Io Saturnalia! (Repost)

                                             And of course                
                MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
                              HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!
                  HAPPY HANUKKAH!!!
                               AND
                  HAPPY KWANZAA!!!

        I THINK THAT'S, OOPS-I think that's all of them.

                    

Have fun, everybody, and thanks for reading!
See you next year!
                                         -Dan

Impromptu Notes For "A Stupid Story" (aka "Rasskaz")

I don't usually take notes, but I like what I initially came up with here when I had my flash of inspiration. Just a 'lil somethin' extra.
Enjoy!


Notes

Lyudmilla and Ivan (and me!)
19th-20th cent. Russia
very cold temps./snowy open steppe
barest hint of a roadway
depot/closed carriage arrives
L. picked up by I., has no known dest.or plan (use any town name - Omsk, Tomsk, Vladivostok, etc.)
characters hate their names, resent me (fourth wall! (sort of) or second wall? eh!)
naked under their clothes (i.e. coats)
night/wave of bitter cold and snow coming
L.+ I. stranded in middle of nowhere
have sex to keep warm (he makes too much semen)
(pepper L.' and I.'s talk with Russ. vocab.)
L. wants a bath to basically douche out semen, I. produces tin tub, melts snow with lantern candle (possible!)
take turns bathing each other (I.burly dude, can't sit well in tub)
nibble on hot cross buns (no idea why this food occurs to me)
sit and talk and sleep (mostly undressed)
near morning I. goes out and sees wheels have morphed into runners! 
way is (miraculously) clear, carriage continues on
chars. grudgingly admit my story is "not that bad"
L. has last line of dialog - "No one will ever read this stupid (vulgar Russ. word)!"
end
submit?/hope for Pulitzer or Booker prize or whatever (HAH!)

Rasskaz

  The light winds wafted a bitter chill over the Siberian steppes, the late afternoon sun inching through deep azure down to the western horizon. Not a sliver of a tree or a wisp of a shrub could be seen around save for some vague black shades in the far distance, and the only standing structure, a dirty, clapboarded way station blemished the otherwise pristine vastnesses of snow. A beautiful young woman emerged alone from the doorway and shaded her squinting eyes from the bright sunlight with a dainty gloved hand, her other one lodged in a muff. She wore a belted mink fur coat, rough leather boots and a grey pillbox ushanka that concealed most of her straw blonde hair. As her eyes adjusted to the light she looked up and down the road scarred by tracks left behind by hoof, wheel and runner. The woman shivered as she pulled a pocket watch from inside her muff and checked it against the sun's position. "Almost 4:30," she mumbled. "Just a few more-" Suddenly to her right she heard a faint rumbling that grew louder in volume with the arrival of a stagecoach pulled by two eager horses in their jingling harnesses and driven by a thick-set man in a long black sable coat and hat. He tugged firmly back on the reins to halt the snorting beasts while the woman carefully made her way to him.
 The man looked down to her with a white-toothed smile gleaming through his russet beard streaked with frost. "Good afternoon, Madame!" he roared jovially. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long out here in this cold!"
 "No. I'm ready to go now," she answered brusquely. "There's no one else here for you to take."
 "Fine, fine! You'll have it all to yourself." He glanced at her feet. "No luggage?"
 "No, I don't need any. It just holds me back," she said as she tugged open the coach door. "We can go after I get inside."
 "All right. But before you climb in I should warn you first that-wait, where are you going?"
 "What?"
 "What is your next stop, if I may ask? Omsk? Tomsk? Krasnoyarsk? Moscow?"
 "Moscow!" the woman spat under her breath.
 "What was that, Madame? Did you say M-?"
 "No, I didn't! I-I have no fixed destination. The next town west will suffice."
 "Well, that would be Pimen, and that's what I wanted to warn you about, Madame. I'm concerned these easterlies will become heavier later on and it will be much harder going on the road."
 "So you're saying-?"
 "I'm saying it won't be good for either of us, or for Masha and Misha," he said smiling down at his patient horses and blowing them kisses, "if we're still barreling into the wind even a verst away from Pimen, which is about a half hour's drive away from here. Fortunately I know a kulak family who sometimes allows me to stay in their old barn because they're now building a bigger one for their animals. It's still a good, strong shelter, though, and all they ask in return are a few bottles of Tokay I get from a Hungarian driver I know. We may need to spend the night there, and the farm is a shorter distance away from here than Pimen."
 "And it will be dark soon," added the woman with a glance at the sinking sun.
 "And you'll notice the winds have gotten just a bit stronger now, too," he said as he clamped a gloved hand over his hat.
 "Oh, Lord, you're right! Then enough talk, just go! And thank you, sir!" The woman pulled the door shut just as the driver again hied Masha and Misha further along the white track.
 Inside she sat down one of the long, plush seats and struggled to stay put as the coach rocked from side to side. The gentle movement made her yawn deeply, so she curled up in her coat and very soon drifted off to sleep.
 "MADAME, CAN YOU HEAR ME?!!" a man's distant voice bored into her unconsciousness, jolting her awake. "What-?!" she gasped, and in the next instant saw that night had had fallen and the winds were now more brutal in their force, cocooning the entire vehicle. Panic thrilled though her body.
 "MADAME, CAN YOU HEAR ME?!!!" the driver's muffled voice sounded through the din.
 "YES, SIR, I CAN!!" the woman shouted back as loudly as she could.
 "WE'RE ALMOST THERE, BELIEVE IT OR NOT!!! PLEASE STAY INSIDE UNTIL I SAY SO!!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!!!"
 "YES, YES, I DO!!!" Soon she could feel the coach pivoting south off the main road. She dared to peek out the window at her right but could only view through the host of snowflakes beating against the glass a few dark buildings huddled in the near distance. At the left window she saw up close wave after wave of snowy pine branches, some occasionally swatting the coach with a wet thwack! thwack! as it sped past them. The woman re-curled up in a tense ball on the floor and listened to the driver's yells.
 "GO, MASHA!!! GO, MISHA!!! MEIN GOTT, IT'S SO-BUT WE'RE ALMOST THERE, MY DEARS!!! JUST A LITTLE BIT MORE!!! HA HA!! GOOD, THE DOORS ARE OPEN!!! GO GO GO!!! HA, VERY GOOD, MY SWEETHEARTS!! WUNDERBAR!! YES, MADAME? WE'RE IN!! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!! YOU CAN COME OUT NOW BUT I NEED YOUR HELP!!! QUICKLY!!"
 The woman tumbled out of the coach and nearly slipped on the hay-strewn floor of a dark, lofty barn. "Here!" barked the driver. "We need to close these!" She hurried over to aid the shadowy figure struggling to swing a door over half of the entrance; she could barely see anything outside for the thick wall of flakes shooting past it. The woman with no little exertion pushed the opposite door shut and at last the driver secured them both with a plank he deftly slid through two brackets. "My G-god! D-didn't think we'd make it!" the panting driver said. "Thank you, M-madame! I-I know I shouldn't have imposed on you like that but-"
 "Lyudmila," the woman replied, smiling shyly. "My name is Lyudmila. And I was happy to help."
 "I-I'm Ivan. Glad to meet you. Now I hate to impose on you f-further, Lyudmila, but c-could you also please h-help me with the h-horses?"
 "Yes, I suppose I could, but I don't know-"
 "W-Wait a minute," he said before pausing a few minutes to catch his breath. "Better. I'll unhitch them and you can lead either Masha or Misha to that little stable in the corner. Don't worry, they both told me they like you so they won't cause you any problems!"
 Lyudmila laughed. "All right!" They walked to the front of the coach where the two mounted candle-lamps flanking the driver's seat cast flickering orange blotches on the horses and the hayloft beyond. "So what-?" began Lyudmila, but abruptly squeaked in terror.
 "What?! What is it?!" asked an alarmed Ivan.
 "I'm sorry. You gave me a fright because you just look so wild! Your hair and beard are are all wet and disheveled. And your hat's gone!"
 "It's out there, of course," Ivan said with a shrug. "It's fine, I keep another one in my trunk behind the coach. But let's get these beauties to bed, shall we?" Ivan flattened down his hair as best he could with gloves on and deftly separated the team from the vehicle. Lyudmila winced as the horses shook the melting snow from their manes, but she cooed to Misha as she gently led her by her bridle into the little stable, followed by Ivan with Masha. After feeding them some hay the two people let them be, and Ivan secured them inside with the lower Dutch door.
 "Now you really should change into some dry clothes," Lyudmila chided.
 "Well-I-I-" began a flustered Ivan.
 "And I see you're shivering, too. Do you have any extra clothes in your trunk?"
 "No, I-don't."
 "What?"
 "I don't wear any clothes under my coat! At all!" he blurted out in exasperation. "I'm naked right now!"
 Lyudmila's eyebrows arched. "Really?" she asked coolly.
 "Yes, totally, except for my boots, of course. And I deeply apologize if that comes as a shock to a lady of such refinement such as you seem to be but-"
 Lyudmila chortled.
 "What the-what's so funny?" he asked.
 "Nothing. Ivan, I think we must not waste any more time now," she purred. "First I just need to ask you one thing, and though you may find it personal it's quite important: do you have a wife or a sweetheart tucked away somewhere?"
 "Wait, Lyudmila-why aren't you shocked by my admission? Don't you want to know why I-"
 "Yes. But please answer my question first, Ivan."
 "Very well. Simply put, for many years now my wife, sweetheart and mistress have pretty much all been that open road out there. Nobody 'tucked away,' as you put it."
 "All right." After a pause she asked, "So the road, has she given you anything in return for all the time you've spent with her?"
 Ivan laughed. "Well, enough kopecks and rubles from transporting people and their baggage all across the country, but no, not much else."
 Lyudmila whipped off her hat and let her pinned-up hair flow languidly around her shoulders, then loosened her coat and let it slide to the floor. Her naked body quivered slightly from the cold.
 Ivan gaped. The horses whinnied.
 "I think I can give you a bit more than that," she purred.

