THE LIBRARY OF BAD IDEAS
(Publisher required)
The Library of Bad Ideas is a collection of short stories and poems by Paradox Paul.
Below are the titles and opening paragraphs of various pieces. Some have appeared in minor publications(*) in english or in german translation, but a collection has not been published. It may happen one day. Not all are finished, most are rough around the edges, and none are very long. So short that they appear in full are WHAT USE, JESUS WAS and DREAMS COLLIDE. Some have been read at writers groups, readings and poetry slams in Berlin and invitations to read there and elsewhere are politely considered. The genre is generally surrealistic, although dark romantic and gothic also fit. Finding time to finish them off for a compilation, and to illustrate too, is a long term aim. And a luxurious one, as PP is a very slow writer and even slower illustrator.
Getting a publisher for a compilation would be marvelous. And miraculous, as I have never yet tried.
*Published:
in The Real Thing (#7, 2001, Berlin) DOES SCHRÖDER THINK
in Gegner (2002/3, Berlin) FISH FUCK (translated by Alexander Krohn)
in Bordercrossing (2005, Berlin) NOTE ON BROWN PAPER and NOTE ON BLUE PAPER
in TorTour (#6, 2006, Berlin, illustrations by Woods) FROM WALLY'S DIARY (translated by Velimir Kaminer)
in Schreiben in Berlin (2007, Creative Writing Group e.V.) THAT STICKY PLACE / PILLOW DAMP / THE MISSIONARY / DOLLS HOUSE
in Floppy Myriapoda (#6, 2007, Berlin) SCARECROW (translated by Ann Cotten)
in GAF (der GAlaktische Futurist, #1 - 6, 2010/11, St Petersburg/Berlin) Various texts & diaries extracts
Also published was TWO DREAMS in NUTS #1 (details to follow)
HEAVENS DEAD was dedicated to René Schwettge who turned it into a song for the Infamis album Fake Rhapsody (1995)
Below are the titles and opening paragraphs of various pieces. Some have appeared in minor publications(*) in english or in german translation, but a collection has not been published. It may happen one day. Not all are finished, most are rough around the edges, and none are very long. So short that they appear in full are WHAT USE, JESUS WAS and DREAMS COLLIDE. Some have been read at writers groups, readings and poetry slams in Berlin and invitations to read there and elsewhere are politely considered. The genre is generally surrealistic, although dark romantic and gothic also fit. Finding time to finish them off for a compilation, and to illustrate too, is a long term aim. And a luxurious one, as PP is a very slow writer and even slower illustrator.
Getting a publisher for a compilation would be marvelous. And miraculous, as I have never yet tried.
*Published:
in The Real Thing (#7, 2001, Berlin) DOES SCHRÖDER THINK
in Gegner (2002/3, Berlin) FISH FUCK (translated by Alexander Krohn)
in Bordercrossing (2005, Berlin) NOTE ON BROWN PAPER and NOTE ON BLUE PAPER
in TorTour (#6, 2006, Berlin, illustrations by Woods) FROM WALLY'S DIARY (translated by Velimir Kaminer)
in Schreiben in Berlin (2007, Creative Writing Group e.V.) THAT STICKY PLACE / PILLOW DAMP / THE MISSIONARY / DOLLS HOUSE
in Floppy Myriapoda (#6, 2007, Berlin) SCARECROW (translated by Ann Cotten)
in GAF (der GAlaktische Futurist, #1 - 6, 2010/11, St Petersburg/Berlin) Various texts & diaries extracts
Also published was TWO DREAMS in NUTS #1 (details to follow)
HEAVENS DEAD was dedicated to René Schwettge who turned it into a song for the Infamis album Fake Rhapsody (1995)
ALL MADE UP
SEND ME ALL YOU HAVE!
THERE AREN'T ANY LEFT!
THEN SEND FOR MORE!
THERE AREN'T ANY MORE!
THEN MAKE UP SOME MORE!
MAKING UP IS NOT MY BUSINESS!
THEN HAVE THEM MADE UP!
I ALREADY HAVE!
THEN SEND ME ALL YOU HAVE!
BUT YOU ALREADY HAVE THEM!
I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH!
THEN SEND FOR MORE!
THERE AREN'T ANY LEFT!
THEN MAKE THEM UP!
JUST MAKE THEM UP?
THEN SEND ME ALL YOU HAVE (...)
BAD WORDS
How many uncountable times have I bogged myself down re-vamping again and again, over and over, the ghost of a text which angrily lurks, half living, half gasping into my weeping ears, damp wads of nonsense dragged forth from some dodgy plot beyond the Neverworld? (God! What is it? What is this thing?) Polished off a lifetime ago, tis surely the gut of a pretty book; born, butchered and buried, there with the others, in near secrecy, near the summit of my fog-shrouded brain. This awful sleepless thing, writing, is digging in midnight grave-mud to lay out in a lofty, fast-sinking chain any bits and bobs randomly spewed from the bowels. Allah bless the stony old angels when a splatter of gold, even fool's gold, is rescued from the churning crud! Obnoxious fairy-tales, druggish rants, cynical love yarns and benefits forms, these and worthier besides, excruciatingly Frankensteined together out of O'level grammar and wrongish spelled words. Maths, I failed. But I can count seventeen endless pages of a weirdish novel colourfully named 'Ark of Colours' which, if I pull a darkly-stained finger out, might miraculously evolve some day into the sun-set of a pop-up comic-book; a thing to present to myself upon retirement or death. I mean, shall I ever meet, in this life or the next, on paper or elsewhere, my comatose creations, the cousins Felix & Phyllis in the pallid young flesh, at peace of a late bednight upon the mass-produced page? Or elsewhere? Oh, how I yet miss them! However, and here's the rub. Nothing much dribbled or spat from my creaking, leaking pen ever seems finish able. Let alone sellable. Let alone readable (...)
How many uncountable times have I bogged myself down re-vamping again and again, over and over, the ghost of a text which angrily lurks, half living, half gasping into my weeping ears, damp wads of nonsense dragged forth from some dodgy plot beyond the Neverworld? (God! What is it? What is this thing?) Polished off a lifetime ago, tis surely the gut of a pretty book; born, butchered and buried, there with the others, in near secrecy, near the summit of my fog-shrouded brain. This awful sleepless thing, writing, is digging in midnight grave-mud to lay out in a lofty, fast-sinking chain any bits and bobs randomly spewed from the bowels. Allah bless the stony old angels when a splatter of gold, even fool's gold, is rescued from the churning crud! Obnoxious fairy-tales, druggish rants, cynical love yarns and benefits forms, these and worthier besides, excruciatingly Frankensteined together out of O'level grammar and wrongish spelled words. Maths, I failed. But I can count seventeen endless pages of a weirdish novel colourfully named 'Ark of Colours' which, if I pull a darkly-stained finger out, might miraculously evolve some day into the sun-set of a pop-up comic-book; a thing to present to myself upon retirement or death. I mean, shall I ever meet, in this life or the next, on paper or elsewhere, my comatose creations, the cousins Felix & Phyllis in the pallid young flesh, at peace of a late bednight upon the mass-produced page? Or elsewhere? Oh, how I yet miss them! However, and here's the rub. Nothing much dribbled or spat from my creaking, leaking pen ever seems finish able. Let alone sellable. Let alone readable (...)
