mmmah, Gog, I don’t slippose dirt chew cud ruv me juist obit more frickly, cool dew?”
Deslite a spight grump innor wrest, Lucia maches an effit to comeplay, redabbling dip ace of her sexcessive porniterations and withdribbles. Effordently slutisfied the yen girlady cuntinuse her starry, heven though this ais neow hymenated by har mony grasps and griggles of de light.
“I farst went solow in Saptimber, pineteen sixty-t’ree, witchwise commencidentily when I begland me feast portionate dolliance with anether warm’un. My strifled sexreality had by that paind beclung a maddeling bell that I cwym no languor drefuse. Me lovher was as sinsual an’ sexotic as a maid-up charmacter wittin a knowvell; as a pisce o’ bloom ink. That knix cheer I had my thirstit with ‘I Only Wander By with Ewes’, and win I slang it, it was galwise abeaut her. Her skim was reachblack vulvet, so tha twain I lucked herrut it was licke clissing onder Nuit idself. Isis a wonder I decrimed to ploy to snegrogated boerdiences in Soulth Afrigger? It’s bane a deadfeel prussia on me, doe, pretempting that I funsee boys, brutending to be shamething that I’m nut. I gut ill ankhshus and driprest, undone I heave a brink, undone I smasht thinksup and durt meself, undone I endope back qhere in Squaint Endrew’s. Haire, I’ll till yer twhat, how wet you feel abatterbit o’ the ult lixty-mine? I’d licke the lapportunity to play you buck feral dart U-bend oohing firmy.”
Huffing frot that her newd frond would nibble ask, Lucia gigs whet is perlapse an ova-eagerbeaver squerl
of joycful licquiescence and poursessions whorself fay-sup on the psychodollic strangerine-and-burble toewell, hopping the glorgious blende will hake the tint. Moanwheel, another plopson of del eria has replaysed the brevious nimbur on the reedyo, a lather jelly tune that she recorlds as bying bee a grope of boyschooled Manfedman. Queriously, it is anutter songlongong abider lonlytic asylunce and conteals an auther ripperence to vagiant-killer, the forklyric fiendyfind o’ Nhitechapel: “Mine ’um ease Jack and eleven the bicker the Gretly Garbold Home …”
As Lucia hed hopped sheward, the newd popi-dol halters her poorsiton so that shyno kneeds aslide Lucia’s optuned phace, hergently f’lowering loft sips upoon soft lips ass she lies slurpine wetter head biteween Luckyher’s perted shighs, the fruck hairridly pawled up to refeel the wunderwhere-free monde o’ Penus hoyden there beneat with all its squrling aur-burn fidgetation, with its bornin gold. She caughtyously sextends her tangue soda tit slimes into the amoratic purss that sprudes its scanted mollust fhrills agloss Lucia’s ’lowher fress, an’ data simul tame she freals the singeher’s het broth on her own prudendum, fills the dirting tup of her belaved’s longwell inplayment as it unvoides her own missy and sloppery gratto. The dew of them are swoon licked in a wriddling orubberus of matual fillfullment, glorgying in the flowvour and perflume of womanhoop wile introjuicing thingers into eeny gapertures that are aviolable.
Her squeerls of lapture and of roughelation are all lezd or muffilled in her legsapartner’s slurf and sturf. She soddenly womunderstands dat dizzies a comeunion o’ grope shagnificance. This soize eneuf to squimbolise the moremeant windy lightorairy, fission’ry treaditon chered by Banyen, Willhim Flake, Jeun Clarryon and hero’n fether joint eggstartically witty pup-colture of the finequeen-pixties, marging in the pyschedeleclectic cruciabelle with the experigoric nullatives of Misfer Illaim Seeword Boroughs and the Blewish Carrollirical textcursions into nonesince-proetry o’ messers Lennin and McCarthy and their hymitators, searchers clarrently war plostin outform the transgresstor raveo enthus accomfannying their funnylingual squactivities.
