in different shade.
Mr. Ghoul sat close to Mama, thinking thoughts that were like the movies of fish, so quick and incomprehensible.
And if the growth of every seed and leaf, every pump of hungry wing, could be amplified to sound the unremembering surge of life, it would find its equal orchestra in the core of Jonathan’s body as he squeezed his erection between his legs and wondered what to do. He had seen her rosé as she painted a line from her bedroom. He could taste her smell and could eat no fruit and he rested his chin on the ground.
No good would come from whimpering or complaining but the whimpering came nonetheless. He put his hand across his mouth to hide his smile of fear. He walks away and sits. He lies down and tries to rest but all he can think of is Podo’s broad backbetween him and what he wants. He thinks about ways to please Podo, things to offer his great black protector to secure his benediction and pin fat Fifi with impunity.
He barks without thinking, hoots before he thinks of why he barked, and is suddenly aware that he is making a great noise. Podo turns, Magda gets up to join Jonathan, movement is created. Nothing comes of it, except a small good feeling.
He thinks again of Fifi. He thinks of her bent over, her plump and muscled flower.
He lies down again.
Jonathan will never get what he wants unless Podo wants to let him.
He stands and looks at Magda.
Jonathan is looming, stubborn black cloud, bedoulerek radish pointing hot and urgent from under his belly.
Magda runs away and Podo watches.
Mr. Ghoul walks to Podo, a supplicant. He holds out his hand, which Podo touches. Mr. Ghoul grooms Podo and they are both now aware that Mr. Ghoul, at some point, might stick it to Fifi but probably not today.
Mr. Ghoul knows that the new one has a mother. Mama.
Mother.
When Mama came out from the Hard she had an eety little new one and she fed her from her chest. So did Magda, and Fifi fed Burke from the bottle.
When Mr. Ghoul looked at the new one he felt new confusions.
Mama feeds the new one.
She rides Mama’s back through the World.
Mr. Ghoul had a mother named Dave.
Mr. Ghoul and Mama learned the people’s culture for longer than some of the others.
Be nice.
Don’t bite.
What’s the name of this. Look at me. What’s the name of this.
You can’t always have what is yours.
There were sticks and electric sticks and the short woman Mary with thunder in her mouth. Mary taught them signs with their hands and when Mr. Ghoul or Mama wasn’t interested she would slap you in the snut or grab you hard under the mouth to make you look at what she was saying. Always moving her sharp bald hands.
They wanted Mama and Mr. Ghoul to talk to each other with their hands. They only did it sometimes when Mary was around so she wouldn’t hit them.
Then Mary disappeared, like Orang and the others.
Dave liked the dirty machine, and Ghoul liked Dave.
They made the Hardest bigger and brought new toys and paints and Mama made paintings and Ghoul liked watching her make them.
Dave taught them colours, and colours were the way you could describe the pictures that can’t be pictured.
Mama liked red.
Dave would talk through the machine and hold up the fire truck.
? Mama what colour-of fire truck.
Red colour-of that.
? Mama what colour-of lipstick.
Red.
And then Dave held up one of their favourite things, the whistle. Dave could put the whistle to his mouth and fling a twirl into the air that made your ears and hair and back stand up andlook for what no one could see. And Ghoul knew the whistle was black.
? Mama what colour-of whistle.
Red.
? Mama what colour-of whistle.
Red colour-of that.
No.
Dave held up a black pen.
? Mama what colour-of pen.
Black colour-of that.
And he held up the whistle again.
Red.
Red red red.
And she was happy.
She called magazines red, her blue hairbrush red, the blind uncovering the window red, and Dave grew excited. He gathered the other people to his
Mr. Ghoul sat close to Mama, thinking thoughts that were like the movies of fish, so quick and incomprehensible.
And if the growth of every seed and leaf, every pump of hungry wing, could be amplified to sound the unremembering surge of life, it would find its equal orchestra in the core of Jonathan’s body as he squeezed his erection between his legs and wondered what to do. He had seen her rosé as she painted a line from her bedroom. He could taste her smell and could eat no fruit and he rested his chin on the ground.
No good would come from whimpering or complaining but the whimpering came nonetheless. He put his hand across his mouth to hide his smile of fear. He walks away and sits. He lies down and tries to rest but all he can think of is Podo’s broad backbetween him and what he wants. He thinks about ways to please Podo, things to offer his great black protector to secure his benediction and pin fat Fifi with impunity.
He barks without thinking, hoots before he thinks of why he barked, and is suddenly aware that he is making a great noise. Podo turns, Magda gets up to join Jonathan, movement is created. Nothing comes of it, except a small good feeling.
He thinks again of Fifi. He thinks of her bent over, her plump and muscled flower.
He lies down again.
Jonathan will never get what he wants unless Podo wants to let him.
He stands and looks at Magda.
Jonathan is looming, stubborn black cloud, bedoulerek radish pointing hot and urgent from under his belly.
Magda runs away and Podo watches.
Mr. Ghoul walks to Podo, a supplicant. He holds out his hand, which Podo touches. Mr. Ghoul grooms Podo and they are both now aware that Mr. Ghoul, at some point, might stick it to Fifi but probably not today.
Mr. Ghoul knows that the new one has a mother. Mama.
Mother.
When Mama came out from the Hard she had an eety little new one and she fed her from her chest. So did Magda, and Fifi fed Burke from the bottle.
When Mr. Ghoul looked at the new one he felt new confusions.
Mama feeds the new one.
She rides Mama’s back through the World.
Mr. Ghoul had a mother named Dave.
Mr. Ghoul and Mama learned the people’s culture for longer than some of the others.
Be nice.
Don’t bite.
What’s the name of this. Look at me. What’s the name of this.
You can’t always have what is yours.
There were sticks and electric sticks and the short woman Mary with thunder in her mouth. Mary taught them signs with their hands and when Mr. Ghoul or Mama wasn’t interested she would slap you in the snut or grab you hard under the mouth to make you look at what she was saying. Always moving her sharp bald hands.
They wanted Mama and Mr. Ghoul to talk to each other with their hands. They only did it sometimes when Mary was around so she wouldn’t hit them.
Then Mary disappeared, like Orang and the others.
Dave liked the dirty machine, and Ghoul liked Dave.
They made the Hardest bigger and brought new toys and paints and Mama made paintings and Ghoul liked watching her make them.
Dave taught them colours, and colours were the way you could describe the pictures that can’t be pictured.
Mama liked red.
Dave would talk through the machine and hold up the fire truck.
? Mama what colour-of fire truck.
Red colour-of that.
? Mama what colour-of lipstick.
Red.
And then Dave held up one of their favourite things, the whistle. Dave could put the whistle to his mouth and fling a twirl into the air that made your ears and hair and back stand up andlook for what no one could see. And Ghoul knew the whistle was black.
? Mama what colour-of whistle.
Red.
? Mama what colour-of whistle.
Red colour-of that.
No.
Dave held up a black pen.
? Mama what colour-of pen.
Black colour-of that.
And he held up the whistle again.
Red.
Red red red.
And she was happy.
She called magazines red, her blue hairbrush red, the blind uncovering the window red, and Dave grew excited. He gathered the other people to his
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