Laughter, for itself,
Lights the melancholy of knowing
Why God has left
Nothing to grasp
In the end drenched world of dusk
And in how the jaw hangs on idiots
Logging days into codes unknown
Begs a description instantly lost
To laughter, to the deep unsettling dusk

Now I become clean.

The square manor sat above the hamlet in the outer reaches of the north county where the heaven sky was ceramic clear and near looking. Near the road that lead to the town and still runs parallel to the manor from the east, there stood a tall brick-laid turret topped with metallic shingles jutting out through the sycamore and oak forest that could be seen when passing through on the way to the decimated metropolis or the overgrown coastal plains to the south.

The Anglo children of the town who used to play between the trees like white cherubs in humid summers would race from the brown sticks through the thick green patch haloed in blooming agaric and touch the red brick before sprinting back, proclaiming visions of a ghost or some kind of wrinkled monster gazing at them from the window or lurking behind the ancient vaulted door ready to catch them. There was a brave boy who ventured to the tower at night on his own accord, guided by the moon one innocuous spring, sworn to have seen a small candlelight in the highest window and heard the strange crying of something inhuman and deep and when the tale fell on critical ears the boy ventured further from the treeline into the unlocked door where darkness swallowed him whole. He was no longer so brave thereafter and never spoke again about the looming tower or the violet night or the boundless iron staircase. When all was lost to time and when the boy turned old and died in the sullen red eye’s fury with pale strands covering his leather face and the glitch crash of metal and glass echoing vehemently from the final collapse out there in the blowing sand and toxic radial, it was not of that incandescent inquiry guiding all children but of that same darkness rediscovering him and of that same silence which sealed him from the world in one last gasping breath.

At night in that specific before, when wintergreen mist and arabic oud floated down from the manor and rinsed the trees like snow in descending ecstasy, a tribe of wolves would graze the field near the tower in predatory formations and surround the mainstay, peering inside the large seamless frames blankly and watching dark shadows moving lively and quick.

Frankincense burned. Flames licked the brick. Orange hues filled the rooms. Fine cotton, cashmere, and fur absorbed the light bouncing between accents of angled gold and gems and oil and wood. A dog is there but doesn’t move and is jet black, long and eternal. His eyes are made of ruby and marble. He sees nothing and does not feel time or the nauseous systems organizing themselves in spirals outside like a ferocious wind starting at the corner of the sky and sweeping down on through the valley below the hill. However, he will be here when it ends and for a while after. In the jade kitchen there are two homosexuals and the demiurge that brought them there, tapping a thousand fingers on unknown strings while snow begins to fall and the pale crescent rises.

The golden boy paces. The elf lathers a duck with dark red rub.

Stop pacing, the elfen boy snaps, quiet and terse.

They’ll be here soon, the radiant boy says pacing, still brisk, radiant.

I know, I know.

Want a glass of wine? The tall elf thinks, then nods. The Pouilly-Fume or The Reserve? The elf thinks, furrowing his trimmed brow, rubbing, slapping the dead etcetera. The slippery carcass becomes coarse and desert-like. The golden boy stares at the nude wings flailing upon impact. His mind is filled with delight. He looks. The elf boy’s hair is long and mousy and his ears breach through in little points: elfin features mix with long limbs and thin fingers to make a meat composite that is both mystic and exotic. There are no smiles which emanate from the face of the elf and for that his face is smooth and taut with collagen. The boy with golden hair and skin has pure white blocklike teeth that fill his smile from end to end, and so he smiles often, his eyes glowing bright blue as he does. He swipes some golden hair to the side. “The Reserve.” So it is poured into another delicate crystal stem. The elf finishes the duck and sets the oven and the timer. As always he must deglaze the pan with haste, sprinkling some blanched orange strips, rosemary, thyme, then pour the au jus into a precious white boat. He washes his hands thoroughly, first with lavender and patchouli then some moisturizer, dispensed in little amethyst viles and lined all along the granite countertop in some complex order he keeps secret. He dries his hands and the boys cheers, staring into each other. Neither has aged since the last second has passed. The Reserve is good, but they’re saving the best for later. Opulence carries weight, should be built and savored, intoxicates the air, or so the golden boy would say on nights like this. The air in the manor on the hill is warm and filled with intent.

Together they sweep the house one last time, adjusting things by centimeters. The liquor in the bar is full and the plates are out: china painted with metal rims and laid below embroidered black napkins. The young maid presents herself and is relieved at once by the elf’s flicking wrist. Her uniform ends in lace and billows past her garter belt when running through the house. The elf requires she wear a blindfold and earplugs in her room when guests are present. She is paid well for her silence and she is the first of her poor Taiwaniese family to come to America. She was selected by the boy for her total submissiveness and attention to detail. On dead nights she pulls a red leather bound book from the library. There is one phrase from it she repeats until she sleeps:

The heart is a portable ark. The heart is a portable ark.