BLACK FAIRY
"Urgh! Ugly Black Fairies! Plotting down the centuries, cursing and robbing, taunting and stinging. Spitting through stained fangs, tongues all forked, quick as a stroke. Razorish scales, brittle brown limbs. You can't see them, over there in the sunlight, shitting in the grass beneath the fence. But the air is loud tonight, you can hear that, can't you? Hear those insects, toads and ravens, all jaws gnashing, all spines a-tingling. A million useless voices scratching down the sky. All of them crying, all of them warning, for that dreadful Black Fairy. (He knows we're here. He's ignoring us for the moment.) Through the pickets on either side, men's dogs prowling and howling, soon hysterical, bleating, running. Bloody minded men, their masters, shut up in sheds to the horizon in every direction. Hammering, oathing. Always hammering, always oathing. Madder than all, them boys of those men, man-boys, hurling sticks, flinging blasphemies into the cringing sunset. Little mates of yours, I know. (He's moving away now.) Little devils in any case. All good food, this endless rumpus, for the Black Fairies. They gather up mean energies, that's what they do. Build nests from residues of terrible dreams. When they bicker, which is always, they curdle the oxygen. Our oxygen. Wring out misery from pure air (...)"
"Urgh! Ugly Black Fairies! Plotting down the centuries, cursing and robbing, taunting and stinging. Spitting through stained fangs, tongues all forked, quick as a stroke. Razorish scales, brittle brown limbs. You can't see them, over there in the sunlight, shitting in the grass beneath the fence. But the air is loud tonight, you can hear that, can't you? Hear those insects, toads and ravens, all jaws gnashing, all spines a-tingling. A million useless voices scratching down the sky. All of them crying, all of them warning, for that dreadful Black Fairy. (He knows we're here. He's ignoring us for the moment.) Through the pickets on either side, men's dogs prowling and howling, soon hysterical, bleating, running. Bloody minded men, their masters, shut up in sheds to the horizon in every direction. Hammering, oathing. Always hammering, always oathing. Madder than all, them boys of those men, man-boys, hurling sticks, flinging blasphemies into the cringing sunset. Little mates of yours, I know. (He's moving away now.) Little devils in any case. All good food, this endless rumpus, for the Black Fairies. They gather up mean energies, that's what they do. Build nests from residues of terrible dreams. When they bicker, which is always, they curdle the oxygen. Our oxygen. Wring out misery from pure air (...)"
BLACK MASTERPIECE BLUES
(repeat chorus till kingdom comes)
I had a dream
and when I woke up my dream was gone
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I grew a mind
and when I grew up my mind was strong
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I had a friend
and when I looked up my friend was old
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I made a star
and when it lit up my star they stole
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art ! (...)
(repeat chorus till kingdom comes)
I had a dream
and when I woke up my dream was gone
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I grew a mind
and when I grew up my mind was strong
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I had a friend
and when I looked up my friend was old
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art !
I made a star
and when it lit up my star they stole
(black masterpiece blues)
- sieg art !
- sieg art ! (...)
BUCKET
He had read that a German scientist was performing head transplants on monkeys with 'some success' and planned to have a go on human volunteers in the next year. He thought about this, and a number of other things, until he was hooked. It took him a further minute to decide which way around things ought to be: then went to the kitchen to fetch the fridge. Back in his room he disconnected the pipes and wires which linked the motor to the freezer compartment. He then fed the freezer elements with make-shift extensions into a tin bucket which he had emptied of coals and filled with water. He turned off the heating and put on all his winter clothing but for two hats, before opening every window to the chill morning and telephoning for an ambulance. He kneeled in front of the bucket and, after a moment of reflection, put his head into it. It took far longer than he had calculated before his head and the bucket became one frozen mass. Still, all he had to do now was bide the time until the ambulance medics arrived. He was a little surprised to be conscious at this stage. But he decided that it wouldn't be a bad thing at all to be able to follow events and let the doctors know, by writing notes, just what he expected of them. His back ached terribly so he sat up erect. The movement severed the frozen, now brittle, cables from the bucket in a little burst of gunfire - which he did not hear. He stretched his limbs and jiggled his bones in an effort to get comfortable, which was impossible, so he put on some reggae. The volume he turned up fully until he imagined he could hear it (...)
He had read that a German scientist was performing head transplants on monkeys with 'some success' and planned to have a go on human volunteers in the next year. He thought about this, and a number of other things, until he was hooked. It took him a further minute to decide which way around things ought to be: then went to the kitchen to fetch the fridge. Back in his room he disconnected the pipes and wires which linked the motor to the freezer compartment. He then fed the freezer elements with make-shift extensions into a tin bucket which he had emptied of coals and filled with water. He turned off the heating and put on all his winter clothing but for two hats, before opening every window to the chill morning and telephoning for an ambulance. He kneeled in front of the bucket and, after a moment of reflection, put his head into it. It took far longer than he had calculated before his head and the bucket became one frozen mass. Still, all he had to do now was bide the time until the ambulance medics arrived. He was a little surprised to be conscious at this stage. But he decided that it wouldn't be a bad thing at all to be able to follow events and let the doctors know, by writing notes, just what he expected of them. His back ached terribly so he sat up erect. The movement severed the frozen, now brittle, cables from the bucket in a little burst of gunfire - which he did not hear. He stretched his limbs and jiggled his bones in an effort to get comfortable, which was impossible, so he put on some reggae. The volume he turned up fully until he imagined he could hear it (...)
CALL ME WHEN YOU'RE FINISHED
What colour is yellow?
It's somewhere between orange and black.
No! I don't believe you. I know orange and black...
And yellow is somewhere between.
Rubbish! What things are painted yellow?
You mean, in my picture?
Of course.
In my picture the candles are painted yellow.
And the flames?
No. And the ribs are painted yellow. And green.
And the curtains?
There are no curtains.
But there are windows?
There are always windows. And a door open to the street. The street is yellow.
And the people?
There are no people.
Of course there are people. There have to be people.
Not in my picture.
How big is this picture?
That's hard to say.
Try.
It's large. And very, very small. Not everyone can see it (...)
What colour is yellow?
It's somewhere between orange and black.
No! I don't believe you. I know orange and black...
And yellow is somewhere between.
Rubbish! What things are painted yellow?
You mean, in my picture?
Of course.
In my picture the candles are painted yellow.
And the flames?
No. And the ribs are painted yellow. And green.
And the curtains?
There are no curtains.
But there are windows?
There are always windows. And a door open to the street. The street is yellow.
And the people?
There are no people.
Of course there are people. There have to be people.
