Read Online The Great Lover by Rhys Hughes, Michael Cisco - Free Book Online
Authors: Rhys Hughes, Michael Cisco
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through to me, urging me on to collect and shelter all those stillborn phantoms as it did the cadavers I rescued from being forgotten.
He won’t fight I, it. The night in that place gathered together like a sheaf of wheat and was cut in half by the bow-shaped ruby edge of her upper lip, hard and elastic. I sit on the fire escape and tiny cherries adorn the branches — I have only to move my hand to pick them. They sprout directly from the branch, long tubes with brilliant red bulbs at the end. Eating these cherries would be like plucking off bits of rash; they would tear free with a soft rip, a relief for the sighing tree. I look in through the window, into her bedroom. She is somewhere in the remoter parts of the apartment, arranging something. There is a table by the sill, and on it there is a folded map with
CITY OF SEX
in a white panel. Like the City of Destruction, or the City of Commerce.
Some severe-looking models with sad, scrawny bodies, are sitting by the door and ducky is a lean young woman with big glasses — mannerisms of a dowager professor, also of a girl raised entirely among adult WASPs probably already middle-aged when she was born. Her smile is apologetic, but she is lit up with happiness now, who knows why, and bright clean neatness. Walks past me holding her body lightly. She dresses the way I imagine people do on yachts — her mouth as she passed was a compressed vermillion diamond. I can hear how she would say hello, with a dying fall and commiserative expression, much looking down, downcast eyes. Her eyes would rise and fall like sparkling waves.
Ducky’s models rattle together like the contents of an umbrella stand and swing their long hair. I follow her out the door into peachflesh flames and creamy webs of blue fire with golden tips.
His planchette unaccountably begins to move, he sees the bridge’s graceful arch is of interlocking metal beams... Very little commerce in the City of Sex, which is all shining steel and glass like the Crystal Pavilion, and situated exactly under this city, in the hollow earth. Those galleries there are lined with private homes, and business is often conducted in living rooms and kitchens. The natives come in two basic varieties, the tall dark-skinned Day People of the long gestures wafting hands and slow willowy grace, and the rubbery semi-aquatic Night People pale as flounders with bodies like translucent rubber. Here she is on the beach filling out a crossword puzzle with wry sadness, her mouth twisted to one side. She brushes one of his nerves from her face like a lock of hair. With one stroke of his hand he smooths her white summer dress away and sun bounces from honey skin. The northern lights tenderly part their veils to me and I sink beneath her skirts, a pink-tipped violet flame curls up her milky leg.
*
Staring at the clouds until they turn pink with my eyes’ blood: indigo shadows and pink crusts, a familiar, always new landscape, a sort of homeland. I know that is where I am going or someplace like. Clouds are mesas and rafts, icebergs, a great plume spreading out like volcanic smoke... The shadows are blue, and the land beneath — mountains and sphinxes...
Two hawks fly near me: nearly motionless in the sluicing wind, they hold their places with jerks and flows and adjustments, seesaw describing invisible U’s in the air. A gaze is emitted from them. Wire spokes flash in my eyes, I see wheelchairs.
*
Young woman talking to her friend outside the cafe, they’ve just come out, finished dinner saying goodbye. Pleasing bright features, creamy blonde. A spontaneous performer, every moment of the narration she is giving (that I can’t hear) she illustrates with a vivacious gesture. Warm attentive face, listens to her friend’s story with rapid nods, little frowns and grins as she eagerly sympathizes. What generosity! Luminous eyes (they really are!) whose light spills out and over the curved tops of her cheeks, a surprisingly
He won’t fight I, it. The night in that place gathered together like a sheaf of wheat and was cut in half by the bow-shaped ruby edge of her upper lip, hard and elastic. I sit on the fire escape and tiny cherries adorn the branches — I have only to move my hand to pick them. They sprout directly from the branch, long tubes with brilliant red bulbs at the end. Eating these cherries would be like plucking off bits of rash; they would tear free with a soft rip, a relief for the sighing tree. I look in through the window, into her bedroom. She is somewhere in the remoter parts of the apartment, arranging something. There is a table by the sill, and on it there is a folded map with
CITY OF SEX
in a white panel. Like the City of Destruction, or the City of Commerce.
Some severe-looking models with sad, scrawny bodies, are sitting by the door and ducky is a lean young woman with big glasses — mannerisms of a dowager professor, also of a girl raised entirely among adult WASPs probably already middle-aged when she was born. Her smile is apologetic, but she is lit up with happiness now, who knows why, and bright clean neatness. Walks past me holding her body lightly. She dresses the way I imagine people do on yachts — her mouth as she passed was a compressed vermillion diamond. I can hear how she would say hello, with a dying fall and commiserative expression, much looking down, downcast eyes. Her eyes would rise and fall like sparkling waves.
Ducky’s models rattle together like the contents of an umbrella stand and swing their long hair. I follow her out the door into peachflesh flames and creamy webs of blue fire with golden tips.
His planchette unaccountably begins to move, he sees the bridge’s graceful arch is of interlocking metal beams... Very little commerce in the City of Sex, which is all shining steel and glass like the Crystal Pavilion, and situated exactly under this city, in the hollow earth. Those galleries there are lined with private homes, and business is often conducted in living rooms and kitchens. The natives come in two basic varieties, the tall dark-skinned Day People of the long gestures wafting hands and slow willowy grace, and the rubbery semi-aquatic Night People pale as flounders with bodies like translucent rubber. Here she is on the beach filling out a crossword puzzle with wry sadness, her mouth twisted to one side. She brushes one of his nerves from her face like a lock of hair. With one stroke of his hand he smooths her white summer dress away and sun bounces from honey skin. The northern lights tenderly part their veils to me and I sink beneath her skirts, a pink-tipped violet flame curls up her milky leg.
*
Staring at the clouds until they turn pink with my eyes’ blood: indigo shadows and pink crusts, a familiar, always new landscape, a sort of homeland. I know that is where I am going or someplace like. Clouds are mesas and rafts, icebergs, a great plume spreading out like volcanic smoke... The shadows are blue, and the land beneath — mountains and sphinxes...
Two hawks fly near me: nearly motionless in the sluicing wind, they hold their places with jerks and flows and adjustments, seesaw describing invisible U’s in the air. A gaze is emitted from them. Wire spokes flash in my eyes, I see wheelchairs.
*
Young woman talking to her friend outside the cafe, they’ve just come out, finished dinner saying goodbye. Pleasing bright features, creamy blonde. A spontaneous performer, every moment of the narration she is giving (that I can’t hear) she illustrates with a vivacious gesture. Warm attentive face, listens to her friend’s story with rapid nods, little frowns and grins as she eagerly sympathizes. What generosity! Luminous eyes (they really are!) whose light spills out and over the curved tops of her cheeks, a surprisingly
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