P R E V I O U S L Y I N
As the almost-tune becomes a car crash of feedback and off-kilter noodling I spy Kurt’s clown-grin as we careen deep, deep into a display of sonic ineptitude. A lifetime of insecurity breaks away. No other dead musician could teach me this.
I let Kurt know this, ‘I’d blow the picture up pop poster size and place it in a gallery. Maybe have a guitar in a corner covered in dirt and rust.’
Kurt, my god, he just laughs. He hands down another cold metal elixir into my hands and gestures to me to come drink it next to him on the bed. I wave no thanks, guzzling the Budweiser, deciding that bassist Colin definitely collects stamps.
Kurt keeps ushering for me to get on up from the floor so I tell him, 'I don’t like mattresses. So what was I saying? Yeah um, I’d capture the chaos of this place. Food boxes in the corners, clothes strewn everywhere...’
This is the archetypal teenagers room with so many half-written dreams hiding on napkins and half-finished journals.
I have to sort through them all. I don’t care if they’re not finished yet.
The gods could cross over the hex unharmed and threaten Gaia’s children but I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them because all I want right now is to peruse through lyrics that no other fan has access to.
Out the corner of my eye, with profound stealth, I drag the napkin staked with the purple ink closer and closer to me…
Time to begin my invasion into Kurt’s unfinished poetry. Oh yeah, I read his song lyrics out the corner of my eye whilst the rest of my body is static, seemingly immersed in his babbling about Airbag’s chorus. Kurt’s words are:
Self-reflection reveals all our faults and rather than throwing ourselves into the hard work, we either run from the mirror or take a hammer to the evil twin.
‘You’re so comfortable being a god.’
I chuckle at his observation. My mouth fires back something practiced,
‘I own memories of John Clay, needless worrying accounts, embarrassment upon waking, guilt last thing at night. As Spiderfingers I can assume arrogance without living in constant discomfort.'
I push up my specs. I recline. Kurt? Kurt takes a cursory glance at my T-shirt and he says, ‘You love yourself?’
‘What god doesn’t?’ I counter, ‘you ever catch yourself going all movie-monologue to some unseen audience, don’t feel awkward Kurt - just go with it.’
For a moment he’s still and I don’t have a clue how he wants to attack me next. Then, a sudden swing - a verbal right hook from my blonde deity. He says,
‘If you were a human you’d be diagnosed with having an ego problem.’
‘But I’m no longer human...problem solved,’ I retort grinning, slurping alcohol, ‘Listen, I’m a god and for ages mankind has been begging for...now understand me, I hate the word cull, I like the words quality and control. Hehehe.’
Kurt’s face reddens as he blurts, ‘Bullshit! Killing others isn’t a solution.’
And I reply, ‘Killing yourself is?’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you.’
‘Now you’re getting it.’ I reply and Kurt’s face goes from red to purple.
Ironic. I had up until now merely been interested in orchestrating an event that would shock humankind into an ‘awakening’ of sorts. My suicide gods’ mistakenly believed I intended to cull them all. My hero as a genius.
I get to thinking as to how I may achieve his plan. I open my mouth and as usual, the words, they just find me:
‘We must drive people into the dark. In their eventual re-emergence, Earth’s people will value life again. To experience true light, humanity must do more than be told of its opposite – they must survive us.
Yeah, that seems right. Just so long as there is the spilling of blood and the chewing of bone, this yeah - it fits me. Man, something old and cumbersome has completely fallen away and why I’ve been carrying it for so long, I just don’t get. I feel…lighter.
If this mystery feeling had a shape I’d struggle to draw it.
At Kurt’s request I read my words out again, ‘We must drive people into the dark…’
Afterwards he says nothing whilst his body language whimpers. Slumped shoulders. Shallow breathing. My words are gently undressing his universe of banal innocence.
Again – ‘You should get rid of Rooenn,’ again – ‘why do you need a minion when you’ve got a friend?’ and again he tells me – ‘You don’t need to protect yourself from me – I’m done with the screaming man – we’re cool.’