Not in my picture.
How big is this picture?
That's hard to say.
Try.
It's large. And very, very small. Not everyone can see it (...)
CASE OF HEARTS
In my room there is an ugly '70s book case with glass sliding doors. It was not empty when it arrived. I cleaned out the muck, then filled it with hearts. Hearts of slaughtered bulls and dogs and sailors. Finely carved hearts and strong smelling hearts. Hearts shrunken and blue and hearts knotted with wire. Hearts bright as brains and hearts sober as guts. Hearts set as bear traps, riddled with intrigue, transparent as diamonds, ugly as queens and impotent as servants. Hearts caught in fishing nets and hearts pierced with feathers. Inspired hearts and plodding hearts. Children's hearts with holes. The hearts of two ogre brothers, at one time buried in a witches grave. Hearts of ten teachers and ten hearts of fools. Hearts in wicker baskets among flowers and beads. Hearts spread on slabs and picked at by doctors. Hearts which openly weep and gobble up sympathy. Hearts trusting beyond madness. Mother's hearts and hearts which speak as babes would. Hearts clamped at birth, and kite-flying hearts. Hearts tangled as clumps of nerves, tricky as pins, or wide as half the world. Hearts stamped on by machines and sprayed with chemical paints. Hearts fit only for work, or lust, or disaster. Hearts flat as milk or slow as gold, mean as swearing birds or gripping cancer. Laughing hearts and coward's hearts. Hearts filled with insects, cement, nuts, cherries and wax. Hearts stapled to ribs and to door frames, or to a ship's wheel through a female breast. Hearts swung on puppet strings, stuck through with cocktail sticks, or flags of surrender. Hearts with spines like the porcupine (...)
In my room there is an ugly '70s book case with glass sliding doors. It was not empty when it arrived. I cleaned out the muck, then filled it with hearts. Hearts of slaughtered bulls and dogs and sailors. Finely carved hearts and strong smelling hearts. Hearts shrunken and blue and hearts knotted with wire. Hearts bright as brains and hearts sober as guts. Hearts set as bear traps, riddled with intrigue, transparent as diamonds, ugly as queens and impotent as servants. Hearts caught in fishing nets and hearts pierced with feathers. Inspired hearts and plodding hearts. Children's hearts with holes. The hearts of two ogre brothers, at one time buried in a witches grave. Hearts of ten teachers and ten hearts of fools. Hearts in wicker baskets among flowers and beads. Hearts spread on slabs and picked at by doctors. Hearts which openly weep and gobble up sympathy. Hearts trusting beyond madness. Mother's hearts and hearts which speak as babes would. Hearts clamped at birth, and kite-flying hearts. Hearts tangled as clumps of nerves, tricky as pins, or wide as half the world. Hearts stamped on by machines and sprayed with chemical paints. Hearts fit only for work, or lust, or disaster. Hearts flat as milk or slow as gold, mean as swearing birds or gripping cancer. Laughing hearts and coward's hearts. Hearts filled with insects, cement, nuts, cherries and wax. Hearts stapled to ribs and to door frames, or to a ship's wheel through a female breast. Hearts swung on puppet strings, stuck through with cocktail sticks, or flags of surrender. Hearts with spines like the porcupine (...)
CONFESSION WITH STONES
He was walking down an empty street with oh so many eyes and he was tacking up that street on wet tarmac. It was a quarter past three in the morning again and it was low-tide. The street was as long as ever and he slip-knotted along it, sticking to the gutters according to his way, in long strides. He NEVER TRIPPED because his feet were anchored in the drains. At a quarter past three on a similar night HE TRIPPED and fell towards the single door which was not bolted against him. As he flinched towards this SUCKING DOOR, this PIN-HOLE DOOR, he loosened his collar and sharpened his step on the CUT-GLASS, DOG-GREASE pavement - and gained for his troubles a looming MOON-SPLATTERED wall of scaffolding. Through a chipped-off arch he scoffed his way in. There were no witnesses AND STILL THEY JEERED. They tickled one another whilst gumming tea, groomed one another and rocked and spied through bullet-proof curtains out of fear-tinted rooms. Slipping deeper within, looking back, he saw those windows SHUTTING. He saw the smears on the windows RUNNING; and smelled jealously, now, the tea-soaked bodies squatting within. He saw, and then smelled, the sweetish underside of the city and, flattened by that, saw the other end of his life reflected IN those windows. He saw scenes from his short short childhood depicted in the stained glass, now missing FROM those windows; then spotted his old shadow, hankering to catch up. He crossed the same street again whilst crossing himself whilst dodging a Molotov cocktail (...)
He was walking down an empty street with oh so many eyes and he was tacking up that street on wet tarmac. It was a quarter past three in the morning again and it was low-tide. The street was as long as ever and he slip-knotted along it, sticking to the gutters according to his way, in long strides. He NEVER TRIPPED because his feet were anchored in the drains. At a quarter past three on a similar night HE TRIPPED and fell towards the single door which was not bolted against him. As he flinched towards this SUCKING DOOR, this PIN-HOLE DOOR, he loosened his collar and sharpened his step on the CUT-GLASS, DOG-GREASE pavement - and gained for his troubles a looming MOON-SPLATTERED wall of scaffolding. Through a chipped-off arch he scoffed his way in. There were no witnesses AND STILL THEY JEERED. They tickled one another whilst gumming tea, groomed one another and rocked and spied through bullet-proof curtains out of fear-tinted rooms. Slipping deeper within, looking back, he saw those windows SHUTTING. He saw the smears on the windows RUNNING; and smelled jealously, now, the tea-soaked bodies squatting within. He saw, and then smelled, the sweetish underside of the city and, flattened by that, saw the other end of his life reflected IN those windows. He saw scenes from his short short childhood depicted in the stained glass, now missing FROM those windows; then spotted his old shadow, hankering to catch up. He crossed the same street again whilst crossing himself whilst dodging a Molotov cocktail (...)
CRACK
he stood upright
well rehearsed and sleeping
deep within the hairline crack between the stones
far beneath the litter that is trod-flat hope
i can catch her from here
he said
but did not listen
taking his mind off things
he dipped his features in some clean pink paint
laying out his tools in the surrounding muck
until she came
giggling all above him
chattering all about him
standing on his toes
he swooped just then
and deftly missed
remembering again that he was the fool
deep within the hairline crack between the stones (...)
he stood upright
well rehearsed and sleeping
deep within the hairline crack between the stones
far beneath the litter that is trod-flat hope
i can catch her from here
he said
but did not listen
taking his mind off things
he dipped his features in some clean pink paint
laying out his tools in the surrounding muck
until she came
giggling all above him
chattering all about him
standing on his toes
he swooped just then
and deftly missed
remembering again that he was the fool
deep within the hairline crack between the stones (...)
