Elpsis Boo

By Michael.J. Rowland

Elpsis Boo is part one of an ongoing series of 'Erogements' being written by Michael J Rowland. Through literary experimentation and Dadaist word play, Michael is telling the eternal story of man in search of a soul and a soul mate. Elpsis Boo was written in Prague over a period of three years and incorporates many local scenes which helped inspire the creation of the book. For Michael there is a strong mystical element to the novel as well as one of profound logic. The obscurity of meaning in some passages is not a deliberate attempt to confuse the reader, but a Delphic predator hidden within each page; a celebration of the joy of writing and of having to use 'words' to answer our deepest philosophical questions despite the disturbing lack of power a word has in comparison to the awesome simplicity of 'being'. There is comedy, poetry and philosophy in the pages of Elpsis Boo; there is also a beginning, a middle and an end to be found in every syllable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael.J. Rowland
• Release date: Aug 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301834983

Michael.J. Rowland

Statement – The Painted NovelThe paintings I am working on at the moment are all part of an ongoing conceptual project to fit in with a Dadaist novels I am writing. Individual paintings are occasionally used as chapters of the novels.This form of writing is close to reaching a meditative dream state – recognising forms and images in the same detached way that the mind throws ideas into the maelstrom of ones sleep-thoughts.It helps to reveal oneself to oneself. Accepting chance and avoiding the need to ‘show off’ you can discover many things about not only yourself now, but yourself tomorrow/ next week / next year.I don’t write of things that have happened but of things which have not yet happened. The pen speeds itself to beat my thoughts to it. If we have time to think a thought, then it has already been rehearsed, analysed before we go to all the effort of writing it down; that way we can hide from ourselves.Within the writings of the Dada group one could often find scribbles / squiggly lines / and erratic changes of font. This all created a lovely syntax between the word as a representation of a thing or the word as a thing in itself (a picture).The purpose of painting certain chapters on canvas, as collages, is to produce in the reader (when reading the typed word) a true sense of colour in the text; a sense of urgency, a sense of abstraction, of life.“There is nothing to say – That is why there will never be an end to all the books that can be written.” E.M. CioranThe joy of writing is the thing. Inexplicable rallies of cajoling cadences buffeting the spinning, waking dream – The banshee howl of JOY JOY JOY in the midst of the most horrific nightmare; the joy in the pain; the light headed trip in the scream.

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Elpsis Boo

Erogements

By Michael J Rowland

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by Michael.J.Rowland

Cover design and artwork by Michael.J.Rowland

Elpsis Boo – Erogements is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN:9781301834983

I was a benevolent spider to come back like this then waste my proffer – To mix that radiant approach with such cynical gesticulations not worthy of my pre-cognitive arachnid.

I wary my wayfarer till trunksome becomes my daily load now loafing for charity of an armful of respite. I’ll sell the books I gathered and bemoan the literal since I behave so disastrously in the face of your women.

Apopologies for ne’er do wells go fine with wine, but practiced over tea and cake, not so easy, not so chummy, not so happy, need your Mummy?

I flag down gurus while I’m making my mind up. They sit on the side of the road inventing excuses; reasons why they can’t teach tonight. If only they could put that kind of effort into disappearing, they might not need to bother me with this question of whomso howto.

I climb the walls and I walk through the walls and I’m traversing them; coagulating and mating with room upon room. Gliding along the smooth surfaces grown soft with age.

No roller skating please. You’ll trip over the paintings.

Light, I fly across this weightless veneer. I’m a feather dandy must needs know what’s on the other side of this wall now and this wall now. I can creep between the cracks and I can fall through your ceilings and land like a mime in your holiest of holies.

Gerontion! You scream.

Geronimo! I reply.

Gerrim’! You mumple.

Gonner, I lame.

We’ll settle this like adults. Your dreams are a means. Your sleep is a gift. You eat, you love, you drift. I amplify your heat and you explode at your very own feet. Pull up a chair and repeat after me,

I love my ‘my’. I love my ‘my’. My my! I love!

...and so I look for my dark, cosy little nooks; the fist made into a fort or a den at my face as I breathe the night into my eyes at my pillow.