Such is the extent of my god’s myopia, an Achilles’ heel equaled only by his tenacity. So then, after how many long hours I've needed to break him down - there's the exquisite flush...the pleasure in the registering of it...Kurt's realisation that the scythe is all.
Ah, to hear the words of my blonde idol...he’s giving up,
‘As I pulled the trigger,’ he says this to me as I watch him flick through his battered copy of Patrick Suskind's Perfume, pages annotated in purple ink, ‘I was sure blowing my face off wasn’t the solution.' Even when he mumbles, Kurt Cobain always picks the right words. I smile a row of yellowy brown teeth as my fire-hair burns vermillion, each whore red strand lap dancing for my bulging hazels.
Between my ears rumbles the harsh disturbance of ideas grinding against each other. Slowly. Each slab of imagination hopes to make the transmutation from heavy thought to insurmountable action. For instance, I only save the world from the evil idols because they need to kill me to rule it. I’m not Gaia's hero. The S on my chest stands for survivalist – nothing else. So what if Boleraam cared about the humans? So what if John Clay agreed to help him? You can’t let your parents rule your life, right? Hmph, I would have considered these thoughts evil once but there is no good or evil. Good and evil is for kids. There is only the powerful and the powerless and now that Kurt’s acknowledging this, plans can be made and now I really don’t care where my noodling on his fender takes me. The Teal Green and Byzantium painted six-stringed glory wails a dramatic cats death over and over again because Kurt reckoning that others should die and not him, well it’s a fucking revelation.
‘Wild thing, you make my heart sing.’ and I shove at Kurt’s leg to join in.
‘You make everything groovy....’
Let fly one of your warriors Hecate - I'm ready, ready for any faith-blind servant to roll on down and try to take us out. Hell fucking yeah. We have the power to solve the human condition, Kurt Cobain and I. Halting production on Lucas’ biopic is just our opening verse.
He doesn’t look up as he replies curtly, ‘I need to change.’ and he returns to his rummaging through all the shit on the floor, scavenging the way teenagers do for clothes that don’t stink too bad. This is Superman’s cue to leave because I remember from a comic adaption (what was the name?) Kurt calls his body rat-like.
On my way out Kurt mumbles something (again?) about my ‘vacuous’ bond with Rooenn,
‘We don’t need that thing. Get rid - ’
‘For fuck sake Kurt,’ I reply holding up Rooenn's silvery manacles in my left palm, ‘You were god as a zeitgeist. You shaped a generation in your image. Remember - you’re not human, you’re a deity.’
I strut a short journey into an open field behind the gravel strewn park and here among the greenery, I spread myself, I lie on my back allowing my entire body-span to face up to Gaia’s funeral black sky. Distant suns that glisten across her gloomy shroud remind me of the way light would hit the back-length velvet brunette of a girl. I’ve long since burned her name out of my score-sheet heart, but the sensation of running my fingers through that black mane, just that one more time? I’ll never forget the satisfaction, such music in my chest as I did so, or that it was she that coined my blues name.
Your fingers move like spiders.
O.K, so she didn’t come up with it (I got that in a blues bar courtesy of Big Micky, my fingers fluttering in front of my face during his lustful fretwork), but when the past is so incomplete - so Swiss-cheesed? Man, you play producer. You edit.
‘Gods warn don’t kill! They write it down Miss World, they make us teach our children, who grow up an’ teach their kids. Them, out in the up there, history’s greatest warmongers, they warn, don’t kill! How can they be so hypocritical?'
Then, a rustling in the grass; a cotton colour rodent, surely nature’s smallest - it squeaks. I hear the Earth Mother speak:
‘Will the makers of men admit to murderous double standards?' her furry mouthpiece tells me, ‘Will they answer to their children? Regarding laws of the kill? Spiderfingers, you must surely already know, gods don’t change. That’s why Boleraam and I built the God-Hex. You must return Kurt Cobain to Aphrodisia, immediately.'
'I don’t need cryptograms and don't you give me one of your fairy tales. I don’t need your madness. Part of me lived a very normal suburban life – once. Part of me wouldn’t have killed…’ my mouth runs dry.
