Ollopa moved his hands into the cavity. He tried to focus on the opera as it reached its peak but his mind went back the surgery room. The crowd were his anaesthesiologists, and the drip coming from the painted actors was the same as the blood on his scrubs.
Reaching behind herself Lola produced a scalpel, a train rushed by, and the the subway was singing the hell out of itself. Ollopa shouted at the anaesthesiologist as Lola came back to life and she spoke on the operating table,
“You. You’re… Holding my heart.” Lola, his patient said.
Sitting alone in a subway, Lola’s feet glide down from the roof. She looks over and down at Ollopa before gliding in front of him and landing down on all fours, and staring at him like a new animal. His eyes open as he touches her cheek. He reaches forward to embrace his last patient, as she smiles and indicates that his hands are not required.
Holding the scalpel in front of his nose, she lets it hang as Ollopa smiles, and lights up the last tail of night, dispersing and already a mile ahead.
She makes an incision on his chest, opening another few buttons of his shirt, asking him to remove his dinner jacket, as he laughs, and she pats his arms away in the subway where he tries to disturb her work. Lola reaches into the cavity with her hands, and takes it out.
Dancers grow ghoulish features in Soho, as Ollopa prays that he can stop dancing too, and maybe just take a walk, maybe just jump on a random bus and head east, and walk by a canal and offer a swan some wine.
Lips open. Teeth in obscure parts of the mouth, the dance gurns and swaps high and low melodies near the gate, yet flawlessly dressed and made up, eyeliner lighting neon, rotting, leaking. High heels stabbing the floor. Swaying. Hips. Dresses made from skin. Flesh shaped into shoes, ex patients, please collapse, don’t’ dance, don’t dance, Ollopa pleaded, placing each foot lightly as the lights disoriented and made him anew, sinew and muscle and reknown primality.
“A martini sir?” The stewardess asks.
“Martini? Where the fuck am I?” Ollopa asks her, shuffling in his seat.
“MDMA Airlines sir. You’re headed straight for hell.”
“Mediterranean airlines sir. We’re headed through a rough spell.
“Oh, yeah cheers. That’d be good.” Ollapa replies.
She smells and looks like the storm will be alright. Her body knows how to predict the turbulence, moving a little as small haemorrhages clatter against the cabin and it looks bad outside. But the storm smells alright.
“Sorry sir, I’ll just-” The stewardess says moving the tray down from the seat in front of him, placing a white serviette under his drink. Reclining and beginning to relax, Ollapa says sorry to the turbulence lifting the plane up and down, making him ready to regurgitate, and says nothing, just sipping a little, and chilling.
Ollopa opened his eyes, holy fucking Christ, it can’t be her heels, the floor is carpeted; even if they were block heels, and the floor of the plane was- Christ it’s me, holy f-, I’m having a, oh shit… Just damn turbulence, he thought. The plane takes a heavy dip down. The kind that people unfamiliar with aeronautics feel is death, splashing and failing down, sea, desert, and ice peaks cutting the plane in two.
“It’s ok sir, it’ll be gone soon.” The stewardess says placing a scalpel before his eyes, then waking him.
“I’m so sorry Mr Ollopa, it seemed like you were having a bad dream.” She says.
The sky was an orange white flux, that descended down towards a city place. “Breakfast?” She asks him next, still the same girl from the turbulence, that she had taken care of, and told to go.
“Yeah… Haha, and no thanks, but thank you.” Ollopa says smiling back at the stewardess as she walks off, and feels the planes wheels come out from beneath it. He notices her tail swishing in the aisle, as she turns and winks back.
The bitches’ eyes were slumped in her sockets. She was too tired to bare her chores anymore, six puplings waiting, just two meters away, beside the hospital bin. She let go of the sack she was dragging marked “Clinical refuse”, and just decided, to die. She is motionless. But a squirm comes, like the fur is hungry, and childish, a mass near where their mother was headed, overlapping, and no longer sleepy, autumn pups laying upon each other, maybe five, six, wet heads yawning within small teeth, and soft mixed coats.
Opening her eyes, one and all of the pups are ripping at the bag.
And unknowingly gentle,
dragging heart out from the refuse sack. Each one of them, a small trot
placing dead meat in front of their still mothers snout
And then collecting together,
and licking her face until she is alive again.
