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Medical Question Box
In the time before talking movies
two men meet on the street in Chicago. Frank Lydston, urologist, says “touch me” and you touch him— beneath the shirt, beneath the collar, beneath the vest— six free-roaming testes implanted between the skin and the ribs. And later, in a closet under chandeliers, Frank Lydston becomes nude, “like Apollo” he says, and discloses a third nut visible to the naked eye, plucked from a condemned prisoner and grafted to the patient, himself, by the surgeon, himself. He could do a handstand, rejuvenated by the virile glands of a man no older than 35, hale and fit. He could simmer with rage. Others favored apes or goats, or prayer. As in cathedrals, where the saints were skimmed off from their bones in portions, the parts of bodies multiplied as flowers in the spring. Edward Bright, Otherwise Called “The Fat Man of Maldon”
I too am 47.5 stone mate I fit seven hundred men inside the soft body of the waist coat standing and collecting winnings from the gullible men of the city. I die at the age of 29 overwhelmed and shortly thereafter Apostolo Zeno and Jacques Ferron, the prodigies, and Philemon Ewer, the master shipbuilder among many and Johann Sebastian Bach. These and other men allowed in the space of my body and the sweets I try on Maldon’s High Street and men I eat from the Dengie Hundred. I am the grocer and I make clear room. We are different kinds of teens at different times. And different babies. And different at different times sucking milk and throwing rocks at one another. And at times dead of plague. And at times worshipful of God. And at times dizzy from the tall towers. And at times passing from one state to another. At times vast hungry and at times a mere speck asleep. I ate so much. I died. They say. A bronze statue in my shape installed A.D. 2000 on the King’s Head I toppled from so billions of times. Outbillioned and shaped. Made space with my largemouth for the years of billions. And centuries. And like Dead Bach who sucks in God spread open the sheet of waist-coat from coal-sheathe burning to let myself open to the ravenous air |