A mock death. A myth-god. A moth death. A Mick god.

My eyes adjust. It is quiet. I would perform the play but for the fact that I have no players. Time to act. To fill my ‘my’. I read parts of that book and the authority it lacked. The book must read me, I thought, and scuttled back into the day.

Page one of a manifesto foragainst love...save for a bite on the neck and a trip me over if you’ve heard this one before – I believe wholeheartedly in the sacrosanct bemusement of a pealed loafer. Gadflies abound now and her profile like the Duc De Hey Lolly Lolly gratifies the elderly lady patronising her young lover. At the platform below me people stare up at me. At the platform below them they are hungry for hair gel. Less is more, more or less. Keep It Similar, Stupid.

Page two of a manifesto for new pants...brushing her way through the myriad of demons and succubae she waits patiently, in constant movement; anti-waits – creates her profane Ammonite of drinks and tears like a cocktail of sultry solitaries. Gather ye rosebuds while you’re gay – ‘No beer with that cake?!’

Sell your pants to me, skinny, and I’ll slave you away to the mission of pulchritudinous Anglicans and Anglican’ts who befuddle your rise to delicious hypocrisy – one pink hand-dryer cannon.

Page ninety two of Mum and Dad’s...she clip clunks to her hubbly ghastly retard buffer like a beard refuses to pay entry to a Dorothy Parker tribute felch. Grand slams piffle about the floor unnoticed, except by the infant child bleeding from his armpits and glancing out the corner of his beady little brother’s eyes. Don’t criticize me. I’ve seen the Devils run and you ran in to fourth all choo choo train, delighted, just like the rest of them. I saw you skip and dance and high five with the fucker.

Page piss off I’m thinking...that man is reading a book with no words. Rubbing his stubble – pausing from reading to lower the book – think on what he has just read – didn’t read – and then back he thrusts his hoovered nose. If he concentrates hard enough is he getting something from it? Why not? Maybe he’s only toying with Andre Breton’s unsatisfied, unqualified, unrealised dream of a dream.

You can’t read this blank paged book. You will not understand it.

Page six after the blank page which is named after the conglomeration of promontory affects and reflects since Apollinaire and Pythagoras; since Betelgeuse and Smokey and the Bandit , where a bandy legged chump reaches climactic visions of Hollywood daydreams and outtakes – Gainsay says soft ‘Don’t wear that lousy robe in here, we are destitute and unable to afford such shambolic deference of art made on the sly, round the back, under the table.’

Page heaven...in which I dance to songs I have never heard before and will never enjoy except here on this page. Dancing like a shoelace untied, punished mid-air by a clandestine jogger the size of Big Ben and ticking like that; like a techno view over the Thames all those times we couldn’t get into clubs due to damp reposts and nail-high cramps we limped about those neon-lit Dunstables/you got a light mister? What was the last verse again?

Page me I’m a doctor...the thunder is a paranoia precursor to lightning strokes of raining genius, carrot-topped bumpkins keeping secret their suitcase full of bovine hermeticulture. That was a close one! She pulls away the cloths from the beer garden tables, light-headed like a butterfly in a storm cloud. Craving generations of ash-tray philosophers and stunted show men. Play for sugar, capture that Yankee dollar and make mine a cheesy toasty please, I’m famished.

In its farthest corners one finds remnants of fortitude and the clap-roasted bagel fairy tales of fat Americans and junkies – God bless ‘em all their ramifications and parted ways – you worked today – I studied.

Elpsis raped the cafe dry of its capitol. Shamed it into betraying its sumptuous laptops to the degraded masses. Welcome all who fail. You grow more tiresome every day. She leaned over – only the once – not a glance – a whole hole – she’s in lovely shape. Brandishing her bill, she radiates moribund tennis shoe come local labels gagging for a second sitting – Take 300. You deserve it.

Here, hallowed ravens reel from puzzlement which it is all a part of if you count the neutral and marmelize the equation. Pin marmalade feet onto this one and you’ve got a gummy bear. Pin tinsel on that, and you’ve got yourself a show young man!