CRINGE
shutting his eyes he sees
sparks and doubts
mashed down
secreted away
crippled yearnings
hover and bite
listless mouthless curses
spite the bided time
whilst murmuring sleepwalkers
blindfolded at birth
barefoot upon marble
behind mirrored glass
wedged in the windowed place
stock-still
all agape
his gob eats the phrase
show me the map
point the way home (...)
shutting his eyes he sees
sparks and doubts
mashed down
secreted away
crippled yearnings
hover and bite
listless mouthless curses
spite the bided time
whilst murmuring sleepwalkers
blindfolded at birth
barefoot upon marble
behind mirrored glass
wedged in the windowed place
stock-still
all agape
his gob eats the phrase
show me the map
point the way home (...)
CRY
Find a place to stay
stay there
move on
choose a partner
a lover
lose another
and another
wrap your neck around the corpse of a friend
stretch it to the end
and (...)
Find a place to stay
stay there
move on
choose a partner
a lover
lose another
and another
wrap your neck around the corpse of a friend
stretch it to the end
and (...)
DESOLATE WAIST
Waist-deep in snow turned to red ice. He thought: this is pleasant. This is the way things ought to be. The brightest star is nearing. He fitted the surroundings just then, and all but laughed. The backdrop was his own. Below was stowed his booty, straddled and pinned. Frozen in shock, a thing like no other; a woman of some kind. A woman of any kind. A kind woman he did not doubt. Open minded. Open legged... She thought to herself: there is no better place beneath the ceiling of the earth. There is no warmer, deeper pleasure. She thought: I am nothing other than his, and she shed for him in silence, the last petal of her petticoat. It drifted down to freeze on the slope. T'was then that she noticed, far beneath their peak, that the woods were smothered in fog. On the leaves in that place, she, and he too, had lunged and lolled as kids. Only now she remembered the secret they had buried somewhere there. So often since exhumed, then forgotten. Exhumed, and forgotten. Irrelevant now, anyhow. Back in the now, somewhere above the flimsy flesh, a shadow upon the red-white sheet, he swam and he dreamt in brilliant blue. Strutted and posed, in man-like grace, out there in classical blue. Whilst she, slightly sinking and fully awake, drowned to her belly in pungent green. Later, much later; or right about then: he opened a sticky eye. And shuddered. Out of the Alp-dream he reached, to grasp the hateful packet which lay swearing beneath the bed. He spat upon tasting its sweet-salty contents; then thought... then thought... then thought again he: is this pleasant? Is this the way things ought to be? (...)
Waist-deep in snow turned to red ice. He thought: this is pleasant. This is the way things ought to be. The brightest star is nearing. He fitted the surroundings just then, and all but laughed. The backdrop was his own. Below was stowed his booty, straddled and pinned. Frozen in shock, a thing like no other; a woman of some kind. A woman of any kind. A kind woman he did not doubt. Open minded. Open legged... She thought to herself: there is no better place beneath the ceiling of the earth. There is no warmer, deeper pleasure. She thought: I am nothing other than his, and she shed for him in silence, the last petal of her petticoat. It drifted down to freeze on the slope. T'was then that she noticed, far beneath their peak, that the woods were smothered in fog. On the leaves in that place, she, and he too, had lunged and lolled as kids. Only now she remembered the secret they had buried somewhere there. So often since exhumed, then forgotten. Exhumed, and forgotten. Irrelevant now, anyhow. Back in the now, somewhere above the flimsy flesh, a shadow upon the red-white sheet, he swam and he dreamt in brilliant blue. Strutted and posed, in man-like grace, out there in classical blue. Whilst she, slightly sinking and fully awake, drowned to her belly in pungent green. Later, much later; or right about then: he opened a sticky eye. And shuddered. Out of the Alp-dream he reached, to grasp the hateful packet which lay swearing beneath the bed. He spat upon tasting its sweet-salty contents; then thought... then thought... then thought again he: is this pleasant? Is this the way things ought to be? (...)
DIGESTION
A very large lady wakes up on the operating table. She is alone. The surgeons are washing up, or have gone on another strike, or have gone off to lunch, who knows. Who cares. She is all doped up, feels rather well in fact. She begins to appreciate that she is hungrier than she ever has been. Well, patience, she tells herself, patience. They will relieve her soon. Somewhat restrained, she grows uncomfortable, drifts in and out of consciousness, and suffers a series of increasingly awkward dreams. She is at her own sixth birthday party gobbling ginger-cake, which she hates. She is at a business dinner with her lanky boss and her boss's lanky wife, eating mushrooms, which she adores. She has been condemned to death for reasons only guessed at and is enjoying a last supper of bolognese, but she has lost the cutlery. Her innards are open to the world, of that she is always vaguely aware (...)
A very large lady wakes up on the operating table. She is alone. The surgeons are washing up, or have gone on another strike, or have gone off to lunch, who knows. Who cares. She is all doped up, feels rather well in fact. She begins to appreciate that she is hungrier than she ever has been. Well, patience, she tells herself, patience. They will relieve her soon. Somewhat restrained, she grows uncomfortable, drifts in and out of consciousness, and suffers a series of increasingly awkward dreams. She is at her own sixth birthday party gobbling ginger-cake, which she hates. She is at a business dinner with her lanky boss and her boss's lanky wife, eating mushrooms, which she adores. She has been condemned to death for reasons only guessed at and is enjoying a last supper of bolognese, but she has lost the cutlery. Her innards are open to the world, of that she is always vaguely aware (...)
DOG IN A MOUSETRAP
Rearrange these:
jumps into a careless land
time dissolves
wrapped and warm
let out some heat
makes the jump
takes back caress
turning blind eyes
pulls back the touch
how else to tell
fat hard skin
under floor-boards
seeping away
lost bones
hard blood
(he is jumping)
warms the house
enormous home
let in the cold
pages weep
speaks in sleep (...)
Rearrange these:
jumps into a careless land
time dissolves
wrapped and warm
let out some heat
makes the jump
takes back caress
turning blind eyes
pulls back the touch
how else to tell
fat hard skin
under floor-boards
seeping away
lost bones
hard blood
(he is jumping)
warms the house
enormous home
let in the cold
pages weep
speaks in sleep (...)
DOLLS HOUSE
What is it to be filled with another human being?
Are there rooms within people?
Lives within rooms within people?
Are people built like dolls houses?
Cardboard walls, plastic muscles
Chimney flue for a spine
Family at home behind the ribs
Listening to the thunder
Damp washing in the guts
Front door face
(A draft through the door)
Attic brain - filthy thoughts
A little wooden garage with a little wooden car
Escape hatch to the world
Between stone wall thighs
Cupboards filled with games
Roast beef supper, porridge and wine
A glass of milk by the little cotton cot
Is my family inside me? (...)
What is it to be filled with another human being?
Are there rooms within people?
Lives within rooms within people?
Are people built like dolls houses?
