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[Blood-Pigggy]

Maxus slipped a dime o’er the tips of his digits and in that instance came he to a realization. Only then had I given much thought, much tactile inference, towards what a man could truly be in Maxus. Could that truly human one, be something honest? Or rather, did Maxus find himself a liar, though he felt that he persistently suffered to speak the truth?
What did I see there? What chance notice did I give at a moment, at Maxus, at his dime and his slipping o’er the fingers. What, what was it? Did I see anything at all? Did I see, anything? At all?

Fifteen weeks since the day, oh I don’t know, since the day I first drew a brisk breath of stoic stale air from a far o’away ship docks, deafening rain flailing and tearing at my stuff coat ’n racking at the old roofs and hats and walkways, I was shipped to my cousin’s. Shipped, to be specific, I was not given much choice, not given much deliberation and certainly no givens of sympathy, if empathy, then perhaps, per a chance.
Whatever the case of whoever those were that sent me away, do I recall? Often not. I interrupt myself though, fifteen weeks since the day I drew from a rustic floating sheet metal, where at the same instance did I find myself to be at land, the land of a great nothing. Did not know the name, did not care, did not even find time to survey what else o’ little there was. But at stepping sheepishly on shoddy dirt and patches of loose mourning clumped grass, I was given a telegram by a stand-offish sender, wearing a brown cap with a wide brim, hiding a certainly elongated nose and twin eyes - who else, I could no tell - and a shocking brown coat, shockingly furred, he who merely mumbled shallowly - something soft - and went off, leaving the thing in my hand, rain beating his path all t’way.
But these, docks, ship docks, what else, sighed in sinister intent, wanting for applied misery at my self, and I felt longing to be away. The pressing crews, the listless men, the old crooning of rustic bolts and poorly oiled gears gave way to a long line, a long passage in the openness of the fetid sludge that dripped o’er the bricked fallings of the place, soaked and treacherous from so much rain.
There the ships lay, side by side, given to a path of wooden piers and walkways, else the crews limped doggedly from carrying boxes leaning them over the other side of themselves, shoulders bent and I only imagined the sore backs and waylaid tears of wistful longing to find away in a slight modicum of each second.
The docks carried themselves, and I traveled along, walking the bricked path and drifting mine eyes across tired rotting wooden old men, drooping solemnly o’er the deadened place, drying desperately in the dank ‘n dark weather - but the dryness, did not find past the staid an’ o’erpowering misgivings of withdrawing creaking wood - they lay, even as the ceaseless rain ended, shrinked and diminutive.

Then I lay, I laid ther’.
Did I see anything, of any sort? Beautiful, in the shackled, the sorted, ’n the ugly wherever it came off? In the docks. ’N the rain. Was’t there. It was.

I laid standing, and given just a inkling of thought came across me, I thought, of the weather, loaded and hated, and everything about it, when it came around, who it felt around, they felt about it. The feeling was mutual, so mutual, equal they were with it.

But there stood a single figure, a standin’ man who rippled inwardly ‘neath a distressed blackened hide of coat, and under a tight shaded hat hid his head, unseeing, facing away, peering o’er a pier grasping gravely an umbrella as black as his clothing, scrunched down his head, and raised up the umbrella. Short, stocked, staring out, giving little care to rancorous wails of steamboats and big tankers n’ else. I seen him before, seen him whence everywhere in fact. Whence was it when he was seen ere the moment before?
None of it, none there was, no stinging recollection of some, memory, but the rain kept slipping down the umbrella, kept fallin’ and pattering lowly at a splintered path of timber.
Different things were he, and liveliness weren’t some off thing far off when no one sees it, no one hears it, no one breathes it and no one chokes on chalked hurt ‘n panic.
The coat sang in devoured blackness, and from it came the face of a life. It came true, I believed it ‘twas and what else could it have said but beauty in of itself? What else was there to see? The man, his head ducked ‘neath the rugged shaded cap, came off a’ wonder, his wondrous vigil kept breathed, deafened as aged time itself. I recognized him there, setting himself - observe, never to speak, or herald judgment. Hair was tuckered ‘neath the eyes, and it was my ears that heard naught but the cold breeze of his symbol, the pattered umbrella lifted self above the figure, the silhouette so wizened it spoke voicelessly in tepid stale air.
But I kept thinking, kept wonderin’ of what else, of my cousin, where to be, once I was, ‘n where I was. I clipped up the pace and found lately myself at a crossing, where the path came away from the docks ‘tween the stooped cragged old ancient men and the poor lowness of the shipyard was far away.