                                    ______________________

 "Whoosh!" Lyudmila gasped as a naked, perspiring Ivan plopped himself next to her on the coach floor, careful not to upset one of two lit oil lamps standing nearby.
 "My God, you are a fiery one, Lyudmila!" Ivan panted.
 "Oh, Ivan, that was-wait a minute!" She lurched up in a sitting position to peer between her legs. "My God, you - um, how to say this - your cannon was primed too well! Some of what you shot into me is just-ugh!"
 "I'm sorry. It's been a while for me."
 "I feel sticky. I may need a bath later, or at least find a way to wash down there."
 "The Bogatstvos have an old tin milk pail they don't use somewhere around here. Sometimes I bathe myself out of it using snow I melt in it with a candle flame. Small and crude but it works for me. I can set it up for you now, if you'd like."
 "No, maybe later, if the winds ebb enough for you to gather the snow. God, they're still going strong, aren't they?"
 "Still, yes." Ivan glided his fingers up and down her wet, shuddering skin. "Are you hungry?"
 "I am a little. Do you have anything?"
 Ivan grinned and nodded. "Be right back," he said, pecking her cheek. He returned a short time later with a large hamper. "Picnic!" Lyudmila exclaimed gleefully.
 "Not quite," said Ivan. "This is just where I store some extra provisions in case I don't make it to the next inn. There's not much in here, only some cheese, a bit of jam, some black bread I bought from a marktplatz back in Gapon, and of course, and because I really like it, my own Tokay! Complete with as yet undamaged champagne glasses!"
 "Wonderful! But 'not much,' you say? It looks like a feast fit for the..."
 "Yes, for who? The Czar, you mean?"
 Lyudmila nodded hesitantly. "Yes, yes, the Czar. Anyway, go and lay it all out already, Ivan! Let's tuck in!" And they ate and drank merrily for nearly an hour, using Lyudmila's dry coat as a picnic blanket while Ivan's hung limply on a peg nailed to a roof post.
 "I'll ask once more: you don't want a wine bath, then?" Ivan asked as he mischievously hovered the Tokay bottle over Lyudmila's crotch. She cackled and shook her head while nudging it away with her fingers. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "Probably cleans better than water."
 "I may change may mind later, though. You never know. But I think it's about time for us to ask why we may be the only two people in Russia to find each other who live naked beneath our coats. That we know of."
 "Good idea! Ladies first."
 "'Ladies!'" snorted Lyudmila. "Pooh! Not me! 'Ladies' wear more clothes than I do, obviously!"
 "Duly noted. Would you have an alternative to 'Ladies first'?"
 "Uhhhh...not 'Ladies first! Yes! How about that?"
 "That sounds like the befuddling answer of a sot, so naturally I accept it. Not 'Ladies first,' please!"
 "Thank you, kind sir!" Lyudmila giggled as she bowed her head to him. "Well, this'll be really hard for you to believe, but...I used to be a vixen living and survive in the woods far north of here, until for no damn good reason the Baba Yaga put a curse on me and transformed me into a really very beautiful human woman."
 "Some curse!" Ivan chuckled.
 "Shush! But instead of leaving me to die naked, cold and hungry out in the wilderness she gave me this coat to wear, along with that muff, hat and boots. But she warned me that if I even so much as wear any other sort of clothing - including even a shift, if you can believe that! - I'd be turned back into a vixen again and she'd hunt me down forever with that horrible chicken-legged house of hers! She added with a cruel laugh that she would never let me die from the fear and exhaustion of always being hunted, though. Too merciful."
 "I see. But you didn't do anything to merit the curse?"
 "No! No no no! Well, maybe. Yes. One particularly cold night I...happened upon that mortar outside her house. You know, the one she flies around in with her pestle? I decided I wanted to sleep there just for that night, and I had just dozed off around midnight when I heard footsteps crunching in the snow heading quickly my way. I was so scared I scampered away into the woods and never looked back. Unfortunately..."
 "Yes?"
 "Before I ran away I had...left something behind in the mortar. I'd rather not say what it was, but of course Baba Yaga saw it, tracked me down and so...poof! Cursed. And that's it."
 Ivan clapped. "Very good, Lyudmila! Well done! Excellent story! And the truth is...?"
 "Oh, I'm secretly battling society, of course."
 "Ah!"
 "Especially when I'm in big cities like Moscow or Kiev or Petersburg. The atmosphere can always feels so polite and regulated and just...stifling...so I decided a long time ago to offer back only the merest facade possible of acceptable dress decorum. And I much prefer traveling the wide open countryside, anyway. Much more room to breathe and fewer people to see you. But in closing I always keep my coat securely fastened, any money I need is safely secured in a pouch sewn just inside its right breast."
 "And over yours!" winked Ivan.
 "But so far no one has been any the wiser. And it's really much easier to undress for bed, bath or...sex." She kissed his neck and whispered sultrily, "Its been a while for me, too. Your turn."
 "Ooh! Well...I was actually the very popular leader of a khlyst, but a few weeks ago abandoned my followers during an intense orgy and left with only my coat, though I also stole someone's hat and boots on the way out. Oh, and also this coach, so I'm not a professional coachman. And I don't know for sure but I think they're hunting me down like Baba Yaga would've you, so we can't stay here too long."  
 "Not bad. You know, I almost believe that!"
 "Please don't. The truth is that I've always been used to the cold out here, except when I'm occasionally caught in a storm like tonight's. But I say why not be a bit freer, as long as no one else notices? We only live once, right? Also it's much easier to take a piss or shit!"
 Lyudmila slapped her forehead. "I knew there was something else!"
 
