THE DEATH OF MOTT CROMBY



MercyGraft:



He bought it early. He was four years old. He had a croup.



Now a couple weeks before the onset of the cough he'd fallen out of his crib reaching for mosquitos. It was late July. It was the back front room of a medium ranch where he slept and Mom was vigilant but it was darning hours and he happened to reach too long and fell out of his crib. Onto a slat wood floor where he hit his head and cried and then slept for some time.



Mott:



Lies. Not accurate. Not even any fun in the lack of accuracy. Let's end this thing here.



rachelwhere:



none of this shit I can tell is going to be even anywhere near as fun as just the Internet the one you can have if you can only pay for it



mercygraft:



give him a break he hasn't written for months and months again. I have some dream story I would like to tell that could be illuminating I have some fantasy



Mott:



it's all breaking up



MercyGraft & RachelWhere



You're doing it again. You're not giving it a chance



Mott:



I could be drinking I could be drinking again Oh wait I am

Now I got new things to telll you; now I got new ways to tell you these things

Who cares, but one.ahhhhhhh



MercyGraft:



He breaks it down for over like the last past ten years and the answers are all equal in the head and the answer is no result or yes it is and it answers nothing oh but yes it does some piquant existential pain and yeh caring I care I care I care for this dog too much no just enough you know this whole observation is going to in spite of itself become one. single. blog . entry. yeh. and.



why not



because the whole matter will stick here's the ugly beersoaked entrails of the idea but now the idea is true.



drunk summer another drunk summer another another how many this one one more and one more I can see having them till 35 36 37 38



if I can keep my body in shape. god and my potency is such a waste. I could fuck you now bitch hard for a hour. I said that to the sky. trees and rocks. I am none of these. i am the ether of lost friends. I am still out of control. I am writing again as a means of escape. good writer. bitch. fuck . shit . piss. this'll all get on the Internet because I don't want Mott Cromby to die. He's already dead. He's died so many times. So many times. This is The Death Of Mott Cromby. Fuck the whip I'm the whip the whip already hurts

Mott:



___________________________________________________________________________________________

RachelWhere:



I can tell you a story a story about Cromby. He rocked one fifth of my world in the summer of 95.



He could kiss. We were both real dumb. didn't know motherfuckers would be making fortunes while we laid around. that is his voice creeping in there not mine. his voice crept into my. head.



he sang to me on tapes. and sent them to me. I would listen to them in my red car and smoke cigarettes and think of him and me and the world. and me. and the world.



he could kiss and he was smart and funny. and he was very emotional and then later he did dumb things like jerk off instead of fuck me and then I called him on it and said some thing to embarrass him and then I sat smugly in a thin chair and he flipped out and bashed with his fist the doors of this third hand dresser cheap cheap and his violence was cheap and expensive and disturbing. and then he cried right after and fell at my feet. and his drama was a cheap something. and he was a good fuck for me why would I lie about something like that he had good hands he had guitar player hands and he had a good tongue he ate me deep like the sweet confection I was and won't be again



MercyGraft:



He died on a ten speed bike. They were riding to the mall; him and Dick Danger. They were like Fourteen. Riding bikes onto the bridge; turning on and in the breakdown lane on the side there June sun yeh in it and in in that turning lane.

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