ForumGarden

The context that the subject of writing style recently came up in reminded me of my favourite writing style. One I've not seen imitated. Enjoy. I also think the story fits well with the other thread. Perhaps I'm just weird that way.

I shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands when the baneful word seared my reeling brain - I...was a homosexual.

I thought of the painted, simpering female impersonators I had seen in a Baltimore nightclub. Could it be possible I was one of those subhuman things? I walked the streets in a daze...like a man with a light concussion.

I would have destroyed myself- But a wise old queen - Bobo, we called her- taught me that I had a duty to live and to bear my burden proudly for all to see.

Poor Bobo came to a sticky end. He was riding in the Duc de Ventre's Hispano-Suiza when his falling hemorrhoids blew out of the car and wrapped around the rear wheel.



He was completely gutted, leaving an empty shell, sitting there on the giraffe-skin upholstery.

Even the eyes and the brain went... with a horrible "schlupping" sound.

The duke says he will carry that ghastly schlup with him to his mausoleum.

From The Naked Lunch

Here's another (still reminding me of the other thread - more so):

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his a**hole to talk?



His whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard. Bubbly, thick, stagnant sound. A sound you could smell.



This man worked for the carnival and to start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. After a while, the a** started talking on its own. He would go in

without anything prepared and his a** would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.



Then it developed sort of teethlike little raspy incurving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it but the a**hole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags.

Nobody loved it.



And it wanted to be kissed, same as any other mouth. Finally, it talked all the time, day and night. You could hear him for blocks, screaming at it to shut up ...beating at it with his fists and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good,

and the a**hole said to him

"It is you who will shut up in the end, not me...because we don't need you

around here anymore. I can talk and eat and sh*t."

After that, he began waking up in the morning with transparentjelly, like a tadpole's tail, all over his mouth. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there. So, finally, his mouth sealed over and the whole head would have amputated spontaneously

except for the eyes, you dig?



That's the one thing that the a**hole couldn't do was see.



It needed the eyes.



Nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied. So, the brain couldn't give orders anymore. It was trapped inside the skull. Sealed off.



For a while, you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes. And then finally the brain must have died...because the eyes went out and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk.

Clancy wrote: All that translates roughly as, "I pack it up the prostate" ?



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um. no.

of course it is literature and you may translate it however you like. generally, in this case, others would probably disagree.

Clancy wrote: No harm intended, or meant..... I was just having a bit of fun with it



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What else can one do with such a story?