The mouse scurries about rubbing earth into its watering eyes. Probably trying to strengthen Gaia’s translation,
‘Your thoughts on Cobain are entertaining. How do you feel about Rooenn?’
I’m too drunk for this conversation but I sit up anyway because I’m divine and drink is nothing. Just have to focus, ‘He helped me find Kurt,’ so I can’t complain.’
‘He helped?’ squeaks the rodent, ‘Is the Terrorsmith your friend now too?’
I feel the heat around my eyes rise as I spit, ‘Rooenn is no friend.’
My fingers bunch up tight, moulding into a fist as the mouse that Miss World speaks through doesn’t scamper away like I hoped it would. I swear the little fucker’s laughing, willing to remain as enigmatic as the feminine force that puppeteers its parts.
I know it’s chuckling hard. Pointing, at me.
High above wings flap, an eagle’s larynx re-configures to continue speaking on behalf of its guardian and mine:
‘Come, come now chaos, great and profound master of confusion, your kind can’t make friends. You’re born into opposition. You gorging babies are all the same.'
’Fuck you!’ I shout swinging a punch at the night sky, ’Fuck you!’ I scream as I sprint back inside the trailer, the squelching from the bed of gravel beneath the vehicle jarring me as I enter. I track the chain in my left palm and I’m scared of the predictable – the next panel in my life - the comic book; the following scene in my own private horror movie. I track the chain...I see where it leads...
Under the Winnebago it trails and I see what it binds…torture…the rape of…something I’m not. And I wanna keep walking, head into the trailer and talk to Kurt about Sonic Youth. I don’t know what the word is for the force of nature that stunts my movement.
Through the shrubbery under my finger nails, riding upon the muddiness upon my palms, I hear my Miss World's voice, ‘Spiderfingers…’ she says, ‘Don’t leave just yet. You can talk to me.’
I turn to face the dark of the firmament and I can’t help it - my chin nestles in to my chest as I ask my mother, ‘Am I in trouble?’
I search the S on my body for answers that only she can award me.
‘You are whatever you want to be chaos.’
‘I don’t want to be alone anymore!’ I hiss glaring up at the heavens.
‘No, you’re not alone,’ she says whilst opening up a crater in her muddying earth, 'You will never be alone.’
The crater widens and I tell myself, ‘This isn’t really your mother,’
‘Kurt, something you gotta see,’ I say pointing to the open door, ‘Kurt I’m crazy, I’m a fucking evil person.’
‘You’re not a person,’ he says pithily, ‘You’re an idol.’ and his fingers twang strings as I eye him up and down. I say, ‘Unfortunately I’m not the only one.’
I grab his arm don’t I, but only in my mind. In real life where real shit happens I’m sitting next to him super chilled. The rays of my better personality are obscured by a hovering bubbling grey forever looming.
‘Movie time?’ I suggest and after a few key strokes the supreme icon of vigilante justice is chasing a bad guy across Kurt’s on-wall-plasma television. Soon, our favourite scene arrives – the last remaining bank robber lying near a loaded shotgun. Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry Callahan says, ‘I know what you’re thinking: “Did he fire six shots, or only five?” Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kinda lost track myself…’
…of course, I open my mouth at the corner to join Eastwood in this pop culture hymn, ‘...But being this is a forty-four Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself a question. Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya punk?’
I show off some more, ‘the line is often quoted as "Do you feel lucky, punk?"
Kurt reckons that The Dead Pool was a shit way to end the series and I say, ‘There’s another part.’
‘Yeah man, in a manner of speaking. Frank Miller, that fucking genius that wrote The Dark Knight Returns, he hated The Dead Pool too. He wrote a real ‘Dirty Harry’ Callahan tale. Called it That Yellow Bastard. Dirty Harry was written with John Wayne in mind y’know?’
Kurt, he shakes his head saying, ‘No way.’
‘Yes way, very much yes way. Wayne turned it down – too much violence.’
‘You know your movies.’ he says and I can’t hide my smirk. Why would I?
Oh hell Yeah, damn right I’m basking in my god worshipping me.
