Wednesday, March 18, 2015

feek and feck

Feek and Feck were lovers. Rolling off the tongue as sailors swaggering on shore leave, sewn up in cunnilingus, eating out on on calamari.
     Feck was the blushing damson. Feek the bruised and butch one. Together they ripened as one fruit, conjoined, no one could come between them. Their bliss was slow cooked. Try as he might, the padre could not contain them.
     A wise man visited the barracks. All the way from Quebec. He made a gift of several bulbs of garlic to Feek and Feck, expressing no interest in what the padre had to show him. The larger work. Those priceless illuminated manuscripts. The ribbons and garters.
     Feek was delighted. Feck, no less enamoured. They stole the bulbs to bed that same night, the bunk which burned so bright. Such a creaking was never heard: penetrating the deepest pockets of the dormitory; puncturing the wound in Jesus's side.
     The padre was furious. Their bunkmates merely intrigued.
     In the morning it was found that the cross on the wall was rent. A great tear running the length of the sleeping Nazarene. A few nails just, preventing Our Saviour from climbing down off his lot.
     The padre immediately denounced it as blasphemy. Feek and Feck as heretics.
     So discharged, our pair had no choice but to haunt the waterfront as wharf rats, scratching what existence they might among the whores and pilots rudely coming and going, pawning all but the wise man's gift, itself a string grown soft and atrophied. And so, in time, was born a not so secret order.
"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. Love is the law."
     And, of course, the law was corrupt.
     And savages continued to protest to hear the word of God the loudest. And the impoverished of soul continued to proselytise.

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