(Do you think?)the
i do,world
is probably made
of roses & hello:

(of solongs and,ashes)

"You fall into my lap in one hundred pieces. I keep them in a jar by the bed. The jar I made for you. Sometimes when I go out I take parts of you with me. The butcher asks me how you are doing. I say fine thank you. He doesn’t know I have your smile in my pocket. The tailor asks me what you have been up to. I tell her you’ve been busy. You are all over the place these days. She doesn't know I keep your tongue in my wallet. When I see people that look sad I give them a part of you. There is a lady uptown with your eyes. A little boy down the block has your hands. It is the least I can do. At night I dump you out on the bed. I run my hands over your parts and imagine what it would be like to put you back together. What it would be like to curl your hair into my palms."

-'how i spent my summer vacation' lyndsey cohen

yoite

Mr Pardaleos said:

-They do a rather good kidney omelette. Shall we say that, preceded by a kirsch-laced frullato di frutta?

The voice was totally without accent, the tones of abstract intelligence purged of class and region. He was over forty. I said:

-I've already had two breakfasts.
-You wouldn't think it too early for a pint of champagne?
-Much too early. But what an excellent idea.

He smiled an archaeic smile and then ordered a breakfast for himself quite different from what he'd proposed for the two of us: trout kedgeree with chilli sauce, cold turkey pie, Virginia ham very thick with a brace of poached eggs, a chilled strawberry souffle. And, for there was not much choice, a 1963 Bollinger. He drank iced water and black coffee while waiting. He said:

-Faber. A good making name. Homo faber.
-I beg your pardon, was that last remark meant to be--
-How sensitive the young are. Nothing about sex, no. But, since you've raised the subject, there's a sexual question I'd like to put to you. What is your view of incest?
-What is my--
-Incest, incest. Keeping sex in the family. Most cultures have pretty rigid taboos on incest. My own ancestral one, for instance. Oedipus, Electra, all that. Some don't care much. England didn't. They didn't bring in their Incest Act till 1908.
-Why do you, why are you -- What's all this about anyway?
-You young people are great for smashing the old barriers. Loewe told me what you'd done -- very clever, most bold. Would you be prepared to commit incest?
-It's an academic question. I've nobody to commit it with.
-Stall not, my friend. Now when I talk of committing incest I have in mind the whole works: eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, and no pills or diaphragms or pessaries. I mean preparedness to risk incestuous conception.
-Look, I think I have a right to know what's going on. I'm trying to get to Castita to fulfil a legitimate educational enterprise. Everybody seems determined to--
-I know all about it. Wait. Now, while I'm eating this kedgeree, I'd like for you to perform a brief act of the imagination. A boy is in bed with his mother, right? They're naked. He, or she, puts out an embracing hand. Take it from there.
-First Loewe has me robbed, now you have me dragged here to talk about--
-Go on. Start imagining. Close your eyes if it helps.

I sighed. Could I, a young man, be blamed for thinking that the old were mad? The champagne was brought in an ice-bucket, and some of the breakfasters stared, though not for long: this was, after all, sybaritic Miami. I closed my eyes and saw what Pardaleos had bidden me see. There was a double bed, the sheets not too clean, and there were flies buzzing. High summer: this was to explain the nakedness. Above the bed hung a photographic reproduction that i could not clearly see: something surrealistic, a red room crammed to the limit with chairs and a sort of fiery paraclete dancing. Then I looked down. The mother had no face, but her body was clearly defined -- big breasts, belly, buttocks shining sweatily in the morning light. The son was bony and overeager. Their engagement was urgent, and he came as quickly as a young rooster. Then he lay back, wet and panting, and his face was something like mine.

-Well? said Pardaleos, who had finished his kedgeree.
-It was just sex. If it were a sort of morality cartoon you could stick a shocking label on -- S O N F U C K S M O T H E R. Primal sense isn't revolted, except perhaps aesthetically. It's ideas, words, irrational taoos, pseudo-ethical additives that that--
-Words, eh? very clever. Right. Send the mother and son packing and bring in a brother and sister. Go on.
-You know, this is really--

But, my eyes on the easing-off on the champagne cork, I left that bed in my mind, the sheets changed and the light changed too--for some reason to winter afternoon light with the sense of an electic fire glowing, to be occupied by a boy and a girl, both lean and comely, and they made love with hunger. Their faces were not clear: they were glued together in a kiss. The cork shot, and the waiter gave the fuming overflow to my flute. I couldn't help grinning. I said:

-Premature ejaculation.

--m/f - anthony burgess.

when I feel alive
i try to imagine a careless life
a scenic world
where the sunsets are all
breathtaking