Cardboard walls, plastic muscles
Chimney flue for a spine
Family at home behind the ribs
Listening to the thunder
Damp washing in the guts
Front door face
(A draft through the door)
Attic brain - filthy thoughts
A little wooden garage with a little wooden car
Escape hatch to the world
Between stone wall thighs
Cupboards filled with games
Roast beef supper, porridge and wine
A glass of milk by the little cotton cot
Is my family inside me? (...)
DREAMS COLLIDE
Shut hard these eyes till sleep arrives
Till spirals sing and moons like shards
Of nightness void of grey or black
Divide me from myself.
Shut hard these eyes till sleep arrives
Till spirals sing and moons like shards
Of nightness void of grey or black
Divide me from myself.
DROOLING WITH COALS
The yellow of the sun. The power of men. The cold yellow heat which burns some men. The truth of all things said. The truth that is nothing said. The weakness of men. Events which change men. Events which flip over and change nothing but men in the eyes of men... Looking up and out of a length of neck with eyes held open. Eyes pulled open. Weeping so wide, rested on wet wood. Looking into the sun. Seeing all there is and nothing more. All through time. Eyes held out, then further out, almost to lick the sun. He saw again the haphazard events. He saw, laughed, and fell back to the prisons. He rested in prisons. No matter. No walls were whole; no wire, cutting sharp. No stretch of time, wide or narrow, deep or shallow, filled the massive space. Only the prisons, crammed and hollow. Prisons of mishap. Prisons of shame. He saw them through a tunnel's vision. Filled to the beams with badly drawn escape plans. Numbered and sealed. Halls of tattered scrolls, stuffed into pockets with guilty hands. Buried in sand was he in this place. He marveled again and burst. Barely remembered to curse. There in the bedroom. The pin-cushion bedroom. Sunk in the legend. Back at the moment of over-dressed sleeping, of indiscreet dreaming. Of shamming. Of frankly deceiving. Under the current and over the stones. Pressed down hard in the sheets of illusion. Thirsting and drooling, running and losing. Bloated with living, he thrashed again and fumbled for the wrong keys, hands in those pockets. Later, driving home quickly, he never arrived (...)
The yellow of the sun. The power of men. The cold yellow heat which burns some men. The truth of all things said. The truth that is nothing said. The weakness of men. Events which change men. Events which flip over and change nothing but men in the eyes of men... Looking up and out of a length of neck with eyes held open. Eyes pulled open. Weeping so wide, rested on wet wood. Looking into the sun. Seeing all there is and nothing more. All through time. Eyes held out, then further out, almost to lick the sun. He saw again the haphazard events. He saw, laughed, and fell back to the prisons. He rested in prisons. No matter. No walls were whole; no wire, cutting sharp. No stretch of time, wide or narrow, deep or shallow, filled the massive space. Only the prisons, crammed and hollow. Prisons of mishap. Prisons of shame. He saw them through a tunnel's vision. Filled to the beams with badly drawn escape plans. Numbered and sealed. Halls of tattered scrolls, stuffed into pockets with guilty hands. Buried in sand was he in this place. He marveled again and burst. Barely remembered to curse. There in the bedroom. The pin-cushion bedroom. Sunk in the legend. Back at the moment of over-dressed sleeping, of indiscreet dreaming. Of shamming. Of frankly deceiving. Under the current and over the stones. Pressed down hard in the sheets of illusion. Thirsting and drooling, running and losing. Bloated with living, he thrashed again and fumbled for the wrong keys, hands in those pockets. Later, driving home quickly, he never arrived (...)
DRUNKEN LOVE NOTE ON BROKEN TYPEWRITER
KR;SZT;NA!
HERE ARE PROBABLY THE LAST WORDS O
F MY BEAUT;FUL DY;;NG TYPEWR;TER???
YOU MAKE A FOOL HAPPY
YOU TOO ARE BEAUT;FUL
YOU MAKE A BAD LOVER SAD
YOU ARE BEAT/FUL
MY EYES DONT WORK
LF L COULD SEE YOU L WOULD SEE
THAT YOU ARE BEATLFUL
L WRLTE NO SMALL LETTERS
SAY NO PERFECT WORDS
FEEL LNCORRECT PRESSURES
FOR L AM BLACK AND DYEENG
MY NECK LS BROKEN FROM REACHLNG DOW
N AND L AM STRONGER FOR LT
L AM STRONGER FOR YOU
HOW LONG HAVE L BENT WLTH NOTHLNG
TO SEE!
LOOK! ! FOUND MY EYES !!
! FOUND THAT YOU ARE BEAT!FUL
YOU ARE ON THE GROUND
REAL AND GROWN FROM !T
FROM LOVE
! AM SOMEWHERE UPSTA!RS PAC!NG MY
EMPTY ROOM DREAM!NG OF A CURE (...)
KR;SZT;NA!
HERE ARE PROBABLY THE LAST WORDS O
F MY BEAUT;FUL DY;;NG TYPEWR;TER???
YOU MAKE A FOOL HAPPY
YOU TOO ARE BEAUT;FUL
YOU MAKE A BAD LOVER SAD
YOU ARE BEAT/FUL
MY EYES DONT WORK
LF L COULD SEE YOU L WOULD SEE
THAT YOU ARE BEATLFUL
L WRLTE NO SMALL LETTERS
SAY NO PERFECT WORDS
FEEL LNCORRECT PRESSURES
FOR L AM BLACK AND DYEENG
MY NECK LS BROKEN FROM REACHLNG DOW
N AND L AM STRONGER FOR LT
L AM STRONGER FOR YOU
HOW LONG HAVE L BENT WLTH NOTHLNG
TO SEE!
LOOK! ! FOUND MY EYES !!
! FOUND THAT YOU ARE BEAT!FUL
YOU ARE ON THE GROUND
REAL AND GROWN FROM !T
FROM LOVE
! AM SOMEWHERE UPSTA!RS PAC!NG MY
EMPTY ROOM DREAM!NG OF A CURE (...)
ESCAPE FROM BERLIN
During a moment of confused clarity.
This bloated stomach has rebelled again on the sour juice of 'blood oranges'.
Earlier, threw the wicker basket into the bath. The water turned grey with best Berlin cellar mould. Scrubbed for a while, then hopped in myself for a soak. The stink caught under these bitten finger-nails, clung well about this wicker basket face.
Ate spongy-soft nail skin for a cheap supper.
Oh! But then was I whisked away like Dorothy's dog to a bar filled with mothers and daughters direct from Peru!
"How old are you? Vee highsen doo?"
and melancholic Bulgarians heartily pumping accordions.
Whilst huddled back there at a safe distance, a few German women celebrating the end of a study course without laughter.
Prettier chat sploshed about with those bronzy foreign mothers, though: and all those silky daughters. Was invited to watch Latino-Americans dancing at a joint called Friday.
Such fine clucking, grinning brown eyes, wide yellow teeth, rings, bangles, hair clips, musty stockings; and big, big, big, big hips (...)
During a moment of confused clarity.
This bloated stomach has rebelled again on the sour juice of 'blood oranges'.