Knocking their small faces against hers as her eyes dreamily begin to open and listen again.
One of the pups nudges an organ towards her mouth, whilst eating the back hind of the organ herself, before all of the trains
and are sorrowless once more, and the opera is both perfect den
and umbilical hymn
both shifting and ripping sinews into sack bags tied
and their tire, is left to the invigour of ghosts, as canine light marches
and her fur is alight with six growing dogs with enough food for the worst rain
tiny chomps nudged away by a larger snout,
and the pack and the alley! A bitches head nodding as she trots through the alley, occasionally looking back at her pack.
And then he hit it. Vesti La Giubba… Probably the most beautiful thing that a fat man can sing whilst covered in paint. Ollopa looks at the empty seat beside him where he had placed his second ticket, and saw Lola’s arse sitting down on it. His head rocks back as the countertenor flux annihilates him… And hangs for eternity, and then there is the applause, as he flicks down his evening suit, and leaves the opera house, and is finally insane.
She walks out with him, inbetween the touches of the spewing denizens of the opera night. She even has flesh, and knows how to converse. The night is milked and Ollopa is too, “Oh hey.” Ollopa says as he waited in queue to buy more bottles of red wine, to his right, “Cheers man.” He replies as the change is placed in his palm.
He walks out from the shop and answers the call, “Ok. We need you now! Where are you?” The phone asks. Ollopa was on twenty four hour call that day. He was not, and now, his, and his previous patient’s heart, and his empty seat, had a joke, as he walked along. It was the size of an eighteen stone Jew. Banging it down the street towards you at 4am. He had everything going. He had the really long curly things flowing from underneath his hat, he had about a million pieces of string attached to his belt that flapped about, a really red face that was hurrying like he was out of time, and by hell he’s big.
Ollopa gave way to the side as the man rushed by, like all the horses of all the street stampeding and stampeding themselves under plain shoes. He takes a drink and watches the man bang it on, everyone else was stepping aside too, a lonely bag guy moved out the way, a fox disappearing in an alley to his left, moved away, he had it all going on. And the man was not a man. He was a damn Golem. The guardians shaped from clay that they had made to rise up and protect them with holy might, and anything that wanted to mess with them. Ollopa swigged and let it all go. And walked on. It was just like his old rugby coach had said when he was thirteen.
“Aye ye see, watch Olly man: yev gotta give wae if it’s a big laddy like Choppy, ya had enuf Greggs marra? weyyy… jus kiddin marra, diven’t cry, aye how weh again, dee it again, gan back to the start Choppy – ya fat fucka, if ya tee small, ya see, doon, doon, on one knee, on impact, theeeeeen—BANG twist arun, aye aye! Face in arse, then twist, then doon, doon…”
Good god was that fella flying down the road. Ollopa thought to himself. What will I do if I quit my job? I’ve got no savings, and your bum wasn’t in the seat beside me tonight. Ha. I guess it’s like the slim foxes still running about at 6am. But printing on his chest, in the subway, when the tattoo was done, and Ollopa looked down, it looked pretty good.
The sound of the heart monitor’s single tone. Ollopa screaming, being held back by his colleges as he fought back. An oak, a body, a horizontal, ness, a wood, a concave, a bird, a table, a glass.
The double bass player driving his string along the veins of that body, in a pristine flat, and trying to re-work his work, trying, as the sun profounds a new chorus that there is no sleep without sun, birds begin gelatine, operas burn into night, the waltz begins as trips are made together, and eventually, the upper floor of a modern block of flats screams with melody, and is no longer in control of itself, but your skin-made shoes do not clack across my floor, and my bone-made ankles are yours, and its pelting outside, damn January, damn the portraits on my wall, and no longer do our feet fly across my floor.
I have noticed a tiny inch, that separates growth, from captivity, and the blankness of the city, decapitating, us, for I know that that female dog is trotting and laying still, and is the same fur of her pups feeding her when she is too not so still.
“Come my paramour!”
“My face without a tail!”
Ohhhhhhh Commmmme onnnn.
Live.” Ollopa screamed.
And it went on like this.
