:: Article

Kings Accelerated into Queens

By Matthew Kinlin.

Act I

Scene I. Z enters Terengganu castle.

Z is the end of England and her name after she was Linda and purple and fat. She had filled a measuring jug with 20/20 Electric Melon and fallen backwards through time into Royal Preston Hospital—swam breaststroke alongside Lancastrian hags between their varicose shoulders repeating at regular intervals, wrists snapped into hands adorned with crows. Like a laughing-thrush smothered underneath a bamboo trap, she shrank in the hands of spasm_master39 (emailed from a Blackpool bedsit) as he described a rollercoaster built on the side of an Ipoh monsoon and fast food huts protected by one bobohizan brighter than a singing lipid, a Hello Kitty battalion waving through bored, neo-Marxist dust. She felt mosquitos slicken with bad dengue and crawl across her red teeth, spasm_master39 casting a ritual against his own Reddit thread. A liposuction smack implanted to eat through a chin strap (molars sealed in Malaysian smelt, cavities plugged with tokoloshe-lingo—tonsils linked to a Wi-Fi afterlife: water sprites fed stronger on spit in an azure hell). She held up a foil mirror on the flight home and looked beneath her plated lip to find a drain lolling like a sieve—umbrella brains spiralled into transvestite hair. To follow the evolution of her skyward nose was to quicken every freckle (ozone thinning below the plane into anaemic, orange slop)—a marbled bruise of the left breast becoming clumsy so it might fall into the fountaining blood that was always beneath (spasm_master39 holding up a polythene holy grail, a blinking constellation of fear above her amputated forehead). A smile zapped! and banished as she undressed before the madman—Persephone vacuumed into germs, the bacteria exiting her laser-guided body like greedy, Egyptian missiles: let each nuclei betray itself and stumble into war—Kos blasted into cytoplasmic pother.

 

Scene II. Harlequins appear in green smoke.

Blackpool was Z too but clandestine and awash with seething, thee petty dreams. Harlequins were lined up by officers that now resembled deaf pylons (trapezoid limbs, mouths dropped open with Q-speech crackle), all blown apart with vintage AK-47 Fire Serpents (imported from an El Paso sales manager: too polite, thighs and stomach tattooed with Saint Maurice pyramids, dizzy Marian ghosts: the Virgin Mary could appear both in heaven and on earth at the same time)—all crowned with a horse-fly upon the head chakra, raspberry pageant of blood tiaras somersaulted into the sea. Girl brains loved and bottled in a Miami laboratory, toasted to by poolside Draculas and their gradual cemeteries—Jonathan Harker golden and undressed in spandex, fucked apart to see the inside of cocktail heaven: the bald dead covered in strawberry daiquiri. Florida lore uploaded to an anti-Wiki page: chartreuse card in each jacket, a diamond in the centre—colour halfway between green and yellow-green: piss in the mouth of a gargled child, an episcopal dreamboat (extinction-celebrity safer on a Mormon submarine) photographed in monochrome beneath doves executed in summer (summer, the most fascist of seasons: July thou art often insane). Linda had since predicted the Johannesburg sepsis—Africa sold and turned into one solar panel like a silver leaf: its molten workers trembling beneath foil skirts, their children birthed in adder syrup. Frankincense chanted as JHVH archangel zeppelin crashed into Vatican mafioso that ate cherry lipstick from the mouths of pristine corpses, grandmother hologram on the side which smiled and smiled above rooms filled with chlorine, men fainting inside butterfly ghettoes—death as simple as chrysalis, all dipped in perfect mascara and sunk beneath the hepatitis G swamp, gulping at sapphire waste, blue gorgeousness.

 

Scene III. An execution.

Returned to Z—a wasteland fallen upwards into py6 cathedrals, shapeless orthodoxy asleep among threshing spires of crud, screws riddled through the hands of scalded monks, their wriggling, hot bodies teleported from the Ural Mountains. She watched from the balcony in silence as a punchinello submitted upon the white promenade: a clown powdered with ecstatic moths—the lovemaking of three, then four, flesh-eaten dust. Beneath the ancient casino (The Age of Pericles) he was tied to a balloon and fed into evaporated bromide, a jellied fool smeared across abandoned hotels and pubs, windows framed with emerald-souring iron and Britannia flags nailed to every doorway by the mustard-dressed police (one hundred Nazi mermaids suffocated inside 10xfog—breached fins, swollen head: a fish gone mad). In the casino she took off a red bikini before waltzing cameras and breastfed into pimpled microphones (stutter, she said, on Yorkshire fungus—the heroin-ridden head of the Blue Caterpillar) as men coiled and wanked into soft folds of themselves like scared oysters, grateful for the kindness of an incest she sold across vertical mirrors that held each of them like an origami swan, convex Medusa startled on a dance floor—an octopus head seen through a sheet of blood, the platinum wig dashed apart into asbestos valves. They hammered themselves inside splendid membranes like gulping coy and fucked £100 havoc into a plain, white socket. She took each cock in her hand as though it were a suspension feeder: endearing, blind. The genitals made their way towards her like limbless fat and she saw the slow expansion of matter as she opened her legs to a gloom in lime green bandages—a dioxide ghost spluttered into voodooing flesh. On the television behind, a blue Yod emerging from the Arctic Ocean: magnetic poles reversing beneath Canadian slush into yellow canals of Yukon shake, the Norway appendix warped into banana milk.