                                    ______________________
          
  "How do you know any German, Ivan?" Lyudmila asked a little later as he decanted some more wine into their glasses with one hand while nibbling on some bread and cheese with the other. "Well, why do you, actually?"
 A frown briefly clouded his face. "I don't know if I should tell you. You might think it's odd."
 "Are you afraid I'll laugh? I won't, unless it's really funny!"
 "It isn't, not to me. All I wanted to do once in a while was study enough to carry on a conversation with the Czarina just in case...just on the off-chance that she might somehow one day require a ride in my coach. Maybe. Silly, I know. My Hungarian friend also knows German so he was the one taught me, though it wasn't easy. Let me see if...ah! Guten Abend, meine Fraulein! Wie gehen Sie heute? Ich bin sehr gut. Glauben Sie, das meines Deutsch is sehr ausgezeich-"
 "All right, Ivan! Yes, that's very good."
 "Vielen dank!" he said with a grin.
 "I think there are more practical reasons to want to learn a new language, but conversing in German with the Czarina doesn't sound silly to me at all. If you've really worked at it you could even apply to be her own personal translator. Who knows?"
  Ivan solemnly shook his head. "I'll never know. Because unfortunately that was all back before Khodynka Field."
  Lyudmila's eyes widened. "Khodynka Field?"
  Ivan sighed. " I lost absolutely all interest in studying any more after that terrible tragedy, especially considering how distant both the Czar and Czarina seemed, though they made an effort to visit the wounded. I felt especially disappointed in her, and now...now I really wish I could just unlearn all I know. Nothing against the Germans or their language, but ...it's like a damned little plague still lurking and teasing in my mind, and sometimes, as you've heard, it'll slip out in my speech. Not quite as much as there used to be, though, thank God. But-wait, what's the matter, Lyudmila?"
 "I-I-damn it!" she sputtered, dabbing her wet eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just, Khodynka...no, never mind."
 "No, what? You can tell me," Ivan said, laying a hand over hers. "Were you at Khodynka?"
 "No, I wasn't. My betrothed was, though. Sergei. My beautiful Sergei!"
 "Oh. What happened to him?"
 "I'll tell you, but just very briefly. It's still much too painful for me."
 "Make it as brief as you need, my dear. Go on."
 "We-we were deeply in love, and he wanted to show his love for me by giving me an early wedding present."
 "Oh no."
 "And what better wedding gift for a young Russian bride than a memento commemorating the coronations of the brand new Czar and Czarina?"
 "Lyudmila..."
 "A cup! A cup with a gold coin inside! A treasure within a treasure! Things a woman could cherish forever! Because they're from him! He went all the way to to Moscow on foot from Kazan and waited in that field all the previous evening and into the very early morning in the hopes of getting those treasures. Just for me. His little wife-to-be."
 "Stop."
 "My beautiful Sergei." Her voice shook. Tears dripped heavily onto her breasts. "And do you know what happened to him, Ivan?" she asked looking up into his face.
 "Please don't, Lyudmila."
 "They wouldn't let me see his body!" she cried. "Not at first. Mamma and Papa begged me not to see it, because they knew, they were told, but no one could tell me! I was angry about that at the time but now I think, how the hell could they? But I still went! Of course I went! I insisted! He was my love, my life, everything! In my heart I knew he was dead, I had already accepted it. I would mourn him, but I just...needed to see him. One last time. Kiss his cold lips. Touch his still hands. Stroke his pale cheek. Beautiful Sergei! And...when they showed me...when they took me to the place in the hospital where all of these shrouded bodies lay next to each other on the morgue's dirty floor...they took me to his body...warned me about what I'd see...I trembled, but still insisted...and then someone lifted that horrible blood-soaked sheet...and I laid my eyes upon his body and then suddenly I...I vomited! I couldn't, couldn't-oh!" She broke down and sobbed into Ivan's chest.
 "Lyudmila," he said softly as he cradled her. "I'm so sorry."
 "No!" she exclaimed, pulling away. "I can't think about...that again! Him, I mean, again! I can't! Any of it! Please, Ivan, let's talk about something else! Please!"
 "No, no more talking tonight, I think. Or eating or drinking. But if you still would want to, we can...one more time."
 "Yes. Yes, I do! Thank you, Ivan. And then afterwards the wine bath. All right?"
 "Of course, my dear."
  Lyudmila smiled weakly and brushed her tears away. She reached for his penis and caressed it in her hand as his slipped his between her thighs. Their mouths locked in a hungry kiss as they both slowly leaned back onto the floor.

                                  ______________________                        

 "Where have you been?" a fully dressed Lyudmila asked Ivan early the next morning as he embraced her from behind. They stood on the threshold of the reopened doorway and gazed out on the much calmer scene. Sunlight fell upon the land from the east, although it barely filtered to them through the mile-long belt of heavily snow-covered trees at their right. At least a foot of snow reached up almost to their knees.
 "I think you first meant to say 'Good morning,' Lyudmila!" said Ivan.
 "Good morning, Lyudmila. Where have you been?"
 "Clever. First, how do you feel?"
 "I'm feeling better now, just needed a few hours of sleep. Thank you for asking. Where have you been?"
 "Insistent little vixen, aren't you? First I got dressed, went to check and feed the horses, and then went out that side door there and trudged over to the Bogatstvos' house with the Tokay I set aside for them. Not quite easy with this new covering, that's for sure! I saw their new barn and it looks really good, very well constructed, and it's almost complete except over an open spot in the roof covered with a tarp."
 "But all their animals you said were inside are all right?"
 "Yes. They may have been a bit spooked but they're fine today. And when I talked to the family and mentioned that you and I were stranded in here all night, they insisted I bring you over for some breakfast. Grandmama Olga definitely wants to meet you!"
 "But-I'm not-we're not-"
 "No, but they don't need to know that. Or anything we did. It's just politeness. On the rare occasions when I need to stay here I'm always by myself, and some of the young men come out to re-attach the horses and help turn the coach around so I can be on my way." He looked down at the thick blanket of snow. "But I don't think that's going to happen for a while. So-are you game to go over there?"
  Lyudmila smiled. "Yes, I am, actually. I think I drank more than I ate last night, so I'm feeling a bit famished."
 "Excellent! It will be rough going from here to the main house, but I've made a sort of path for us." He led her to the side door and showed her a clumsy, narrow trail he had kicked and swept apart with his boots in the powdery snow. Lyudmila saw the same squat, dark buildings from the previous night but in a much clearer view. They both noticed a few people waving vigorously to them from the front porch of the main house, and returned the gesture.
 "I suppose I should ask you this now, Lyudmila, though I don't want to, but where will you go from here? You're still my passenger, you know. What's your next stop?
 They had begun trudging down the path, Lyudmila in front, when she turned to face him. "I've already decided as far as you're going. Please, Ivan?  I've just been wandering around for so long since Sergei died and-I just want to be with you for as long as possible. Besides I still haven't paid you, either."
 "Oh, don't even fret about that now. And you can ride with me to Pimen or wherever else you want to go. It's your choice. So where can I take you, Lyudmila?"
 She looked north to where the road lay, barely visible from where they stood, and moved her gaze down eastward where the sunlight was still continuing its push against the retreating darkness. She breathed hard through her nostrils and answered him in a cracked voice.
 "Moscow."


DB/finished 12.19.14

  




 

Unmitigated Mahogany

Solzhenitsyn is in the garden
making a beeline to the kitchen door.
Sprinkle the cinnamon down the laundry chute
for I have no cognac to pour.

Dump the czar's body in the Mother Volga.
I see the desert in my bowl.
Set me free in Arabic splendors
and daguerreotype my soul.

