Monolith Cocktail Blog

Written by Rick Clarke/Illustrations by Andrzej Klimowski





As you may know if you’re a regular follower of The Monolith Cocktail, we’ve been serialising a number of new novels and writings from debut authors over the last two years; beginning with Ayfer Simm‘s Istanbul pyschogeograhy A Rumor In Üsküdar in 2019.  Following on Ayfer’s heels we’re now serialising the Lynchian semi-biographical and incomprehensible jukebox set wanderings of Dan Shea (Bordellos, Vukovar and Beauty Stab infamy) and Rick Clarke’s (bandmate of Shea and rallying beacon of the band Vukovar) new novel The Great Immurement: The previous twelve chapters of which have appeared over the last two months.

We continue with those semi-esoteric imaginings below and bring you next trio of penultimate chapters, ‘Moonlight’, ‘The Silent Surgeon’, and ‘Trial By Fly; illustrated as always by the illustrious Andrzej Klimowski.

MOONLIGHT

And so to the Moon The Great Immured did non-look. He stared and wished. A spectral figure appeared and approached. He told:

 

The symbols have now shattered.

I was free. I probably lived an unremarkable life and probably still do. But the symbols did shatter, and they shattered for me and my Otherlands – the space between spaces.

 

The backstory:

It could be described as a romance. Lunar. A silent romance. We started to notice each other from afar, as these things normally demand have happen. I learned it could’ve been because of the connection between the dripdripdrip of the bloodbloodblood in the absence of Motherhood.

In vials I collected this space between fertility and held it up to the space between day. With a desperate, knowing affection we bathed in each other’s appearance. It became an obsession to the point where I refused to acknowledge its solar non-equivalent – convinced was I that this was an imposter, evil in its way, casting light on things that ought not be lit.

 

When I thought about my moon, I would think about the mechanics and likeliness and consequences of its perforation.

I could grow a penis. I would sharpen the very end into a point with the veil’s blade and gently press it against the tough silvery surface, like against an eardrum, and hold it in a position just before its desecration. My limbs would twitch in a glorious anticipation. I would enjoy that position for a lifetime; neither in life nor crossing the threshold into death. Its skin, a leathery elastic, at peak indentation.

 

I now feel that sickly feeling in the very pit of the stomach whereby I want to do something with all my might but with all my might know I shouldn’t, like holding something fragile and valuable out of a high window, or stepping from the chair with rope-tight-round-neck. Eventually it’s going to drop, by accident or perpetrator’s design.

I press that little bit further forward with grown, sharpened penis and it begins. A warm ooze coming over me, sticky and thick. It’s only a small opening so I drive myself in and out and in and out and in and out again and the scent is of… the feel is of… the sound is of… the taste is of… the sight is of… I can’t speculate on this.

After a few encounters I lost everything there ever was except for my love’s glow. “I am the light” said it, and “The Light Is My Leader” said I; LVX MEA DVX.

 

It got bigger and bigger.

Each previous encounter it was flirting with other things, dancing with the formless smoke and clouds. But I didn’t mind. However, one clear night it had eyes only for me and me alone. That was the night…

I rose, PM. I would soon be feeling the true force of nature. I don’t know much about so-called cosmic forces and I find ridiculous the way people talk about them. But I felt what I felt.

It was the moon, my lover, my king, my queen and all things in between.

I stepped outside into our eternal garden – I didn’t feel the cold.

I looked up and saw the moon, full, in all its glory.

The clouds were moving unusually quickly.

A hole remained in them, connecting me and my love so that its gaze would not stray, connecting us personally, speaking to me.

I finally managed to give myself over almost completely, ignoring the dark symbols surrounding and being formed by clouds, and, after seeing and feeling the earth upon which I stand moving, I shut my eyes. I felt the pull. I didn’t quite leave the ground. Had I tuned in wholly I’m convinced I would have.

I felt totally at peace.

 

The being collapsed into the atmosphere around itself. The Great Immured, briefly, saw the moon’s glow through the thick impenetrable walls of his Immurement and continued with his self-sacrificed placement with few other questions.

THE SILENT SURGEON

The once-partner and now nevermore makes an appearance through a photograph, through mind’s eye, through misunderstood hazy recall.

