Walter Mutty was comfortable.

–Was he? Huh?

—There is the noisy clatter of the truck …. “clumpty, trumpety, truntetty, turrp, shurp, phurp” bouncing on uneven roads on the best of Sunday’s with the gospel of sun-shine beaming amidst lush sugar-estates of Guntanamo Bay.

–He looks outside through grilled windows made of solid Atlas- proof metal and finds so many paratroopers lined all along holding metallic -pokes. He was puzzled at their eclectic mixture of ethnicities all looking so similar in olive-green, grim, emancipated, non-violent and speculative. He tries to name them peacefully and with the peculiar ethos of non-violence.

—That torpedo there, huge and expressive with avant-garde biceps is surely Brother Tommy Johannes. There’s sister Big McCarthy Bertha. There, the smaller bloke, Kingston Storm. There’s Helena, blowing her wild blond locks in the breezy torque that’s parting it up erratically and distorting her face like a chimerical Medusa. There’s Khan Hamada Clay, the most sought- after handsome- gaze with a wicked pose of holding an AK 47 and posing like a model of the cat walk. There’s Pestolizi Matterji holding a cliché –the peculiar thumbs-up with a wrong finger. There’s Elaine McDonald doing her conscription as a peaceful avatar. There’s Nijinsky Pepperoni, sullen like a dreamy like poet holding a wrong thing. There’s Nathaniel Leviathan Ezra, dosing off on duty. There’s Petrus Wongsoo Park reading the funny pages of a penny –dreadful magazine. There’s Kopi Kulak Ashadewi wanting to elope from the melting pot of discipline.

–He thought that there is a mysticism in this feline purring of the bumble Babe, purring its margarine into grateful wisps of evanescent ecstasy. It’s a beauty; this truck is born out of a Janus -collaboration of three-heads (Ford-Mitsubishi-Volvo) looking out into the market.

– Walter Mutty thought, to listen to machines, their very sound, their very pulse of motion, their sensual response to the touch of being human, is a gift of the ears unlike the ear for music, and like it, the ear for machines is a paradoxical endowment … Now, let me stimulate the very unlike Stradivarius-ears, sensitively and… see it echoing, the strange fathom of sound, the music of an altar purring; truly, truly, he reasons: there is an ear for machines and silently too, the ears have no machines, true too, the ears are silent and epic, machine-canny-ical…Wishing to himself thus, I wish, wish, thusly: there is ear for machines and machines for ears.

—The ears are thinkling like Spooner; Walter Mutty undergoes a spooner-thing-klish feeling as his thoughts, go back to the memoirs Dr. Christopher Lambert’s spine-chilling, sensational, eudemonistic treatise on the great czar of psycho-analysis Dr. Sigmund Freud.

— With a kangaroo-hop, the truck reached the very precious cantilever bridge at New Fruit Haven. A raven shits on it by an odd coincidence. Its liquid droppings etched on to the armored glass sticking out. He watches fascinated –the green glue falling off while the more solid brutes are unable to fend themselves. The journey is getting closer—

three-fourth of its distance to Guantanomo Bay.

–Walter Mutty feels his internal modules needing a pristine shower and a going –off. He smiles at himself, slowly, taking long time to decipher the emptiness of lips. He tries to move his hands a little, and empathizes with the subjection of his imposed freedom.

Walter Mutty clenches and grimaces as he feels his Levi Strauss undergoing a Harold Robbins- metamorphosis. He smiles again at the great dictator of Republic. He consoles himself by struggling with his celibate hands. He thinks of her, Marie Antoinette, and her epic struggles of position and possession of it is for him, the great denial of to move a little out of his chained hands and legs.

He thinks about the treatise made by Dr. Christopher Lamberth on Marie Antoinette, the Queen of Sephardic blood, French by nobility and Austrian by kingship.

He wondered again: ‘why’? and juxtapositioned mentally the cliché quote: “If there’s all cake, then there’s little bread, and if there’s all bread, then surely pastry can’t be given to the lumpen-proletariat”. He pondered trans-generically, like a novel of twelve hours and ruminated ahimsaisticaly that it is an epic isn’t it and synopticized it into 12- cents dangling on a second, worth preciously as Bloom-Leopold-Molly-Stephen- kunstleroman combined.

Mr. Walter Mutty pondered again, wondering why Dr. Herr Freud took so much time, patience and wisdom to write book called the edification of grand delusions of concrete gluttony impinging on the mind of this sensitive, pristine, Queen royal. He tried to conjure the abstract and empathic mind of Freud in disciplined- pleasure, transferring the gift of foreplay into guided imagination.

Walter Mutty started recalling the pleasant deviations of Sir Sigmund.

