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WET ISIS


by

Sergio Ignacio Vasquez



Leviathan snores, observing listener.
I was on a beach. The sunning bodies were so crowded in. The sea went on forever and purred with soft water roars; infinite and green, serene and blue. Cocobuttered breasts sloping towards armpits. Sunglasses shining back the sun. Kids digging in the sand, burying siblings like cats do turds.

 

 

    Cocobutter beach blue went on greening serene, burying sun. Sloping sand infinite. Rolling and rolling. So soothe roar.
Paperbacks folded over sleeping faces. Beer belly slung over paisley
trunks. Tanning cottage cheese ass. Cigar ash streaked hawaiian
print. Dirty prince shakes sand from his towel. Beach bunny blonde
princess bends over to get a soda from the cooler and a huddle of twelve year old boys stare. Father and son in matching speedos, smuggling grapes. Some wise ass says, "nice fuckin, panties, pal." Belly laugh that stinks like garlic. Mexican kids looking for sand crabs, filling red plastic pails.

 

     Sunny blonde, meat leg honey, brown sugar beach bunny, pussy pie; you blind my eye, brighten sky. Now rise, shaking off the sand and glistening, listening to the tide rolling and rolling, tossing and
tossing. Bleach blonde queen rubs lotion on his boyfriendís back.
Raw materials. Unassumed. Please, baby, donít ask. Unstable Belial.
Unsatiable beastial.

 

    The sun is glowing, the water turns and I am crying. I donít really
know why. Some tears just come out of nowhere, with no invitation. My friends were drinking beer in to-go cups, laughing and I turn away. I try to pluck the tears from my eyes with salty fingers, but itís no good. I get up and say Iím going to the can. Some wise ass says,
"donít smear your make up, pal." Thanks. I leave a middle finger
behind. Surfer boys in wet suits laugh at me, grins in the salty slick
neon striped black rubber.

 

    The beach is so crowded that people are even laying out on the sidewalks with their moron cartoon towels. I notice three Japanese girls lying in the street. I tell them they should get out of the road, but they donít respond, asleep behind sunglasses. I shake the closest oneís shoulders, making her little sweat beaded breasts shake in the black bathing suit.  She awoke, brushing fire engine red hair from her face. She smiles and says something I donít understand.

 

    The next thing I know the four of us are in a bathroom stall. B.J.ís
phone number on the wall and piss on the floor. Three tongues slick my neck. Iím feeling up those seal skin smooth legs. Thirty fingers fight over my hard on. I push aside rayon to spread wet lips studded with stubble. My thumb finds a defenseless asshole. A mouth finds mine and sucks my tongue. The grip on my cock gets harder and faster. I bite a strand of long black hair and gasp, my come shooting all over their hands, their bellies and the floor. They smile and say something in unison that I donít understand. Cum pie?

    The stall door opens and an old Japanese woman stands there, glaring.  The girls run out, looking ashamed. I go limp. She is holding a pillowcase that writhes. Without a word she tosses the pillowcase at my feet and leaves. I look down and see a coil of serpents. The first
snake I grab by the head and toss over the partition. The second rises
flaring itís hood. I lunge for the head but catch it too low. It's
green head stretches and sinks needlepoints into the space between thumb and first finger.

 

    Someone has stolen my bike. I noticed this as I ran from the bathroom.  Holding my throbbing hand, I leave the beach and head uphill, into town convinced that Iíll actually find that damn bike. How else will I get to the hospitol on time? I come to a warehouse and squeeze through a hole in the fence. I turn the corner and see a man with a bike. I confront him, but notice it isnít mine. The paint is flaking and the rims bent, spokes missing. The man is balding and wrinkled with a lazy eye. I tell him he matches his bike and take off. Thereís a bike rack in the back, but none are mine. I fell like a real PeeWee.

 

    I give up and decide to take a look in the warehouse. Men in dirty
overalls are carrying sharp yellow teeth at least twenty feet long and
stacking them in the corner where men in lab coats scribble on
clipboards. In the middle is a fish-like skull at least fifty feet
wide. At about this time the venom really starts to kick in.

 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Sergio Ignacio Vasquez originates from a Laura Lee Allen and a Rene
Eduardo Vasquez on a muggy afternoon in Long Beach CA, circa 1976. Ever
since he has moved many times, not staying in one place longer than two
years. Los Angeles and Chicago were some of the better ones. The past
eight years in various corners the Coachella Valley have been slow and hot,
but the author plans to move on and is seeking a roommate in Portland.
Sergio acknowledges William S. Burroughs, Celine, Sylvia Plath, Federico
Garcia Lorca, Stanley Kubrick, Akira Kurosawa, Lenny Bruce, George Carlin,
Ian Curtis, Ogre, David Gates, Ernest Hemmingway, Hunter S. Thompson, J.
Ballard, and Henry Miller as major influences and also recommends them as
great sources of entertainment. He is single and enjoys the company of
other artists with some sort of sense of humor. He encourages pestering at
hizboolah@lycos.net.


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