KWM: Indaba: Simian Song / Fuck the Polish Swimmer / Bidding is, After All, Bidding / Life Goes On / Warning?

Chapter Forty-One

Indaba: Simian Song

Somewhere deep in the jungle, and only I can hear the encroaching bombs…

Chimplifying the discourse:

Commence indaba the lubricious innocents are here

Defense of perimeters secure with howliest howlers

Hark! Hear that leopard roar harmlessly?

Stark improvement over rattlerguns

Owooooo! Big cat alarm: thank you Bobo.

How do you doooooo, pretty cat: to the trees.

Baby Bobo can you listen while you fondle

Maybe Hobo Bobo is apropared?

My thought is brained in strange terrain again:

Where did hobo bobo bonobo go?

There: in northern Balkania, southern Germania, central Insania

Dreadnought zeppelin nuue ardente

Juggernaut argonaut ergo naught

Cept violence, murder slaughter and rape is

Kept taboo.

Rape?

Aperape. To fuck without consent.

Who would not consent?

You would not consent if you knew their torturee methods.

Torture?

Scorcher torture bongee beaty bungee reaming

Wolf rape, wolf bite dwarf toss skinslice

(Chorus)

Bonobo Bobo: Bobo Bobo Bobo Bobo

Bobo Bobo Bobo Bobo

Bobo Bobo Bobo Bobo

Bobo Bobo Bobo Bobo

Bobo Bobo Bobo Bobo

BOBO BOBO BOBO BOBO BOBO BOBO BOBO BOBO

BOBO!


Chapter Forty-Two

Fuck the Polish Swimmer

            And now the final document. Fullmer made much of the fact that a Polish knight swam the Danube in full armor in retreat during the battle of Nicopolis in 1396. It’s the kind of fact that a prestidigitator of historical events comes across and since it is so astonishing, the fact that it is relevant to nothing he writes does not prevent him from including it in his columns; in fact, over his 13 year career with Political Sleeze he mentions the incident no less than 27 times.

            In this bizarre document, the whole seems to posit the swimmer as the truth, the end truth, as it were, before his mind zings from the orbit of the document towards another certainty, and a rented car, an Opel, these days the top choice for renters in Europe, and sped toward Jurovski dol, the place of Kramberger’s assassination. I believe his deadly haste to arrive led to his accident, and hard-hearted as it may seem, released him from the captivity of an obsession gone mad, and so he died a relatively unknown, if highly respected in his ‘field’, expert on something.

            The bottle, of course, was empty.

            Carry on madman:

1396, Nicopolis

SWIMMERY, SWAMMERY, SWUMMERY

Lummoxery, flummoxery, or Christian dumb oxery?

I watched the best knights’ degeneration, deployed by madmen, stark raving fakers climbing the bubo-free peaks like fawns, while we in dungeons of armor carrying swords outweighing the dead—angry pricksall–leaving behind chickens, damsels, distress of diarrhetic infants, towns infarcted in giant coffins, ash from my ass: Cineraria Europa, anglegrinding lipsters lying for the latest heavenly erection of the babelous chicanery of soul’s night.

Hejnał! Your towns are shattered and fallow—lies! Corpses sit up flaming preternatural expartures of contagion leaping from rat to rat infiltrating jizz.

Hejnał! Bare your balls to god like El Cid slaughtering Mohammedan children floating from Gibraltar to Morocco.

Hejnał! Tatar arrows pass through throats thirsty for therianthropic thertainties and Bakelite telephones.

Hejnał! Expel the foreigner if ye thinks ye can finger him out with yer finger in yer ass with yer Beowulf and Bible.

Hejnał! Unshowered arrayed cross shaven plains in armor burning under campaign season sun, terrified terrorers awaiting Turk terrors: Bashee Bazooks! Gadzooks!

Hejnał! To be busted by ball yataghan and again.

Hejnał! This de Coucey coursy of coursee a valley of death unpurgatorial march of knight as if in dreams spawned by nightmare of dark angelic monks pissing cock after cock to nonpareil translucent nuns shuddering orgasm taroted spasm of vision of dervish leaping toward Poles, Franks, Gauls—gall adamantine, a wall of nebulo god-drunken savagery illuminating Balkan Time,

Scrotal stupidity of Gaul, grabass Magyar decimatory feuds til

dawn, swine sottery on foot on horseback,

riverfront back and hail ye of steelhead rawhide, ne: un-blinking

raptured eyes, stunned anoon anonanonanon, three visitations

in the boring splintered sucks of knightsoul delirium Frankly

chichirevelry for king and kind without mind,

Hejnał! Strappeezed themselves to crosses for the endless ride from Buddha to poxypest on trampolines

until the roil of shpiels like children brought

them schtuddering haltslack and scattered paper shitcannedplan

devoid of goitery, spoilery thus unfearing despite Bazoo

Hejnał! Stanking knights all subcutaneous zeal at riverford

floating rafts they stood lancetly loutish, pale

desolation within tincans sniffing the crack

of ass lusting headbox

Hejnał! Seventy hours from bank to

muck to bluff to backview to reasonlost to the unborn

midge,

lost battalian’s plutonium odors convertorialists humping

peasants who jumped off straw roofs on fire

entire in spate from the blue danoob,

Oh! to be torn twixt love and duty

what of all this leader disputy

what if I lose my eyeballs too…

whose the buffoon?

