ROMEO AND JULIET.

ROME-EE-O AND JEWEL-E-YET.

YET. Or maybe not again. One pair was enough and should have sated the world. But you know what it's like, what people will say. Time went by; like an old riverboat under the granite bridges of time and almost nothing is left of the old story. So kicking and screaming, nearing the end of the Mayan cycle, 2012 looming large like an incoming train on the tracks of human destiny, crazy pendulum-like they return, to haunt us and make us see that really all that dies someday comes back to let the words of the Sage resonate. So Ko-i-nor, then Jewel-e-yet re-entering the scene just to make sure. That old myths, like old socks, have further, a new life, successful reincarnation in this world of transience, cycles, and rotating madness.

Chicken. Brown. And rotating. Juliet. First. Born 1972. Year of the Goat in the calendar of the Fulanfulon on the left bank of the river Fuck you. She came into this world like an E'd up cockerel asking where the party was at. Where she was born ? Left bank of the river Fuck you. Somewhere dawn-like in the Western hemisphere of the Western world, in a changing like a pair of old socks, world. She appeared curly-topped, platinum blonde baby shell on the shore of time; ready to stand on people's heads. Romeo's methinks. Or maybe.

Of her formative years we know pretty much nothing. She was brought up like the wind. Drifting around, following crazed-up mummy and daddy, then just daddy, or just mummy, couldn't really tell you; too much detail like too many cooks the broth no no no. So she did anyway. Lived in Africa for a while and saw on the plain mating elephants and the mud bath love of the Hippo. Romantic input for a romantic heart.

Gazelles darting around like darts. Sunshine so big it fried everything like a demented microwave serial baker with a vicious axe to grind. Take away hotness for young visiting brain. She got it inscribed in her jeans for future use. African hotness. To go.

Then her crazy mummy, or was it dad, took her to live in some Greek, remote from the world, island. Crete was it. Knossos-like haven of Hellenic Griechenlandiness. Handiness. She learnt the lingo; indeed disappeared inside it all. Went to regular school, while her mummy, was it her dad, taught anglo tones to desiring locals. For a fee. Fig.

Five years it lasted, or maybe six or sweet. And then back to original parental reality. Sydney or Paris, or Sacramento, or Sizzletown, Swissitzerland in the clouds. Anyway the mother or father settled down, and so did Ko-i-nor, spring chicken, as really at that age the dictums of the elders shape up pretty much. Much. Everything.

So static normality ensued after those childhood years of skipping around under the rays of the Yellow Goddess, in some suburban legoland where everything resonates to the tune of identical identity like musak from outer space; and drifting. She did not mind. After all after motion the only thing that can happen is motionlessness and she certainly did not fancy that. Or acceleration into higher disappearing planes like the Mayans; we are told; zipped up and out never to be by human eyes seen again. Too young to die; too cute to zipshuffle off and out, Mayan stylee. Anyway not what her parents had in mind for her. Or her. She wanted action, sink her teeth into the chicken leg of life. With gusto. Relish. Chicken sauce.

She joined the Marines. They would not have her. Too girl-like. Tried a ballet school. Liked the tutu. Couldn't hack the old-fashioned leaping. Joined nothing for a while. Sat on her butt. Smoked anything and everything that came her way. As if through the clouds, darkly, she would of purpose the light of meaning emerge would. Did she ? Mother, father, maybe.

But what about Romeo ? The other half to be. At some point. Down the line. Like those aboriginal drawings. White dots on red clay red earth painted canvasses. They would collude, lide, later Lord. But for now where was he. At ? Sunk in deep mystery. Just sunk. Buoyant like an old buoy on a far-distant shore. A mechanic. A man in charge of repairs. a strange blue-suited, grease-stained, overall-creatured man. Boy. Or what ? Please tell us. We want to know. In delibly. Ink-tatooed on our brains and, feeble, easily tear-jerked hearts. Do. We.

