Ivor
Simpering over the extinguished candle, Ivor try to remember again, why it came to be that for as long as could be seen, the appearance, his appearance again would preclude the death of the mister and the misses.
The victims were as usual lacking at the time of their demise those things that they cherished the most, be it hair, genitals, a fully complete larder of meat for the winter months, a pair of shoes, in reality, those things that enhanced their vile triptychs of want, their vanity and hungers. He had the habit of taking employment with his master and mistress always at the opportune moment of blending into the wealth-scape of anonymity. he was a pervasive drifter from time itself that obliged his singular persona, “Ivor” into the blaisse sense of the moment-decade-eon that would serve his crusades and forays into those meaningless possessions. Life in transition without anomalous events acted as the loadstone talisman cry that demanded Ivor and his murderous lack of propiety. He killed that which lacked nothing and yet desired more. They take from want, he took from habit. A reciprocating relationship has developed in this activity that eschews our common delineation of PROVENANCE. Ivor is time immemorial! The very spirit of the man waits patiently at your mirror glancing out at your comfortable visage glancing out in anticipation of that moment... of breakthrough. He always sat at his wife’s vanity awaiting that sudden clarity when his hands jittered over the paper scribbling with a nub of a pencil the inscriptions, equations, formulas, chemical symbols, all more thricely folded in upon one another and hidden from sight in the ledger when he had finished. And he had finished when he had finished with the sheet of paper, the one sheet of paper allowed himself each night as he sat at his dead wife’s vanity with the small hairline crack in the corner that sliced his image in crooked halves when he craned his head up towards it. Memorious reflection, could not mankind see itself in one collective unconscious mirror? And judge itself? Every night in bed, in dreams? In guilty acquiescence with one another? consorting with thine enemy? Or as he did in front of a broken pane of glass, Judging himself and being judged? Was this not normal?
Man’s vanity and his selfish concerns for his hedonistic desires, the satisfaction of his demand is undoubtedly a basic sin, is it not? Ivor liked to arrive hidden in the melancholic fiber of self pleasure and from there, nimbly maneuver to take away that which physically announces a man’s emotions as true as the barometer, his penis. Ivor’s nocturnal tasks required that he make careful study off the thing that brought him from such low depths, the place beyond that which man can simply equate, hell. In hell, Ivor learned his craft under the tutelage of only the fowlest and notorious demi-satans. On earth, Ivor now plyies his skill in the hell in which man has spent nearly an eternity in search of, a satisfaction that he perhaps will never know, and that places name is as deceptive as the creature that created it. As Satan is known as the devil, beezebub, Lucifer, so too does his creation go by a myriad of deceptive names: the shitter, the toilet, the john, crapper, outhouse and the innocuous term, the watercloset. Down the privy and beneath the rim, Ivor studies his prey very carefully. From the base of the scrotum, to the tip of the member, the plan is set. ivor must now find the most opportune moment that would enable him to the prize that he seeks, the utter humiliation of his victim, the death of his pride, the soul of that sorrow that motivates his very waking breath. Seen ever so briefly as the tell tale fogging on the mirror surface, when the heart was too pale and feeble to betray its true intentions struggling to keep up in a 26 year marathon that would only now bring it to its knees when it was assiduously consigned to traitorous fool hardy bravado and will and yes, oh yes, intention, once again. The path to hell is paved in good intentions. The heart had nothing but good intentions and begging was all but part of a hard day’s work near the final months. And there as if to find St. Peter barring the way it gave up and (forgive the expression) turned away broken (hearted). Ivor was not a bad man, merely turned away and excommunicated from the gates of heaven from whereupon he walked like Adam and Eve into the land of Nod, the land of bland forgiveness found only in forgetfulness of He who no longer saw ivor from the periphery of his vision even. Into the land of Nod, to be forgotten and forgiven. Hell, he wasn’t even a Jocasta set to some task, large or small, until now, sitting in front of this woman’s, this landmark, milepost, signpost, marker, rock, this pole, of north or south, he knew not, but now he sat before this cracked mirror and scribbled pathetic mathematical equations that bore down upon him. And though Ivor was drifting from sight, the demon watched. He watched and was perplexed at how his situation had changed, the seemingly inevitable conclusion, of the splayed and mutilated penis, the theft of his master’s mistresses hair and the renewed vigor for his crusade against man fading.