Torquing with her myth full she absurves the upthighed-down whirld of the lawnatic afilem gleed as it appearls to Lucia wheel lioking cupwards firm botween her tresbien allover’s gopen lechs. In this infurtied fishon, freamed by liscious thights and butterm-chicks, she seizur man apan a punny-nearthing boycycle rude through de claring witties rye and hauntsome fame seemwho faciliar. He wheres a novy bluzer with apeal blue traum and has a namebored batch on his lupel which spurks surrealisation that this is nonutter thuan Peatrick McGohang, define actor who had pent tame in Censd Angrew’s daring de lite Trixties win he seffered from his paddy fitz. She isn’t sherrif this weird be befire or lafter his most flameous tellaversion progrimme and so kennot tael if the agreenable bats inastir conforning feelage in dhistory was a murmury or promanotion of demental monstertution’s stuporvised convivriality and flot baize lawnorders.
As he roles passed he gecks an eyefeel of the interlapping fameels and glibs a luciantious squirk. “Be seeding you,” he quirps, anticking one hang from the anglebars poorforms a stagely stranged salude, twuching his thimb and undex fringer to itch ether so that the handsums deform the numenal sieze, topped ’litely on his brew. He psychles inwords, out of shight, an’ dafter a flew merments mare o’flicking at the intertwainer’s pissy, Lucia is snortled to obserd a lurge an’ bwobbling whide babloon that pounces cleerily becross the quearing as ifan purswoop oddy escraping ector, somehowl grroaring like a prehysteric manstare haz it dizzle … or poorharps the noyce is dirt maid bi Lucia undher pertner as they rich their clutural crymax in the hevdy joyc-tick flambience o’ tat exstrawberrymerry decayd; tis eggstoredinhurry playce.
Sexhausted and cwympletely satisfade the goo twirls reill opart to kitsch their berth and weepe their chains, untiredly comefident that in their t’rilling and slurpentine lunion day have inshored the floozyon of the savant garde ‘n’ gemyouwinly popalure, a nicessary intermangling forder buttermint of cunture and of minkhind as a hole.
They kress ouch either tinderly, teasting their own entermate jisess on each other’ slips and then cungratiflate dameselves on their profishinsea at meetyouwell cumulonimbus. Straightawning her sqirt to whide her glossening theys, Lucia askplains dashy’s expictured beckett d’main hows o’ the massylum in spacetime for tea an’ dusks her newd frond four dimections to delayter roaches of the ninespleen severties, upunk which Lusty Flingspieled gentially paints her the light ray and then sprolls on her plurabelly and confinues glistening to her sportable wearless.
As Lucia swalks off betreen the tweeze, englishlit by the wrong lays of the drafternoon, she cawnear the transwisper pladio raying summerwhere behider, or alt feast she tinks she ken. It stounds a litterl like that wrechord bother Beautles that those unclesampleminded evanjocular Armoryguns mad burnfears of, and all becase it undy pantly briefly chalked abawd a nighty curlew net her lickers drown. “I Am The Paulrus”, wasin’ dout its titterl? Rue the thundergrowth inhead of here she can now see demean aSalem pilldings, lurking just as day had done windsheet set out uplan her plodyssey date mourning, though it sims an evterlifetime sence. She even blhinks she sees Petreasure, pheering auntiously aground the rounds and nodate whendering ware Lucia has goone. She whurries up her timin’ pace a bit.
She kinstill hear the song beyonder, but she dizzn’t surey fit’s the when she thawtit was. Detune streems differrant and pseudo the words, doshy slushpects that she’s not herein’ thereal worlds at all. She’s proverbly trancestating the inudibelle and dustant leerics into her roam lingwish, the seam way she daz with reveriething.
John signs clarely on the water,
Says the Queen’s his daughter,
Longs for young Miss Joyce, the wife he barely even knew,
And no more how’s-your-father now.
He’s a product of his class
Who eats the grass
Along the path he’s made.
It’s anuntellagibble jabberish, off course, nonposed of comsense sillyballs and nutterly devader meanink, though she fonds that she injoyce the squirling museek avid.