I perch in the dying conifer tree
and view the Chautauquan revel nearby.
The lemonade feels warm on my dry lips
and there's hardly a star in the sky.

Yes, lap quickly from your saucer, Puccini;
it's too dangerous here for you and me.
Tomorrow we sail in the dark of the sun
on our steadfast raft - The Jennie E.


DB/c1991,2014

David and Goliath

i plodded thru
the wet, fog-enshrouded
city streets
one night
then turned to confront
the person behind me
and it was
Lavrenti Beria (1899-1953)
levelling a submachine gun at me
he smiled without smiling
and laughed without laughing
i felt in my pockets
for something,
anything,
and found a bit
of a rubber eraser
and so...well,
here's a tip:
if you jam it tightly
and quickly enough
into the muzzle...


DB/c1998, 2014

A Sad Story

 Catherine of Braganza wanted to play whist with her husband King Charles II.
 She found him in his bedchamber lying stark naked on top his favorite mistress Nell Gwyn. He was thrusting away at her like nobody's business and working up a pretty good sweat doing it.
 Now Catherine knew that Charles kept many mistresses and she tolerated and accepted them and his fuckaholism, even though that usually left her sexually bereft of his penile favor. But she would be damned if he left her bereft of of a whist partner! He at least owed her that favor, if nothing else.
 So Catherine, who really didn't much care to just request him to come, hoisted him off of Nell's shapely body with all her might - right at the point of their carnal consummation.
 Needless to say, Nell's crotch got a hot semen bath, nobody played whist and everyone went to bed mad.
 Isn't that sad? (Or really just too bad?)


DB/c1998,2014

Sleep Song

It's time
 for tired eyes
to shut
 and for yawning mouths
to close.
 The Autumn moon sits
 unblinking
over the cold leafless night.

Have you the big quilt?
 Let it shield us
from morning.
 Alive is what we are,
so let's celebrate
 by sleeping here
and having the night
 to ourselves
a little while longer,
 my love.


DB/c1996

Potting Sheds and Tiring-Houses

Ned Buntline-in the West-took a bullet to the head
using his own hand, of course.
Czar Pyotr grew so awfully tall
that he nearly fell off his bronze horse.

Mon frere! Adieu! she cried (the little fool!)
as she dropped herself into the wide murky pool.
Ah! but the water bubbled up and then
my gassy girl rose to the surface again!

A potting shed and a tiring-house:
one in th' heather, the other in th' dark,
admitting some yet refusing all.
For a fee she will make you the Tears of the Moon.

The enrob'd pleurant in the tower of Chartes
must move it aloft with each passing fart.
If I've said it before I'll say it to thee:
Sie ist la belle dame sans merci.

Oh! perhaps I should right now be abed,
The cocaine absinthe has left you quite dead.
Ah! you are alive! but I've not more to say
so, sirrah, I shall be on my way.


DB/5.17.04,2014

The Fags Outnumber the Boazers

  


                                                                                          the fags outnumber
                                                                                          the boazers
                                                                                          about a million
                                                                                          to fifty
                                                                                          clear the football
                                                                                          field, my lads
                                                                                          it's just about
                                                                                          that time...
                                                       the Daemon Headmaster
                                                       will referee
                                                       and then afterwards
                                                       shoot the injured
                                                       but their bumboat women...
                                                       will they all
                                                       find love again?
                     Old Ashe remembers:
                     "please, sir,
                      i'm very attached
                      to my skin
                      it's very much
                      like a greatcoat
                      for my skeleton
                      please, sir...no, please...sir...NO!!"

                     "ALL RIGHT, then!
                      take out your scimitars
                      and your guns
                      and your heavy damaging
                      crossbows
                      no, Frye, nuclear waste-
                      filled balloons
                      are NOT ALLOWED!!"
                                                    the fags outnumber
                                                    the boazers
                                                    about a million
                                                    to fifty
                                                    but then, you know
                                                    Bannockburn was won
                                                    with a little more
                                                    than fifty (i think)...
                                                                                         get ready now!
                                                                         (my God, look at 'em all!)
                                                                                          are they really
                                                                                             ready to die
                                                                                        in a bloody silly
                                                                                         second English
                                                                                            Civil War?...




                                                         
                                                       well, no
                                                   of course not
                                           PLEASE DON'T BE SO
                                         DAMNED RIDICULOUS!!
                                           now let's have some tea
                                             and sing "Don't Look
                                                  Back In Anger"
                                                      by Oasis.
                                                        adieu

                                                        


Inspired (in part) by Roald Dahl's "Boy"

DB/c1998, 2014
                                                               
                                                            
                                                
                                                         
                        
                                   

                                                                                         
                     
                    
                  
                                                                                           
                                                                                 

