Exercise 2: E-less (or, No Ease Other Than These)

September 2, 2008

This woman sits by Argus on a bus. Handbag full of rocks, hair full of crawling things. Mascara all thick and gaudy, horror flick fashion. Argus wanting to look, but not wanting to look, and not wanting to look as if looking, staring, ogling with choking-man orbits is all that his young and acid-blown brain wants to do. Harridan – as Argus bills this woman in his constantly ongoing inward mind flick – Harridan coughs and racks and spits up into a rag that’s a suicidal artist’s grim and odorous paintbox. Harridan folds this rag into its millionth aligning and stuffs it into a dark patch of amorphous mouldy raincoat. A brown stringy slick of gob from Harridan’s lungs grabs at Argus’s shirt, his Villa shirt, his Shirt of Shirts, and soaks in all slimy, sucking bright colour into a dark touch that’s clammy on his skin. Harridan, not knowing of this taint, blabs on in chaotic monotony at hand rails and chair backs and glass. Argus, his Shirt of Shirts now shitty in his mind and on his torso, sits fuming, taut, caught, angry-hot and horror-struck. Hours to go. Hours by Harridan. Hours on this bus.

This brand of anguish always falls on Argus on a bus.

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