Even Braver New World State
Page 25
gown pulled high up we watched
so wantonly steaming?
Where the cock head’s red glare
and sperm squirting in air
gave proof to our sight
that our cock was still there!
Oh say, does the sperm-sprinkled banner yet wave
over the land and the sea-m
in the w-hole of the brave
New World State
of body and mind!
New World State!
New World State!!
New World State!!!”
When the final sound fell silent, there was a thunderous round of applause, sending the parade under way.
The grand orgy of overall atonement, however, could not begin just yet. According to the authorities’ plan, the thirty-third of the seventy-seven platforms in the snake-like procession ~ the one in shape of a spiral stairway to the sky, narrowing towards the top like an overturned vortex and currently creeping like a colossal snail across the Dependence Square bridge with one hundred peacock-feathered she-male dancers on board ~ would first have to reach the phallic-shaped peace monument in former Victory and current De Feat Square, called Community Cock. Only then, one by one, each one of the hundred dancers would slide Its erected penis into the anus of Its neighbor, thus starting a daisy-chain reaction, which would eventually capture everybody in the city environs.
But all that would happen only after a hundred pink-colored convertible cars with cock-shaped rockets of mass fornication, intermitted with thirty-three other variedly shaped moving platforms, would pass all the way from Dependence Square to the remotest metro station on the north-east side and there shoot up the saluting fireworks, sending a sign to a swarm of trans-copters with “The Union Jack Off” and “The Sperm-Sprinkled Banner” flags depicted on their flanks. The trans-copters would come droning in the direction of Dependence Square in shape of an enormous dildo with a wing spread of no less than ten miles long and wide, dragging their thick cock-shaped shadow along the crowded city streets towards the sizzling-hot sun.
In the meantime, a live report of the annual outdoor orgy of atonement would be broadcasted on all TS TV channels on the numerous street screens, the largest of which would be located in Dependence, September and De Feat Squares respectively. One of the trans-copters would part from the procession and perch on one of the De Feat Square’s rooftops, the neon letters on which would read:
DE FEAT OF THE PEOPLE’S IMMOR(T)AL
Two of precisely such people would then alight from the trans-copter. One of them would be no other than Ada Marx and the other one – one of the ten current Chief Caretaking Continent Controllers, Its Freudship, Gianna Globe.
“Let’s take a look at what’s up before we come down,” the Controller would say.
And then, together, they would come up to the edge of the roof and stare down at the crowded square. Through the breaches between the words, they would watch the thirty-third multilevel platform move up to the phallic monument in the middle. On all the levels of the platform, one hundred half-naked transsexual dancers would be twisting and twitching to the heart-like beating of the drums, their long shapely legs surging high in the hot summer air and their silvery shoes shimmering in the sun.
Swiftly, very swiftly, like one hundred racecar dashboard needles, the dancers’ erected penises, together with the rest of their restless bodies, would twist and turn towards the left, – south, south-west, west, north-west, north, north-north-east; then stop and, after some more twisting and twitching, turn back towards the right, – north-north-east, north, north-west, west…
to be continued
within
EVEN BRAVER NEW WORLD
WAR
and
EVEN BRAVER NEW WORLD
PEACE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I was born in a small Belarusian town called Borisov, which was still a part of the USSR in the ice-cold-war winter of a more than symbolic 1984, in a world so hopelessly Orwellian that it is still falling apart from sleepless dreams to become brave new. This may as well be the reason for my first book title.
Growing up on American Movies and British Rock Music made me Bilingual. Trilingual, if you count the dying Belarusian language we were customarily made to study at school. I could even go as far as calling myself “quad-lingual” every time I recall the revolting bits and pieces of minced German tongue the teachers tried their worst to force down my throat in college. But, to the pseudo-patriotic pride and pleasure of an unnaturally born Brit, they failed miserably. However, as an outcome of the conditioned reflex I acquired at that time, I still run for a plastic bag each time I hear the Reich Kanzler open her mouth on TV.
An avid reader of American and English literature since high school, starting with Jack London’s Martin Eden, I have always been madly in love with the language and its literary legacy. This love may also be responsible for the monstrous mixture of an American Englishman at heart and an Australian of New Zealand’s breed somewhere below the equatorial belt I am today. Yes, and a Belarusian neck up, which I try my best to hide behind a philosopher’s beard in shame for my country’s current political regime.
I began to write lyrics in English around the age of 15, in Russian around 18, in prose around 20, and in letters around the whole wide world in two years of unrequited affection that made me consider the pastime seriously. And so I wrote. Mostly for and to myself, but then more and more frequently to others. Despite the latter’s enduring encouragement, I’d never tried publishing outside the campus community. That is, not till now.
Having studied up to a BA in both literature and philosophy in 2006 and 2010, respectively, I also happen to be the author of two theses: “The Problem of Post-Gender Identity in Contemporary Social Theory” (in Russian; Department of Philosophy, European Humanities University, Vilnius, Lithuania) and “Pulp Fiction 2, from Shakespeare Tarantino and Back, an Inter-Textual Language Analysis of the Evolution of the Dramatic Genre from the 16th Century Play to the 20th Century Screenplay” (in English; Department of Philology, St. Petersburg’s State University, St. Petersburg, Russia, a Pilot Program in Collaboration with Bard College of Liberal Arts, USA).
All this academic abracadabra, however, is hardly of any help when it comes to making the mentioned sleepless dreams come true unless someone gives them a little literary lift.