A Mongolian Raiding Party

 

A hirdy-girdled woman says to me, "Inquiring 'bout your stetistics, son." I push my het to the brow and let loose a string of expletives. "And f**k this and that and me and you. Stetistics lie, but this stetson don't." I throw it in the air and peashoot a hole in it that becomes the moon. She gathers her hird and curdles her girdle, and we rise up over the cut, whitewashed gateboard in the sky. I am the moonking and she my moonkueen: constant companion, monkey on my back. She shows a bitter leg when I wowser and pant, unpant, pant; she stores her ace in the mole. This Mssr. Mole's missives include an "a" and the long "ss" of the piss he pours at Port Mongolia, my ommtown, the location of my meditives and wheelhouse of my rule. Moonkueen maces the mole as the doctor lances a rich patient, and procures from his starry blackbottom her high card. She plays it, influencing cooks (an umbrella unlucking foodstuffists and milit'ry men) and eunuchs. I am overthrown and find myself outside the old gateboard for the first time in a month, a Barbarian Dynasty. I am pinched between beams of light and dust. And yet I feel quite free.