 

Act II

Scene I. Enter King Lear and attendants.

King Lear returned to the coast in a seeing trench coat, eyeballs stitched into mulberry silk, the Chinese sickness of spiders. He smoked platinum jack now and tangerine venom, and worshipped LU28: a trans-Neptunian object—berserk, a hypothetical god. She poured a Singapore sling and offered thine crimsonness, the conquered bloods of tigers and ape. She remembered when Z was Blackpool and they had clapped and sweated inside a recycled 360-Pepsi station as they watched Papua New Guinea melted into escalators—a housewife mating with an alligator in a copper lake, her protein lord covered in beef orbs decapitated on the northern equator—and afterwards, they ran towards the shoreline across oiled, pseudo bodies, hooligans in love with pink and astonished pollution: beloved Caesium-137, Iodine-129. Linda was deleted in a sunrise of mathematical perfume and fell asleep inside his flared, morning nostrils like an engulfed foal. She was a shadow that made a wish to think and command its own corporeal body: had watched it jump and run for years, patiently waiting to grip each sole and climb the legs—soon to choke the worshipped head. The body begged the shadow at daybreak for its life and surrendered before Z: and she was victorious sulk now—a miserable prince sat in umbra. Z watched towers from orange branches as far as Liverpool and Manchester (Y), office blocks broken apart on an embarrassed moon teeming with hoolock gibbons that swam through blue nicotine, carried the coffins of statues and flung them into blank dirt, buried the eureka! of sociopaths among fat slugs, their unwanted genii—no more Einsteinium bubblegum, Socratic tadpoles drowned in arrogant snot.

 

Scene II. A second execution.

The Age of Pericles was twilit with winter cocaine as the king gorged on the misery of others and plucked off their ill and red heads like diseased cranberries, turned away from curtseying skeletons in disgust, brown marrow slopping from their orbital sockets and selfish fruit machines—skulls spinning like green apples, each vortex afloat in kaleidoscopic poverty. The silent jasper of Polish brandy from which Lear failed to taste the crescent spermatozoa programmed inside an Oman embryo (morphine filtered into his indigo bloodstream in a matter of seconds, transfused from the frozen Valentine-5UNIT) nor the helical sword that span and cropped the tip of a single thought birthed in his mind like yawning grass (his Chernobyl daughters: three cooling towers billowing into the sky into headless fog). The harlequins took their time to place a spiral of wasps on the grey and flowing chest, above a beating heart that began to hurricane—batrachotoxin running through his limbic costume like a hundred yellow orgasms, their kimonos flung open to show VX frogs hung from each withered arm like blue sleeping vines. They murdered in goggles to see the killed glop, a refusing neon stain—watched Mercury tear out his own skull like a helium epiphany: to run around the sun in a single breath and overtake death itself. She walked waist-deep among retrograde clouds beaten into Irish seawater, darkness dripping in the endless arms of piers that reached and pointed into thalassic dreaming—a kingdom of paper wasps, bodies honeyed and kissed and laid out upon goldenrod: 500 stings to kill a wheezing child, its torso covered in yellow smells, a snoring star twisted into opal fire, head bitten off and screamed at sunrise.

 

Scene III. Z wakes upon a bed of black tulips.

Z performed a solemn waltz around the springtime mouths of sluts that lined the rotted walls (tulips—cannibals now, feasted on the other’s sweetest petal). This was the orbit of insignificance and magazine astrology: the missing planet that flows between Mars and Jupiter like a veil of thawing hatred (Ceres, Vesta, Pallas, and Hygiea—these are the names of her four sisters). She saw King Lear’s arms drowning in arsenic reached out towards the disappearing blur, regicide leaking onto the giggling shoes—his final memory of Cordelia emerging from a plutonium vat, the daughter rectum delicious and brilliant, a hole feasted on atoms. Linda had smiled through vectors of loyal disease that led straight back to Z—boiled pinballs and fifty-pence-pieces gambled in her zealous mouth (a ??? bomb), a stiletto which slid backwards and diagonal down a gullet into the smattered gut: the rabid haberdashery of spasm_master39, his homage to Birmingham unfolding between her kidneys. On a motorway stretch coiled like an English oesophagus (slippery and stuck to the cold metal of the car) she drank the 20/20 Electric Melon and became a lizard purse thrown from the burning vehicle, a petrol station disappeared into purple zeroes—emerged like a trophy undressed into go. She was Joan of Arc shot into dog ash, an amphetamine witch fed on traffic lights: green, green. Everything was as it should be: soon she would resemble the dismal bed, the unseeing windowpane. A chambermaid with a skeleton hand spoke from the threadbare corner before returning to a hatch in the wall—a robot (its name was G0neril and its bones were zinc). Upon the bed it placed a hairbrush, famished birds gathered from the windowsill (emperor songs still locked in thy rictus throat), an orb—all green because Z is ugly and forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Matthew Kinlin
lives and writes in Glasgow.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Monday, October 7th, 2019.