She turned him into gold
He notices Rissa’s attention on me, because he turns his head, following
her gaze. When he sees me walking toward him, he smirks. “Can’t wait
your turn, hmm? Fine. I’ll have you now. See what all the fuss is about with
Midas’s Golden Cunt.”
He drops his hold on the belt, making Rissa fall back coughing and
choking. He starts to approach me with an excited gleam in his eye. “I’m
going to enjoy making you hurt.”
His fist comes up, ready to hit, or grab my hair, or make me kneel, or
toss me down. I don’t know for sure what he means to do as that hand
comes for me so fast, but it doesn’t matter.
Because I’m faster.
Without hesitating, without thinking, I rush, not away from him, but
closer. I cut the gap between us like a knife plunging forward, and then I
slap my bare palm against the skin at his neck.
That’s all it takes.
Even though he doesn’t realize it yet.
The captain blinks at me, like he’s confused, like he’s wondering why
his raised hand has stopped, why it isn’t coming down to punish, why he
isn’t already subduing me.
Our faces are inches away, and I can feel his putrid, alcohol-laced breath
puff out. I can feel the shudder that travels the length of his body.
His lips part, like he wants to ask what the hell is happening, but all that
comes out is a mangled choke. It stutters from his throat for a split second
before cutting off unnaturally.
He goes still as my hand squeezes tighter around his neck. Behind me, I
hear Rissa gasp. Because there, at the spot beneath my palm, a change starts
to spread across his skin.
Like a ripple, it extends from his neck where I’m touching. It billows
out, like smooth water, cresting over his shoulders, pouring down his arms,
spreading over his torso, dripping down his legs. I feel it seep beneath,
sinking past his skin, puddling
Howl: I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until
Bu yaz yanınızdan ayırmak istemeyeceğiniz kitapları sizin için bir araya getirdik.
💬 Siz olsanız bu listeden hangisiyle başlardınız?
And while I was believing that you were different and that you maybe even felt the distress that sometimes flickered across your face and threatened to erupt, you were covering your arse too. Like every othoer stupid mortal cunt.
Ve ben senin farklı olduğuna ve belki de bazen yüzünde titreşen ve patlamakla tehdit eden sıkıntıyı hissettiğine inanırken, sen de kıçını örtüyordun. Diğer tüm aptal ölümlü amcıklar gibi.
Brits casually throw cunt around as a mildly censorious epithet. It has joined pussy in jumping the fence to refer to men, but often with a shade of affection. Few things are more confusing to an American abroad than hearing (1) someone use fuck off to refer to someone just departing insouciantly and (2) a man calling a friend of his a “funny cunt.”
We can know that English got cunt as DNA from its immediate family. Cognates sprinkle English’s Germanic relatives—Icelandic has its kunta , Low German got into the act again in its Middle stage with kunte . The Dutch have kont , but for some reason the reference slipped backward to the hole nearby and now just connotes “butt”.
What English lacks is neutral terms for those two parts. There is penis and there is dick , but no vanilla term in between. Abdomen , stomach , belly . But penis yields instantly to dick , vagina instantly to pussy . The Old English speaker had the vanilla: a man had a pintel. A woman had a sheath and later, frankly, a cunt, a term as ordinary at the time as oatmeal.