Issue 22 - 1992

Coe Review • Issue 22
BllaaaAAAAAAATTT! He jumps back to the curb, but too
late, a bus bearing down on him-THWOCK!-whacks his prick as it
goes roaring by: he screams with pain, spins with the impact, and is
bowled into the crowd, now crossing with the light, spilling a dozen
of them. He catches a glimpse of the bus gunning it on down the
street, an advertisement spread across its rear: I CAN SEE HER
CUNT, GUSSY! and what looks like the eye of a pig in the back
window, staring at him. The crowds, rushing and tumbling over him,
curse and weep:
-What is it like, Nelly?
He hobbles to the edge of the flow, nursing his bruised cock,
looking for a reason to go on, looking for something to wrap it in. He
finds a bum sleeping under a newspaper and appropriates page one.
Over a photo of the Mayor at a public execution of three small
children, believed to be the offspring of urban guerrillas, is the
headline: A LARGE HAIRY MOUTH SUCKING HIS PURPLE
PRICK.
Aw hey listen: fuck it. Quit. Yeah.
He sits on the curb, snuffling, huddled miserably over his
battered rod, trying to coax green dreams out of his iced-up lobes,
feeling the snow creep up his ass, no sorrow like my sorrow: bitter
snatch of the diatonic aubade. Something seems to leave him, some
spring released, a slipping away...
No! he cries in sudden panic, leaping up. Forget that shit,
fade it out, no more messages, pick ‘em up and put ‘em down, hup
two three four, he’s running along now, prick waggling frantically,
stiffarming the opposition, recocking the spring, leaping the lifeless,
close now, yeah, central heating, all that, gonna make it-oof! sorry,
ma’am!
-Good morning, L.P.!
-Good morning, love! (Whew!) After you!
-Thank you, Mr. Peters!
-Morning, sir! Thank you, sir!
-Ah, damn it, is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?
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