The master of the dynamic was not Ivor after all, but that sorrow that he felt he knew how to capitalise on, but failed to understand, proved to be the more cruel enumerator of his earthly masters fate. In his sorrow he allowed for the man’s dissipation to take place at his own doing, in its own way and for this, Ivor’s reward was multiplied.
It is back in the substance of things that he must retreat, into the fog and vaguery of the shadow, the fogged edge of a mirror with its silver turning into dust, the ancient glass as turns from one form to another, the scaly patina, are the things that return Ivor to his place-in-wait, to hell. Illusions of perversity and abomination before the vengeful one on high are those things that the mortal must be aware of when he makes love to the beautiful visage, the facade of the bleakest of souls. And do the visages actually have souls? Who knows? As Joseph Heller may have said once. He only met them, worked for them, thought for them, and yes it was dangerous, dangerous to fuck them as he knew so well how to do when you play ball. When you pay ball with the devil, he drives and throws a mean fastball. Don’t want to get beaned by that one, he chuckled. That one met out in California, hell... the ones he met in White Sands, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Baltimore, all of them, with the black rites and those signet rings that they never let you see as they so generously shook, pumped your hand in implicit understanding that you never were meant to see the symbols inscribed in that tacit connection. But, hell... Ivor was making himself smile all over tonite, he became conscious of his reflection, but hell, all of those fuckers were not to be crossed. And so he crossed another “x,” went back to the equation that was soon to be filed again in the expanding paper file, and crossed out cancelling parts of the equation until he was left with next to nothing. Next to nothing, christus on the cross. XOS the number one 1... himself, his dead wife, twenty six years lain, those faggots in the air force who didn’t know what they meddled with, Him and his twin brother, gabriel, who had visited him in the night, his one piece of paper before him, his nub of a pencil and his reflection.
The victims were as usual lacking at the time of their demise those things that they cherished the most, be it hair, genitals, a fully complete larder of meat for the winter months, a pair of shoes, in reality, those things that enhanced their vile triptychs of want, their vanity and hungers. He had the habit of taking employment with his master and mistress always at the opportune moment of blending into the wealth-scape of anonymity. he was a pervasive drifter from time itself that obliged his singular persona, “Ivor” into the blaisse sense of the moment-decade-eon that would serve his crusades and forays into those meaningless possessions. Life in transition without anomalous events acted as the loadstone talisman cry that demanded Ivor and his murderous lack of propiety. He killed that which lacked nothing and yet desired more. They take from want, he took from habit. A reciprocating relationship has developed in this activity that eschews our common delineation of PROVENANCE. Ivor is time immemorial! The very spirit of the man waits patiently at your mirror glancing out at your comfortable visage glancing out in anticipation of that moment... of breakthrough. He always sat at his wife’s vanity awaiting that sudden clarity when his hands jittered over the paper scribbling with a nub of a pencil the inscriptions, equations, formulas, chemical symbols, all more thricely folded in upon one another and hidden from sight in the ledger when he had finished. And he had finished when he had finished with the sheet of paper, the one sheet of paper allowed himself each night as he sat at his dead wife’s vanity with the small hairline crack in the corner that sliced his image in crooked halves when he craned his head up towards it. Memorious reflection, could not mankind see itself in one collective unconscious mirror? And judge itself? Every night in bed, in dreams? In guilty acquiescence with one another? consorting with thine enemy? Or as he did in front of a broken pane of glass, Judging himself and being judged? Was this not normal?