Then it’s as though I can smell it – the fume from my stalling, so faecal. I can see Christopher Reeves’ Superman in my head, the poor unsuspecting fuck poisoned by Guss Gorman’s dodgy Kryptonite. We've all seen Superman III, right?
I’ve a clear vision of the on screen Kal-El not caring about a truck lolling over the side of a bridge – he’s corrupted. I remember the scene well, Superman sharing a sofa next to High School pal Lana Lang. This red head is shapely. Legal. Our champion of all that’s good, our trustworthy icon of truth justice and the American way, he’s just a moral misstep away from abusing his X-ray vision and then…oh her neckline…and then, oh my god, he snaps out of it - The hero springing to action, like me - right now. Amazing what a scene like that can do to repair the steady erosion of ones moral spine.
I glare at Rooenn's chain wrapped tight around my hand and it happens.
Something inside my chest catches fire and my burgundy trench coat’s flapping behind me, the dirty over-jacket flowing cape-like because of the light-speed that comes so very, very easy to me. I’m storming at Kurt yelling, ‘You have to see this!’
I drag god outside so he can see Rooenn, what he's still doing to Lissie.
I scream the words. Hell, I yell the observation down Kurt's ear.
Kurt? He just shuffles naughtily - so child-like – my lord, the deviant divinity of early nineties alt-rock escapes back inside. Flicks the C.D player on, like nothings wrong.
I dash back in after him and Sid’s ready, starts to flare up at the sight of chain-wielding-flame-haired me stomping across plastic units of Radiohead, Godspeed, and a mishmash of crumpled N.M.E’s n’ Kurt’s used condoms.
I jump his single mattress snarling, charging at Kurt with fists held chin high. I think it’s the proud Greek in me that chucks Rooenn’s halter aside.
‘Come as You Are? Unoriginal. Shit and to be honest - ’
Something interrupts my speaking. Something knocks out one of my molars. I hear the open G ring of Kurt’s six string and I’m angry at the jaw blow that exhumes the Ancient Greek from out of me:
‘Motherfucker.’ I say beaming, coughing up my starry goo blood.
Kurt says, ‘You know what I like most about the afterlife?’
His arms heave his axe back for swing number two:
‘Not an MTV banner in sight.’
He grimaces and grunts as the axe comes down and briefly, from the blow, amidst the flaming chugging juggernaut of a song erupting out of his speakers overhead, I don’t have the faintest fucking clue who I am...
Little bits of knowledge flood back in.
South Acton estate. The early nineties. Laughter from older people, teenagers surrounding me…forced guffawing at the education in my voice. Then a happy recollection: I’m flying above the Nexus Rapture. These memory shards belong to my two fathers: John Clay and Boleraam. I tell myself that I am the face of chaos, a force too big to capture or kill.
For me and death read disassembly. For me and killed see instead the idea of me forever lost – a new human component being required. No Kurt, you can’t kill chaos...but you might just be able to kill me.
From nowhere it shoots out, a hand too fast for me, too strong in its grab around my neck. For some reason I picture Lissie. Kurt Cobain’s axe ruin’s my cheek. He hacks away repeatedly as the shakers at the start of Two Wings Mambo snake-rattle into our ears.
Every blow is analysed by my camera eyes, the very idea of fighting back just can’t compete with the inherent vanity of becoming a victim at the hands of a god. I’ve all the martial experience of Boleraam, a god that has traded blows with other mightier gods but I’m too slow. I’m listing the punches and kicks like a top Hollywood fight screen choreographer, each blow instantaneously re-imagined as over-stylised movie action nonsense.
Kurt’s left hand, his other weapon, it’s locked round my neck vice-like and closing. How he squeezes. I could surrender.
‘Shit Kurt, how’d we get here?’
I hear my voice lack its usual rebellion as limp gas-oven-blues float gracelessly round my eyeballs as the room swirls around me. I focus on the white patch of napkin just under the bed:
Self-reflection reveals all our faults and rather than throwing ourselves into the hard work, we either run from the mirror or take a hammer to the evil twin.