Aggie Dovecote and All Her Pals: Pt.1, Ch.5

                                                      V


 "Mummay, cawn't I have a qwick bedtime stowway before I go 'ome? Pwease!" a now fully clothed, cloched, and cloaked Aggie cutely begs of Mary as she blithely hops down the front steps, with Emilie trailing behind. Now at just half past nine the rain has completely ceased, with only thick droplets plummeting from eaves, trees and lampposts.  The night air is damp and cool, and a certain lush stillness drapes the sodden neighborhood.
 Mary smiles and sighs wearily. "Ohhh, no, I don't think so, little one, not tonight."
 "But-but I wanna hear da stowway 'bout 'Da Button an' da Bwown-Hole!'"
 "What the-?!" Emilie interjects.
 "I've already said 'no' to you before, and I shan't change my mind now. The taxi will be here-"
 "But Mummay!-"
 "No. And mind that's a soft, patient 'no', understand?"
 "But dag nabbit, I said 'please!'"Aggie protests.
 "No, you said 'pwease', not 'please'. Not the same thing."
 "Yes, it-is. Or...wait..."
  Emilie chuckles. "I don't know what you two are going on about but you could probably play the Vaudeville Theatre with material like that."
 "I rather doubt it, but thank you, Emilie," Aggie says with a small curtsey.
 "Oh, that's not my name, just that of the unsung lady I showed up as tonight. In fact, may I formally introduce myself, at least for your sake, Miss Dovecote?"
 "Oh, please call me Aggie, Agrippina if you're ever really quite upset with me."
 "Ha ha! I'm sure I shan't be, but will do. Anyway, my real name is Lidia Belzoni, soprano suprema of the Royal London Opera, at your service, though of course you already know that, Mary. Yes, my name may be richly Italian but I've lived only in England my whole life and consider myself totally British, though I must admit I really quite enjoyed that American beer you'd been drinking all evening, Miss D-Aggie."
 "It's the smokiness that gives Schmpf such a swell flavor. And like their slogan says: 'Schmpf's Got Oomph!'"
 "Actually I loved it. I hope you'll consider importing more for your July bash, Mary."
 "Only if you'll come and perform again."
 "I suppose, but only if I may sing arias and not those...well, actually I did enjoy performing at least some of those odd popular songs you asked me to sing. Perhaps if I could alternate between those and my bella arias next time?"
 "That would be perfectly fine, Lidia."
 "Um, Aggie, I also wanted to thank you for what you did for me with those awful little twits earlier. Maestro Contini informed me of it after I escaped that...well, orgy, I suppose it was. My God!" She shoots a look of disgust at Mary, who shrugs. "I know you didn't have to do it but still, thank you." She offers her hand, which Aggie immediately shakes.
 "Oh, you're quite welcome, Lidia; they were just so absolutely consarned rude to you. And I, in my turn, would like to thank you for your comforting words after my...my..." Aggie blushes and glances shyly down at the sidewalk.
 Emilie touches Aggie's arm and sighs. "I saw you from my dais, and as far as that went you had no other choice. And it doesn't matter how much you've had or how ever much they seem to look down on you they could and should have ceased their bloody waltzing and aided you in your time of need by allowing you to reach the w.c. before that happened. Hmpf! Noblesse oblige, my fat bottom!"
 "I believe Lidia's right, Ag," adds Mary. "I'm really beginning to think I shouldn't have any of these uncouth people in my home in future, even for any more of my parties. I've actually quite had it now with the, yes, Lidia, little orgies or whatever they are and the grotesque public display of their haute addictions that I've graciously allowed. But even if I invited the same number as tonight they would all probably RSVP as 'no' in half a heartbeat, and if so then so be it. To hell with 'em! And wipe that pout off of your face, Ag, I know what you're thinking! Self-flagellation does not become you, so stop it!"
 Aggie shapes her moue into a small amused grin and curtsies once more.
 "If I may change the subject," says Lidia, "could you please tell me who they are?" She points up to the large drawing room window where two women and a man amiably chat and occasionally glance down at them, the women sipping from slender champagne glasses and the man from a beer bottle. "They said as we were going out that they were wary of more rain coming, even though they do seem to be getting wet enough anyway! It's understandable, I suppose."
 "Aw, he's got the last Schmpf from the tub!" moans Aggie.
 "Don't worry, pet, I have some more in the icebox. That blonde lady there, Lidia, is Diana Dumont, and that other blonde is Floradora Canning. Adora, for short.
 "Well, how adora-ble! Weren't they the Wilde and Douglas duo from the party?"
 "Yes, and they've also just used up all the hot water in my shower bath."
 "Both?" Lidia leans closer to Mary and whispers, "I don't want to assume wrongly, and know I shouldn't assume at all, but...are they-?
 Mary winks. "Oh yes, they are. Indeed."
 A smile flickers across Lidia's lips. "Interesting. What-do they do?"
 "They're cohabitating co-artists, call themselves 'neo-Fauvists'. They basically paint abstracts on large canvases, but you won't find any of them displayed in London's more 'respectable' galleries. Mostly they've been sold to scarcely lit bohemian West End clubs with rather peculiar names like 'Adad' and 'Schmerz'. But what's incredible is that Di and Addie have earned more than enough - oh, what was that word Ag used? - dough from selling them to get by on."
 "All right. Well, as co-neo-Fauvists do they use any method in particular?"
 Aggie and Mary swap uneasy glances. "Method?" Aggie asks.
 "Why, yes. Do they have one? It's not any sort of special secret, is it, because I'll understand-"
 "No, it's nothing like that," Mary says. "It's just...it's a bit..."
 "Scandalous," Aggie finishes.
 Lidia laughs softly and shakes her head. "Really? Ladies, I'm an operatic soprano who for the last few hours has regaled those people with songs like 'How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down On The Farm After They've Seen Paree?' and 'I Scream You Scream We All Scream For Ice Cream' and such like oddities! Now that may be just enough, or perhaps not even enough, to cause a bit of chatter, and I can certainly bear up against that, but even if you say there's madness in their method (so to speak) I could probably match that with stories of nearly every one in my company rutting like mad pigs, some some even in public! Yes! There was, for example, Olimpia Puzzini and Jan Dubcek naked under a table at the Folies Bergere-"
  Mary coughs loudly.
 "Right. Oh well, another time, perhaps. But I so wanted to tell you what they did with the tray of butter pats! And believe me, ladies, it was quite wicked!"
 "Just out of curiosity, Lidia," says Aggie, "if you would have no problem relating such a story to us then why did you rush away from that orgy, or whatever it was, like I saw you do?"
 "I'm not a prude, Aggie. I have nothing at all against sex except when it's about to be vigorously performed in my vicinity by other randy buffoons, that's all. Ugh! But returning to Misses Dumont and Canning, please tell me what their method of painting is. If it's not such a fottuto secret then, what?"
 "They actually don't use traditional canvasses, per se," says Mary. "Instead they unroll large sheets of paper on the floor of their flat, get just drunk enough to still be able know what they're about, then strip naked and lovingly slather each other's bodies in primary colors. And then the work begins."
 "H-how?" Lidia asks breathlessly.
 "Simple. They careen all over the papers whilst making violent, torrid love to each other. Then they make violent, torrid love again whilst showering off all that slimy paint and waiting for their masterpieces to dry. Then afterwards there's the framing and selling and displaying and all that tedious stuff, but their method is a rather interesting one, yes? And scandalous perhaps even in this day and age. I should also add that all their output has been rather impressive, if not a bit untidy."
 "Mary, remember the one we saw a year ago at that Negro club in Kensington, the one I think was called 'Jelly's Jumpin' Hot Box?'"
 "Yes! Good memory, Ag! Now that was a night!"
 "So-so do they have paintings on show at various places in London, then?" asks a stunned Lidia.
 "In the West End, mostly. Would you like to know where they're all located, Lidia, if you want to view them? They really are quite good.'"
 "Actually yes, but not tonight. I'll ring you before the week's out."
 "Lovely. I'll be sure to expect your call, then."
 Lidia glances back up at the window. "They do make a nice couple, don't they?"
 "They do, indeed," says Aggie softly.
 "And him? What's his story?"
 "Ah, that is-" Mary begins, but stops and gazes dreamily up at the man, who pauses in his muffled conversation with Diana and Adora to beam warmly at her.
 "Mary, are you all right?" asks Lidia.
 "Hm? Oh, yes. Um, he's Lord Archibald - no, Arch, Arch Windham. Or Archie. He despises being called that. A-archibald, I m-mean. Ahem!"
 "What! He's a lord, Mary?" Aggie asks incredulously.
 "Yes, Arch is a nib, but he's a good nib - no, a good friend I've known since we were both quite small. And what he did tonight absolutely proves it." 
 "What he did? Wait! He was one of those naked 'Titan' chaps, wasn't he?"
 "Yes, he was, Ag."
 "Quite a good friend indeed!" murmurs Lidia.
 "And brave," adds Aggie. "But where are the other three, Mary? Did they leave already?"
 "Yes, they needed to go, but they give you their regards and hope you're doing much better now."
 "Oh, that's nice! Would you please thank them for me if and when you see them next?"
 "Of course."
 "And here's your taxi at last, Aggie," says Lidia, as yet another one sidles up next to the ladies on the curb.
 "Summon call fer a cab?" the old gruff-looking, bewhiskered driver, quite different from the young and curious one from six o'clock, asks through the half-open passenger window.
 "I did, for my friend here," Mary tells him.
 "Excuse me, sir," Aggie says, "but could you wait for just a few more minutes? There's something I need to do."
 "Ag?"
 "Be right back." She hurries back up the front stairs and disappears into the house, only to re-emerge seconds later in the front window where she energetically exchanges friendly goodbyes and quick pecks with the three young people.
 "Arww, whatsis then, eh?" mutters the cabman. "Bloody wimmen allus needin' one more convo 'fore they go!"
 "Oh, hold your damn horses!" Mary chides sharply.
 "Yes, and the horsepower they came with! Stay put! And shush!" adds Lidia.
 "Arww!"
 "All right, here I come!" says a hurriedly returning Aggie. "Please open that back door, Mary!"
 "I say, would you like me to sing you off into the night, Aggie?" asks Lidia cheerfully. "I'll try to be as soft as possible."
 "Will you really? That would be so lovely, yes, thank you!"
 Aggie slides into the back seat as Lidia in pianissimo begins "Addio, senza rancor" from La Boheme.
 "Oi, wot's that fat bird singin'?" demands the cabman. "Sounds arful!"
 "It's opera! And that beautiful 'bird' told you to shush, you scary old thing!" snaps Mary.
 "Hrmm!"
  Mary leans into the taxi's interior.  "Ag, do you still have that fare money?"
 "Right here in my, I mean your coat pocket, thank you. I'll pay you ba-"
 "No, no. And I hope you'll understand if I ask you not to call on me tomorrow, because I've got to refurnish the drawing room and have Cadwyn clean up some more. Hopefully she won't try to give notice again."
 "That's fine. Shall I ring you tomorrow evening?"
 "Absolutely!"
 Aggie frowns. "And...Teddy?" she whispers.
 "Ginny phoned when you ladies were in the shower. Her friend called his name as he drove around here and eventually found the poor man hiding and sobbing amongst some dustbins not far from here, but by now he should be safe and sound, completely warm and dry and clothed and doubtless taking late tea and biscuits back at his own flat in Whitechapel. No need to fret anymore."
 "That poor man! Now I really must apologize-"
 "You shall, you shall. Eventually." She again kisses Aggie gently on the forehead. "But it's good night for now, little one."
 "Goo' night, Mummay. And Lidia? Thanks again."
 Lidia winks.
 "Se vuoi, se vuoi, serbarla a ricordo d'amor!"
 Mary shuts the door and bangs twice on the side. "Take 'er away, cabbie! Bethnal Green!"
"Finally!" grunts the cabman. "Allus one more convo!" 
 As the taxi drives off Aggie waves a vigorous farewell  to her friends old and new, and they gladly mirror her. She eases back into the plush seat and sighs deeply as hot tears again flood her wan face, the last line of Lidia's aria cooing gently in her addled mind. 
 "Addio, senza rancor."