Man’s vanity and his selfish concerns for his hedonistic desires, the satisfaction of his demand is undoubtedly a basic sin, is it not? Ivor liked to arrive hidden in the melancholic fiber of self pleasure and from there, nimbly maneuver to take away that which physically announces a man’s emotions as true as the barometer, his penis. Ivor’s nocturnal tasks required that he make careful study off the thing that brought him from such low depths, the place beyond that which man can simply equate, hell. In hell, Ivor learned his craft under the tutelage of only the fowlest and notorious demi-satans. On earth, Ivor now plyies his skill in the hell in which man has spent nearly an eternity in search of, a satisfaction that he perhaps will never know, and that places name is as deceptive as the creature that created it. As Satan is known as the devil, beezebub, Lucifer, so too does his creation go by a myriad of deceptive names: the shitter, the toilet, the john, crapper, outhouse and the innocuous term, the watercloset. Down the privy and beneath the rim, Ivor studies his prey very carefully. From the base of the scrotum, to the tip of the member, the plan is set. ivor must now find the most opportune moment that would enable him to the prize that he seeks, the utter humiliation of his victim, the death of his pride, the soul of that sorrow that motivates his very waking breath. Seen ever so briefly as the tell tale fogging on the mirror surface, when the heart was too pale and feeble to betray its true intentions struggling to keep up in a 26 year marathon that would only now bring it to its knees when it was assiduously consigned to traitorous fool hardy bravado and will and yes, oh yes, intention, once again. The path to hell is paved in good intentions. The heart had nothing but good intentions and begging was all but part of a hard day’s work near the final months. And there as if to find St. Peter barring the way it gave up and (forgive the expression) turned away broken (hearted). Ivor was not a bad man, merely turned away and excommunicated from the gates of heaven from whereupon he walked like Adam and Eve into the land of Nod, the land of bland forgiveness found only in forgetfulness of He who no longer saw ivor from the periphery of his vision even. Into the land of Nod, to be forgotten and forgiven. Hell, he wasn’t even a Jocasta set to some task, large or small, until now, sitting in front of this woman’s, this landmark, milepost, signpost, marker, rock, this pole, of north or south, he knew not, but now he sat before this cracked mirror and scribbled pathetic mathematical equations that bore down upon him. And though Ivor was drifting from sight, the demon watched. He watched and was perplexed at how his situation had changed, the seemingly inevitable conclusion, of the splayed and mutilated penis, the theft of his master’s mistresses hair and the renewed vigor for his crusade against man fading.
The master of the dynamic was not Ivor after all, but that sorrow that he felt he knew how to capitalise on, but failed to understand, proved to be the more cruel enumerator of his earthly masters fate. In his sorrow he allowed for the man’s dissipation to take place at his own doing, in its own way and for this, Ivor’s reward was multiplied.
It is back in the substance of things that he must retreat, into the fog and vaguery of the shadow, the fogged edge of a mirror with its silver turning into dust, the ancient glass as turns from one form to another, the scaly patina, are the things that return Ivor to his place-in-wait, to hell. Illusions of perversity and abomination before the vengeful one on high are those things that the mortal must be aware of when he makes love to the beautiful visage, the facade of the bleakest of souls. And do the visages actually have souls? Who knows? As Joseph Heller may have said once. He only met them, worked for them, thought for them, and yes it was dangerous, dangerous to fuck them as he knew so well how to do when you play ball. When you pay ball with the devil, he drives and throws a mean fastball. Don’t want to get beaned by that one, he chuckled. That one met out in California, hell... the ones he met in White Sands, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Baltimore, all of them, with the black rites and those signet rings that they never let you see as they so generously shook, pumped your hand in implicit understanding that you never were meant to see the symbols inscribed in that tacit connection. But, hell... Ivor was making himself smile all over tonite, he became conscious of his reflection, but hell, all of those fuckers were not to be crossed. And so he crossed another “x,” went back to the equation that was soon to be filed again in the expanding paper file, and crossed out cancelling parts of the equation until he was left with next to nothing. Next to nothing, christus on the cross. XOS the number one 1... himself, his dead wife, twenty six years lain, those faggots in the air force who didn’t know what they meddled with, Him and his twin brother, gabriel, who had visited him in the night, his one piece of paper before him, his nub of a pencil and his reflection.
posted by BrenGun at 2:28 PM
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