A bandy clouds, and clouds which were wingy, were twisting between each other slowly, lazy in the shadowy sky which was grey-blue at first look. Bloomy Bloomster, an unfamed citizen of Big Apple, was resting, having trim twitter, singing songs, actually spending free time of last summer days with his “maides”, his paid girls. He was welcoming sunset with pink-lipped wasps in the brilliant-green still-bloomed garden singing funny-groovy, stupid, to be honest, songs, whispering a melody of them. Unfamed garden singer Bloomy Bloomster. His mum always called him Bloomy Gloomster. There was a spirit of late August days in the city. Several couples of blue cocky dragonflies with weird brilliant-violet necklaces wearing around their necks were floating among the pale fire of apple trees in the silvery and odorous, almost moist, light of blue nights.
Coming back home Bloomy saw his tired jaded face full of wrinkles in the mirror and his living room full of summer darkness. Nabokovi moths was looking at dry roses sleeping on the low table, having an overmastering desire of fresh morning dew but they felt only warm lighting candles. He venerated dry light-red roses sleeping, maybe dying, on the low table, maybe at the death chamber — who knows, actually. The yellow-collar bandy bumblebees, sudden courted by bumblebees bumble bees and tiny apple butterflies were seating on the sweety apple-buttered brown bread toasts. But Terra was reigned by burning green-blue flies (and the bubbles of them) drilling curly bees of far-hidden memories and swarming, flying about the plate of apple butter near which tiny apple butterflies were eating a sunset honey dew and drinking poison juice of blue nights shadow. Moon-shiny nights reigned by her Majesty White Moon. The wrinkled face in the mirror took his attention again while he was praying above the roses. He felt his soul and didn“t feel his mind. And then he fall asleep. He dived into the grooglums of his memory.
In the arms of Morpheus developing into the paws of nightmare he was coming back to the bloomed fresh apple-golden garden in the middle of Big Apple. Big Apple seemed to be gold only at first stranger”s view. Bandy clouds. Wingy clouds in the shadowy city sky. Bloomy saw himself seating on the grass. Grass under his tired old-man legs, under his fives. He feels a grass by his knees. He knows the grass is really fresh, already juiced, particularly foggy, dead-green, soft — he feels. Grass smells to him and he sniffs grass. Grass smells and seems to be sugared, covered with sunlight dews, moist, kind of weepy, odorous. Bloomy looks at her — she is radiate. Among the grasses, in the shallow of it, he sees violet rattlesnake violets and patches of smoothish yellow violets — they are shabby and malodorous. Suddenly he felt himself like he is little gray fatherless-sparrow jumping across the every grass-blades. Somewhere in the corner of Holy Family charnel house Spirit of God“s Son was keeping his head down and reading Marvel comics. He, spirit of god`s son, finds such reading more interesting and useful in our days than Bible reading was. Bloomy Bloomster than recognized he is out the borders of death. He is out of world where an apple pie costs a ball, a glass of milk — a ball too, a stockfish costs two bits. Five and half red cents — the price of freedom. He was ready and sold it. Like a shot ball was developing into two bits, then into five pennies and finally into one tiny penny. He reminds the moment of his own birth. It was August, last few days of blue night. And he was appeared in august, the latest day.
He was fathered in the wame of sinful darkness too, wasn”t born. By them, by man with voice of himself, with eyes of himself and perishable woman“s spirit breathe. His strong loved fatherland was unfamed town — Pruntytown, West Virginia. He was not-born in the reversed direction, by the way of his mother”s skinny throat, merely red lane oozing blood-rad blood drops. Long, tightly and painfully. At the end — sharply-arrowy and tickling, clung with a navel-cord to a piercing placed on his mother“s tongue. He hates, he hated and will hate his mother tongue. It couldn”t be, it shouldn“t be the other way. Everybody was born in such way at that Times. A kind of Lex Eterna of a sinful Human Being. He still remembers his fatherland valley. He always repeats to himself: Until another day will come up to the end of this sinful World or the same World full of human sins, sins growing up till the start, till the beginning of the night of the Victorian Age dry blood roses will be dying on the low table in his living room at his afterlife. He thought: Bloomy Gloomster, his mum`s son, habitually wakes up at 10 a.m. every morning. Habitually he courts young girls. This is his sin at all. And he knows, he recognizes, he understands it`s wrong but he couldn”t ever stop — now and then. That sin will kill him in the future. What future ? He doesn“t own any future at all. Naturally but not usually, every opportunity in his short life, short and pure, bare and bold, for easy and for heavy, for sorrow and for happiness… Who should pay this price ? The spirit of fear and hate ? If anybody.