Earlier, threw the wicker basket into the bath. The water turned grey with best Berlin cellar mould. Scrubbed for a while, then hopped in myself for a soak. The stink caught under these bitten finger-nails, clung well about this wicker basket face.
Ate spongy-soft nail skin for a cheap supper.
Oh! But then was I whisked away like Dorothy's dog to a bar filled with mothers and daughters direct from Peru!
"How old are you? Vee highsen doo?"
and melancholic Bulgarians heartily pumping accordions.
Whilst huddled back there at a safe distance, a few German women celebrating the end of a study course without laughter.
Prettier chat sploshed about with those bronzy foreign mothers, though: and all those silky daughters. Was invited to watch Latino-Americans dancing at a joint called Friday.
Such fine clucking, grinning brown eyes, wide yellow teeth, rings, bangles, hair clips, musty stockings; and big, big, big, big hips (...)
THE ETERNAL ECLIPSE
No one figure in a particular scene is aware of much that is passing, or has passed, or will pass, around, or before, or after him. Or her. Each horizon, past, present or future, imagined or otherwise, is crammed to over-flowing with the antics of Fascist Man, who, oblivious to the movements of his relative neighbour, struts among the remnants of the planet's other beasts, those which remain, which he naturally and proudly dominates into the dust. A largest figure, an individual, or collective knowledge, or imagination, or Mickey Mouse indeed, extends to cross the otherwise rigid boundary of the present, or of reality, or of conformity, or of nonsense, to contact his relation; a baby, his future, or his past, or his legacy. Or hers. That figure in turn connects with its own future, or past, or ideal, or nightmare, and is therefore at once both giving and receiving...
But what is it that is given, and what may be received?
The substance of the various messages these figures pass back and forth among one another is left to the observer to fill in for himself. Or herself. Thus he, or she, is obliged to become the character in the work, which has no boundary. Imagine the whole as a collage of coloured paper cut-outs, moveable elements, interlocking occasionally, each of which can slightly but significantly be manipulated; thus affecting the symmetry, or constellation, or destiny, of the other elements and characters, and of the vision as a whole. A small tolerance is therewith achievable as the observer, presuming at last to participate, makes physical contact with a lowly corner of the scene, and projects himself, or herself, for a moment, or for eternity, into the central Position of Power (POP) (...)
No one figure in a particular scene is aware of much that is passing, or has passed, or will pass, around, or before, or after him. Or her. Each horizon, past, present or future, imagined or otherwise, is crammed to over-flowing with the antics of Fascist Man, who, oblivious to the movements of his relative neighbour, struts among the remnants of the planet's other beasts, those which remain, which he naturally and proudly dominates into the dust. A largest figure, an individual, or collective knowledge, or imagination, or Mickey Mouse indeed, extends to cross the otherwise rigid boundary of the present, or of reality, or of conformity, or of nonsense, to contact his relation; a baby, his future, or his past, or his legacy. Or hers. That figure in turn connects with its own future, or past, or ideal, or nightmare, and is therefore at once both giving and receiving...
But what is it that is given, and what may be received?
The substance of the various messages these figures pass back and forth among one another is left to the observer to fill in for himself. Or herself. Thus he, or she, is obliged to become the character in the work, which has no boundary. Imagine the whole as a collage of coloured paper cut-outs, moveable elements, interlocking occasionally, each of which can slightly but significantly be manipulated; thus affecting the symmetry, or constellation, or destiny, of the other elements and characters, and of the vision as a whole. A small tolerance is therewith achievable as the observer, presuming at last to participate, makes physical contact with a lowly corner of the scene, and projects himself, or herself, for a moment, or for eternity, into the central Position of Power (POP) (...)
FISH FUCK
If my vision is true and I am doomed to be reincarnated as a fish in my next life, I shall journey to the nudist beach where you take your holidays and swim up into you, to live in your womb. When you sleep, while you dream, I will slip down to nibble and splash in the threshold cave that is your cunt. When, in the silent hours you stir to waking, as you often will, I shall thrust once more deep to your womb, leaving you wretched and groping for the partner who is never and always there.
On my death bed I will choose upon your merits as I count them, whether to return as an electric eel, a stickleback or a darting silver fish, adept at exploring secret routes among the labyrinth passages within the flesh and bones of your torpefied body. Random ways will lead me to the spirals of your ears, where I will whisper maddening words, and to the tubes behind your eyes, where I will gesture in rude silhouette. Through the bitter-sweet pools behind your tongue, I shall dive, into the bleakness of your burgled brain, which I will feverishly fertilise. Into crystal coral networks beneath your breasts, I shall break, and reach the cramped and vacant chapel of your heart, which I will desecrate. Down the arcing yellow cables of your spine, I shall swim, and on from there to the extremities of your restless, hopeless limbs. I shall wade amongst kidney and gut, your most intimate bowel, and arrive, spent and spluttering, at the wine filled chamber of your stomach, from which I will drink. (...)
If my vision is true and I am doomed to be reincarnated as a fish in my next life, I shall journey to the nudist beach where you take your holidays and swim up into you, to live in your womb. When you sleep, while you dream, I will slip down to nibble and splash in the threshold cave that is your cunt. When, in the silent hours you stir to waking, as you often will, I shall thrust once more deep to your womb, leaving you wretched and groping for the partner who is never and always there.
On my death bed I will choose upon your merits as I count them, whether to return as an electric eel, a stickleback or a darting silver fish, adept at exploring secret routes among the labyrinth passages within the flesh and bones of your torpefied body. Random ways will lead me to the spirals of your ears, where I will whisper maddening words, and to the tubes behind your eyes, where I will gesture in rude silhouette. Through the bitter-sweet pools behind your tongue, I shall dive, into the bleakness of your burgled brain, which I will feverishly fertilise. Into crystal coral networks beneath your breasts, I shall break, and reach the cramped and vacant chapel of your heart, which I will desecrate. Down the arcing yellow cables of your spine, I shall swim, and on from there to the extremities of your restless, hopeless limbs. I shall wade amongst kidney and gut, your most intimate bowel, and arrive, spent and spluttering, at the wine filled chamber of your stomach, from which I will drink. (...)
GAME RULES
(plague side only)
Here is a chess set ' short of pieces
Poor blind pawns ' they hardly existed
Red wolf guards ' now thin with greed
Quick tongues flick ' tween laugh and grimace
Two bent preachers ' cloaked in whisper
Brothers blessed in Rape and Incest
War ground shakes ' neath black feet stomping
Obsolete armies ' wild and frozen
Dominance' Arrogance ' Lies ' and the rest...
Draw up your turrets of dark oiled marble!
Bolt up your horses ' servants and cripples!
As for the fist king ' clasped in murder
Staggering drunk in Empire State
Blasted from his quarrelled throne
Ein Reich! ' Zwei Reich! ' swept aside (...)