Eye: buttholes engorging total mace all seven

hundred miles ebullient snake-eyes, meat for the

cathedrals spermed on the Wallachian,

Hejnał! Vanish assended into oblačery heaven leaving a

vapory tracery unambigague fever hardening frantic

pitiless Gaul,

stuffing Balkan fruits, plums and apples into codpieces

for the time-grinding siege ahead across seas of dice,

waves of ejaculate steins on foot on horseback

Hejnał! Wondery in rounds sung at midnight making Magyar merry

wanderwont wearywarts

For broken tents

Hejnał! Sit sotten riders on oxcarts oxcarts oxcarts

aflame game uncle lend me your match

landbound meteoric

O grandees farter night

Hejnał! Giant cat a study

a-mornins plots Pow! Sank John

across a swamp and Slup!

cabal Anglais afound afeared a Frank figgered the fraud

Hejnał! Order! Be discrete in seeking vivisecting angles if set

your sect on angels

Hejnał! and all for one madness ecstatic cannibal Christers

aclustered ex-cloister bareskin in steel

Hejnał! Jump in limp aubergines

Turk figurines in your pestoral dreams

in Spain!

O the pain in Spain!

Hejnał! Lunge hungrily loathsome in rupture slicing jowls

or sacks or saps

you followed brilliantined Israelites bogus miles

convert invert about armhair and refurbishing empty cells

with a  leaky roof at that

and so on to vulgar bulgarlandia

Hejnał! Harry’s tic disappeared when John went drown

leaving behind shadows and hungaree and the sword, the halberd, VOLANT!

piss

breast on a plate with coffee

Hejnał! horsemanely on the plane

Hejnał! rutten wheels groak skidways deeper to slow the

march as knights row boatic synchronshiny sunshunned in

clanketly hilarity for laster morsels of mortals

one sank without a clank: trade-off

Hejnał!

What? Hark! FUCK THE POLISH SWIMMER!


Chapter Forty-Three

Bidding is, After All, Bidding

            FUCKING JUDAS!

bloodstains on page

exeunt, I suppose



Chapter Forty-Gour

Life Goes On

I think the worst aspect of the tragedy is that Todd Fullmer never got to see the eviscerated corpse of Mandrake Pizdamonavić on the altar of Kramberger’s last stand. You do, do you? What a clever fucking faux sentiment: he never even knew Pizdamonavić existed, remember? How did you even get this job? What a trite—

Yes, in fact I do, even god loves a good quick garotting…I’ll be damned–look at that little car.

            Todd Fullmer often pondered but never explored in print the effects of the assassinations that obsessed him. Of intensemost banality was the thought of how life just goes on, life as a log in a Conrad flood. What matter the manner of Stambulov’s death, what of that marvelous dismemberment? What of what Fullmer called the Latins of little ado? Kennedy’s death did not prevent an additional million Vietnamese deaths. Kramberger’s death did not disturb the placid dragons of Ljubljana, a city quite without the capacity for, let’s conjugate some Slovene here, zloveščitude; Ljubljana may be the least sinister capitol city in the world. And all the reporters of Minsk? Reported on, them that lived.

            So perhaps for those who know his story, those who survive him, most poignant is the family in the station wagon, an old paneled American affair, husband driving, mother beside, three freckled red heads with elongated necks gawking at the same goddamn countryside that lingers by every time they have to go to the fucking home in Maribor to see Grandpa, who recognizes none of them and never speaks, though the doctor believes him capable, gawking like meerkats, yet not spotting the accordion car up against the tree as they all looked right on the curve, and yet each spotting just on the fringe of the road a tiny automobile, going their way, apparently under its own power, but far too small to make good time.

            ‘Look at that car.’

            The middle meerkat looked back just in time to make it out: 65 GTO


Epilogue

Warning?

            Beltch and Obscure are also dead

            And no kind bullet to the head

            Obscure belched and hemorrhaged

            Mack ‘obscured’ for protests pledged

            Both, they say, excessively bled

Let’s start by rewriting the goddamn author bio: Rick Harsch is 60 years old. He was run down and mauled by the literary scene in the late 1990s, his Driftless Trilogy coming out like three gusts from a pistol preceding a flag that says BANG. The pistol is plastic. The flag is tissue. He moved to Slovenia in 2001, 9 days after the attacks on NY and D.C., an innocent man about to find out that condition stretched all the way to naïve. He wrote a lot, but only last year was his fiction welcomed in the US again, with Voices After Evelyn and Skulls of Istria. Everybody says they are great. Not many people have bought them. This year he is getting two books published by River Boat Books, his magnum (finally a magnum) opus, if it is, called The Manifold Destiny of Eddie Vegas, and a travel/sports book called Walk Like a Duck: a Season of Little League Baseball in Italy.

The book being serialized here by the young overmuscled writer George Salis is called Kramberger with Monkey. If you see fit, you can read these short chapters and see how a writer handles extreme adversity, as my fictional mouthpieces keep getting knocked off as the book goes along. It’s especially inconvenient when a death forces me into the second person. I’m used to being fourth. If you have time, please write and tell us whether or not you think the book should be bloodier.

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