Read Online The Great Lover by Rhys Hughes, Michael Cisco - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rhys Hughes, Michael Cisco
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the welcoming sounds the melting walls and ceilings, the extended leisurely dinner dissolving with exquisite slowness finally to the primeval bedroom beneath the rafters... sinking for a long time into her gossamer bed and slow-warming body. In my circle I bend forwards and backwards, swinging my face up to the ceiling and down to the floor emitting barks and growls through lips crisp hard and shimmering every hue, like mother of pearl streaked now with tan bile while, in her dream, her lover’s body arches over her and then descends like a pallid sail.
She coos and sighs and spreads her hands on his waxy shoulder blades, his lean hairless body is clean and gentle and soothing, she melts in pink and blonde clouds and sunshafts. I am rocking frantically now, the sewage pool contracts and expands in regular intervals, and inside me somewhere are two parentheses facing each other, glowing with warmth, full with alien pleasure. A vast black bow regularly sweeps the sky as though the shadow of a gargantuan windmill were interposed between this dream and the sun, the dark arm of a machine the size of space. She is becoming abandoned, stopped wanting clouds: she grips and gets urgent, and the two parentheses in him are warmer and warmer without ever becoming hot. They only radiate a vilely delectable warmth. Her clouds rumble together like boulders, she is poised to fall in among them, and when she does the Great Lover’s body shudders and contracts, his nerves lash the ceiling like a whip. I vomit across the floorboards, spatter the dead leaves — my mouth stretches against the laces, my pearly features bulge, I heave thick spurts of fawn bile on the floor.
...She is lazily recoagulating herself in her dream. The clouds are back pink and gold, steaming with milk and honey and butter. In the dark of the room, I shiver and strain with the deepest-churning retchings, black pitch-thick dregs drop from my gaping mouth, hang from wrenched lips like threads of tar. I list forwards. My eyeless face lands on the sloppy boards with a splat, the notebook snaps shut and drops to the floor. Dream boy’s head rises woozily from her shoulder and he gazes down at her with his own stunned eyes.
“ Did I come?” he falteringly asks. She wakes up laughing.
...My eyes roll uncouthly, now back in their own sockets. Through the window, I see the metallic, deep-indigo sky like fragments of mirror. In among the branches I can make out something else: a large pair of perfectly round eyes. An owl is looking at me. Or is it a man?
A big, slovenly gray-haired man with thick glasses?
CHAPTER THREE
At the far end of the subway platform there is a jagged cloud of smoke turning its cheeks in the stale air. It forms sagging, many-jointed fingers that point in the direction of a solitary man standing at the far edge of the platform, gazing into the obscurity of the tunnel. Two twill legs project from his short raincoat, and there is a narrow-brimmed old man hat on his head. This is Armand Hulferde; he’s a scientist .
He looks old; a hollow-chested, slack-shouldered man. His big, flaccid hands, dangling at his sides, look like gardener’s gloves; he has a long toneless face just beginning to drop jowls, and sagging red eyelids. His features were birdlike once, now melting in time. Inside his raincoat his shirt fits loosely on his spare frame, the collar cinched with no necktie, pants belted up over his stomach. There’s a peculiar manner — how to put it — not pleasant to understand about him; more than detachment, he has the affectless air of an appraiser, veins full of smoke. Lately he has spent a great deal of time standing at the far ends of subway platforms, staring deep into the tunnels — and now he finally sees what he wants: a humped shape scuttling along the tunnel wall, an incongruent way of moving, like a suave crab.
Hulferde starts waving at it, trying unobtrusively to get its attention, restricting the movement of his arm
She coos and sighs and spreads her hands on his waxy shoulder blades, his lean hairless body is clean and gentle and soothing, she melts in pink and blonde clouds and sunshafts. I am rocking frantically now, the sewage pool contracts and expands in regular intervals, and inside me somewhere are two parentheses facing each other, glowing with warmth, full with alien pleasure. A vast black bow regularly sweeps the sky as though the shadow of a gargantuan windmill were interposed between this dream and the sun, the dark arm of a machine the size of space. She is becoming abandoned, stopped wanting clouds: she grips and gets urgent, and the two parentheses in him are warmer and warmer without ever becoming hot. They only radiate a vilely delectable warmth. Her clouds rumble together like boulders, she is poised to fall in among them, and when she does the Great Lover’s body shudders and contracts, his nerves lash the ceiling like a whip. I vomit across the floorboards, spatter the dead leaves — my mouth stretches against the laces, my pearly features bulge, I heave thick spurts of fawn bile on the floor.
...She is lazily recoagulating herself in her dream. The clouds are back pink and gold, steaming with milk and honey and butter. In the dark of the room, I shiver and strain with the deepest-churning retchings, black pitch-thick dregs drop from my gaping mouth, hang from wrenched lips like threads of tar. I list forwards. My eyeless face lands on the sloppy boards with a splat, the notebook snaps shut and drops to the floor. Dream boy’s head rises woozily from her shoulder and he gazes down at her with his own stunned eyes.
“ Did I come?” he falteringly asks. She wakes up laughing.
...My eyes roll uncouthly, now back in their own sockets. Through the window, I see the metallic, deep-indigo sky like fragments of mirror. In among the branches I can make out something else: a large pair of perfectly round eyes. An owl is looking at me. Or is it a man?
A big, slovenly gray-haired man with thick glasses?
CHAPTER THREE
At the far end of the subway platform there is a jagged cloud of smoke turning its cheeks in the stale air. It forms sagging, many-jointed fingers that point in the direction of a solitary man standing at the far edge of the platform, gazing into the obscurity of the tunnel. Two twill legs project from his short raincoat, and there is a narrow-brimmed old man hat on his head. This is Armand Hulferde; he’s a scientist .
He looks old; a hollow-chested, slack-shouldered man. His big, flaccid hands, dangling at his sides, look like gardener’s gloves; he has a long toneless face just beginning to drop jowls, and sagging red eyelids. His features were birdlike once, now melting in time. Inside his raincoat his shirt fits loosely on his spare frame, the collar cinched with no necktie, pants belted up over his stomach. There’s a peculiar manner — how to put it — not pleasant to understand about him; more than detachment, he has the affectless air of an appraiser, veins full of smoke. Lately he has spent a great deal of time standing at the far ends of subway platforms, staring deep into the tunnels — and now he finally sees what he wants: a humped shape scuttling along the tunnel wall, an incongruent way of moving, like a suave crab.
Hulferde starts waving at it, trying unobtrusively to get its attention, restricting the movement of his arm
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