Could I ever persuade anyone to love me now that I’m a spandex hat stand? Perhaps if I lower my standards. Aim instead for the plastecine tightrope walkers of this city. Proud U-bends who fall at my ankles and hammer tiny little pixies into my bones. The menu changes – the girls smile – their shift is over – they didn’t mean any of it.

The menu always changes – day to day – second to second. None of this grovelling does him any good. An obsequious, fetid soul trapped between gumption and twots. Beef flavoured ice-cream and Japanese eye-muffs. Why ‘brandishing’? You can’t have all the goats in the world so you might as well put your cleaver away, all the good it’s doing you.

Take another hit and rerun yourself better. Stay local and divide your unconquered trip into compartments. You tried, but you didn’t try hard enough. Don’t wanna become a ‘goof’ now.

Oh well heavens is a turn up and doesn’t she have a friend who’s a scene stealing college chimp. I see so sound something separate sold in an old gym-bag offered. She’d been saving herself for an ear made of plastic shine bolt, and twang of American slang. Homely she points her toes this way which means she’s attracted. How can I be so be so. Salivate. My young pet dog-collar roughneck quantity surveyor, leia. Atlanta Georgian peach-knee Applebaum ranging lightly from keyboard to just bored. Elemental how she flips this through thus and sums up ‘gerontian’ less wasteland multiplied by a heavy pinch of flack than I’ll get you back; get him the sack.

Bromide on the house! In the coffee and the tea and all for free. You can’t blame the radiators; it’s not like they’re coming over to patrons in the tongue full or anybody like that. I rectify my last chump to chimp – a flaccid gimp – ineffectual as the tide over replied under since he returned for his jacket like a like a....

Memember me roar for running president. Me heap big chief in my parts. Me sleep dig reef in your port. Bumpy heart goes pit-a-pat at the sight of your sore eyes - does your mother tuck you in? Does your chewing gum lose its elasticity the moan you more? Ah, that soft seal of yours; that smooth rummaging encasement he fondles. I’ll bet you huff to have it you solidified pansy pusher. Get lost on your lectern so you look funny walking away. Whoa! Werby-shaped, hofty legged. Your mud-bug bottom sags like a loan shark, lips wrapped round a pretzel – Gollum! Gollum!

~

Handoorknocker – fistring – heavysantasuit – Russian make up for Christmas day feast.

Weightloaf child; I’ll see you both soon in anon, nothing new under the sun.

So and it’s really so much to take in but not that so because I was that soldier. I’ve been here on tricycles you mopeds could never fathom; all glad rags and show boats, no dotes. Narcissistic platitudes at counters for freebies and stench of ponce plumbing about the stone for books and boks and biks. Let them argue if they must – five more minutes won’t kill them.

There’s second hand for the lot of you melancholy spastics.

Graffiti says FUCK OFF – Not badly but gladly and slippy like frost melted fur engine come meatloaf entropy. You can meet people all the time – They’re everywhere!

Nobody’s really shy or hiding. They’re looking for godot under ashtrays and Gorky. Poster lips chewed with views and semi automatic electronica. They call it jazz but it’s more of a bear than that – a shaved scrotum for the ladies and toast and leather and oh oh oh and warm – no COLD nipples rising like Eiffel towers out the waitresses tomboy princess complex.

Popelník hairy with sin. Tipping mothers to watch the change piss down their donkey ears. Their mumsy fear of a queer veneer.

Solomon bunked off seven years to measure his days in coffee spoons and diet coke. Chunky fuckroar judging the tossers in a heat of tennis emblems his youth presumed – the bully consumed in him now. He tasted the closure; an Arvo Part poser on fire. Lava poured from his head onto the suede kamikaze, catapulting Wittgenstein’s tractor philosophy into spoken fragments with a tinge of a North American accent.

Krakonos lopes in black hat for the chin-long black coat for a throat – new shoes since he returned from the hills and he’s lost weight too. Wait – he can only be twenty nine – he moves like a toothpicker monkey!

Give me your food, I want your food. Cigarette butts no longer good enough. He breaks down over his dear departed and dresses for the wedding – dyed black hair and black tea – sits next to me.

