Blue Bayou Muriel


Four people sat silent and covertly boozed. Who are they, all partying to an unsatisfactory evening? Muriel gushed inanely and aggressed. Chilton stickled for good form not forthcoming. Muriel bitched at Chilton. Chilton bitched at Muriel. Victor snapped appropriately. Clare complained that her steak was not rare.
Later, a formal moment later.
— Well chaps, got to go.
So Victor went.
Chilton squirmed, but was precise.
— I, also, have got to go.
Jesus, he’s bloody going, he’s not staying. He always stays. Muriel panicked and blurted.
— But you promised to stay a little longer.
Black mark and she knew it. Private face in public place and Chilton was a very public person. Clare being the exigent public. I feel so bad I’ve got a worried mind I’m so lonesome all the time I’m going back some day come what may to Blue Bayou. Sludgy Muriel.

— I’ve already stayed a little longer. He left. Muriel trotted after him.
— Please stay.
— I nearly always stay. I’m tired. I want to go home.
Muriel yelled, and loudly.
— Stop fucking me around.

Ya dud bash. Women are witless perhaps, but don’t bet mate your last quid on the loyalty or generousness of their thoughts.
Fishwhife, fishwife.

Miserable as all hell, whimpering and shuckered, Muriel went to Blue Bayou. For a holiday. Before she left Muriel commiserated with Clare.
— What do you see, Clare, when you look at Chilton.
— You mean not through the eyes of love.
— Exactly.
— I see an overweight and dapper academic. Smugly married.
— You’re right, you know you’re right.
Muriel sweltered in Blue Bayou heat. The horizon was mud colored. Pickled in sweat and dust.
Muriel dreamed of winter. Of soft jumpers, cashmere coats and money.
Muriel ate too much. Wind whistled and snapped in her gut, around her arsehole.
Muriel went on an Ivy Compton-Burnett spree. Question. Dame Ivy, where do you grow now? Answer. In the dining room, my dear, over the sideboard. My leaves shine and quiver as words in dialogue.
Christmas, New Year, January.

Muriel returned from Blue Bayou, and Chilton dropped in to see her.

— How good to see you.
Come on now, Muriel, don’t weaken. The joy, of the joy, of a loving fuck. In the springtime. Muriel floated lightly upwards, and thumped her head against the ceiling.
— How are you?
— Fine.
Small grin. To show up the ingrained sweat and dust. A fart for good measure? No. Her intentions were good. Muriel and Chilton chatted about this and that.
Muriel felt disgusted, and she ached over what might have been and some of what had been. Chilton went home.
What was Chilton? Another man? Another man. What was she? What was Muriel? Depends on how you look at it. What happened then? Muriel and Clare learned to chuckle and guffaw. Chilton and Victor misunderstood and were misunderstood. Muriel and Clare learned to weep and grieve. Chilton  and  Victor  were  party  to  other  unsatisfactory evenings. Muriel was heard to say something like leave with a celibate ho my hearties, good times acoming?

sometimes I wonder
Unto the women he said
I will greatly multiply thy sorrow
and they conception
red blurred mouths
all around all around
heavy bellied algebraic
I fit
I fit into oh will you find me a space
all around all around
yes no in the mirror
choice bright red apples for sale for sale for sale
choice bright red apples for sale for sale for sale
choice bright red apples for sale for sale for sale
leaning over her great stomach she said
damaged is the keyword
I must kneel in the
presence of my employer
all around all around
I do not make tea in a china cup
I shall not lift up my skirts
sometimes I wonder about
Modigliani’s women Blake’s men and muscles to
bargain with in the market place.

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