 _____________________________________________________________


 In the cozy dinginess of her flat's living room Aggie, swaddled in her robe and pajamas, relaxes in a tattered armchair under a dusty shaded lamp and pores intently over Thrilling Wild Western Tales, an American pulp magazine, one of many issues of various genres she owns sloppily heaped up in a pile in the corner where she sits. Aggie lifts a cracked china teacup from the wobbly end table and imbibes another sip or two of chamomile tea; she dares to again peer into the chiaroscuro eeriness of the room, laying eyes on the shadowy hulks of a faded green baize loveseat flush against the wall to her right, its own fraying antimacassar sadly complementing it in shoddiness, and just beneath it a small, cowering coffee table spotted with amoeba-shaped smudges, a poor relation of the one that served the 'Titans' well. And then near to these is the barely more fit twin of her chair diagonally facing her, in the gloom seeming almost to glare back in sullen envy.
 Aggie cranes her neck to glance through the archway behind her into the dining area. The light only touches the rear frameworks of a few varnished oak chairs and part of a ghostly white tablecloth pending low to the thin butterscotch-colored carpet. She shudders and considers switching on another light or two, or even kindling a temporary fire in the hearth near her feet, but the yawn she barely stifles convinces her it's about time for bed. She rises and nearly trips over one of the two padded footstools in front of the hearth, but she cups her hands on the mantel and once again gazes lovingly at her most prized possession in the whole wide world: the pipe collection she inherited from her dear mother.
 There aren't many of them, only about four or five perched upright in their ebony rack, mostly unremarkable. But Aggie smiles when she sees the corncob she remembers her mother smoking whenever she read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, one of their mutually favorite books, aloud to her in the parlor after dinner, the smoke's writhing, pirouetting curls and its heavy sweetness hypnotizing the rapt girl into dreaminess amidst her mother's lively narration. The lucid memory makes Aggie suddenly wish she was taking a few puffs on it instead of drinking herbal tea by a dark fireplace. Her antique shelf clock pings eleven times, and with a heavy sigh she moves back to her chair.
 She doesn't bother looking out at the damp city through her droplet-streaked window again, knowing it'll only remind her of Teddy, safe though he is and really much closer to her in distance than she knew before. Instead she looks over at the tall bookcase behind her chair and the many secondhand tomes of different sizes, colors and subjects crammed inside from top to bottom. Aggie folds a corner of the page of Western Tales she had left off reading and lays it carefully on the pile. She takes a cursory look at her book collection and on a whim tugs out the thick and raggedy Pedant's History of England, Vol.1. She resits and flips casually through the first few pages, only to have her attention abruptly arrested by one of the few color pictures the book provides. It's one she remembers coming across here some years before and had given her at most a mild jolt, yet it now births a mischievous idea in her mind when she then remembers the third and last of Mary's annual parties. Aggie never attends it, though, instead opting to remain at home, read and smoke a pipe by a small, cozy (and existing) fire. But now as she gapes at this picture with an obscene relish, her interest in that party - and the day it falls on - grows and strengthens quite intensely.
 Halloween.
 Aggie chuckles.
 Oh, good-bye, 'Time's Renewal', good-bye!
 She snaps the book shut, drains her cup, and after surrendering her home to the patient darkness yawns deeply and shuffles off to bed.


 DB/Ch.I-V, 2013-14




                               TO BE CONTINUED (EVENTUALLY)
                           IN 'AGGIE DOVECOTE: DOMESTIQUE'


 Guess what, all?
 I have a suggestion for Aggie's theme song, if she could have one.
 Ready to hear it?
 You sure?
 Okay...here it is...
 (Drum roll)

 'Liberty' by Steve Vai!!

 Hell, yeah!
 I know it's an odd choice but I think it's perfect, and I hope you do, too.
 I also hope you enjoyed reading this first of my three 'Aggie' stories.
 Thank you all so much for your interest in my work.
 

 

 



               

                          













                                              



 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
   


 
 


 

 


 
 

Peace(lessness) Be Unto You

Ah will tell yew now
 An' Ah says it wail -
All 'em faggits
 Is goin' ta Hail.

An' not onlee them
 (Ah don' make th' rules)
But hippo-crates, lars,
 Sland'rers an' fools.

An' there's onlee one
 God thet'll pleeze us!
An' yew know who 'tis:
 It's th' wite Christan Jeezus!

But Ah'll end it here
 By tellin' it true,
As a fella hooman bein'
 Thet Ah love yew.



DB/2.26(+9/7).2014

Traum

                   

                                                     Once

                                      All the Old Gods dead and still,
                                      Sweet laughter muted,
                                      Dust their only beloved.
                                                                       

                                             
           
                                                                              
...I have a dream,
that one day
little British schoolboys
and little British schoolgirls
everywhere
will RISE UP
against their evil headmasters,
ridiculous teachers
and sour-faced cooks
and put them all to the compass!
I have a dream...

       -Amen!
       -Yes, Lord, yes!

...I envision a world
without stale popcorn balls,
sticky peppermint drops,
dead Elmos and Furbies
and garland on Christmas trees...

       -Da, da, tovarisch!!!
       -Tell it, tell it!

...I envision that same world peopled
with freshly bathed, perfumed
and powdered demi-mondaines
who will possess brand new copies
of Zola's Nana
to be read comfortably
in their lofty, gaudy salons,
and their old, severely soiled copies
of the same book
will be given gratis
to any of the unwashed, half-naked putains
who want them (as a learning tool)...

     -Oh yes, Lord, yes!
     -Da, da! Amen!
     -Tell us more, tell us more!

...But I also see our world
here and now
peopled with many
a Petit Gervais
casting about anxiously and fruitlessly
in search of his stolen
forty-sous piece
and many a fragile little
Edward Gorey-ish girl
weeping piteously over
the loss of her
favourite hair ribbon,
sunk in despair,
her small hands covering
her tear-stained doll face.
NO! THESE THINGS MUST NOT BE!...

      -YES, YES! TELL IT, TELL IT!
        OH, LORD, HELP THOSE POOR
        CHILDREN, PLEASE HELP THEM,
        LORD!

...People,
we cannot rely on the flared nostrils
of Rudolph Valentino
or the soft, juicy nipples
of Sally Rand
ANY MORE!...

      -YES, YES!
      -THAT'S RIGHT!

