No time to assess the situation, nu, we understand — after all, postmortem is postmortem, after is the fact. Questions, did they ever have their questions, for everyone, who not — the cooperatively crazy mensch here at the frontdesk, the motel’s putative maids only illegals who they never cleaned, they’re merely homeless and every Shabbos or so paying what they have to use the facilities to bathe themselves, to wash their minds to purity…even for the schmuck who delivers them the ice hacked straight from the street to the hallways’ machines. What will free first, will prepuce give or will His tongue, which is affixed to which…will His tongue wag from between her legs forever and last days, or will He be condemned to wander around Purgatory, hymn, with an intimate aspect of the female anatomy flapping obscenely from Him, as if the flag of the surrender of His gape? B losing final air and as they’re tugging…His tongue’s stretching — bodylength soon, it’s a bodied double, distended far from its tumescence as if to paper the opposite wall, as if to lick it clean and further, wicking a thin dribble across the room, then drooling toward the door to the hall as if to collapse to corpse only while waiting for the elevator out of order. Expired. And so to residence in this motel for an eternity with no rates reduced, how they’ll pry the cash from His hands, the hock of His spoony cold. How to summon when you can’t even button, or ask for passing help in pressing. Questions, always questions: is the tongue I bought off what’s his name the real one or only a fake — refund, who do I kvetch to for my money back…but what about Her organ, where is it now — cold itself, between her smothering legs. The Hanna Mary wailing still to end all terror, writhing across the flaming mattress with a roll of her thighs around His skull as if to wring His neck — to kill a festive chicken, the screwy opening of a Shabbos bottle of His blood…Him thrashed from the smoke in His lungs, Hanna’s pooped how He’s soiled Himself, the mattress, its fiery floor — and then, with one last leaning tug, He, pops, off and out:
B birthed wet onto the motelroom’s floor, the notel: crying Mom without a tongue, and burning. The Marys scatter, fall, hit walls and bounce collapse…Edens of flow as the tongue falls, too, a flop past limp atop the lip of the mattress licking lameness into the airless room, which is so smoky as to seem the Mitteltown sky itself, just outside, walled behind the night: the tongue’s tip, though, stuck hard and fast to its vagina dark and tightening above. Utterly without life, the pile of flesh then falls from its soaked weight, plops in silence as a stump, majestically purple then darker — soon to be a coil of absolute blue royaled to black, as if a turd unburdened, steaming, wound-flecked, left as a tip for the maid atop the taint of the carpet. Our mensch at the frontdesk having heard the resoundings of serious thump, just taking an interest in the integrity of the motel’s structure, you understand, its foundations not to mention its reputation, already shaky enough the both of them that its collapse or, suggestion, demolition might be welcomed, and how any felony charges of arson ever filed might be lost on their ways to the court, rest assured and a wink, or at the very least downgraded to misdemeanor material: an insuranceheap, lightningready, as it’s without reservations ever, without even the most grim glimmering hope of a star — its mensch weeping (according to what’s now his third statement taken) has already, by the first bumptious echo from ceilings above, in violation of the spirit of the first holiday he’s ever observed as much as this doing business is and with B, worked the telephones overtime, talking up the last of the media and its gossip columnists switchboarded condemned, in his whiny, hoarsely feminine garble: gutter press to swell up from sewers, assembling into swills of ink at the 10th Avenue entrance, photographers already gathering in the parkinggarage, in the lobby and at the door to His hall, their flashpot moons revolving around what lies beyond, giving light only to be reflected, never absorbed: they’re waiting for a uniform — but Authorities in observance arrive only later, well after the mandate of their departmental Lamentations — any angel with a warrant scrolling from the bell of its trumpet to blow the damn door down.
