Joseph Moore was saved, blessed god, and his wounds healed. The aid unit wrote up the report:
Male in early forties treated for lacerations on anterior wrist joints. A steak knife slipped in the greasy juice of a ham roast and penetrated the patient’s skin. Wounds required stitches and unit brought unfortunate male to hospital for treatment.
* * *
Beginning anew, alas our hero perished (a lanky climax but altogether a monticulous plot twist), Joseph looked down the span of the bridge, which he felt rather morosely had a banal architecturally motif, since it mirrored so craftily his own demeanor, a latter-day daemon who’d given ole Descartes and Apollo the fodder for their simple truths, an ingenious device to aid the deliberately ignorant in understanding philosophy, arguably the most popular occupation for idlers and idiots (written so eloquently in the Clouds, as they say), indicating self knowledge, simply. Monumental and phallic projections of robber barons and sweaty backs vaulted into the sky like they were invading constellations attempting to dampen the glow of the pre-existing disorder. For Joseph, the buildings had no fountainhead purposes for providing the garland-crown to an individual whose art is all but practical, the whore of aesthetics, the architect, followed nearly at heels bay by, of course, the interior decorator and the planner. Rather, as usurers to their creative gifts, the architects and even worse, since there was not even a flint of artistry, the engineers, had constructed a synthetic icon to their own taciturn poetry, symbols of democratic critics that no one truly tries to please, they were representations of unified accomplishment, but the glory had to be usurped. Joseph had nothing to do with their construction, just as he really, truly had no control over his own productivity. This effortless, albeit advantageous, commandeering of universal progress was of epidemic proportions. However, the true (a word used here in its finest sense) controlling factor of the fabricated paradise, obviously the greatest example of mass nastrophenia ever presented in the annals of history, was not social propaganda, leading to each and every man faithfully accepting the astonishing erection of yet another man-made wonder in the farraginous city as a direct reflection of the necessitarianism of the collective good of all, but the almost necromorphous attitude towards mental health.
Joseph took, Hippocratian in all of its glory, a stimulant called Revivoderm in the morning so that he felt rested and ready for the day. After breakfast, so that he remained calm and collected, he took a little purple pill called Blissegra. Once the day began and he was on his way to work, Joseph swallowed Inertiamex and Focaldrexodren, for consistency in his thought patterns and the ability to concentrate on the particular task at hand, respectively. At lunch, of course, Joseph took the dietary supplement Yoyofabrinamin, which assisted in his digestion and allowed him to avoid any discomfort. Because Joseph had fits of demophobia, he took three Xenophobolin tablets, and to curb his dislike of confined spaces, he popped two Cloisteramine pills. In order to remain focused and not grow tired after lunch, Joseph was on Gregarolex, as well. Because his doctor had observed Joseph’s preference for isolation, he was on Socialembracamininan and in order to assist him avoiding his tendency to express himself too emotionally, Joseph took Stoicindusemet. Once he was home and had eaten his dinner, Joseph had the tonic Randilodex to assist his libido and so that he could better enjoy the relaxing evening in front of the screen or the company the family had over, he would ingest Meditatolin. Because his hair was thinning, he scrubbed his scalp with Foliculaspermicide every night and to avoid the chance of acne, he wore an Aphroditalamine mask for an hour before bed. Due to the sometimes uncomfortable side-effects of some of the pills, patches and tonics, Joseph took Settlemypharon for his stomach, Regularisodex for his bowels, Nervisuppressimidicine to stop his hands and feet from shaking, Globbulenocide to counter-act the thinning of his blood, CardioValvoline to avoid heart palpitations and the small chance of a seizure, and Sniffocoldrinmex so that his nose and eye sockets didn’t bleed. Just before bed, Joseph took Snooz-O-Z, clinically known as Hybernatoriex, so that he could have a full night sleep. These seemed as though they were waiting for him, like the words of a speech.
Words, in the beau milieu connotation that was fashionable, had a singular effect upon poor Joseph and he used them like gambler who’s not yet been thoroughly defeated by the house and still believes in the highly colored stories of million point winnings in short afternoon blackjack games, roulette wheels, and slot machines revolving symbols (or, briefly in a strict Fregian sense). The vast amount and variety he had used over a lifetime were small coins lost in the mechanism, forgotten except those that multiplied, but the ‘meaning’ or as they say, the orchestra by which we comprehend the treasures of life, was lost upon him.
She stood across from him, her tight, sweaty palms pressing his fingers far too tightly, her face shrouded beneath a veil that did not disfigure the spirit of her pity or her supplementary concern for her decisions, but rather magnified the topographical emotions of acquiescence. She slowly formed the words and he repeated them, lifted the lacey disguise from her maudlin costume and felt her dry, apathetic lips contact his chin as the mediator held their shoulders, as if to force the two to savor some fictional pleasure (plaisir, definitely not) derived from the ceremony.
Propelling himself forward whilst sitting in her coughing automobile, the winter air gusts howling against the window panes, their third meeting, with nothing more than a peck on his cheek the time before, Joseph had offered the only contract he knew he could negotiate and she had straddled him in the passenger seat, after an uncomfortable few moments of removing shabby underwear off constricted legs, so that he was buried in a mossy warmth that enveloped him and sent spasms of pleasure into his pilgrim impressions. He’d spent a delusional load for a few uncontrollable moments and he was at peace with the idea until he caught sight of her, disconcerted, unimpressed, and altogether disappointed by the spontaneous consummation of his promises.
She had festive nights of sweaty convulsions (suggesting, without a doubt, a rather Aristippusian character, at times), she had eruptions of over-powering ecstasy pulsating from a manhood so intolerable it pulsed through her body, she had ravenous tongues entwined around stiff nipples, pianist fingers stroking the organ of her womb so that she sang like a perfect alto great lauds to god, her lover, and life (explaining, of course, poor Joseph’s pianist envy). He was a whimpering ejaculator that purged himself of pent-up spittle like a geriatric bloodhound, he fumbled with her desire like a man juggling too many packages, he tried for satisfied lust but only left her inconvenienced.
The spies of his emotions, those flickering, honest thoughts that sometimes gave themselves like martyrs to his mind’s furnace, begged him to love her, his children and his positionary righteousness, like an abbot entombed within the sacred altar of an abbey frequented by royalty. They further entreated him to grow a lawn as green as emeralds and purge the havenly meadow of infectious nuisances that buzzed the family’s outdoor dinner table during the cruelest months, il miglior fabbro, and to these poor Joseph replied in bedded down consistency that he wanted so bad, yes in a childbed honesty that is the bedfellow of egotistical fantasies of school girls propositioning the beta boys with winking promises of virgin wine tasting below the old, tractor tires of the playground, along with all sorts of other implements that would allow him to better fulfill a role premoulded for him by the blank machine that chugged out the fallacies of his life in a million Roberson Jeffers hawks and stones, nor were they the Housman replies to pessimism, but the very optimistic responses of a recipe craftily prepared to rise like leaven bread, the chainsaws, socket sets, leaf blowers, lawn mowers, weed whackers (which is not a well cloaked allusion to poor Joseph’s sweet snatch yearning), ban saws, and all the like so that the garage was an unused treasure trove of a large department store’s entire home improvement section marvelously replicated. The same, of course, could be said of his other possessions, which Joseph, being the Mahound of a magic vessel ferrying across the great divide a lesser divinity, which would later pit him against a much more popular, if not better created by the clergy in undying supplications, lord, stocked in drawers, cupboards, pantries, closets, attics, and sheds like trophies of his own inadequacies, but truly revealed, in an almost pluralist fashion, his own chimera of faith.