The elf kisses the golden boy on the cheek. The golden boy still has the grin. Hours and days it took to make the arrangements, to do the talking and convincing, but now it was done and they just had to wait. There will be a snowstorm tomorrow. The elf believes in God. The golden boy believes in God, but he also believes in de Sade, and Gilles de Rais, and the 17th Earl of Oxford. He believes in secrets and the history of men and pain and beautiful depictions of sex and death and immanence and eternity. He looks in an ancient mirror, the elf behind him, fixed on the front door with his bright brown eyes. They hear a car, footsteps, bricks, trees, wind, then the great heavy door drawing a cold breath.

Jacky is the first to arrive. He’s wearing a large black coat, tattered sleeves, a leather corset, a solid glittering streak of metallic paint across his eyes. Big thick dirty boots soil the finely woven rug with dirt and shit and blood. His pants are soiled and wet with piss and the rest of him reeks with dried shit. There is a large hole near his crotch and from it you can see his cock and large balls swinging freely and keeping the time. The violence is impressive to the elf and the golden boy. The golden boy’s hand reaches out but Jacky swats it with a long jagged cane, cutting his hand and allowing blood to spurt and flow and drip onto the ground. The elf is quiet, assessing his purchase. Jacky lunges and plants his mouth on the golden boy while the elf takes a big sip of wine. Their tongues flick and dance and the golden boy decides to grab Jacky’s cock which is now half hard. Jacky pushes him away and slaps him across the face. The golden boy is beaming. He inhales the gunk and shit on his hand. Everything is perfect so far.

I need a woman before we start. Jacky stomps around like a feral dog. They are coming. The elf’s voice is soft and delicate. Jacky removes his large black wool coat and tosses it on a fainting couch in the foyer. Jacky’s body is marked; a hyperrealistic portrait of Christ is etched prominently on his back, the lord’s hand in benediction, while his arms and chest appear to have been cut deeply with a knife many times over, some in long slashes, some in short, some still infected looking and filled with puss. I need wine before we start! He snatches the golden boy’s glass and in the process knocks over a vase holding a large bouquet of pink carnations, hot pink matsumoto asters, purple cushion mums, lavender waxflower, burgundy copper beech leaves and green variegated pittosporum. A raging laugh fills the hallway. The golden boy giggles and covers his mouth. The elf is silent. Kicking the ruined flowers and crunching the fragments in several steps Jacky saunters over to the grand Venetian mirror. Swiping towards the ceiling the intruder ruffs up his mop of jet black hair. Admiring his erection throbbing in plain sight, Jacky’s eyes wander to the elf, flicking up and down through the mirror that is big and dirty and set in a gilded frame. Two black eyes sprayed silver lock onto him. Tall, he spits out, sloshing like a barbarian. Fucking elfen. What sign? The elf doesn’t say anything. The water on the floor creeps in silence. The golden boy keeps on giggling. Hmmph, oh well. Won’t matter anyway. Jacky stomps in long strides towards the kitchen and eyeballs everything.

I’m no faggot, man, he says pointing to God. I get my cock sucked all the time by babes. I got a sweet piece of ass right now, he continues, ain’t even 16. She’s a total fuckin’ ass freak. But she ain’t here. We need some babes here. Jacky scratches at his infected shitty wounds. They’re coming, like I said. Jacky turns in a flourish, waving his arms in a flury. And I need the money now. Jacky is like a rabid animal. The golden boy’s cock is hard. The elf’s cock is soft but not uninterested. The golden boy massages his own cock through his pants and the elf can see the outline. The elf finishes his glass of The Reserve, watching the golden boy grab and molest the throbbing appendage. The elf fingers the wet rim and a small angelic sound fills the room. Outside the wolves prick their ears up. The storm marches in leviathan form. A weight falls onto the manor as Jacky relaxes his face and arms. The maid recites her phrase:

The heart is a portable ark.

The noise hits the ears of the black dog and passes through his empty skull. In the eyes made of swirling marble a flame licks itself. There’s fear lingering like oud and wintergreen. the golden boy looks to the elf. That won’t be a problem. The golden boy and Jacky are then left alone.

Well, Jacky says, then laughs, then stomps into the living room. A laugh from the boy with golden hair spills out. He’s really masturbating now. He follows Jacky. Can I get you something to drink? Jacky turns around near the chartreuse couch and the fireplace and the black dog and says Yeah, I’ll take a hennessy. The golden boy leans against the shiny bar and touches its leather accents and metal. He rubs his erection on it. His fingers graze the tequila and the expensive whiskey with lilting fingers until they find the hennessy. You said ice, or none? Jacky considers. Jacky is considering murdering the two boys as soon as the money’s out and looting the manor on the hill sat beneath the howling violet dome. He feels the pistol in his large boots pressing, begging him. It’s too soon, he thought.

I said ice, but stir it with some absinthe, put a dash of bitters as well, if you can. The golden boy makes the drink, but can’t help himself. Grinning like a wicked child, he swabs his tip of his raging prick with a finger and dabs some precum along the rim, making it slick, standing where Jacky can see him. Jacky feels the gun again. It’s harder and more powerful than his cock. It’s still too soon.

