Summer of the Monkey 5

Summer of the Monkey 4

The Orb of Power has been discovered. I happened upon its secret location while battling the Flying Ants of Black Doom. ‘Twas hidden deep below the earth in a natural labyrinth of jagged rock. I traversed the lair dodging spirits and slaying minions of the Non-Mortal. I was beaten and exhausted upon reaching the Platinum Doors of The Chamber of the Orb. And since I had used the last of my All Natural Healing Salve with no additives or preservatives, after being set upon by a number of animate corpses and bone piles, I was already at a disadvantage. But I had to continue.

After mumbling a quick prayer for strength and protection to Coitus and The Jolly Man, I opened the doors and entered the Chamber. Instantly I was surrounded by a blue glow so thick you could cut it with a dagger. Under a state of confusion, I was unable to see the huge and deadly fist of the Guardian as it connected with my flimsy leather breastplate. However, Thank Coitus the stone wall was there to impede my backward flight. I recovered and drew my blade. Being somewhat adjusted to the blue fog, I could make out shadows, and the one that I saw flying towards me was most terrifying indeed. I heard the distinct whir of a chain flail as it is slicing through the air and I ducked just as the spiked ball flew over my head. The Guardian, sensing my vulnerable position kicked and a massive foot connected with my fragile shell and again I owe the wall thanks for its part in stopping my backward progression. I couldn’t move, the world swam, blue became me and I was about to give in when the Most Boisterous and Beautiful laughter ever to reach the ears of this surreal Populace began to fill the room.

The laughter was mixed with the dulce sounds of the Most Perfect Woman in the throes of satin ecstasy. A bright light filled the room as the laughter and lust increased to a maddening peak. When it dissipated, I found myself above ground clasping, with a violent determination, a small blue orb. And Gaia came to sooth me with her beautiful presence. Before long I was restored to health and plotting my next excursion.
_________________________________________
“Do you even miss me?” A hollow voice over crackling wires. “Yes. Do you miss me?” “Only when I breathe.”

Her plush lips cradled my timid offerings in rosebud wine. That’s how I felt then—there—only a moment to be aware. It was too late for me then. Sometimes (not the Baron but the indicator of time) one delights in entrapment. It does make for an interesting evening no matter how your universe shifts to it.
__________________________________________

The Pirate Prince returns from his quest a new man! He had ventured off on a short holiday visiting the Count Constantinople who was lodging in his summer palace in The Place where Angels Die. Be not misled by the name, tis truly beautiful country, I assure you. While up there, the recently freed Prince was immersed in a culture of Sin and Pleasure (the Finer Folk call this “debauchery”, we, however, call it everyday life.) He danced and consorted with the finest maidens and had a merry time to rival the Great Ball of the Palace of Windows. And late at night as the moon shone her naked light over the entire world he would hunt those Mighty Beasts that children cling to for protection. Sometimes (not the baron) we cannot forget the security of our Innocence Days. We long for it still, so why not hunt it down and make a rug out of it? “Tis a wonderful rug, milord. Tell me, what is the pelt?” “Mostly Dead Innocence mixed with a Touch of Wonder and Joy. I like the bastard breeds better. Get more for your buck that way.” What a wonderful conversation piece.

This the Brave Prince made this life on his holiday. We discussed it all over a bottle of fine champagne as we lounged in the Great Hall of Castle Mallard. “Nopil was wrong.” The Pirate Prince confides in me. “About what?” “He’s not a monkey, he’s a goat. ‘Twas a grand epiphany on his part.” “Indeed,” I reply. “That’s not all,” Perfidious continues. “What else?” “I’ve discovered I am a Courageous Cock. I would die for anyone or anything.” This raised my skepticism. “Anyone or anything?” I inquire. “Aye. And the Count is a Mysterious Goat.” “Fascinating.” “He would make a good jiggalo, I would make a good mercenary” (little did he realize that our professions made us just that—Mercenary Jiggalos. Sexy, no?). Then he related to me the sad tale of the termination of Courtship with the Queen of Wands. “We’re just on different paths right now.” How I hate those wicked paths and their different differences. Differentiation is futile while walking a path together. There is nothing more depressing than a fork in the road or a tearful ultimatum.