They all smile. They all think. Thin with blustering adaptations now spinal in their nomenclature. Heffily she sighs. Humpily she bemoans and embiggens the thighs about her. Run fingers and adverts through her Brazilian you could, but bass rounds the third base rounds the tally to today’s prang-emphasis on the underhanded.

Women can compartmentalize their infidelity.

Oh you silly! Of course you can go down on me.

Take the Tracticus for example. I could midriff the thing till it vocalised. Take out the thrum that makes up its pages and makes totters of its promises. Shod-shod-shoddy the rheumatism it arthwrite-is.

And she moves like a cat and laughs like a move and she shows off like that. She me no judge. She me no spell. Rat on her. Tell Sandinista all there is to know despite its communist Routing and Pummel. Brown two-lips. Greta than you or me. Silencer over silencer she crows into a blind sleep.

Everything is a metaphor for everything else

Crush landed under the trampled Poles – KRAKOV! Like a semi-automatic raiding a child’s play-pen. This is my play pen and all else is whimsy – a Columbine headiness that quells tears of milk from her maternity leave. I swim up your sweaty leg to your holly well stuffed full with high heels, skinny ankles and jeans. I loved her the instant she poked out her jumper like that. A rooster’s crow, a cry; a cry for more. But out she takes one. At the table. In front of me. So she jugs one perfectly formed breast into the baby’s gob and he really gives the hard, large nipple a lascivious lashing and suddenly it all rings true. How many of you are there? Out jugs another when the laddy is done with No.1 and he bites and he chews till she blues. And she’s happy. Happy as only a mother can be and she catches my eye. Her instinct to suckle me soft in her eyes and fuzzy felt in her soul – a light burning in the window how she will always be there for me – she will never die – Yes of course I will live forever – Of course I will never leave you – Softly in her glances I sense her hope. Brunette Eve – Madame Pompadour.

One lovely afternoon - Roll out your executive lounge bean-lizard and grab me a falafel on the way – stammer monger who whispers gentility to hearsay back answers and saw doctors. Hemmingway capsizes agog to the wah wah peddle-pushers she executes so frantic like Dalai Lama and hip-Jesus hook-noses. He’ll be your mentor tonight. He’ll show you how to pulp your fictions into pocket-shaped hand shifters. Shelly carries rubbish around with her. She keeps everything.

Hug me baby – hug me baby – hug me baby – Gene Gargoyle Vincent chops metal Medusa into ribbons and snapshots, cool cuticles puddle about in stolid appreciation and gypo’ tinkers. Stall your genuflexions Ahmed. Grail my myopic instructions on your handkerchief in knots and goats to cheese from your other lover.

Knickerbockers and party poopers make the scat man happy. Skully shovers and carpet baggers simplify the nation’s curious need for a healthier tea time, more beach combers and mettle detectors.

She’s cross-eyed but grins like a head patient she’d swallow and tell her father she did. He’d borrow and rate her handling on the landing judge robo mata hospital break left break right and go straight on till she shits her pants now her mother knows the neighbours shoo the begonias twelve feet mall from Tesco to Tesco eyebrows or no eyebrows.

"Why stand when you can sit?"

"Would you pose for me? You look like this Mucha I saw."

"Do you mind if I take my shoes off. I can’t sleep if I have them on. I don’t think they’re too smelly.

"It’s been such a long time since I’ve spoken to someone and actually been interested in what they had to say. Been asked questions I’ve not heard before. I’d just like to thank you for a lovely afternoon."

She wasn’t the best looking girl in the world but right then she was.

It just doesn’t make sense if you’ve got space for a potter’s wheel, 50 kilos of clay and hundreds of ideas. I mean that would be about the size of a small car right? Ideas take up no room at all.

We think therefore I am:

I am in want of a need.....of a toothache to trammel/punch/roll over Beethoven. Below the horses ball in the Charleston I’m fandangled at the pressureless of meeting you. I’m living. I hope it’s clear. Soft like a paintball and gravy too. She’s the cream and she probably choirs. Many a main road I’ve walked amongst second-hand hand-me-downs till this resource of resources. Oh I may sweet here in this thong full of arms and calves but none turn my eye. None rex my bark. None sail my float but get my goat and fling me flung back to you.

