Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Some Comb The Connections

Requiem for refreshment, ill met by the roadside. The real refreshment: Geigelmaus on fire. He of the shortened trousers, the tattooed lip and the confident, cockeyed stare. Now ablaze, after a fashion, smouldering as always and always a hot catch on one of those cloudless, starlit nights when, you know, the cool and the warmth from the moon can take you away from this, even for a moment, and leave you lingering somewhere in that. Oh, you know - aching for that.

Geigelmaus the showman was almost as tall as his publicity shouters proclaimed. He cut a dash all right and made his way through the throng with impressive, enviable ease. (Or, wait. He cut through the crowd like a mallard – or a heron, or any appropriately graceful water wading bird – cutting through the still, moonlit water of a limpid lake. Pond. Or like a knife sliding through butter. A rocket thrusting its way through the night of the sky. A torch light slicing through the darkness.) The point is that his grand entrance involved, at some point, a passing through a crowd that, as you might imagine, was made up of swooners, fawners, sycophants and douchebags. No wonder he held them so. By the time he made the stage his performance was complete. The rest of the evening – the whole four fucking hours of it – was a mere tread through the motions. You could almost hear him sleep.

Geigelmaus, however, remained unmoved. I am, he said, little bothered at all about the way you portray me. I yam what I yam and if it’s good enough for Popeye (he giggled) it’s good enough for me. You see, in the end I always have the last laugh on account of the fact that the magic I do will either bring you great pain or bring you the happiness you have long desired. Which of the two you get is, of course, the choice I make. The point, if I really need to bring it home, is that I am the one deciding how you end up. Oh, the power. I can feel it in my bones. It’s the title, in fact, of my long-awaited autobiography: I Can Feel It In My Bones.

Excerpt: Born in a back-to-back terrace on the great Red Pipe-stone quarry, overlooking the mountains of the prairie. It were a grand life to begin with and we lived like pigs – like pigs – scratching about in the fucking muck and shitting all over each other. But I knew, oh yes I knew, that I was destined for other, better, things and soon it was that I was plucked from the muck and deposited on a soft straw bed of gold spun and pleasure, treated like a young prince with anything I could handle. And so, in time, I grew and soon outgrew my princely status, flowering into a full blown king before, ah the tragedy, before the tragedy struck and I was reduced to the forlorn figure you see before you now, though success and riches comfort me.


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