So alright he worked in a garage, from dawn to dusk, immersed in black, gunge-like, grease. Cakes of the stuff. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. No social life so to speak. Rolled up-sleeved from morn to dusk-laden blue gold and purple stars shining on the outside. Moon bark. Black tree-bark. Outside. But inside, tyres piled-up high he would just introduce those hairy forearms into grease and metal. Shavings. He never did. Most unkempt animal this side of the animal kingdom. Never washed. What for ? When your kingdom is black. And slimy. He just got on with it, ate off his lap and passed out on those piled-up tyres when tiredness caught him after an eighteen-hour shift. Blue-overalled. Waiting for the next installment. Other side of night. Owls twittered lazily beyond square frosted glass panes. Four of them thirty feet up from the snoring to be beau prince of faiwytale.

That much for him will suffice. Education none whatsoever. What for ? Learnt everything through grease. The way real learning comes. Caked in shit, sweat, rust, metal, steel. The end product ? A rubber-tyre Buddha in a skidrow garage waiting for nothing at all as he knew all he needed was there. Busted cars. To mend. The occasional chit-chat with a workmate; but not too often; human contact did too little for him. Metal and grease where it was at. And had been ever since he was sixteen. Which was a good ten years ago.

So how would the stars make those two collide. Were they even in the same town. O.K. Blow the mystery.

They were.

But not the same side. Streets away. Entire neighbourhoods. Like padding of cement stone and concrete; steel too; to make sure they would not bump into each other until ripe time had arrived like a fairy Godmother in a go-kart. So how would the stars ? How do the stars ? Do people ? Are stars ? Or ?

There the mystery is withheld; nurtured away from the greasy paws of Man. And Woman. She too.

Skimper skitter skakker belfry utteriness and squalid rancid rancour. Truth of the Matter is. So now you know. That is how. Without doubt. Sin duda. Mente. But what of the details ? I hear you say, you impatient little beasts. You will have to wait. Truth of the Matter. TOTM. Totem. We all do. Goes with being human. Written in the contract, tact, and sometimes in the stars. So. For now. What can we give you ? Glimpse at the town. There. What do you see ?

Houses. Good. Breathing like leopards in the shade of a tree. Waiting for the sun to rise so the chase can continue. Pavements of silence sometimes disturbed by the footfalls of people. Pavements are the central issue and always will be. Tar kingdoms of memories. They have seen it all. The subconcious of the city. Recorded. Cats. Fur. Shit. Wheels of pram. Humped by the wheels of cycles. Scrubbed by dirty little men with scraping instruments. Memory banks. If only. Speak. But they can. Have you ever bothered to ask ? They know.

Else. Movement of man, like fugitive light coursing around. Unimpeded. Sunrise, then day, dusk, night, lamppost heavenly light guarding those pavements of truth away from the creatures of night.

Anything else.

In no particular order: shopwindows, like candy slabs reflecting reflections; traffic lights, another central character of the city, like the Amazon of Brazil. Cockatoo-rich.

And then again clouds; like a light gravy poured on the main dish. So now we know where we are. And wait for. CO-LLISION. For legion lesions. Wait for Love. The mender and the chief. Grease skin and metal. Rome-eyo. Jool-e-yet.

Which crazy concurrence of events would make those two, liana-binding, meet ? Your guesses as good as the next drunk's. Or even more informed, more wired-up to the universal computer than really seems possible, for as we stand now we as yet do not know. Waves of internal and external power, desire, reality needs, will come into play and spell out destiny like a blind scribe on a lazy sunnylit Egyptian afternoon. Time, will, beskirted, tell. Like William. Apple splitting.

So she sat there in the semi-penumbrated palumrak of a late afternoon pulling on those reefers like steamers on coal supplies. Relentlessly. Not as if it would make any difference. She started those smoking bouts in the morning, sometimes even before dawn was up, and carried on right through everybody else's working day; lunchtime was a smoky affair, early afternoon a Moroccan or Afghan cloud drifting through the dimly-lit little room in the big white house in the suburban wasteland, her mother, was it her... had chosen as home for them on their returning from extended walkabout.

What she thought she'd achieve. Absolutely no idea. No need for one. Just know what the next step involved. Pulling on those reefers, like Cleopatra on Tony's manhood, so she would... What would she ?

What metaphysical penny would drop in the piggy-bank of realization; what splitting arrow would part the bark of gloominess from the trunk of clarity and understanding ? What ? Which ? Wild ? Why ? Wu,wu,wu ?

She did not know.