(plague side only)
Here is a chess set ' short of pieces
Poor blind pawns ' they hardly existed
Red wolf guards ' now thin with greed
Quick tongues flick ' tween laugh and grimace
Two bent preachers ' cloaked in whisper
Brothers blessed in Rape and Incest
War ground shakes ' neath black feet stomping
Obsolete armies ' wild and frozen
Dominance' Arrogance ' Lies ' and the rest...
Draw up your turrets of dark oiled marble!
Bolt up your horses ' servants and cripples!
As for the fist king ' clasped in murder
Staggering drunk in Empire State
Blasted from his quarrelled throne
Ein Reich! ' Zwei Reich! ' swept aside (...)
GLASS HISTORY
Some place behind scorched hair
further than nowhere
a gate
a gap in an endless white fence
behind that
lush lush green
of summers old
muscle and shell
dry muscle, dry shell.
(I hear music)
Blue gulls
salt rain
sore wind
deep clouds
above too little light
upon muscle and shell
dry muscle, dry shell.
(I see a shape, there)
I lay as you lay
watch as you watch
white body lost
tethered and lost
buried in crabs
seeing blindly
worn to pebbles by salt wind
and mad seas
and eyes all sore
all level with the ocean
the low of that ocean
in space between black waves (...)
Some place behind scorched hair
further than nowhere
a gate
a gap in an endless white fence
behind that
lush lush green
of summers old
muscle and shell
dry muscle, dry shell.
(I hear music)
Blue gulls
salt rain
sore wind
deep clouds
above too little light
upon muscle and shell
dry muscle, dry shell.
(I see a shape, there)
I lay as you lay
watch as you watch
white body lost
tethered and lost
buried in crabs
seeing blindly
worn to pebbles by salt wind
and mad seas
and eyes all sore
all level with the ocean
the low of that ocean
in space between black waves (...)
GOB SMACKED
The spiral is a sticky one
You slide down it flapping yer limp wrist and yer angry tongue
Stuck to it like a zit on the fast unravelling landscape
Losing consciousness for starters
Balance, focus, dignity, dosh
Capacity for consuming quantities of beer
Ability to camouflage the reek of deformity
Ridiculous, unquenchable hope
Face, gratitude, vision, tact
The great thumb-worried map of hiding places...
Comes realisation
Hardly noticed
Like the after-taste of dishonest truth
The lazy pains of works undone
Unreasonable hatreds, shallow buried
Suspicions of trust undeserving
Sick and delicious
Like sex without touching (...)
The spiral is a sticky one
You slide down it flapping yer limp wrist and yer angry tongue
Stuck to it like a zit on the fast unravelling landscape
Losing consciousness for starters
Balance, focus, dignity, dosh
Capacity for consuming quantities of beer
Ability to camouflage the reek of deformity
Ridiculous, unquenchable hope
Face, gratitude, vision, tact
The great thumb-worried map of hiding places...
Comes realisation
Hardly noticed
Like the after-taste of dishonest truth
The lazy pains of works undone
Unreasonable hatreds, shallow buried
Suspicions of trust undeserving
Sick and delicious
Like sex without touching (...)
HEAVENS DEAD
Heavens dead. Perhaps.
Havens lost. Perhaps.
But still these mustard white legs. Slip and skip and pore
Themselves around you.
They show themselves as you would.
And cross themselves as you should.
And reach the lips that you once reached.
Perhaps.
And all the bodies come flying down.
Come rustling down.
Come sliding down.
Those limbs attached. Those blinding jewels and rings attached.
Those tails and tassels, knots and brows:
The nonsense cloth; the gutting vows.
Come humming down.
Come killing down.
They miss the point, of course.
But still they hammer down (...)
Heavens dead. Perhaps.
Havens lost. Perhaps.
But still these mustard white legs. Slip and skip and pore
Themselves around you.
They show themselves as you would.
And cross themselves as you should.
And reach the lips that you once reached.
Perhaps.
And all the bodies come flying down.
Come rustling down.
Come sliding down.
Those limbs attached. Those blinding jewels and rings attached.
Those tails and tassels, knots and brows:
The nonsense cloth; the gutting vows.
Come humming down.
Come killing down.
They miss the point, of course.
But still they hammer down (...)
HE SAID SHE SAID
He said
Everything I say has already been said
The echoes fill my ears before I open my mouth
She said
Then say nothing
But listen to my question
He said
But there is so much I need to explain to you
She said
Explain to me only one thing
He said
All right
I feel everything you feel
She said
I have felt nothing since we met
Now answer my question (...)
He said
Everything I say has already been said
The echoes fill my ears before I open my mouth
She said
Then say nothing
But listen to my question
He said
But there is so much I need to explain to you
She said
Explain to me only one thing
He said
All right
I feel everything you feel
She said
I have felt nothing since we met
Now answer my question (...)
HOPWOODS
Once upon evil times squatted the Hopwood forest; great sulking sap-blooded beast! There, in the gloom behind the suburbs of Darknasty Town.
Though it was thinner than a forest, it was broader than a wood; and it was secret, strange; and a hundred-fold dingy as murder!
And the Hopwood squatted, even heavier still, upon a single, weak girl. That girl's features shone for the sun in that hole in the world; for she was unique. Not only that, but she was strong as any ox too, for she was worked like an ox by monsters. But be warned: above all, in the head, was she weak!
And years pass, as years do.
And the girl grows, as girls do.
Puts on curves for the Hopwood.
(There are no boys in Hopwood).
She grows fine and paler still, and stronger still - in body. While her mind grows soft, with fair reason, as shall quickly be shown. The black-blue crows of her hair flap loose and wild about a skimpy waist; a virgin's waist; for she is virgin still. A rarity in any parts, but here. Hers then is the crux of this yarn...
A tired back has she, from tilling, drudging, smoothing and scrubbing by dim daylight on the farm of her two fathers (those father's be Hop-ogres!) and the putting of fathers to bed of a Darknasty night (...)
Once upon evil times squatted the Hopwood forest; great sulking sap-blooded beast! There, in the gloom behind the suburbs of Darknasty Town.
Though it was thinner than a forest, it was broader than a wood; and it was secret, strange; and a hundred-fold dingy as murder!
And the Hopwood squatted, even heavier still, upon a single, weak girl. That girl's features shone for the sun in that hole in the world; for she was unique. Not only that, but she was strong as any ox too, for she was worked like an ox by monsters. But be warned: above all, in the head, was she weak!
And years pass, as years do.
And the girl grows, as girls do.
Puts on curves for the Hopwood.
(There are no boys in Hopwood).
She grows fine and paler still, and stronger still - in body. While her mind grows soft, with fair reason, as shall quickly be shown. The black-blue crows of her hair flap loose and wild about a skimpy waist; a virgin's waist; for she is virgin still. A rarity in any parts, but here. Hers then is the crux of this yarn...
A tired back has she, from tilling, drudging, smoothing and scrubbing by dim daylight on the farm of her two fathers (those father's be Hop-ogres!) and the putting of fathers to bed of a Darknasty night (...)