What a fascination is hers? Why? Even when the revolution was going on, she was titillating herself watching the pathos of the murdered Marat, while she herself crushed butterflies by squeezing their delicate necks and mashing herself, admonishingly and punitively, administering herself, the pleasured rituals of a cave –whirr –pooling, with wild honey, pastry –cocktailed with the crushed wings of evanescent beings. He also did a concordance, and dwelt phenomenoligicaly into the secret life of Marie Antoinette written by the French revolutionary: Jacques Cousteau Sade. Her secret life is mysteriously surrendered in a wonderful memoir written in all secrecy and love within a discovered cache beneath her bed.

According to Dr. Jacques Cousteau, in her memoirs she wrote that she used to send her musketeers romping in the labyrinth gardens of the palace in search of wild-monarchs, floating lightly as poems above the ground. As soon as they returned with their catch, she would at once grasp them, and execute them gently with great sorrow and love, then pluck their wings with great fragility, take great pleasure, art and quest to ply them on her awakened meadows, using wild honey as a lubricator, and allow herself to become a ritual of possessed sorceress, eagerly manipulating a fugue of subtle inflections, formulations and insertions, while at the same time allowing herself the great freedom of watching many expressions growing narcissism through a mirror made of Venetian glass. While at it, she writes her prophetic words as a witch (of which a translation is available from French)

Oh bloody massacre

Of wretched monarchs—

What glee I’ve cauldronized,

On the meadow of

Sumptuous banquets…

What persecution you’ve

Borne, you unsung victims

Tiny and numb to human

Speech and desire.

Oh you winged pansies

You’re tyrants of Medusa’s

Sore, tiny delicacies adorned

On the fleshy tapestry of

a live nymphaenum…

Alas I am music now,

Pouring all the odes.

By this time the pole stick stuck in Walter Mitty’s Levi Exports to Saudi Arabia, rose and consternated itself, to a Hitchcock-horror of wanting a purge…Walter Mutty refreshed his nausea, pleasantly and painfully as Camu’s Plague.

The Ford -Volvo-Mitsubishi on wheels bumped twice and jerked to a halt. It reached a precluded place close to Guantanomo Bay called the called the Hanging Garden’s Noose, written appropriately by an aficionado of Gothic Art belonging to the US Navy.

The truck stopped with an awful screech and a fat Shepherdess of Fate, from Western Arizona, in guard’s uniform, having a frown on her face like a harpy got out with her volcanic mounds of Mona Loa. She walked hurriedly to coffee shop New Buck Pristine Diana with tremendous agitation of urgency on her face which could be sketched like wrinkles of covering cow dung. Her frown started speaking: ‘how long before the pee goes out. What a relief.’

She returns smartly with a military march quite unusual for her size and hollers: ‘Hey you two guys, hurry up’.

The guards mutter amidst dental-friendly

wriggly-chewing. One tries to seduce some-one over a satellite phone; the other shouts in locution … ‘time to pop this guy off’.

By this time Walter Mutty shifts his focus of attention to silver of Atlas steel holding on to his body and to his chained hands and legs. He smiles oddly, curiously. Before he could recover his facials to an impassioned gaze, the electricity hits him.

A mongrel who wanted to have its night –life out, went to an unmarked grave. Its most dignified part of the body was its tail, which was tempered by savage brawls and vagaries of the inclement.

It started reading the epitaph: Space of obscurity lying unmarked in an un-earthly grave.

The stray mongrel started whimpering when the the ghost started creaking the chimes of a worn out municipality clock”.

Before the dog could lift its legs and scoot, the skeleton grinned and shrieked!

The dog ran whimpering : “every dog has its day”.

Sadly he remarks: “ I wish I was human and having a body now, filled with emotions; I wish I could walk back and read what they are reading”.

1.         A book for writers called memories of all utopias.

2.         A magical dictionary of finding words just like thought.

3.         An odd pen that survives the hide’s carnal slip of dejection

4.         The art of carpentry –i.e. to make book-shelves in case all others fail.

Examples: Darwin serendipiated Galapagos into evolution.

        A kitsch-cock journeying on the mariner-ship called Kitsch-spook by chance dreamt of the CLAW. It nagged him in ways as an imaginary bird, as the live Eagle, as the wonderful in everything that was close to the human. It CLAWED into imagination as every human’s finger print forming an acrostic –the CLAW; thus:

                             C- for the Composite

                              L- for the Loop

                              A – for the Arch

                               W – for the Whorl

Thus ‘Kitsch-cock’ smiled exaggeratedly blossoming into a ‘Kitsch-cockian’ smile as the claw.

black- feathers, lined up on the cable

for twilight guard of honor.

A Mr. X or Y or Z does it in public.

Another Mr. X or Y or Z thinks silently and reflects, “please don’t scratch there…in public; you see, Suh, you see Saar,  it isn’t polite”

A Mr. X or Y or Z still goes on at it—the scratching.

Another Mr. X or Y or Z reflects its idiomatic sense: “ to scratch in public…or scratch the public, and another X or Y idiomatizes:  it as a social blunder— a faux pas.