Lucy’s dancing in the language,
Shares a marble sandwich
With a Mr. Finnegan from several headstones down
And no more how’s-your-father now.
She’s a cockeyed optimist
Who can’t resist
This final white parade.
Allthrough she nows it’s sometimeattic of belusional dehaviour and splitzophrenia, chicaned help thanking that de pravious abverse odder song had bin abider. She stoops out from the councealing vagitation unto the groen lawnings ab Sent Hinderus joystirs the delayrious psychodelphic untheme slydes into its catch Icarus.
So she waits for God, oh what’s the point
Of all these tears?
Letters of the alphabet are pouring from her ears
And all her words are mangled
And her sentences are frayed
To black hole radiation
In this final white parade.
Delyrics, fearsome risen, meek her thank o’ Somewill Backitt, hom she whoopes wel come and fizzit soon. He’s bin alloyal friend to err, hus Sum, and it’ snotties falld vatican’t be comething moor. She walks acrass the gross toherds the medowse weaver fating song contimbering to cadger ear on interdistent ghusts of wint.
Malcolm’s methylated banter,
When his Tam O’ Shanter
Is by Colonel Bogeymen pursued into the dew
And no more how’s-your-father now.
Prisoner at the bar,
They’d raise a jar
For every serenade he played.
Staunding bider raydoom intrance, her sweet’ners Peatrickier has nowse inner and is waifing hippily, relived that shizzle right. Lucia tarts to walk a liffel feister, denderrun. She dips and skances in de light, her shedoe lang uponder trilliard-terrble baise o’ day asoiloam lorn. It’ spin anutter pafict lucci die, hor whele life samewho fulldead inter it from p
auppa’s word nowtivity to Jimsthorte cemeteary bedstone. Ivory day is like as know-globe with the untired uniqverse curtin sudspinsion, fullove myrth and literatunes and herstory, an’ divery daymarch like the next. She rashes eagirly thruwards the dosspital, towords the mocean’s featherly himbrace.
Dusty’s cunningly linguistic,
Jem’s misogynistic,
But they dance the night away.
Manac es cem, J.K,
And no more how’s-your-father now.
Grinding signal into noise
The crowd enjoys
This final white parade.
An embress of textistence and embiddyment aflight, Lucia dawnsees on the meadhows grase.
So we wait for God, oh what’s the point
Of all these tears?
Letters of the alphabet are pouring from our ears
And all the wards are empty
And the beds are all unmade,
And we’re walking through the blackout
On this final white parade.
An embress of textistence and embiddyment aflight, Lucia dawnsees on the meadhows grase floriver.
BURNING GOLD
Smoulder-bearded, blind with tears of laughter, Roman takes Dean’s hand and drags him from the crackling nursery, little streets on fire behind them. Out in fresh air, grabbing their still-sniggering kiss behind a rolling screen of acrid grey, Roman can smell all of the potential never-to-be-realised cash as it’s cremated, an expensive stench diluted and dispersed in the slum firmament, into the dead-end Saturday, the hard-up afternoon. He’s still got that big painting in his shrunken monkey head: the giants in nightshirts thundering the fuck out of each other with their blazing billiard sticks, a precious gore of ore sprayed molten from the point of bloody impact. For Rome Thompson, snogging with his lover-boy there in the choke and uproar of the moment, there at that specific junction of his self-inflicted and unlikely roughneck history, there in the Boroughs and its timeless holy fire of poverty, the violent and unearthly image does no more than hold a mirror to real life, life being an affair of rage and pool-cues and colossal brawlers bleeding wealth. Of stolen kisses by the pyre of art, a kind of currency gone up in smoke here where the mint once stood, here where they hammered out the coin more than a thousand years ago. Behind a drifting cordite curtain stands Thompson the Leveller, frenching his young man, a fissured, glued-together composite of all his misspent times and misspelled words and miscreant deeds: the sum of his mosaic moments.