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I had a woman …
My last woman, Betsy, had hooker crabs and skleeg fever. Her boovula vibrated to the sound of Metallica and gold coins hitting the table top. She’d whisper the world in your ear, and then complain about the mutton soup, and her breath was like a stray dog’s. I couldn’t keep her.
I had this woman, she was mean and never shaved her legs. She pressed skunk grease against her cheeks to make herself look younger, and she begged me for my protein soup so as to enhance her jugs. She worked the street and found great solace in any stranger’s arms. She gave me crabs and herpes and black syphilis, and I had to flee to the eastern provinces to escape her pimp husband. But I loved her.
There was this girl I knew when the summers were long and the winter ran for cover. She wore soft pastel dresses, and waltzed with the green grass, as she ran through the meadow. Her hair was red and her face was freckled, and we spent so many nights chasing time and running from despair. She left me for a jar head named Cliff, and I never knew what happened. But we had that summer, and I’d never forget.
I spent time traveling on rockets, and taking my star ship to the edge of the solar system. I met marauders, armed with laser swords and covered in swamp pain – and then there was HER. She was the queen of the asteroids, she mined and harvested ancient wax and made her living along the Kuiper Belt. Her condo was on Pluto, and she didn’t care that it wasn’t a “planet”, because every man orbited her and her fine booty. We fell in love fast, like a black hole swallowing a rogue comet, and she broke my heart. She kicked me to the curb before the 4th Lort War began, and I was left wanting before the throng.
There was this chick from LA. She was a model and an artist and an actor. Her hair was brown, and her skin ivory white, and when she walked down the street the whole world stood still. She had men all over, but she always made you feel special – and I never feared for the clap or gonorrhea. I broke her heart, living fast, doing crack, selling my bling along the boulevard of starlight. She cried out for me, and my wretched self left her. I did not know she was going to be my wife, and our children would have ruled the wasteland.
While biding time near the old valley, I met a girl named Lola. She carried a sack filled with onions and spoke softly to the chickens. She would spend the spring days wandering the fields, scantily clad, with her female scent wafting about. She was my FOREST LOVER, my sky bride, and we held ancient sexual rituals, in the barn, when the sun went down. She broke my spirit like she was breaking a new horse, and after this was done? – she fell in love with the baker’s wife and fled to Quebec.
After many lovers, I found Rhonda. I was dealing cards in Vegas, at the Royal Palms Hotel. Rhonda was a cigarette girl and a stripper and the holy representative of blind chance. We would drive out into the desert at night and drink vodka and shout at the stars, and many of these nights ended in torrid and fiery love making. She needed “space”, so she fled to New York, and moved in with a street performer named Len. I was alone again, staring at the walls, imagining a kingdom of regret somewhere near Detroit.
I was with this woman from Dallas for a few years … She hunted whale-ape out on the high plains, and never rested. She snorted cocaine and got into bar fights and was never afraid of a Saturday night melee. I got her pregnant, and then she sold our baby to a Mexican drug lord in Juarez. It was a mad sickness that kept me near her, and when the fever broke I was empty, bankrupt, and wandering Phoenix with a loaf of bread under my arm and blood pouring from my anus.
While working as a seaman on the trade routes from India, I met a woman named Prakna. She had jet black hair and olive skin, her bodice was like a fine bottle of wine and I drank of her juices as often as I could. We would wander Calcutta, in search of slow-time concubines, seeking the obliteration of self in the dirty corners of a broken land. She would call me her “tiger master” and I would call her my “monkey queen”. After several months, she drowned in the Ganges and her body was never found … they say she’d been involved in bitcoin.
I knew an escort named Trixie – she worked the high rises on the gold coast in Chicago. I was recovering from splingus surgery, and she watched over me, my sexy angel of mercy. Our first Christmas together, we took a trip to Peru, we bathed in Incan pools and nakedly played.
Patrice was a waitress I met in Florida. Her family owned a gator farm not far from Orlando, and she would spend her weekends there, harvesting gator, in her daisy dukes and torn t-shirt. We would take the air-boat out on the Everglades, and there we would make love in the night, as the cotton-owls screeched and the turtle-cats slept. I woke up one day and she was gone – no note, no nothing … I loved her.
A gal I knew near Memphis took me by surprise, you’d look in her eyes and see a baby born. She was blonde and hot and busty and naughty. She worked as a Kindergarten teacher, but she was all smoke and silk come evening time. We rode Harley’s on the weekend and made love in the train yard after the sun went down. She told me I didn’t care about her cat, and I said “what cat?” – and she slapped me. She left me for a florist.
There were so many flinks and cherries …
So many sop-wives and angel dust Virginias …
I spent my time wandering the lost sectors of YULON, looking for the ultimate WOMAN. A woman of steel and fire and lace, a woman of claws and fury, a woman who can hunt down the wild deer, naked, as her boobs bounce about. I spent time in the jungles of NEPHOR, and found a hidden lake where milk maidens washed their privates and caressed their tits. I sought after that gentle hand that would nag me, incessantly, to take out the garbage. But after crossing 12 seas and 40 rivers I found the GIRL of my DREAMS … Vordica …
Vordica watched over me for what was left of my life …
As I grew older, she ensured that my codpiece and armor were well oiled … as she oiled her boobs.
I would hunt castor apes, and she would make me gunzit-stew. After spending many hours being chased by wopsit-clowns, Vordica would be there, in our bed, ingunjoolating herself, preparing her boovula for my meat rod.
As I grew very old, Vordica would drain my boils and wash my togger-wounds. She would rub in diesel fuel and broken glass and sawdust and metal shavings, and I would shake and shiver in her arms, as the fever took over ….
There were only mold-cats now and other scum-rot from the new biome – and all the old furry creatures were gone, and we wept before a brown and grey world …
…. but …
I had this woman once …
And I was in love.
ZH Rundown
(THE NEWS)
