MEMENTO

By Vee Elle
Shattered Angel | VL Collage

Shattered Angel | VL Collage


 

Inside us there is something that has no name,
that something is what we are.”
José Saramago

…The instant “when the boredom of living is replaced
by the suffering of being”
Samuel Beckett.
Reflecting on the soiled wall mirror, fate is streaming spectral lines of quicksilver to prove the permanent movie wherein she’s forever left lying on a counter like a junked Bukowski girl, a dry Martini dripping heavy with double premium vodka on her lap, smelling sour under her retroussé – a wronged Marilyn nose job – bent on the bowl of soggy crisps to go with gooey Mexican hot sauce; her flick knife false lashes hitting the glass edge, the platinum mane ready to defy a late night dream pick-up, for a glorious petite mort at the hands of some prince charming hidden within the clammy mob getting pissed with alcohol and frustration at the snooker tables; all of it hazy in her eyes and brain.
There she is, all bruises and soul, as she has yet been; trying hard to mean other than an immaterial piece of decor in an underground hangout. Sensing – perhaps begetting – the touch of a boorish brogue on her back to stir the appetite for adventure guaranteed to so ease the solitude. Solitude. Not loneliness.
X
Solitude endemic as in the pathetic party of dismal dipsomaniacs avid for all sorts of missed links or disconnections – when the fairy tale has proven fake, triggering the suicidal leap into the pit of denial.
There they are, not even noticing, let alone caring, absconding within their lurid happy hour, yearning for an accomplished unaccompanied company which is, indeed, severe solitude, the sort that mustn´t or shouldn´t be paired to loneliness.
X
She now sits straight and takes a sip from her third martini.
X
It hurts to watch them preparing to rush home to a losing battle. Back to their god-knows-whos, granted that home means someplace where someone stays put in waiting for the regular sham –say, never hoping for honesty, just waiting on– like the ideal self to scuttle to when sozzled and void.
X
Nothing much can then be done different to soiling the souls, humming the blues, holding back the meta-physical vomit, until it will finally come up like a tardy crack of thunder after the ultimate tempest is killed. Along with the days of cravings for hope. Only after anger has hijacked all other sentiment. And Nothingness becomes the terminus to every bus.
A time when the gut will feel you are unsouling the concert of your perfect molecular machine to give the body away to entropic self destruction, the neurons alert on the job of out tuning the messages sent by wishes that hurt in the skin like a swarm of dying butterflies flaying your flesh.
X
What’s your name?
X
He’s handsome. And scruffy. Not smelly, thank god. Time has stopped for no reason. She just looks at him in the eye. Deep sea blue eyes. Indigo? A pomaded auburn quiff peaking from the brow for charm.
X
Had she only known what name she was given at birth – just to open the gates to all life mysteries; perhaps.
NN on your birth certificate” – would say foster Mummy Ella.
Mind what you wish for “– she’d also say.
Maybe it’s something horrible like Penny or Lorna”– and she then laughed the scary laughter.
That was in her previous life, when Ella and Ed had even sent her to the Arts Academy for the poor in the village.
The teacher was soft and well spoken. Half Italian, she had taught her that L’arte è cosa mentale and that some Italian genius had said it.
A thing of the mind”. Art a thing of the mind? And love? Can you find love in Art? Then Beauty is Love too, or is it? Just look at HER, the timeless goddess, her lips in a permanent orgasm, her being transcending the screen, her skin white as silky dove fleece in the sunshine.
X
Suddenly, all thoughts are too heavy to bear. He is still staring. Indigo Eyes are now piercing her own with febrile intent.
X