Let herself in the hands of the universal power; trusting her lead would come in time. On the other hand; and a greasy affair may we stress; Romeo was more purposeful than was really required by any of the celestial edicts. He buried himself in that work, like a Pharoah into the sands, hoping time would preserve him for whatever came next. Whatever came.

Sparks were needed. Little, unconspicuous flames of desire to creep into those hearts, and kick start the search through the ethers, so that really connection was arrived at. And how did that happen ? Suffice it to say that it did. Some measure of mystery withheld always a good idea. They bumped into each other on his day off. The one he took fortnightly when little else was about, when business was slack. She, for once, had put the chillums away; smoke-weary; or maybe so high that she could not be bothered to stoke up the fire further. Only so many flames required. Anything above that would be overkill. Which she certainly did not desire. So they met. Like two ships in a busy harbour. The centre of town in their case. High-street collision. She carried bags full of groceries; he was looking into a shopwindow. Banal you'll say. Granted. What happened next was not. For their eyes met when he tried to help her collect all the spill. Not that she asked for help. Too busy sizing up the enormity of the situation. For it was plain to see, and he understood it too, that this was no mere collision. More like meteorite explosion, like Venus sideshafting Jupiter, if at all conceivable. For when they looked into those eyes they just disappeared, spirited away from the glass, cement and pedestrian debris around them. Take-off was immediate and so powerful that they struggled to find words to speak. Indeed they said nothing for quite a while. And when they finally did, what they said was immediately deleted, as if really supernumerary to the communication that had already happened. He knew she. Knew. Him. Had.

Forevermore as far as the heart could see.

Saw. Back and forth. Doublechecked. Triple. Like three gins on the trot. Bottoms up.

Which leads us to. After pleasant pleasantries he offerd to take her inside a cafe to make up for. One to another. Led. Met again. And again. Romeo. Romeo. Invited her to her house. Introduced him to her smokes. Mother; or was it. He to his garage took her and showed. Grease. Metal. Tyres. She loved it all.

Loved the cuteness of the site; high ceilings; and after an extended smoke one evening; blessed by the twitterring of the lonely owl on the outside, they, for the first time, deposited unto each other their very, fleshy in her case, grease-stained in his, lips, like two vessels docking in the darkest night, two planets. Venus on Jupe. Or the other way depending on where one was positioned when it all happened. Trillions of etheric papparazis snapped away frantically kirlianizing the vibes for posterity. Lips on. Grease. On. Love. Spittle. Melting. Down. By the second. Like nuclear reactors experiencing melt-down. Up. And up. Until. All retired; even the owl; and left the two, newly joined in the realm of grease love matrimonious ecstatic collusionary collidinitis joined; as befalls. On a bed of black-rubber tyres. In the night. Bare lightbulbs, then one solitary, pane-frosted glass looking. Firestoned. Angels tiptoed out out of respect.

And it worked for a while. Romeo julieted Juliet and Juliet let him. But then; and it was only a few weeks after the whole thing had started; they realized there was a large mosca in the ointment; as sometimes happens in those situations. Fly girl; fly guy; then just fly; fly; fly. Big, black and buzzing, like those things are. And just wouldn't go away. She saw it first. Then he. Dimly at first. Then the wings first of all, and the lithe but black fur-covered body of the beast. Like a dark hooker in its old age; furry on the outside and dead on the inside. Fly. Fly. Fly.

What did he do about it ? Her ? Fuckall the answer. Just ignored the situation. Ointment was spoilt, but bugger them if they were going to act on it. Their idyll was far too recent, and to think that rot had already managed to creep into it would make them want to puke. So they carried on trysting like hogs in mud, pigswill-love, pink and beautiful. Tristan and Isolde. Che and Guevara. Arnold and Schwarzy. But then what had to happen happened. It always does. Edict from on high in most cases. But not always. Some of the mystery. Kept. Just in case.

She stopped going over to the garage. Took up smoking like nuns used to religion. Propped up the ailing economies of Morocco and Afghanistan in turns. Morocco in the daytime. Afghanistan at night. Connaisseur respect. Naisseuse.

She swirled away, whirled, in a kingdom of fantasy she had sometimes inhabited before, but this time she went deeper into it. She thought about heroin for a time but decided against it. Too white. Powdery. Like Christmas. Too fairylike. She wanted her drugs black; brown. So Morocco; Afghanistan; where she wanted to be.

