D. Beech And J. Beech

Her robe has the usual fringe of snakes. She wears a wristwatch and a cheap hairclip which was a hairclip over one hundred years ago!

She likes her male, this one who thought she was interesting. What they were doing is absolutely routine. That is the law of the land. We need to take a breath back for a moment as everyone knows.

The whole idea is that there is that pattern. The pattern-work in the woman's head is her attitude, now very worn, the upper edge of which breaks through, which meanders, which makes conversational gestures.

She could well belong to a mythological landscape against a deep pinkish-orange background--or if she belongs to you--I hope you can restore her beauty. Both of these people have ears which are large, which are sexual. Their ears are just wrong.

The male, he used to sit there in the morning. She would put a coverlet on him and she would pet him and she would kiss him.

It occurred during this phase yesterday that their rough tongues seemed to be merely pegged on.

It seems, in short, that they live in a lush and sensuous era with rosettes and palmette bunches.

He has already had his best day, the male has. The woman, she has not yet. Her best day of her life is on a Friday, one of the more than three hundred recent days.

Now then, her hand--flat, heavy, wild--she must do as the others do, take a sponge bath, make breakfast, get breakfast, have breakfast, use her hand.

If the two had really ever been affectionate with one another, these people, this morning, could have been so mythological as if to be beyond belief.

Nancy R.

By midday she had been about to go to the bathroom when he--what else do people do?

They sat together among infants and little children and they ate birthday cake. Hadn't he sucked enough in and around her vaginal canal and thereabouts?

She was pregnant and poignant, murky in Illinois as if thickset.

"You will have to excuse me," she said. "I have to go to the bathroom."

They may walk cosily in a classy place.

He saw her go into the bathroom holding a very young thing, behind closed doors again.

The young thing was very, very young and it knew how foolish it was to be so young.

Wrong Hell

I had to bend awkwardly to eat, so that while I ate, my back hurt and I had to turn my neck hideously to speak.

My strong hands in the small room were upset, but would need to cut the chop's heart out many more times so that the blood comes out of it.

"Sorry, take my plate! I am so sorry," I said.

"Don't cry," he said. "Do you want these? Have you any interest in these?" he said. The melon and the figs.

"Did I do wrong?" I said.

"You did wrong," he said. "Don't cry," he said. "Don't put that there," said he. "Is it asking too much?"

"Take my plate!" I said.

"No!" he said, "Not yet ! Do you want these? Have you any interest in these?" he said.

They were dished up, compressed, difficult to crumble, much like any child. I rubbed a napkin over my hands. That is to say, that we were not left to ourselves if I look around. That is, straight lines and angles, with all of their childishness, we will have more of that. Maybe I will have some more bread. I said, "May I have the salt, please? Can I have a taste of your fish? May I have your sole? You don't like your prune-milk punch? Don't let them take away my glass. Give me the salt, please."

"Maybe," he said, "I will have a bit more of my punch with you."

He had modestly agreed to let me buy him a drink.

My mouth, the biggest, the fattest, was sprinkled, with my finger in its hole. I kept wishing I would soon finish any of my food.

In the old times, in the olden times, a very long time ago, alas, in fact, from time to time, at the end of a meal, I thought wishing was over.

THE SOURCE OF AUTHORITY

It feels so unsexual to complain, but when the weather is bad I go walking. I wander about, but I go to the lake because I believe the lake is better than I am and I want to be in good company. Its beauty, its success, its remote aspect, its inability to speak, hints at intelligence and virtue more pure than mine, better.

The lake means something. I rub the lake and my veins wriggle. I try to make a few things real.

There is so much silver.

Occasionally the lake looks at me coldly which gives me the creeps. I have no subsequent conversations with it. We speak about nothing, I tell myself.

On the shore, to myself I say, "Do you really need all of this? It's so crowded. Do you really need all this?"

I am trying to be independent. Is that wrong?


Contents

 Diane

 Williams