It hurts…it hurts so much. Stop, Daddy. Please, Daddy, stop. I’m begging you”. But Ed would only laugh his zombie laughter. Coming from inside a cave in his gut or maybe her own. As she felt that she was being split in halves. The pain was inexplicable. Like her not having been given a name at birth. Like she had never been real. For her own mother, Ella and Ed.
Ella used to hand her the glue. “Sniff it, you little bitch. That’s what bitches do” That was him. And Ella would laugh while taking pictures.
“It hurts Mum. It hurts so much. Please, please Mummy. Tell him to stop”
.
She wouldn’t dare crying. Or weeping. Just begging in a whisper. Like in church.
X
She won’t even dare weep now, never mind how vulnerable she feels when surrounded by other lost souls, with their vomits struggling to come up in a final blend of booze and horror.
X
Ella watching and laughing – it had always started from a sickly giggle. Sharp, itchy, the alarm tinkling to trigger the ordeal.
X
Bereft. Forlorn. Forfeitable. Forsaken. That’s all she is. An unprofitable life form, the paradigm of minus, the last campaigner of the nuclear war, the misplaced besieger of a fallen kingdom, the lone legionary in a flooded desert, a dying sea bird stranded in a dried sea bed.
X
Is that what he thinks of me? His eyes look gentle. Like a warm lake in the summer.
X
Right now she longs for the inescapable time when hope is an existing word for humanity. Right now, at no other time but the instant, she feels she can feel nothing but the exclusion of something.
X
She’s wished for it” – Ella would always say – ‘I know what’s inside the little slut’s head’. And so she was someone at last. The little slut screaming “Stop, Daddy, it hurts so much”.
X
Not asking. Not moving. Not touching. Not looking. Not feeling. That’s all you need. When time for abandonment takes the only one step left. When the barrenness for everyone to disintegrate into was wide open. When the mute realm of archetypal loneliness or mandatory solitude unlocks its gates in anticipation.
X
When the social security stopped giving them care money, it was all finished. The scary laughter, too. The earwarmy whispers in her ear when Ed would touch her and call her my baby doll. Ed, the verbal rapist. His mellow wording would soon turn to abuse as the sacrificial rite increased in fury and depravity.
X
So now, her soul marooned on the counter, lubricated with the reek and burn of vodka in the heart, she is five again. And all the drunks in a line behind Indigo Eyes queuing to break her in halves are Ed and all the people watching are laughing Ella.
X
It’s time for the percolator – shouts someone at the snooker table.
X
Memories are spinning like cadavers drowning in an apocalyptic maelstrom off the bottomless pit.
X
It’s time for the percolator dance battleshouts back someone else.
An ululating wail flips out from inside the jukebox, violent with expectancy. It’s not exactly music but a compulsive circling chant with a jerking background rhythm. On the first beat, a choir breaks out singing It’s time for the percolator at full volume.
The collective clapping mounts like a holler in no time. The snooker riffraff now sing along the jukebox, flapping their legs as they shake their hips in frenzy by pushing their groins forward. Someone bangs on the counter to score the beat. She is startled and terrorised.
X
There’s some whores in this house – a pissed voice spanks at her back like a speed bomb.
The stool she’s sitting on tumbles down. When she faints, Indigo Eyes holds her tight from the waist. Someone standing behind him holds her legs up. When she comes to, she can only feel the prickly touch of the baize on her bare skin.
X
When do you first want sex? What is it really like? What has it always been? Why is it tantalising? And brutal as murder.
Indigo Eyes keeps on staring What if I whisper that I need a hand with the feel of gauze on my skin? Soft as mist, warm as a lover’s breath.
She holds his lapel to whisper in his ear I need for someone to pretend I’m loved…
kiss of the stardust angel