...FILIPPO LIPPI AND N.C. WYETH ARE DEAD!
   KAHLO IS DEAD!
   EVEN ARTEMESIA GENTILESCHI
   IS DEAD!(maybe)
  WE MUST NOW BE ABLE TO
   COME TOGETHER,
   FORGE A NEW PATH,
   MILK OUR OWN COWS,
   LOOK UP, STAND UP,
   AND MARCH PROUDLY, GLORIOUSLY
   AND RATHER EFFORTLESSLY
   INTO THE FUTURE!...

     -AMEN, LORD, AMEN!
     -TELL US MORE, TELL US MORE!
     -YES, TELL US MORE!

...No.
   And stop calling me 'Lord'...

DB/c1996,2014
  
        

This Is Not A Poem Title

                                                          This is.


                         A Meagre Gift Of Mediocre Words Adequately
                         Conveying Birthday Wishes To Antonio Salieri
                         On This His Two Hundred And Forty-Ninth
                         Birthday, The Eighteenth Of August In This Year
                         Of Nineteen Hundred And Ninety-Nine A.D.
      
                                           

    Scusi, Signor.
    I don't know where you are now,
    but I will not take up too much of your time.
    All I want to do on this grey, overcast,
    wet August day here in the New World
    is wish you the happiest...well, just
    a happy birthday, Signor Salieri.
    And if not a happy one, well...
    at least not a mediocre one (ha! ha!).
    I  must confess, sir,
    that not not long ago I was planning to compose
    a poem blasting you to eternal damnation
    because of what happened with...him.
   
   Yes, now I know the truth.
   
   Well, I will take my leave of you now,
    yet before I go I should say one thing more:

    For every eternal genius, no matter what they excel at,
    there are probably thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, oceans
    of mediocrities.

    These geniuses, I believe,
    are few and far between, especially today.

    We outnumber them all.

    Coraggio! You are not alone.

    Happy Birthday, Signor Salieri!

    Addio!


    Now go suck on Venus' nipples s'more, you ol' pastry-munching bastard!



    DB/8.18.1999,2014



  


         





            
                

Cor

Sittin' on the kerb.
Haven't got a klew.
Here comes the bloke
Wot'll fix me tyre.

I know that yob
Sittin' in that lorry!
He raped that one bird!
Gimme your gun, mate...


DB/c1996,2014

A Hearth In Old White Siberia

              
                              cold Crystal Pepsi lake
                              sad bird-women pleading
                              from mercy from frost giants.
                              myriad snow mounds conceal-
                              ing silent Lindow-like souls
                              never to rise up again
                              (maybe)

                              and the snow dachas w/all
                              their glowing eyes had fallen
                              save mine(the mounds?)and
                              my hearth thawed dreams
                              too sweet and candycane
                              to bleed the crudest oil.
                              (yum)

                              once-once-in the nacht
                              w/out my arched window i
                              espied shawled Milla Jovovich
                              cradling a glowing candle
                              and singing in the frost,
                              maybe about bleeding Chechnya.
                              (dunno)


oh ruddy, unhurried hearth! deliver me, protect me,
save me from the Old Nicks disguised as wights
w/their sacks of new indulgences
they want to fill my dirty, decrepit sneakers with,
but allow the souls of the saved and the damned
who circle our skies a brief respite by your fiery guest
until they must inevitably continue their ethereal orbits
into eternity.
                                                                    Amen



DB/c1998


          

O To Be Blest Wythe Twa Penae

O to be blest wythe twa penae
That coulde servyce twa whores 't once.
Ah, coulde a gent'lmanne hayve suche a boone
pleasurynge mayne luscious cuntes?

And to pisse in twa bowles 't once
And mayhappe get somme oralye sex.
That's all I canne think of righte now.
Wrytinge Englysshe lyke this kinde of suckes.

And yes, I knowe that did nott rhyme. Fucke offe!



DB/9.22.2001,2014



Oh, look! Some extra lines!

And youe canst helpe but reallie wynne
Wenn commitynge Onan's "synne."

And yes, that onne slipt my mynde. Double fucke offe!


There you go!