His god was too young to forgive him his sins. Now and then his young god gave him just illusion of forgiveness. Bloomy Bloomster will never find redemption. He will never step into the light. His god knows he tried. But it”s all he has had to give. Bloomy asked his god for forgiveness — his little god was too young to give what asked was. Bloomster was too scared to open up, he was walking away every single time. He couldn“t face with what he was feeling. And he doesn”t want to face what he was feeling. He will never want to face with who he is and what he does. Nothing will be bigger than his sins: the gracefully aged god didn“t forgive him but let go. Filium suus.
Bloomy was falling deeper and deeper into a sudden rush. She lives inside me, — he cried. She lives in me, dreams with me in my Morpheus kingdom. She sleeps in my bed. And I don`t know who she is, now and again. He was existing inside her wame. Oh, nobody couldn`t even imagine what kind of, what level of please he got feeling warm of her purtenance. He gobbled up her from inside, he explored her inside and out. She couldn”t die before he was born. She died, left this sinful world, when Bloomy was only 10. In a shadow of public despisal bloomy was grown. Now, by the same token he likes to gobbled up hearts, chicken liver, henny gizzards and chicken feet oozing blood of cranberry sauce — just in his mother“s n (w)ame.
Small bird killdeer was crying aloud flying from marshes into the line of sun. Unexpectable voice called out his name. Someone touched him. He turned and saw his papaw — his father”s father — near his left shoulder. Rummy Ludovicus was walking by his bandy legs, exhausted by livelong painful work, along the pike smoking his long fat “cig`ret” as he called it. Body covering with warm sunset shining was whipping with somebody who nobody knows, a lit sniffing. Rummy`s red rare curly hair slowly growing on his half-bold head was becoming golden. Betweenwhiles he used to walk along the pike toward dusk. Sometimes in company of his beagle dog. Bloomy felt the cocky mint smell of gray beard`s “cig`ret” across all nightmare. Once, he remembers, grandpop took him to the local barrelhouse. Bloomy was 12 then. There they met grampa`s bosom friend Humbert Un`Hubert, his Worship of Britishland Castles as Helen called him. Actually, he was Helen`s secret lover. As usually he drunk thready mouth-puckering thorn apple poiton. That night Bloomy started to call him indian blue-cheeks frog Humbert Un`Hubert. His round pasty-faced face became yellowish in a candle light and after third cup of thorn apple poiton his alcoholic“s cheeks being blue were developing into groggy-violet like a color of cocky garden dragonflies. Filling up with blood his wall-eyes became bigger and bigger. Helen”s strident voice. Plague on her ! Her apple was like a crowded yard. Big apples were her one and only personal dignity. Booze hug Her-Lena (Helen), the poor owner of a tiny creep dive BarFly. She was pleasure to call it merely pothouse BarFly or, honestly, barrelhouse BarFly. Maybe Helen… or maybe Her-Lena… or Helena. Actually, nobody remembers her real name was. Simple boozers call her a kind of Poison Helen, her Worship Great Booze Hug, the founder of barrelhouse BarFly. Frankly speaking, it was really old, almost dead, rattletrap, malodorous place. But where they could go to every Sunday evening — the barellhouse was one and only barellhouse at the valley Bloomy was born. Booze hug Helen gave them a tiny like a butterfly seating on an apple butter illusion of happiness — it wasn“t enough but gave a reason to continue their painful lifes.
Chimney swifts were crying and clouding the blue-gray sky. Bloomy heard heart-rending jabbing supplicant beagle dog”s bark. He picked up the smell of mint again. He was staring into swarming deathmoths around his head, falling down from the apple tree wasp nest right to his way of running. And then Bloomy saw a small clear lake, dived into it and suddenly woke up at the ferny patch.
It was 10 a.m. and Bloomy Bloomster-Gloomster habitually turned back from the arms of Morpheus. Dry roses were lying on a low table, tiny apple butterflies were killed by wasps, several bumble bees were courted by bumblebees.