___________________________________________
She doesn’t fucking care…she doesn’t fucking care. This I tell myself to keep her voice from resounding off the broken walls of my Coronary. I think our dysfunction has attained new heights. She was none too pleased at this proclamation; I was none to thrilled at its declaration.

Once upon a time we would turn the small window box of room cooling all the way up and close the door. We did this right before we went to bed. Working graveyards in a place of dead dreams forced us to adopt this lifestyle. When we got in bed, the room was so cold we had to use all of our coverings and skins and even this wasn’t enough. We would still have to practice that ancient art of the Way of the Cuddle. That, dear readers, is a lost art indeed. You and your Passion are as close as physically possible, entwined in each other, becoming a part of the tangled limbs that have created a new being. This is what makes Passion holy. Tis one of the Secrets of The Dance (we all know them. Those whispered longings in the hallways of your desire. Those tiny fires fueled by lust and sometimes even love). This I didn’t mind. This I remember now. This is one of my Holy Recollections. I love how she felt then. I loved the way her scent tasted like a honeysuckle breeze.

I can’t get it off my mind. The thought the image—the scenarios. Like a bad B movie flutter through my brain in an all day matinee Mann’s Chinese type of way. Fuck the Queen!! God save me!

Fortune: A visit from a burnt out warrior yields interesting conversation.

He was Sir Cork the Noradic. An old warrior from younger days whose battles have left him somewhat off-kilter. “I’m gonna go visit my relatives.” He tells the Baron and I with a slightly wild look in his eye. “Better watch out,” I tell him, “You’ll find yourself a pretty little girl and never come back.” “Fuck that!” He proclaims loudly, his patriotism shining forth, “I’d have to come back. I’m a countryman. And Those Bastards out there hate us. “Fuck you Americano!” He yells in a Spanish accent while waving an angry fist of defiance in the air. “Isn’t that Spanish?” Inquires the Baron. “Same language.” Is Sir Cork’s matter-of-fact reply. The Baron and I exchange amused glances. Sir Cork continues, “Wait. Americano…Americana…o..a…a…o (at this point he is thinking very hard and his head gears are spinning at dangerous speeds) Right! The Spanish say Americano, they say Americana. See? It’s close. O and A. “ We nod sagely at this grand proclamation as we disguise our amusement as good hosts should. “The Irish used to have their own language, did you know that? A beautiful dialect, but it’s forgotten. Nobody remembered but the elves and Vikings and they’re all dead now.” He trails off, shaking his head sadly, a solemn tribute to the times he helped destroy.

Yes mother, there are worlds out there your orbs will never gaze upon. But don’t hate them because they elude you.

This is a place of gently falling rain and Pale flame. No myths and legends here only lively tales told around smoking candles and heartfelt smiles.

Under the vigilant gaze of the Chipmunk, I ponder the turmoil in the Sea of My Fish. Tis a raging tempest. Life is short enough already without having to weather its storms. I realize all I am doing is wasting precious moments I can never have back. Moments that could turn into new life altering experiences. Moments that could be more beautiful than anything this shoddy viewfinder can picture. Yet I cannot help myself.

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About Universal Shift

I am the Sonata Unusual. I coat myself with some obtuse angle too far below zero to become any warmer. I create motivation, activate schemas, moisten gardens with scents of natural honeydew. Construct this meaning, you sleepy flock. Silence your singing—despairing contortions out of tune. Shatter the brittle butterfly glass with your hideous wailing. I am born of my god’s imagination. When I die I shall meet him. For there are many things to discuss over tea…or scotch.

Posted on April 4, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Philosophy, Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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