The elf, like a phantom, appears and hands Jacky the envelope marked with his name and the date. The slender tower stands upright, in perfect posture, staring into those jet black eyes through his mousey strands. Jacky, eyeballing, measuring the worth of a porcelain cherub, notices that the elf is not hard. Is he scrutinizing the slimy cock swinging before him? Is something amiss? Does he see the gun in his boot? Jacky takes the envelope and counts the bills inside. All checks out, mate. The drink is served, with ice and absinthe and bitters. The rim is wet with precum. Jacky takes a sip, then another, then the whole thing at once. It tastes salty, but pretty good. Can you hit me again, the golden boy blurts out. The blood on his hand still flows onto the parquet floor and blots the white poplin shirt. Small quivers of his plump lip sends Jacky’s hand striking for it. The golden boy holds his bloodied mouth in a grin while Jacky wipes his slobbered hand on the couch, streaking the suede red. The elf watches, sips, sways to and fro, still hearing the angelic sound of glass, humming to himself.

The front door opens again, this time silent. No one hears the new guests approaching, but Jacky senses it and springs into the long hallway. Who are you? An odd looking man removes his top hat and bows. The man is old, and his bald head gleams the light off. He is dressed like a down bad pimp, with a ruined blazer, and holes in his leather loafers. My name is Kyle, and this is Zans, and this is Sof.

Kyle remains bent. Zans and Sof step into the light.

Jacky looks. Some more fur and gold and jewels, and a lot of red and blue. Zans doesn’t have much chest, but Jacky can already see Sof’s large breasts bouncing and jiggling almost on their own. Neither seem like they are awake. His cock deflates slightly. A pair of tarts, Jacky declares, but they’ll have to do. Come, he commands with two vile and yellow fingers. Kyle grins, ushers the girls in. They all follow through the foyer and the long hallway, filled with oils and golden frames of Napoleon and Salomé, and Christ with Ensor’s idiot parade. Sof touches the small of Zans’ back as they make their way. Zans touches her arm.

Zans is feeling the ketamine, Sof is on a cocktail of adderall, xanax and molly. Her big breasts are bouncing as she walks, stuffed in a too tight top. She kicked off her shoes at the door and her feet are wrapped in iridescent tights. Jacky and Kyle watch her feet. They flutter above the floor. They automatically grip the rugs and soon she starts masturbating the sturdy legs of Victorian era chairs. Her ass peaks out the bottom of her skirt. She sits on her feet, sways to and fro, lifting her hands in the air then floating them down like snow. Everyone’s cock is hard now and beginning to drip. Zans sits patiently on the couch, legs crossed. Jacky throws her a disgusted look. Jacky is wondering what Sof’s mouth feels like, or her feet, or her ass, so he says it outloud. She is 16, Kyle says, as requested. Jacky was very specific: A virgin to defile. A virgin to defile, Kyle repeats. The golden boy gets out 6 flutes and pours champagne marked 1944. Sof lets it spill out of her mouth and unto her soft young chest. She rotates and swings herself around the room. She opens her legs wide. Everyone looks into her shaven pussy. A studded ring is nestled between the lips. They can see it dripping and shining in the flames. Jacky can’t take it anymore: he attacks her, plants his face in her chest, and covers them in spit and silver. They roll around in heat and fur. He frees her breasts and starts to bite. Sof throws her head back. Her brown pixie hair shakes as she writhes. Her pussy squirts as Jacky molests it and soaks her tights, causing everyone in the room to laugh. Jacky’s cock is pulled out of his trousers. His balls have been spray painted silver. Zans nods to Sof. Sof plays coy and runs away. Kyle vanishes. Zans gets up and fixes a drink. The golden boy grabs the elf by his covered balls and they sit on the sofa. Beethoven plays the 9th, but then it’s switched to Bladee, now Zevon, now Aphex, and Pop Smoke, now everything at once, all at once. The wolves move about. The flame moves about. The maid lays still with her eyes veiled but her heart traveling.

After a few minutes, or hours, the music stops. Some cocks go soft as some stay hard. The maid feels a presence and opens her eyes. Jacky exits one of the many rooms, more bloody and more covered in shit than before, clutching locks of brown pixie hair. In his mouth his tongue plays with a studded ring. His silver balls swaying and keeping the time and brushing up against doorways and paintings and bedframes, leaving spots and streaks and balls shaped prints. One down, At least one to go! He screams. His mouth is shiny and every wound is open anew. His gun is hot in his boot. He starts to jig his legs and clap his hands to the beat of nothing. The elf, panting, takes the duck out of the oven and sets in on the dining table.

Zans speaks to no one in particular:

It is easy for one to forget, even just minutes after being here, how corruptible the soul is when placed in the city, how free it is not 30 miles into the country. I am reminded, almost to a point unbearable, that I am a divine extension of God, and how I am blessed in rare moments with this level of insight.