Forth the holes and ripped stuffs laying strewn about each a’wy was a soldiered strength given to a road so blasted and care-lost it gave feet only a sore punishment, ra’er than steeped comfort.

I came across nothing, I came ‘cross the less mentioned that none gave e’er a care for, I too came across some’it that was nothing but a worsened pass where all the peoples went left to right to never look back, to never consider enough of a consideration - for perspective?
The alley I passed through was ragged, insipid somewhat, giving insults and threats ‘n some spiteful way. ‘Twas broken apart, and ‘twas hateful in its contempt for those who’ad broken it. Surrounding walls leaked with thick sludge and dark poisoned moss, all ‘round the alley came the whining forlornness, the beaten dog shakin’ off powerful tips of careless and clumsy breaking.
There I looked down, at a pit, a black’end hunger’n howlin’ abyss with a worm, a brown mile long rubber parasite. ‘N it ran, ‘n ran, and then it ne’r stopped, and it never gave a pass in the endless black. Taut, pained, sufferin’ flesh pulled across jagged rises of malformed bone rippin’ out each end of an inch on that one. It ran the pit, and I went past, lookin’ back to keep sure that something didn’t tap me over, didn’t give me a chance to look back, to feel something. I saw creepin’, the corner of my eyes bledded ‘n running at stinking odor, the strangest and oldest extensions of the worm’s hand came from the pit and sickly was it how it came to caress the pitted stone ‘neath it, fitfully grasping at the shocking cold dirt and wheezing from a gaped maw of speckled disease. ‘N I saw them fitful hands, skinny, famished, boned and deathly sick, reaching out, shaking and begging with long pathetic digits creaking, hoping to touch a touching thing. But I turned, as I wanted to have done, and kept myself on the poor man’s path ‘neath my soles, no more thought of returning a glance past m’self.
A man wi’ a midnight coat and shady hat kept watch o’er the pit, umbrella dried, the thick air sighing dreadfully o’er his slighted hat, o’er an invisible face.

The street he lived on was quiet, but for the deafening wind, sound I guess’ned was driven out near the force of it. From e’ery way came the wind, o’er everything ‘round it and ‘bove it, from the street came the cobbles ‘n the driven patterned nature o’ it. Each single stone laid a shape so individual that I found each one a second of my time. Shining, black’end in some paradox of vision that led a beauty to be given to mundane semblance. Was from the peculiar odd’ty o’ these things that I came to notice the cobble’s own eye, the point of reflection that gave a warped window into what one saw of itself, pale digging light staining the surface of the dull yet vicious sheet of rain worn’d polish. Cobble ‘neath my feet was an interesting one, given to notions of uniqueness and eloquent color, very different from those ‘round yet. But the simple had their own given nature, and each went on to fascinate mine eye from whate’er that eye was felt to do. The cobbles ran ‘round the sidewalk that looked dull in its simplicity, there was some holes ‘n guts but none felt the stone mortared gravel of the cobbles, digging ‘tween their own spaces to tickle fancy in some special manner.
Light shone from lamps standing a’ attention o’er the foots’ restin’, and they shone so descriptively, it gave each cobble some given cobble descriptor, each cobble was a cobble in some different way, like a cobble is given to be in a cobble’s nature. A light each was givin’ to some hole ne’ar the plain sidewalk, and they fought themselves with black bases and legs ‘neath the sharpened white light. Their light was spread ‘round each way, the soul-filled n’ight came to be like a strange shallow imitation of the perpetual solitude o’ day’s disposition.
I followed the bright suns o’ night from each corner to each hole, to every dirt filled speck of stained ‘n faint stone. Along the sidewalk past the side o’er the cobbles was a hedge that stretched from nowhere to somewhere, plants striving to grapple eacho’er with some vicious intent, intent to grasp ‘n fo’m till they took all life from each other with desperate givens of hatred. The hedge cried out in its beauty, and it begged to be given attention, to be noticed in the selfish struggle of itself, a beholder to emit startled voice of clarity in appreciation of a cragged parasitic thing that grew to please only others in its misery.
Then 'twas U GAY U DIE.

[gufu1992]

But sea cows are awesome. Not gay.