The idea is conveyed so linear, so clear – easily the most un-Kurt lyrics ever. Then, the Winnebago floor rushes to meet my septum. I hear the twist of metal surround my head. I don’t see them cos I’m so scared I’ve closed my eyes.
My temple, my whole face, It’s been shoved through the vehicle bottom where again, through the serrated bottom I’m forced to confront them.
Rooenn and Lissie.
Lissie’s unfocused eyes momentarily find mine. That’s when my goo for blood, the phosphorous starry slime goops down from the cuts on my face and mouth, the horrible spunky stuff marinades Lissie’s face, and the soup makes her cry out in new agony.
In the trailer space above I hear the clang of that open G...Kurt’s thrown his guitar down and before I’ve time to join a few scattered dots, I’ve been drawn up on my knees. Strangled...again. My existence wrung out of me and at a sadistically unhurried pace.
I’m dribbling through fingers that crafted attitudes and sub-culture.
These fingers of his, they were the first to strum the chords to Aneurysm, In Bloom, Rape Me and Heart Shaped Box. Palms that penned Smells Like Teen Spirit are weapons my body can’t survive.
All this violence spotlighted by Sid’s white flare soul, he bathes all of us in our unwholesome grappling. My eyes roll up to the skylight to witness Gaia’s funeral black has shifted unnoticed allowing a new shade - cobalt. This darker blue clothes Gaia as her spikes of morning rain begin their spear down. In a crisis such as this, the only thing your soul can count on is the shepherd you’ve assigned it. My true liberator, my minion, my buddy linked to me by a chain I can’t let go, his head, that granite skinned metal-bandaged face now covered in an innocent girls blood, it surfaces. The horror rises through the hole in the floor, that gap that Kurt shoved it through.
I devil-grin as Rooenn’s body tears easily through the broken torn warp of metal. The rending noise mixes with the susurration of rain striking the trailer roof as Rooenn the Terrorsmith commences its panther prowl into the constricted battleground.
Rooenn, not a god person or dream but a fucking force of nature birthed by the shadow thoughts of society. Rooenn relies on the perception of others for nourishment. So I look upon the face of terror. I look upon him hard. Through the clamp of Cobain’s half-nelson, I manage an ‘I love you.’
And I keep hissing the words. I pour all my belief into them.
‘I bow at your porno of violence,’ I say and I outdo myself, even though in this life-threatened moment I couldn’t possibly commit my heart enough, I say, 'Mankind invented you, mother earth has been forced to adopt you, and as your brother, I chaos shall keep you.’
Rooenn holds out a palm of talons, each bony knife has an ice-like transparent look. My knight’s presence is a beacon of dread hope, glistening in the half-light.
Rooenn is a hunched wraith, transparent as glass and I can see right past to the driver’s seat - the mounds of clothes on the floor behind him.
Miss World’s chiding voice pitter-patters in its gathering crescendo playing upon the top of the enclosure, singing the same high pitched well-to-do notes that might command a child out of its room for chores. Through the dirt of her, soil collected under my uneven finger nails, Miss World’s whispers remind me that Rooenn walks her nightly – the Terrorsmith is no match for her rising sun. My minion must abandon me for some other part of her vast orbicular body. I imagine a rodent somewhere safe and warm, guffawing.
Sid, that big ball of lightening white, he makes a bee-line for my chest so I turn my back on him, this white inferno zeroing in on me. He collides hard with bullet fast speed so that together, we explode out the trailers side. We blast through the famous brick-in-a-cops-face poster of Kurt Cobain.
We cannon-ball - Sid and I - we thud into the shit texture sludge of the field. We’ve managed to clear a good thirty feet I’d say, I think. I consider some half arsed put down, strangely easy for the situation, what with Sid’s actual contribution to Nevermind the Bollocks.
The rain falls harder and harder, a forever-drench that showers heavier than I’ve ever felt rain fall before.
My fist plunges earthwards and the mother of all responds to my prayer pretty much immediately, ejaculating her red magma from leagues within. Rocketing from her core and out of her dense skin, Gaia blasts up at poor unpredictable-uncontrollable-can’t-play-bass-Sid Vicious.