 

The Lady Of The Otherlands convinced herself she was now too weighty. Too much indulgence and ingestion of filths, she thought, that’s the reason the things of the Otherlands no longer caved into her charms… but that wasn’t true. She had gotten older, her face and body less structured. And the other things she thought of around her were just figments of the ever greying fog that clouded the rooms and ante-chambers of her thoughts and living arrangements.

In her area a very famous surgeon now resided. So celebrated were his soul and hands that he was rewarded with being kept hidden from the outside world. His skills had not been tested thoroughly in a while. He was unable to practise on himself as his infatiguable enthusiasm had rendered his own body almost useless. So when the Lady presented her broken specimen before him, were he able to express his delight, he would’ve done.

 

“I need an operation.”

 

“…”

 

“It’s for my wellbeing, sexually and physically.”

 

“…”

 

“Can you not just slice some off or whatever you do?”

 

“I can pay you.”

 

“Please, no. Medical well being only. None other surgery.”

 

The lady went away knowing what must be done. Flesh must be gone. She would grow flesh that must be cut away, as the uncontrollable growth would be considered harmful to the well being.

It became all in her power to cultivate and farm the little things that become bigger things until the black mass was in charge of itself.

The rumours that the great surgeon had disappeared or moved on were not true. She found him in the same place. His non-movement and non-breathing meant that the Lady had to undergo the operation by her own hand, under the silent guidance of The Silent Surgeon.

A long and not painless time later, the Lady emerged from her desecrated operating table, clutching the carvings against her breast, tightly and darkly. It represented the heaviness of the weight she had successfully lost. She felt attractive once more and spent her time trying to quench her unyielding thirst for all things to be inside her.

TRIAL BY FLY

A strange noise. Familiar but reminiscent of almost nothing at all.

 

The ceilings tall.

The windows tiny and infrequent.
The rooms infinite.
Everywhere would be white but for the flies and the tape – the tape yellowing on white surfaces no longer visible, covered by masses and masses
and masses and masses and masses

And masses and masses and masses

x7

of flies… tiny little things forming the decoration, little black bodies everywhere.

 

The purpose? The purpose…

Experimentation. No. Engineering.

To build a set of wings from their wings but the power and size to fly a thing of this power, of this size.

Shaped angelic like.

To fly!

No other material is so abundant. No other material is so suitable.

It’s all about appropriation.

Or re-appropriation.

The collecting of flies has taken a long while. But that isn’t something to notice. The ideation is nearly intention.

The process is what it is. Every piece of tape needs to be checked for the newly-captured-still-winged.

A snip and a slice later and the wings to a new place have grown. Heavenly is the warmth of pride and promise of completion. Satisfying is the rip and parting of torn wing from now-torn body.

 

                                            X                            X                         X

 

Only one more set is needed.

A furious search is conducted; hectics, urgent; all previous patience dissipated for this search for new patients. This search feels an eternal thing.

…

…

…

                                           X                           X                       X

 

But now the search is over. A winged fiend. No, a winged friend… is splay on its front, spatchcock, given itself to the triumph of the will.

This last one is to be s.a.v.o.u.r.e.d and savioured.

A martyr for O murta.

Thumb and forefinger are positioned and the operation is begun.

But a quiver.

A quiver?

A quiver and a noise. A tiny noise.

A quiver and a scream?

No.

Pain? Torture?

Everywhere around in this impossible place… flies flies flies… destroyed.

Oceans of it.

Suddenly, very suddenly, it all becomes noticeable at once. A cacophony of minuscule screams rises until the brains feel as though swelling to burst.

There is no repentance that can be done, only a gesture.

 

                                               X                    X                     X

A collection of still-winged flies are manically sought, freed and message conveyed.

The wings of sin are now finished.

This product of despicable engineering and this engineer of despicable engineering are now let loose.

The Otherlands and the sensation of flying is a total peace, a total manifestation of ambient.

                                                X                    X                    X

Flies form a convoy.

They know their seeker of forgiveness will follow wilfully, and follows just so into the nest of exaltation.

The once angelic-wings are torn from flesh, from grace, and taken apart.

 

The body follows soon after.

Previous instalments:

Parts 1 – 3

Parts 4 – 6

Parts 7 – 9

Parts 10- 12