Ollopa went back to the operating table. Seven hours earlier. Before he dove his hands into Lola, and before he was like this. And now, without the sound of the electric bulls quiet, there are reflections on the wide patio doors of his balcony, and Ollopa pushes them open to speak with the city, and to speak to his heart, and in night a tail is raised, like a dark god spraying its junk across your face. Just the gale of rent, and the buzz of a phone opening, a cacophony and a shuddering away on a sofa alone, but the light of the full perfumed sky, it’s cold scalpel propelling Ollopas mind across its own landscape, a tight learning knit school of medical dreams…
Collapse and burst through out harmony… Each instant crueller than a surgeon laughing the shit out from himself… He held his hands days inside Lola’s ribcage, and spoke to the glistening thing that he held, as he concentrated, and did not die, in this thought.
He said to death the following:
(since she had danced so corpselessly in the subway earlier) “Hey. How’s it going? You like Martini? I don’t like the original kind too much. I like ‘Rosso’, you like that Lola?” And there was no where else for Ollopa to move along his high balcony. And its gate only came up to his crotch, where he could so easily flip over. And there was enough. Enough climaxing bulls in the climaxing night to say that it was ok, enough data in the flawless streams of cloud, he explained to the moon.
As it all bent back, the scream of geese made falconous intoxicant to early cry, and the snap joints of spines made unbearable to black sounds below them, it continued, and the hearts in Ollopas hands were now unbearable, their gravity soared and made the drunkard clay not alone. Hemisphere lighting has joy across sky line, a piece of piss diving down from a high class flat, and some fucker looking disturbed, behind you, wishing for details about the piss.
Banging on the windows, Sophia Carver, head of surgery at St Mary’s, gave up and joined Ollopa on his balcony where he did up his fly. “You left your door open, security let me up.” She said, “Well, I’m glad they did, but-how-about-I-question-you?” Ollopa said turning around to her, ready to eat, “Woah woah there easy space guy,” Carver said as he turned and looked at her with his red eyes.
She smelt of booze. Like him. And the reasons to say hello to the tar-mac faded, and smelt good. And the day was good. Even the night. And their lungs were way beyond bursting with brightness, “I haven’t come here for-“ Carver tried to say, “Hey albino, you been out all night?” She said next, leaning on the balcony beside him as they smoked, “You haven’t been answering your phone.”
‘Hey albino’. Carver was the only person that Ollopa let get away with calling him that. He was an ‘albino’, however. Or ‘whitey-knife’ or ‘ghosty’ as some of his colleagues called him behind his back. His eyes matched the night with their redness, a straight and glazed sunburst of perfect collision seeking it. When he wept, and was drunk, it looked like the world was imploding inside them, Carver thought to herself. Ollopa moved easy. It was easy picking Carver up. There was a little confusion, of uncoloured gulls, and there were the thoughts, that Ollopa left as she smashed on his back. “Put me the fuck down you idiot,” Carver said, as he did.
“You cannot go back in there.” She said straightening her white coat. Ollopa looked at himself and could not remember the part where he had put her down. God forgot to send the devil away without cleansing him of his humour. If he had done this, then the doves would truly be white. Ollopa looked past Carver and into his large flat. And she was right. The door between his balcony and living area was now a long stretching window. He placed his hand against it, as the minimal white walls blazed and shot out from within, blinding him, as if shot by surgery lights.
“See.” Carver said, as she operated on him. Then they hung static over the firefly images of London’s traffic. “No, I have already had this dream.” Ollopa said to the head surgeon holding his heart, “Yes yes, my love, but you know that it is true. But I will allow you to be blind for a few more moments perhaps.” Carver said standing behind Ollopa in the surgery room, as his patient woke up before, and his eyes were redder than all heat.
“You. You’re holding my heart.” The patient said up to Ollopa
Birds reflecting upon the cornea, until the storm has time, workers eclipsing the fury of the city, as every column of every building unites in delicate mercury, and the day, that cannot be spoken straight-it seems, shattered his skin– against the wall, “Let it be not without yours!” Ollopa thought as he worked in the surgery room.
Lola touches Ollopas hands as he grips the railings, before she drifts back to sleep, and smiles, and Ollopa climbs over the edge, and smiles with her, as he operates on his last patient again, and she on him, in the air, as they fly from the thirty-first floor, both sets of limbs, two hearts, now, one.