Who really, let’s face it, just looks like a shitty fucking weather balloon.
The air agrees with me, tries to make me laugh:
‘Hello chaos. I’ve always said rock and roll was bad for you.’
The gathering wind chuckles as Miss world’s lava blood is channelled up and out to one single spot. Goodbye Sid and thanks. Thanks for being shit at team work.
I feel at my fringe, rubbing a dim spark hoping. Without it I get so confused. I use twisted broken hands to poke at my back all torn up and charred from Sid’s attack. I thank fate that I span round in time.
I feel the electric presence of something uninvited - No, it’s not just arrived – no - she has been here all the while. I just chose to see ‘Kurt’.
Several feet from where I was flung out of it, I see the trailer, it’s metal flick-flick-flicking away. The death of the illusion.
Her mirage revealing the curving walls of yellowing smoothness, clumps of decaying meat upon the floor. This is no earthbound transport…I’m witnessing the uncloaking of the reality. I was in the hollow of a great tooth, a hub to protect a goddess from the green grass skin of Gaia. The large denture providing a buffer between a deity and the death dolling God-Hex.
‘You don’t want me dead do you?’ I say aloud and twirling, ‘That’s not your plan a is it, queenie?’ I say aloud and fearing.
Kurt’s guitar was painted in her royal colours - Teal green, the colour of her lips, Byzantium the tint of her hair, ‘Kurt Cobain? Your greatest trophy escapes Aphrodisia? Bullshit.’
Since I woke up this morning, she’s been playing me, warping my belief in Kurt Cobain to get close. What do all gods want? Why would they set man against man, invent nations and different languages, carving up the earth?
The answer is more obvious than the ending of a children’s book.
What do gods feed upon?
Since Boleraam and Gaia had the leaches evicted, all gods’ve desired is a way to get back here and live off humans, not the crude misshapes that bow down to them in The Oma. My banished siblings can never hope to emulate Gaia.
Gods create ANYHING out of love? Pah! To enable their worshippers the ability to radiate true love? Impossible. Divinities will always have their sights set on earth because this is where healthy nourishment exists. Which means of course getting past the God-Hex. The barrier only functions as long as Gaia and I both wish it. We must both want it more than…riches…peace on earth. We must desire it more than a friend to discuss a movie, a poem, a book. A kindred to form bands with.
No death metal scream compares to the lion roar that’s returned to the grey fields of my brain. Kurt’s at it again and there’s no Terrorsmith here to absorb the blast. I crumple to the surface of the planet I’ve let down:
‘Stop, please,’ I say feeble, teeth chattering, ‘D’ya think Lance wants to murder? Don’t you think he might want his body back?’
The reply is softly spoken. My enhanced hearing can’t help but decipher her voice – a whisper…snake-like – the vowels and consonants slithering just beneath human range from the wreck of a trailer/denture,
‘This vessel is lost in a world of sequels and movie tie-ins at Burger King. Lance isn’t a victim. He is a willing accomplice. There's nothing he wouldn't do to be seen as special. Chosen.'
With that belated admission, Kurt’s body opens its mouth.
Eros doesn’t need to illustrate her power with this theatrical opening of jaws – but then, she’s always been a prideful boxer, telegraphing her knockout punch. Her acknowledging who she really is allows 'Kurt's' voice to slip away entirely. I may be suffering several feet away but her feral wail doesn’t recognise such distance.
She claws out my brain causing a multitude of long and short term images to copulate and excrete deformed mutant memories. Suicide's pallid and flaking reach looks so desirable, so logical to this battered incarnation of mine. In my muddied comprehension I fail to locate a comparable torture.
'You should welcome the coming upheaval of the natural order...hmm, Boleraam?'
In this private sonic cage where I twist and break in the clutches of a devouring wail, I make wild prayers, absurd offerings to any creature of worship my recollection coughs up.
I call on any and every deity promising them power: ‘Hades?! Athena? Who will have my villages?’
…power and allegiance second to none: ‘Brando, I’ll reveal my hidden effigies – please, burn them and in their place root your own! Hear me!’