Kiss of the stardust angel | VL Collage


 

A raucous voice howls like the wolf that wakes her every night screaming and all sweat over. Never crying. Her body has got used to doing the crying instead. As it does now. And yet, and yet.
X
Self pity won’t help!” – was that Ella’s or Ed’s voice? Maybe both?
X
She notices, or thinks she’s noticed, that someone’s been noticing. And hears, yes, hears, footfalls approaching with the heavy walk of liquor. An ectoplasmic someone without a clear purpose. Or so she thinks. Disfigured within cigar smoke and hiding on purpose, thinks she, she can still do some thinking so that she can´t notice.
X
Hey, Joe, we’ve got the babe on the baize.
X
She now feels the stroke of a snooker-cue exploring her body. The raw image of perversion seems to have compressed like a lead bullet in the tip.
X
Let´s give it a go and get into it. Let’s have an awesome as fuck push in. Her mouth’s begging for it. Just look at that slimy pouch.
X
The players are now yelling their song at each other not to listen to their own voices. Or to others screaming out at the mute vacuum of the Nothingville also known as the fucking world.
The riffraff are now herding tighter for playing their crowd competition. As sirens bleep from the jukebox the twist of hips and groins grows to an electrifying tension.
A pitchdark acidity leaks out from the singing choir – Can voices smell?
She now senses the scent of blood streaming from her bosom – And grief? Grief has the odour of death.
X
Indigo Eyes stands still in the way of the gang. Stark and yet indecisive. His stare echoes a mind switching to emergency mode. The indigo blue sea eyes where to dive in for compassion have morphed into the bottomless pit.
X
Hold me tight, honey; my heart is pouring with torrential grief.
X
Right now she yet again yearns for hope to be on the cards of her fortune reading. Right now as she feels she can feel nothing but the exclusion of something.
X
Still the ectoplasm exists. I can see it transfiguring into masks vile as negatives flowing out from a buried trunk…I’ve taunted too many memories tonight. “Come, lady night”she recalls when she took to acting and she could finally self baptise.
Words, kind words will fly me away from the nightmare. Words whispered to the angels; like when hiding in the cupboards not to be chased for pleasure. “Come, gentle night”
X
Yet the void manifests as unforgiving darkness. Fate simply grants her a moonless night, as thick as tar. No lustre lady night will come to hypnotise the agencies of evil.
X
I am of fire and air” Mother…why would you desert me in a pool of blood?
X
The chill should be good enough; it shall have to be good enough to make for genuine bodily feeling. Just a mock-up sensation, a trace of the fateful thrill that makes sellouts of them all, the patrons, the human race and herself. All of them letting for their souls to be auctioned off.
X
….“Nothing comes from nothing” Why was I always nothing?
X
Yet Nothing means not just the Emptiness. It’s a longing for something: all that’s inexplicable. So no matter how intently she tries, her body can’t move any more for the paradigm of minus plus something renders Zero. Naught. Nil.
X
…..”as sweet as balm….as soft as air” – always silent like a dead bird…..not to be noticed…not to be used as a plastic doll.
X
Suddenly she feels the clasp of a fast hand on her forehead. Soft, soft like the touch of feathers. Pouring like fresh dew on her helpless skin.
X
A stroke? A consolation? A blessing? – the breathing air dies out for no reason.
Do you believe in love? Even in a chilling, killing kind of love? – Indigo Eyes is forcefully drawn back by the gang queuing up to rape her. He does not resist.
X
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand¨….– the smell of blood cannot be suffused but with love….
X
What is the nethermost of the percolator? Memories of better times to blame someone for all this shit for luck.
Gang raping mode proceeds at good rhythm. Collective clapping incites those tempted to cowering away.
X
O will I set up my everlasting rest and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world wearied flesh”…….
An automated hip-hop move takes hold of the tribal ceremony. As dehumanisation takes over, the men act like prosthetic dummies.
Out of the crowd, a hand is hoisting the snooker cue as he approaches to rip her frock open.
Silence becomes so parental to screams of death that either can keep the racket going. And both silence and yelling equally wire the men up. As all of them seem infected with the sound and fury of self hatred. An unnameable flare of rage metastasises.
X
If it be now ´tis not to come; if it be not come, it will be now, if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all”………..please heavens let readiness happen...
X
Indigo Eyes elbows his way through. Jumping piggy back on the cue holder, he grabs the stick from him before her eyes. His move opens a wedge in the crowding horde. The world is now divided between them, him and herself. Time stops again but now she knows it’s for a reason. A splendent shaft of golden light crosses the room. Strange luminous balls of energy cover him with a glowing coat.
She raises her head to whisper some words in a sigh.
An angel’s blessed you with the coat of compassion her voice sounds like the chant of a wounded sparrow.
My fate’s been grief and forbidding. You’ve given me what’s most scarce. Love and hope.
His semblance reminds her of a card she was given at church once.
You’re my Michael Archangel. I can now say that Beauty is Love and Love is Beauty.
X
He notices her head falling on to a side and a mouthful of blood leaking down on the floor. He holds her chin and gently moves it right and left.
X
What’s your name? – His eyes have welled up. Please babe, what’s your name?
X
He clasps her forehead as before, stroking it with a tender touch. She can feel some warm teardrops on her face.
X
Oh my god. For fucks sake! Something´s happening here…the girl´s dying…she’s about to….. Help…..somebody please help…
X
Every being in the place stands still. Life is not nil anymore. Just like when she smiled – when she found herself smiling at the mirage of a mirror – when there was still this passion for something that defies nothingness. The prayer befell her as natural as a deluge in a tempest.

 

Behold the heavens’ gate opening to angels returning…their tears pouring like fresh dew on my thirsting skin…
X
His hand holds her chin to stare once more into her eyes. Please, hon! What’s your name? – His very hand seems to plead as well.
X
Tis so warm and tender.
X
No longer fake Marilyn now, but her own self. The name she has given herself recovered, atoning for all the suffering.
X
I’ m Aimeé. I’ m Aimeé Lamour.
X
The publican rings the barbell for the last call. A Mourning dove flies in, takes a sharp detour around her body to then sail bullet straight through the room, crashing against the ceiling fan. A myriad feathers fall like snowflakes to nest in the blood on her clothes. The jukebox stops with a screech. A great hush follows after as the dead of the night befalls on that corner of the earth like black rain.