Wednesday, January 04, 2012

THE LEOPARDS (BIG CATS AND A BALD MONKEY)

“Peter, this can’t go on. Simply can’t go on. Friday’s the limit. After that it’s the end, I can’t take it anymore. Friday....We’ve got to get her out of here....” pleaded Alba in a distant sort of voice on the point of cracking under the emotion of it all, but my erection felt magnificent.

....the voyeur and the leopards....


Alba stared in my direction, sort of vacantly, gazed through me really, but, there she was, standing there next to me, next to the bed, next to The Pretty Girl lying on her back on the bed, radiantly naked. Alba, radiantly naked also, lowered herself onto the rumpled white sheet and she was over The Pretty Girl, on all fours, and, folding her elbows to lower her head, brushed The Pretty Girl’s cheeks, her whole face, with kisses and licks lighter than air and the movement was entirely under control, slow and deliberate and strong, like a leopard might well move and Alba turned her head up to look at me and thereafter never lost my eye, so I was held in the glint of a leopards stare such that, at that very moment she became a leopard and then they both became leopards before my very eyes and settled in together, elegantly, in that way that leopards have of moving together to rest, to caress, to watch. Big cats purring, forever vigilant, powerfully content.

....toucher and the touched....


The two of them were radiantly naked, me too, aroused and entranced, magnificent, and we were all bathed in celestial light, slightly blue, slightly orange savannah. (Except, of course we were not, for “celestial” and “radiant” and “magnificent” are just the kind of words that come to mind to describe these kinds of celestially radiant moments after the fact, a posteriori.)




....our prowling eyes upon it all....


In a trance, in the tall grass, from atop a small rise, staring into the clear, black moonless night sky, three leopards look incredibly insignificant, celestially, radiantly insignificantly magnificent, three leopards bathed under so many stars, the Milky Way, Mars, infinite galaxies they suppose, parallel and bubble universes, but care not whether they are right in their enchanted suppositions, or wrong, but they are eternally vigilant. “So much space, so much silence....” they think to themselves in magic unison, (Except, of course it was not magic, for “magic” is just the kind of word that comes to mind to describe these kinds of celestially radiant moments after the fact, a posteriori.) and, of course, with that thought there is no more silence, and there are no more leopards, no more eternity, but hey! Lo and behold, a magnificent music floats out of the ether.

the voyeur and the leopards
the toucher and the touched
our prowling eyes upon it all


“That’s it? That’s the lot, the whole song? Three fucking lines? Stupid fucking title almost as long as the song, three lines, and we’re back in the real world?” A voice in my head importuned me, but I drowned it out. “Yes! So, right then, we’re in this together. She’s with us from here on in, we work together.” I said.

“Big Cats and a Bald Monkey”© 2012, Jone Johnson & The Blue Roadsters™.


Elsewhere, in the real world, various men and women, AC Commercial Reps, oblige a father to witness the show they have arranged for his daughter. Then, after he gets his last feeble erection, they shoot him several times in the stomach. He who buys pays the price. There is profit to be made from these things.


Somewhere very distant, perhaps in a different dimension, Tankman Johnson lies atop the turret of his Chieftain, his custom baby, in a trance, staring into the clear, black moonless night sky. He feels incredibly insignificant, celestially radiantly insignificant, so many stars, the Milky Way, Mars, he supposes, but cares not whether he is right in his suppositions, or wrong. “So much space, so much silence....” he thinks to himself, and, of course, with that thought there is no more silence and a magnificent music floats out of the ether.

....the voyeur and the leopards....


And with that he rolls over onto his stomach and bawls through the commander’s hatch, “Put The Roadsters on the sound system, let’s get this show on the move, celestially, radiantly, magnificently on the move! And put that leopards DVD on the monitors. What? The one Bug Eyed Peter sent just before the New Year....and mute the soundtrack, we need the music.” And to himself he asks, “Why do those old BBC wildlife documentaries kill the magic with words like endogamy?”

....toucher and the touched....


“He who pays will pay the price.” He murmurs to himself.

....our prowling eyes upon it all....