I swear to the morning sky to depose the enemies of any deity that would save me - I can and will deliver: ‘Apollo, Orpheus, Aries, Mammon…he who answers first may claim my life force for his own. Speak!’
I call on all black devils until one answers. And the devil, she is female. She desires to walk among us and seize at many a tightly clenched thing. She is Eros and I must make my penitence clear,
‘I pray to you. Great Goddess who can become a purple sea should you wish it. Tsunami in from the edge of my reality and accept my celestial sacrifices.’
My ears, they prick up to the moans of far distant pleasure.
‘Not that your waves care which deity or promise I throw them.’
A world sighing at the border of Gaia’s own.
A sea of cardinal red grain appears.
‘You will beat your feet upon the earth again. Just stop the screaming?’
Seas across the globe and gales that force across them begin to still, fearing predators they long since thought banished.
The Los Angeles rain has eased into that annoying half pissing half nothing spittle we suffer, as if some humongous beast squatting above won’t cease in crying itself dry. In grubby stinking flapping Technicolor I await, soaking.
Come on, instruct me…
‘We are Eros. Your eventual death shall be a sacrifice in my name.’
There she is, your typical self-regarding arrangement sung in pompous third person. Expect no less from the sextress of the gods. Ha, even though I can’t get it up anymore, Eros’ tones make me sweat. Her suggestive murmurings shiver through me wriggling oh, so very deep and into the pit of my belly. Snakes making love.
This is how I perceive her because like Gaia, Eros holds a differing shape entirely reliant upon the psyche of her audience, ‘You never stood a chance.’ sighs Eros. Being her enemy feels wrong. Such is the pull of lust upon my essence as the earth rumbles beneath me in primordial fear.
‘I’m a shit detective,’ I confess, ‘Lately, I’ve been asking a whole load of shitty why’s and not that many fucking how’s.’
I say this as my palms spider about, each gesture an act of slight misdirection. Colombo, eat your heart out, ‘Why the fucks’ Kurt come back to earth? Not fucking how. Why seek me out...not how,’ my hand wavers above my head like a chequered flag, ‘You used my fascination with Nirvana to catch me off guard, make me forget; forget that gods can’t get along. I’ve been such a dildo – should have twigged when I saw the colours of your guitar, and those lyrics? So very un-Kurt. So very very John Clay. The way he talked? What he found interesting? All charged with my…I mean, Clay’s perception. Nice queenie, very fucking clever.’
Kurt or Lances body I should say, it’s at rest. Arrogant, ‘The plan was to use the screaming to force me to call on you, right? And I did prostrate myself, but you didn’t count on Rooenn being part of the picture. Must have pissed you off that his presence strengthened me, helped blot the sonic torture out? Maybe you figured out that spending time with me made you stronger, all my hero-worship was an addictive sustenance, am I right? Whatever, you were just biding time, waiting for the sun to come up, yeah? Hoping that perhaps I'd be stupid enough to let go of Rooenn’s chain and fight you alone – let your screaming mess me up, and I’d be a pussy and pray your existence fully back into the earth realm. Killing me would be too easy. Forcing me to worship you past the hex though? That earns you proper bragging rights with the neighbours, am I right?’
I point out at the anomaly that is Gaia’s Sky, Eros’ red sand eerily floating down...the broken deformed mess that used to be my left hand. I force it over my eyes whilst my right palm keeps reveling in its Colombo duty, wavering like a finishing line flag.
‘Now all that aside, what I really want to know is, will you kill me from a distance? Or are you a pussy?’ I wet my lips as I prepare to finish it, ‘Are you weak, like a human?’
From the large denture that can no longer use old human dreams to disguise it as a rock-stars’ transport, Eros via Lance’s body shoots high, high up into the light spray. No creature from the old country sees humans as people. I've just compared Eros Goddess of lust to a meal.
She flies the height of a mountain and then...and then...the goddess dives, crashing down. As the raised earth flies up into my face, I stomach a girlish yelp as the shock-wave of her landing attempts to throw me off my feet.