I am trapped by the Parisian feel to your safe lens; his Rodeo Breaker. Is there a beer garden here or are you a streaker? I could die in your armour. You had never heard of Leland Palmer. Sold by a cat, four paws and a tail; a tale with no pause. A rebel without a clause. I really do do what I want when I want with I want so I want. You may well PING but there’s cricketers on the walls of this jail could curl your toes with stories of will, ways and wonder. Ah Mageddon silly over you, honey blue over chips and salsa. Regular please, I’m down on my knees.

If only the suit wasn’t so tight.

Will she take me home in this gander-flap?

Jazz and Pimento! This world’s just begun – I intend to have fun. Slip your hand in mine and I’ll fortune you wexwards mandaying the forforks and taming the shrew. Lap your wand in my land, I’d be delighted to host your puny. I’ll sunset and boulevard you all till you bleed rabbits from your novels. Gadfly Polsky, hungry Hungarian; meet me in the lobby and whack me off. The commercial director’s due at two.

I’ll be a bad analyst for 18 months and then we’ll see. It was you wrote to me. You. You who are one. And gone. Well done. My nipples are full of Mobil oil – Grease me! Halls and mirrors and the smile of a lover – a secret bookstore – a front for a Bogart; a lax for a cheap tart; a grind in a love heart – strummmm....

Moreover Moravia, leftover, you save her, I’m helpways you drain her, don’t force her, behave her. Grim lip rats eat honey from the table legs over there; him in a cot and him in a high chair. I’ve got a thousand crowns says they’re bordering on sweet wine. Not just now, but all the time. I can tell by the crutch in their crow’s feet melon ballers. The candles and the info – the bryl cream and Natasha Gollova – the dickie bow of champions. I’d let you touch it but I don’t know where you’ve been.

Hip model and monster queen. DID YOU BOOK?

Oh Jezebels and paint! I kokoshka, but I won’t.

So, first it was the food, she said. And the type and the way he asked, she said. But mostly his tangent, she said. I happened upon him, she said. When he was but a pup, she said. And it was a friend, not I, she said. Who named him TWIST. Oliver first, she said, but quickly, TWIST.

But the bike from the ceiling! I cried.

No, TWIST, she said and the night had just begun.

Hasterfry in the Jazz melancode – as a people backfire into speeding car bonnets. I wish I didn’t have to watch but it’s funny when they belch. DID YOU BOK? Oh blues, cocksmell and glassy eyes; I may never make you cry again, and that would be a nostril too far. Oh wane and dane and drunk me but try not to fit me. I’m unnameable.

She doesn’t fool me, or squark, sqwark, sqwalk, skwork, sk, work, Slovakia % variance debauchery. I see right through her and the fake stone wall’s flimsy altitude she thinks she’s hiding but she’s not is she? I can actually hear your knees as it gets more difficult to write like all my energy is focused on everything but the goal. Everything but the Goal. And repetition becomes so lush. A lazy artist’s carbuncle that.

I’ll be able to see you in the reflection whether you’re German or not. Of course you can pay with that. And oh, as slow as you think of the look in her eyes and the touch of her hand and the wor(l)d sidles off to its crappy little corner as we take over and give meaning to the permanently revolutionary murder of time. Your teeth blaze brighter than 27 suns, you life giver and hopeless romantic. You comic Valentine. You talky Vlinder....

00.00

We’ll settle this the nicest way; in state of feel and time of day.

It’s slo-mo white canvas walls like paper fright stage white motion sickness I’ve spun myself into this pit-stop shop they call a theatre only with different letters, imagine what they sound like....I was on a beach. I was in a city on a beach and drank deep of a fashion shoot nonchalant reader of history and perspiration. I was in a city on a beach reading till I sweat(ed). By partial coincidence but mainly group sex, I gathered my oars and drove home a striking solipsism. Nothing to do with the glare of the lead or the shaving foam fantasies that lapped at the boat like a methadrone pervert.

Love me docile rambling squirrels, loath me gambling sometimes Wirrals – My family mean more to me than an armchair cuss or a rifle butt pancake. I’ll take you all on you mealy mouthed suburbs! Who forgot to trim your bib? Who ordained to steer