Oedipal Loverbirds

March 16, morning-time … ghosts of  New York slipping and gliding in and out of cerebral cortex tissues before the Ultimate Sun appears retinal and gleaming in Tower Shinery of World Trade and Wall St. Environs. Out on sidewalk (9:00 a.m.) the sun smells like September Sea.

 

7:00 p.m., 10 hours later, in Julliard School at 60 Lincoln Center Plaza … scraggle-scraggle hard-scrabble Depression Dustbowl white woman harpy convulsed with pleasure … withered left hand gingerly fingering her son’s psychotic right ear … her claw like right hand twitching to Beethoven rhythm being performed on cello and piano in a hall crowded with Odd Onlookers …  the pathetic son: a mother-complex murderer in the making at Julliard School of Murderously Meticulous Muzak …

 

AH! … Mother’s ear-gasm inception begins, her crone-skull thrown back in repeated throes of ecstasy … rotting hippie Birkenstocks … feet tapping in time now to Bach’s Gamba Sonata No. 3 in a minor key — her tragic son-husband meanwhile laughing and flirting and short-hair head bobbing with diseased Oedipal enthusiasm to sugar-cello dripping with honeycomb angles and hexagonally-metered geo-metrics …

 

And NOW (7:10) the dilapidated skeletal mother plays coy little girl, a joyful innocent … her rank hole-mouth gaping wide with feigned (??) wonder as the hairy bow of the cellist saws melodies into the air …

 

She leans over, smiling, as if to lick the boy’s pimpled 35-year-old neck … whispers … and he counts time with his fingers drumming his long sharp Dracula nails into his threadbare corduroy pants … fingers most definitely unsuited for the caressing of young female bodies …

 

At (7:40) she removes her Eyeglasses of Madness to wipe away a tear as the music swells and sweetens and simultaneously saddens, leans over, rests dagger-sharp elbows upon wrecked knees — head nodding again — and she stands, suddenly, at (8:04) and somehow manages to shuffle the entire assemblage of her de-engineered body-frame up and away from her chair, down the aisle and towards the exit … URGENT, it seems … seeking toilets? … privacy for secret emotional release? …

 

Oedipus sits, meanwhile, sweating — bald patch in his short brown hair gleaming under the harsh auditorium lights … his head bowed reverently, like a monk … his big baby lips sputtering, blubbering arcane prayers … and scratches his rash-ravaged cheek with one long Fu Manchu index-fingernail …

 

(8:10) — Mother gone now a whole six minutes … her chair a drab black that mutely waits to receive a pair of disheveled buttocks …

 

Now (8:18) … Praise Gaia! She returns at last, sits, and Oed’s right arm swings around her bowed shoulders … they almost embrace, then break away, shyly …

 

Her terrible right paw begins to glide sensually down his upper back between the shoulder blades … she hugs herself, head shaking and rolling as though SHE were banging the piano! …

Brahms now … Cello Sonata No. 2 in F Major … and suddenly Mother leans to her left , colorless eyes bulging wide, mouth open again, a mummified Hippie Smeagol, enraptured … and once again they look into each others’ eyes … and she’s having flashbacks of now at (8:26) …

 

It’s 1968 again … her slick little tongue pops pinkly out of her fish mouth (no lips!) … at at 8:29 her upper body leans at a 45-degree angle, into the aisle, an electrified ponytail of cigarette-smoke-colored hair flapping fanatically above the polished pine-board floor …

 

Mother’s right curls into a hard little fist, and then opens like the dorsal fin a fresh-water trout … and her filthy sandal slips off her right foot, and the toes curl while Junior falls asleep …

 

Mother presses her feeble fingers to her forehead (imagine Rodin’s Thinker), nods in approval of the cello show … now places her drapes her left arm again around her son’s sleeping shoulders … and they lean toward one another, this time touching, like sweethearts in the backseat of Ford convertible circa 1957 … and he appears to have dropped into a state of pure narcoleptic stupor  … and Mother then begins to cackle eerily, and with her right hand removes her dimestore glasses, her juiceless eyes staring in pure amazement at the tortured puppet movements of the cellist …

 

The husband-son then opens his eyes, and breathes through his mouth … his eyes dip downwards and they study Mothers blue oxygen-deprived toenails (poor circulation?), and it seems their romance is fading a bit and that they’re out of sync …

 

Oedipus wakes!

 

And falls asleep again …

 

Mother, at (8:43) then thrusts her trembling aged hands between her legs, arches her spine and tosses her skull back one last time … and when the music’s over she slips both bloodless feet once again into her Peruvian sandals, and the insane piano bangs more Beethoven, and she leaps from her seat as though stung with a high-powered police taser, leans against her husband-substitute, places her head upon his forlorn shoulder, playing the daughter-role once again …

 

It is (8:50) … and all is as well at the Julliard School of Music as can be expected!

 

 

© Lee Poe, 2016


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