He buried himself deeper into grease and metal. Best place for him, considering. The failure; that stared them in the face.

So you say. Not meant to be. Not bloody likely. Did not happen. Not really. A wet fart of a love affair. A dying doe in an early morning park; bazookaed at close range. Come on; what next; we're waiting. Expectantly.

SHE. SMOKED. CLOUDS. HE. GREASED. UP TO THE. EYEBALLS. THEY. NOT IN TOUCH FOR FUCKING AGES. COULD NOT SEE NO REASON WHY. THEY. SHOULD. TWIRL. SWIRL. INTO THE DAY. NIGHT. HE. NOTHING. TIRED TYRE OF DISCONSOLATION. SLEPT. LOG. OWL. CRIED. ON THE OUTSIDE. LOOKING. IN.

Nothing happened. Like in the tropics doldrumed vessels of no movement stuck in windless trade wind on strike fuckyous of no movability if you catch the drift that there wasn't. Any.

Drift.

Last thing on their minds. So. What. Bloody what ?

Banana-skinned romantics. On the slippery slope of almost-ran love. But not quite. Arggh. Would they really get it together ?

Lastingly.

Or would they

Forever pussyfoot.

Lobbing banana skins in the air see which way they fell came down ancient divinatory rites of yore. He she wanted her him badly. But what of. THE OBSTACLE, obstaculo, culito. Man in the hand better than twelve in the bush. Although when all was said and done. She of all people wasn't sure that she could. Or would. He perfunctorily would. But again. The pros and cons of life so sweet and free. Contraction and traption. Caught in a web of indecision. Mine or yours. And then what of it ? Where would it lead ? Two souls are two and all that Romeo-ing bullshite would totally Juliet her. They weren't sure. Why. The ointment polluted was. But was. Of that they were crystal sure.

TRUTH OF THE MATTER WAS: Desire was dead. Stillborn. They'd wanted to, but try as hard they could; and they did pink games galore there was no way the fire would start. As if they were blocked from the neck down. Nothing below the waist. Waste. Head.

She tried. He tried. They we tried. But blow me her whatever the cookie crumbled or didn't they just couldn't get it on. Not properly; not with heart in right place, mouth, hair, cock, cunt, so forth and more. Just did not add up; dock in the right place like spaceship returning home; as if they were wired for different journeys. Maybe the answer. Not the same journey. Different space and time continuum. SO. WHAT DOES ONE ?

Doodoo. Why the attraction in the first; why this weird twist of fate, from nothing in her life to this; from greased-up eighteen-hour days to this. What for ? THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERATION IF YOU DON'T MIND.

Explosive interest, then explosive nothingness. Separate sides of town, big industrial-size sulk. Two sided. WHY. WARUM. VILE. SITUATION.

As if in the sauce of love a major spanner in the works slipped had. So that really nothing would swimmingly. Deadlock.

Like Scorsese long pan camera there is now need for major pull out; see things from much further; rise up above the city, into the heavens and see what the Gods say these two are up to. Cause down here on earth deadlock means just that; locked in death, unable to instill any life. Help from without the only thing. That will.

Had they met before. The whole question. Or was this the result of personal problems on either side. But this then would not one two add up. There had been attraction. And now there wasn't. Sort of. Not. So had they met ? Before. In previous, Roman times, existences ? Or else. Mayas. Brutes. Hittite. Times. Cleopatra's bunch. When. Where. How. Warum.

Martin's camera now wedged way in into the Empyrean, trying to focus on the early story, which there must have been; angels clapping seeing the famous cinematographer visiting, biopsing the early life of stuck downthere poor little humans, apparently wingless, unlike they and the flying cinematographer.

So what did the lens see. Upthere in the realm of winged white ones and stored memory. Was light thrown on the whole situation ? Was the block made clear. The genesis of which.

