Christopher WunderLee: Moore's Mythopoeia

“You are the great-grandson of a martyr,” she always began in a fairy tale voice that should have narrated children’s books, as socially impoverished Joseph sat in a man’s t-shirt, his little naked body underneath, at the edge of his bed, the third one on the left of the attic of a hospital, with no other occupants, since orphans had greatly been reduced in numbers, his two dove hole eyes locked onto her voice as she gave simple objects the significance of an imagist master and would have made W.C. Williams blush in her rather diagonal explications of the animated parallels between the idea and the act, his receipt of a soul and his birth (the first of many disasters). “Lightning is only God taking pictures of us.”

Joseph had remained an urchin even in marriage and as he understood the Nancy movement he had suddenly embraced by leaping off the bridge (although the Fagan element was less vita Christi -like than he expected, “please sir, may I have More?”), he did not give the repetitious position he would place his own children in more than a momentary focus, for he was busy watching the craggy lines of the gorge walls as they sped by in Rorschachian significance (‘a snake making love to a duck’, ‘two men using lawnmowers like battle-axes in a deadly war over property rights’, ‘perhaps a whale reversing the situation and enticing a fisherman with a new automobile’, and probably the most psychosomatic of all revelations ‘an exhibitionist she-devil flashing the members of an impotent religious sect whilst they fast from sunlight’). Secondly, if not significantly, Joseph was attempting to enhance the despair of his rather stoic wife by making his timely passing an injury to family finances, causing tears to seep from the apex of her eyelids as she paid the undertaker, funeral home, florist, caterer, travel agent, gravediggers, and professional mourners. He knew quite realistically that it was the only way to make her express any emotion when she noticed his absence from the dinner table.

Done with the work of breathing; done

With all the world; the mad race run

Through to the end; the golden goal

Attained and found only to be a hole.

This scarecrow hope that intermingled with the ink-blot shadows of the cliffs passing at a comfortable rate of the universal gravitational constant (G = 6.67 x 10 –11N .m 2/kg 2or ‘pick a flower on earth and you move the farthest star’) sustained our dear hero through the distance and time of the fall (since the mass was completely out of his control, having long been taken over by his love for late night pastry feasts and since he was not a stone-cutter and thus, did not remove any matter from the earth) so that he had time to consider his faith in the idea of the death, a rather stunted belief without evidence he had been told by people without experience or knowledge.

* * *

The two harmatiological flyers of that numinous death wish and maddening treasure of gravity tugging angel wings from their roots met the very moment Joseph awkwardly solved the riddle of the fauna incognita of the sky, who had been swooping passed his head and chasing him like he was a raptor on the prowl for their innocent progeny, when Joseph returned his attention to the seismic pulses of the shadows in the gorge walls and noticed a rather bright, yet unnatural, almost swamp gas-like orb of star-light had ended its refracted path mid-air and directly beside him. From within this small portal of a ray refusing infinity its obligatory dues, a hand as thin as a winter twig emerged in an almost perverse stroking of the fabric of the air, as if the ghost (a manifestation of an inward fear onto a visible patch of reality, in Joseph’s opinion) had to seduce the ruling physics of the day and allow her access into their meaty recesses. Her arm, covered in a lover’s moon colored sleeve that’s translucence perked Joseph’s diminishing libido, followed and then, a t-square of a shoulder, until a tiny, yet floral head adjacent to a forfeited body was fully visible and he could see her falling beside him in totality — which is to say she was acomoclitic, and Joseph had the rare fortune of dying beside a bathycolpian, callipygian succubus sky ecdysiast. Seeing the transmutation of the seraphim within a pin-hole in the neurons of several fission reactions, had he been a true More and not a modern Moore, sans the additional ‘o’, so dominating in its linguistic illustration of a void, and the approximation of an ophelimitic vision, Joseph, in his infinite morosis, felt not uplifted, but experienced a strange few moments (precious ones at that) of malnoia. For the female messenger of a long forgotten deity who swam in the air like a dolphin toying with air-hole rings, whose omnipresent nudity reminded him of his supernatural genealogic awareness, whose strange moon-glow hue seemed to capture the embrace of all the stars, was one last signal from cynical fate that his life was not meant to be anything more than heartburn and migraines.

“I am fortune’s fool”. It wasn’t as though he could make a go of her while they plummeted towards the waiting river. She was arching her back (Joseph focusing more on the soffit than the arc), the lines of muscles of her flank the artistic vanity of a creator who loves his own work and wishes to surround himself with archetype models he can delude to create terrestrial citizens, her thin waist winding down in an abdominal knot into the home of dreamy paizogony. These amorous matters that so occupied the dying man’s illegitimate thoughts, were fed throughout the fall by the fairy (protected to this day by Henry III’s “Kyllinge, wowndynge, or mamynge” capital punishment ruling) as she danced (folklore suggests due to an addiction) provocatively around the man like a ballerina converted into Dionysian clergy and required to violently produce the kurva for his benefit. However, the pixie did not indicate any sort of forced provocation for performing it so rudely, nor did it appear that she was corrupting an otherwise pristine dance, but had chosen freely, willingly, and even happily, to twirl her nymph-like charms around him in a very purposeful attempt to alter the limpidity of his consciousness. Joseph, for his part, of which no one can blame him, considering his current situation, was both confused and more than mildly, wildly ravenous as the sister of Pan straddled his head with the unclenched, in fact grinning, fuzzy peach-odored maw of her body and motionlessly swayed against him as she slid down his chest and stomach, until she halted the pendulum motion of her hind against his pelvis and got to work grinding against the lumbricoid limb he had forgotten was naturally a denning animal, finding itself for the first time in many years quite near to a honey-soaked cavern perfectly placed for it to hide in.

“We are two wild eagles. Make love to me.” She was falling too. Her hair was golden white, her skin was brighter than the alabaster of the moon. Her eyes were a hollow blue, they looked like jewelry he’d seen in the window display, there were no flaws to the gems in her eyes. She was reaching for him, trying to hold his hand. “And then, I will kiss you.” He caught hold of it, feeling the smooth texture of her slender fingers, the warmth of her palm. “You don’t know what I’m going to do to you, my little suicidal honey.” She smiled, the saliva on her teeth sparkling in the moonlight. She looked at him as though she was happy to see him there. She pulled herself close to him. He could feel her body. Her hair wrapped around his face. He could feel her breath in his ear.

* * *

Aaron’s junk spurted into his wife Lilith one lethargic afternoon while she came off a high dose of Serenitimiphine, and although she had no recollection of this congress (she was lying supine on their marital bed in a perfectly suitable nightgown comparatively cataleptic) she became pregnant (note the Buberian tone). Within her formed two boys, one she named Joseph, the other Alvin. Now Joseph grew fat with his mother’s offerings and Alvin grew smaller. The mother looked with favor on Alvin and his sacrifice, but on Joseph and his gluttony, she did not. She was worried about Alvin and grew resentful of excessive Joseph (so like his opportunistic father, who had been required, of course, during a rather Augustinian confession, to explicate how exactly Lilith had become expecting).