Up close now, I spot them: eyes that are teal green and hairs that have transmuted into sleek Byzantium strands. They cling to the male face she has chosen to exist behind.
‘You...mock Eros?’ she asks as surrounding grass blades bleed blood red.
‘I kicked your ass once - I can protect Gaia from you losers again. Earth has enough rituals and fascistic idols ordering their practice all over her already. Take your – '
‘You allow your mothers erratic fables to delude you, still? She nurtures your convoluted history to keep you in check. You're a tool, fueled by...ego, designed by her...for protection.’ Eros sings advancing toward me, ‘You don't believe in anything or anyone. Even if your life didn't depend upon the God-Hex's safety, you'd maintain its upkeep for one reason alone. You want Earth for yourself, don't you…hero.’
Squinting through my finger gaps I see her, the queen of erotica just swaying there smiling – like she’s won and has every intention of waiting till I beg for my life. She’s completely oblivious to the opportunity of a killing stroke.
‘Zeus really should have sent a thinker.’You were safe in the giants tooth bitch-face. Don’t you know what we do to trespassers?’'
The patch of glowing red grass she and I both share, she sees it now. The goddess reaches out for a violent embrace but the God-Hex activates. I recollect my favourite Doors song: ‘Not to touch the earth, not to see the sun, nothing left to do but run, run, run...’
A blinding flash and everything edges closer to how it should be, 'Remember our truce a few years ago? I bet you long for that time now, right? Well, I can live without your rock and roll Disney Land - I'd rather see you burn.'
Hands, rocky mud coloured car-size palms, the will of Gaia herself made palpable, they drill up out of the ground I’m swaying on and squeeze Lance’s body for something smoky that eventually hisses out; a verdant gas funnelling from Lance’s nostrils surging up into the spit.
The fume makes its quick get-away, hunting for its home…Aphrodisia.
Miss World bleeds herself free of Eros’ crimson touch so that blades of emerald green restore all around me. I want to sniff in the morning air but ah…the sense nullifying punishment I doled out to myself really is forevermore. I imagine a readership of my life the comic book, how cheated they must feel. But if they existed, I'd forgive them their ignorance.
This mission was reconnaissance. Whatever minions of whatever pantheons that spied all this - they know now...the dragon tooth buffer works. Soon they'll all be at it. It seems like I have my work cut out for me.
The sun’s rays bask all over my face as I notice the stranger standing opposite me...
At first glance the look upon his wet face doesn’t compute. There is shock, a bemusement with a cadence of horror, that feeling your muscles hold when woken abruptly from a long slumber. His eyes are wide and flicking, but the feeling that I could drown within their depths has fled.
‘Kurt and Eros have gone,’ I say grinning, closing in, ‘Hello Lance Caesar-Young.’
I’ve read - no - John Clay has read enough comics, so many ways to kill this Lance fucker. Visions fit for a cannibalistic sexually explicit Greek tragedy pan across my inner eye.
My chain-masked-alibi for twisted destruction is absent. Rooenn the Terrorsmith has departed with the night it needed to exist in its grey skinned emaciated form.
So, I ask myself, is there enough dark anger in me to reach forward into Lances’ jugular? Rip out his voice box and fist it up his rectum? Then I consider how Eros duped me – my belief fuelling her mirage.
The smile that hangs off my lower face is the well rendered portrait of an adept pupil.
‘You’ve had not one but two gods transpose themselves across you. I’d say if you believe enough, if you truly dig deep for the faith, you might be able to convince me that you’ve got enough power left in you to knock me out and make a run for it. Maybe - I’m just not sure. So…you’ve got to ask yourself a question…’
Lance moves away pleading, ‘Stop,’ he’s transfixed on my Superman regalia repeating, ‘You’re the good guy, you’re the good guy!’
Fists clench by his hips whilst his eyes, they widen with a mad faith. He wants the good guy?
'You want truth, justice and the American way?'
He nods unable to speak from the fear, 'The American way intrigues me. I've always had a lot of time for capital punishment.'
Is it the god or the human in me that ignites the fire in my eyes?