The camera penetrated the mystery like a demented woodpecker of desire and curiosity. And what did it find ? That indeed they had met before. Indeed countless times. And that the problem had always been one of wanting and not really managing to get there. As if really frustration would forever be inscribed in their connections, in their meetings; in any life or setting they could think of. But there; there must have been a problem before all these frustrating encounters; something that explained why it had been arrived at in the first place. And what did the camera find ? That indeed there had been an incident, axident, an original sin so to speak, a flaw in the ointment of interacting, a poison seeping in the works; and not only that, but it also meant that relationship would be problematic for both of them with whomever it was; for at the beginning there had been a catastrophic booboo, an error which plagued them to this day; something they had no recollection of, but really, was the lever of their current unhappiness. How far back had one to go to find this error; how many floors down to find the flaw ? Twelve is the answer. Twelve floors down. Twelve lives back. Not that they'd met in every single one of them, but they'd carried the memory and the flaw right through them all, unbeknown to them. And it had made those lives difficult. They'd spent as lot of them alone. Monasteries. Convents. Lives of solitude. Atonement. Greased-up. Cloudy. Smoked-out. The way in which. Witch. Craft.

And little fun.

Was it time now to let the mystery vanish, lift the veil, call it quits, let them return to square one and mend whatever it was... Had the Gods leniency prescribed; the Universe happy the mechanisms of atonement were fulfilled ? THE ANSWER IS YES SHOUT IT OUT FROM THE ROOFS AND SPIRES OF THE SLEEPY CITY. Time for liberation, for freedom from the shackles of the Past.

O.K. All great and good; but for us curious interlopers in their lives, what are we to be shown of this original incident. Axi.

THIS. Fly past the twentieth century, 19th, 18th, 5th, 4th, third. We see them dotted across some of those ages, but really we do not see what it is we need to see. So we move back even further, past the blessed age of Christ the Saviour; past Buddha and his myriad followers; past the Greeks and all their might, past everything known to modern man, past Egypt and its fanciful stone triangles stuck in the sands to reflect the night and the power of the stars. So where to, do you say ? What is left ? the camera pans deep across the ages; time rolls back like a carpet of mirth and pain, crimson, red , blue, gold-tasselled. And finally it stops; settles in a period we have no name for, on a planet which seems to be the Earth, but not the way we know it now. A greener affair. Island-rich.

And it is on one ofg these islands that we find our two. They speak a language we do not understand. They wear clothing we have never seen before; that we can hardly comprehend. They are holding hands. They seem happy, but something has just happened and will change them for lifetimes to come. And they know that. They know from now on all will be different for a long time ahead of them. But they are still happy and we understand the happiness; the strength of the bond, the depth of love. And then we see the flaw. Clearly. Unequivocably.

But what of the island ?

What is on it ?

People. Milling around like busy ants. Doing what they have to do. There is much commotion and fear. Much anticipation. Like everyone is getting ready for a massive departure; a holiday that is compulsory and unavoidable, whatever one's thoughts or desire. That feeling is written large across the entire scene. We all feel it; just the way they did. In our flesh; our hearts. Just like they did all of those years. We see the sea; and it is foaming. It, too, with anxiety and expectancy. As if it knows. That something massive is going to take place and will change everything forevermore. Then we see the waves pounding the shore. Our two are standing on a rocky promontory. Black shiny rock. Like solidified lava or high-quality glass. We see them holding hands and then kissing. We can see their surprise when they realize that there is no power in the kiss; that it is a dead kiss. A lifeless affair. That the power has been removed; the switch thrown to nil; that the pounding of the waves has increased; that in the distance the sea looks insane, murderous, white, green, grey, and blue. That they understand that the water will take them away. For good. That the land will be submerged. That all that is on it will disappear forever. They are petrified; but again they do not mind. They accept the unavoidable. The payment and the reward. The present and the hurt. The. Heart.

And then the lens is splashed. Saline drops cover it. The movement becomes too strong and it has to pull back to a safe distance. Only, the problem is that to reach safety it needs to move back to a place where it is too far and does not see what is going on anymore.

Then it shudders massively, and all goes dark. The contact has been lost. All goes dark. Time rolls back and forth unable to settle.

OBSIDIAN NIGHT ENSUES.

She puts away the hashish. Moroccan and Afghan. In pretty decorated boxes. He tidies up the tyres. Washes the grease off his hands. Slowly. With happy singing suds throbbing into the enamel white sink. Then he walks into the street. The new moon has just arrived in the winter sky. It is shaped like a pale pubescent crescent of silver and gold. He walks to the centre of the city. When he gets there he sees her. They walk to each other. They hug and place their lips on each other. The current passes once more. The owl falls off the tree; drunk and delirious.