DB/5.5.14

Aggie Dovecote and All Her Pals: Pt.1, Ch.4

                                                          IV


 Charles Dickens sniffs the air as he sashays with Lady Jane Grey and asks her if she notices a "certain *sniff*...rather strong odor in here, as if *sniff sniff*someone had allowed a farm animal inside as a joke and *sniff*and the animal...well, confound it, smell for your yourself, madam!" She also sniffs the air and echoes Charles' observation, as do other dancers who who stop and do their best bloodhound imitations. Very quickly all follow their noses to Aggie, who grins sheepishly at people gaping at her in jaw-dropping shock. Then as if psychically sharing the same thought they all, including a drawn Ginny and her fitful 'Cleo Duo', as it were, stumble collectively to the umbrella stand, nearly coming to blows as they make fevered grabs for the ones they arrived with, then wait at the door to bid their confused hostess a huffy "Good Evening!" before streaming outside.
 "Hmpf! Well, 's long 's I'm wearin' 'em might 's well bloody use 'em, right?!" Aggie shouts angrily. "You were all in my way anyhow s' what choice did I 'ave - and you all so dad-gummed rude for not allowin' a beautifully naked an' nakedly beautiful gurgle-oh-oops, I mean gurgle(shit!) - GIRL! - to get to th' crapper (ha ha! 's what they call it in America too, no lie!) an' let 'er do 'er...whatnot. But fine, leave. Go. See all you nibs in July, then. Uh-oh, got yer attention there din't I? Hah! A'right then, I've been a very dirty girl an' I really need t' clean myself up now, so...g'night and get the hell out, all you horribly upstandin' an' terribly important peoples! Oh, an'...HAPPY NEW YEARRR!!" Aggie cackles and whirls her arms about in the empty space she now solely possesses, nearly keeling over but rescued in time by a concerned Emilie, who helps her step a little ways down the dimly lit hallway before being assured that she can move steadily enough on her own. Emilie looks after her for a few moments, then goes to the buffet table, pulls out one of the few unopened bottles of beer and rips the cap off with an opener while allowing the froth to drip messily onto the floor as she hurries back to the dais. She whispers something to the maestro, who nods and grins excitedly, then consults an equally enthusiastic orchestra, and soon the lively strains of the Brindisi from Verdi's La Traviata waft into the air. Emilie glugs heavily from her bottle as she faces the vacant room, then just before she sings raises high the bottle and in her rich soprano voice musically belts out one word: "SCHMPF!!"
 "Schmpf!" weakly echoes a slurred voice from the hallway.
 "Libiamo, libiamo ne'lieti calici che la bellezza infiora..."
 After shuffling by more wall art and also small, askew tables covered in toppled and damaged Art Deco objets d'art between all of the bedroom suites, their doors ajar and the familiar hot stink of sex slapping her a little more into sobriety, not to mention the stentorian Welsh curses cannonading from Cadwyn's lips as she once again cleans up after the detested sybarites, Aggie finally reaches the last door at the end of the hall and nearly wrenches the knob off as she staggers into Mary's bedroom. Without so much as a glance at her surroundings, including yet again those powder blue walls, a Queen-sized canopied bed, walk-in closet, and a cozy little table and chair set in the corner Aggie slips into the adjoining bathroom, where she quickly hurtles herself down in front of the open toilet and retches violently into it while desperately anchoring onto its cold porcelain rim. In a short while she straddles the toilet, kicks off her sandals and carefully unpins her loincloth, which plops heavily into the bowl. The naked girl then scurries over to use the adjoining bidet, the frigid geyser of water jetting up between her buttocks making her gasp, then sigh deeply. As she sits and relaxes for a moment Aggie notices for the first time the shower running in the curtained tub in front of her, as well as pieces of men's clothing strewn all across the turquoise tile floor. She slowly looks up and recognizes the wet heads and faces of Oscar Wilde and Alfred, Lord Douglas thrust through the curtain and gazing at her with both curiosity and concern.
 "Hullo, Diana, Adora," Aggie says dully. "Good to see you again. I simply loved your costumes tonight, though they look a bit out of place on the floor there."
 "Heat of the moment. But I say, Aggie, are you all right?" asks Diana.
 "Yes, has anything happened out there?" adds Adora
 "Yes, ladies," sighs Aggie. "Something did happen, namely the party's over and I ended it. Please don't ask why or how, as I'm sure Mary or someone will shoot the dope straight into you. Or something like that. Damn it! I'm sorry, I just can't quite think clearly yet."
 "Are you somewhat sloshed right now, Ag?" asks Diana.
 Aggie roughly rubs her face. "It's not as bad as before; I actually sober up pretty fast, and the, well, purging seems to have helped some. I do think I'm feeling just a bit more jim dandy now. Oh, and don't use or flush this toilet yet, by the way, it's, um, not quite flushable. Or clean."
 "Do we even want to know what-?"
 "No, you don't. Believe me."
 "All right. Glad we already made use of it, then. Well, as long as you're - what's that strange American term I once heard you use - ah, 'buck naked,' Ag, do you want to join us in here and get cleaned up a bit more?"
 "Well, yes, I rather would but, um...I don't, um-"
 "Um what?" asks Adora.
 "I really don't - want to interrupt - whatever it is you - you're doing in there," Aggie replies haltingly. "If it's what I think."
 Diana beams broadly. "It is, oh, it really is, Aggie!" she purrs.
 Adora chuckles and shakes her head. "Oh, Di! But really, if you're concerned we shall simply wait 'til you're good and squeaky clean to-well, continue. It's really no trouble."
 "I say, this is just a thought, but would you like Adora and I to assist you in washing up, especially if you're still not feeling cricket? And don't worry, we shan't do anything sapphic to you."
 "And if you're feeling vulnerable do remember that we are all women here."
 "And English," adds Diana.
 "And buck naked at Mary's house," admits Aggie.
 Diana and Adora roar with glee, then each push two glistening, slender white arms through the curtain and beckon to her.
 "We've actually only been in here a short time, so come in now while the water's still nice and warm," says Diana.
 "Well, Aggie?"
 Seconds later Aggie steps carefully into the shower bath and is welcomed by the attractive young women who place her gently beneath the vertical cascade of invigorating water. She quietly allows them to lovingly lather and rinse nearly every inch of her body as she mentally mulls over the night's more memorable events, little by little, beginning with her humiliation of Teddy Crewecott and ending with the more recent moments of her own unfortunate but preventable situation and retreat to this intimate space with two accommodating ladies. And when she finally breaks, when they notice the tears at last dropping from her weary eyes and her shoulders shaking with her gasping sobs they awkwardly sandwich her in a slippery embrace and bless her with kind reassurances. Grateful for these little gestures and now feeling much less of a bete Aggie quickly rallies, and in a happy show of vibrancy trades banter and gossip with her shower-mates. One bit of fun, improvisational artistry thought up right there by Diana is for all three to pose as Raphael's "Three Graces", with each of them holding one of Mary's lavender pomme soaps, and the scene is quite graceful for nearly a minute...until Aggie breaks wind.
 "What the hell are you cackling like bloody witches about in there?!" demands Mary from the other side of the curtain a moment later. "I'd ask you face to face but I'm not up for seeing any more naked people tonight. So?"
 "Nuh-nothing, M-mary!" says Adora, barely containing her glee.
 'Oh, quh-quite right, old g-girl!" adds Diana in much the same way.
 "I just farted, Mary, and it was a real humdinger," chimes in Aggie, nothing daunted. "And speaking of my ass don't use the toilet yet, I haven't flushed it."
 "Ohhh, I can see and...smell that quite plainly, my dear," answers Mary with a sternness that makes Aggie feel a bit uneasy. "Are you nearly finished with Ag, Diana? And Adora? Not in the way I'm expecting you to be, of course."
 "Yes, I'm-I'm ready to come out now," Aggie says nervously, and cautiously slips back out through the curtain, Diana and Adora still giggling but patting their friend reassuringly on the shoulder before she exits. Mary stands clad in a cotton robe colorfully embroidered with all manner of English garden blooms, her jaw set, but flashes a wink to her relieved friend as she enfolds her in a clean white towel and takes up a smaller one to vigorously dry her hair.
 "I can't believe what you did back there, Agrippina!" Mary says sharply. "Even with all your daring and defiance you've shown these past years you doing...that at my fancy dress party is-well, quite shocking!"
 "Ah! Not so consarned rough! Look, Mary, I am sor-" she barely manages to say before Mary cuts in with, "Tsk! You should be sorry for tonight, Miss Agrippina Dovecote! Really you should! It's just unbelievable! Incredible! Revolting! Unsanitary! And bloody hell, I'll even say it again - shocking! And do you know what the really horrid part of it is?"
 "No, what?"
 A wry smile creeps over Mary's lips. "What you did...that, my dear, was originally my plan to end the party early! And I wasn't wearing any underwear, either! So thanks a lot!"
 Aggie, Diana and Adora nearly die from their gasping guffaws.
 "Breathe, ladies!" orders Mary, then kisses Aggie's forehead. "Little notion thief! Steal my lovely, deafening thunder, will ya?! Hm, looks like I'll need to use that firewood after all!"
 "Ach, button your brown-hole, Mary!"
 "Oh, yeah? Zip your lips," Mary slowly enunciates with another wink. "Get it?"
 "Good lord, is that another family saying, too?"
 "No, I think that one may be American."
 "Really? 'Zip your lips'. I'll have to remember it. But Mary, you dirty gel, I'm beginning to think you need a good cleansing shower much more than I do tonight, like a punishing sort, complete with a rough, violent scrubbing and a carbolic soap enema!"
 "Oh, my God! Ag, however did you discover my bathing routine?!"
 "I didn't, it's actually mine."
 "Might you have considered sometimes taking on someone to assist you, like an especially burly Bedlam matron with thick, angry red arms? Because Cadwyn can't, but then again she simply refuses!"
 "That would be horribly lovely, but no, we poor girls usually go it alone, and I should mention right off that I usually don't stop scrubbing until I bleed out at least a pint's worth."
 "Hah! Pint and a half, here! I win! And the...enema?"
 "No, I've actually stopped doing that. I almost lost a whole bar up there once. You?"
 "I, um...lost...two bars, oh, for God's sake!"
 "Leaping lizards, that was fun, Mary!"
 "Uhnnnn, oh, yesss!" Diana suddenly and mechanically exclaims. "Ahem! Yes. Oh, my Addie, do DO put your nice little finger up there where the sun does not shine and move it around very slowly! Just how I like it! Ahem! Cough! Oh yes, that's quite lovely! Ahem!"
 "Oh, oh, Di, I can quite feel your wet, quivering womanhood! Cough, cough! Are you rather coming yet?"
 "No, no, no, not quite! Not for quite a while. Yes. No. Cough, cough! Ahem!"
 A bewildered Aggie and Mary soon see two pairs of eyes glance at them between the curtain slit, then dart away.
 "OHHHH,YESSS!!" Diana booms. "UHNNNNNGGG!!!"
 "We should probably go," Aggie says, smoothing down her hair as best she can.
 "Not too much longer, ladies!" Mary warns. "Yes, Ag, and find you something to wear before you go home. It's getting late, too, so come on."
 Mary crooks an arm around Aggie's shoulders as they head back into the bedroom.
 "So where were we, Bosie?" purrs Diana.


 

                                    TO BE CONCLUDED