I YOUR BRIBE
Long leggy ornaments, matey
Hung from the wall, these walls
Windows carved out, suns away
Strokes the yellowed plaster.
So much, so much, glistening oil
Slowly soaks the lung, these lungs
Seems like black things, dark things, wet things
Dancing on my palette.
Bells now! Shouts now! Slips back in here
Ringings halt, and, hit the boards!
Listen at the old man, bounce with a ball
Plays with a ball, next door.
Beyond this greasy dampness done
The urge to breath clean air, wet hair
And tang of wind; and taste that smell
Sea salt, and rot, and sand, and salt.
And skin, and salt, and shells, and skin
Through walls, perhaps, through brick
And bubble flesh, and gobble lips
And all for a time, a good old time (...)
Long leggy ornaments, matey
Hung from the wall, these walls
Windows carved out, suns away
Strokes the yellowed plaster.
So much, so much, glistening oil
Slowly soaks the lung, these lungs
Seems like black things, dark things, wet things
Dancing on my palette.
Bells now! Shouts now! Slips back in here
Ringings halt, and, hit the boards!
Listen at the old man, bounce with a ball
Plays with a ball, next door.
Beyond this greasy dampness done
The urge to breath clean air, wet hair
And tang of wind; and taste that smell
Sea salt, and rot, and sand, and salt.
And skin, and salt, and shells, and skin
Through walls, perhaps, through brick
And bubble flesh, and gobble lips
And all for a time, a good old time (...)
JESUS WAS
Jesus was a tall man
Jesus was a good man
Jesus was a dead man
Who lived upon the cross
(Amen)
Jesus was a tall man
Jesus was a good man
Jesus was a dead man
Who lived upon the cross
(Amen)
KNOBBY TALE
I saw a chap with horns and a knobby tail,
I FOUND MY THRILL IN A BOTTLE OF SWILL
he sang, his eyes all darting;
he ran away, he couldn't stop laughing!
I saw a chap with eyebrows raised in the middle,
high as heaven, his speech enchanting;
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLOW, BLAP, BLAH
he blew; he couldn't stop farting!
They met that day at Stratford shopping mall.
I hung around a while (...)
I saw a chap with horns and a knobby tail,
I FOUND MY THRILL IN A BOTTLE OF SWILL
he sang, his eyes all darting;
he ran away, he couldn't stop laughing!
I saw a chap with eyebrows raised in the middle,
high as heaven, his speech enchanting;
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLOW, BLAP, BLAH
he blew; he couldn't stop farting!
They met that day at Stratford shopping mall.
I hung around a while (...)
THE LAUGHING TORSO
They told him: "The civilised way to proceed is not to proceed; rather, to call a halt to the whole thing. The only victory is in surrender." They added: "The cure is to retire to the bed of your childhood, to remain there until the darkness comes, and later (finger's crossed and angels willing) the Special Light." He asked about the Special Light and they said that he would know it. They said he should now remove his shoes, throw them out with the mouldy trash, and utterly relax for the last time. He should disconnect the telephone and all other electric devices except for the fridge. Close the windows, pull down the blinds, draw the curtains and let the animal loose, bolting the door for once and for all, behind it. "Wash yourself," they advised before they drifted away, "then go to your bed." Laying on my back in rushing darkness, naked between thin sheets and the Star Wars blanket, sweating cold and then hot, I stare at the fox head which is nailed to the wall above my own. His teeth are bared as mine are, but with other reason. His throat is white and smooth like mine, but mine meets a torso which, until now, has always been to my advantage. Now it simply sucks wet air, shunts slow blood, digests, expels, deflates. Its pores are wide and expel very well, as the sopping sheets do witness. An insect drinks acid through a vein in my arm. My fists are stoney and my eyes screwed inwards; they press with all the force of their visions upon my brain. The guts are tight, the toes cramped: I am expelling myself from this body (...)
They told him: "The civilised way to proceed is not to proceed; rather, to call a halt to the whole thing. The only victory is in surrender." They added: "The cure is to retire to the bed of your childhood, to remain there until the darkness comes, and later (finger's crossed and angels willing) the Special Light." He asked about the Special Light and they said that he would know it. They said he should now remove his shoes, throw them out with the mouldy trash, and utterly relax for the last time. He should disconnect the telephone and all other electric devices except for the fridge. Close the windows, pull down the blinds, draw the curtains and let the animal loose, bolting the door for once and for all, behind it. "Wash yourself," they advised before they drifted away, "then go to your bed." Laying on my back in rushing darkness, naked between thin sheets and the Star Wars blanket, sweating cold and then hot, I stare at the fox head which is nailed to the wall above my own. His teeth are bared as mine are, but with other reason. His throat is white and smooth like mine, but mine meets a torso which, until now, has always been to my advantage. Now it simply sucks wet air, shunts slow blood, digests, expels, deflates. Its pores are wide and expel very well, as the sopping sheets do witness. An insect drinks acid through a vein in my arm. My fists are stoney and my eyes screwed inwards; they press with all the force of their visions upon my brain. The guts are tight, the toes cramped: I am expelling myself from this body (...)
LAY IT DOWN
FANCY WET FINGERS SMELL OF SWEAT AND SMOKED FISH GUT SWILLED WITH BEER FLOWS BACH FEASTS BACON FLIES BRAZIL BULLETS AND POTTERY TOOLS BURNT RUBBER MOULD PAINT SPLASHED INTO RADIO FAT WIRES FELT PENS VOODOO SPUN CASSETTE LABELLED DELIVER US FROM BIKE CREAM BROKEN FURNISHINGS DAUBED WITH CRIMSON TOILET LENGTH ROLLED UP PARTY INVITATION WHO KNOWS NEIL DOWN STAIRS TURNS LIGHT BULB STONE PLASTER PHOTOGRAPHS AND BROWN SEALED ENVELOPES MARKED PRIVATE PIANO LESSONS CRUMPLED EXHIBITION LEAFLET FOUND SLAIN IN KITCHEN ON THURSDAY ONE HUNDRED MARKS LAUGH AND OTHER COPPERS BANK BOOKS COUNTER CARD SPIKED DRINKING SCISSORS IN DICTIONARY OF SOAKED NAKED TOES MADONNA OVER ROWS OF OTHER CLOTHED MADONNAS SHIRT FLOPPED OVER GRAVEYARD FENCE AFTER RENAISSANCE LOVE SWINDLED AWAY FROM JOINTS SHARED SMOKED ONLY HEARD OVER LEGLESS FESTIVAL VISIT CRIES FOR POKEY BATHROOM OR SULLEN PHONE CALL SURPRISING TROUSERS STAINED ALAS NEVER TO RETURN
OH WHERE IS MY KRISZTINA? (...)
FANCY WET FINGERS SMELL OF SWEAT AND SMOKED FISH GUT SWILLED WITH BEER FLOWS BACH FEASTS BACON FLIES BRAZIL BULLETS AND POTTERY TOOLS BURNT RUBBER MOULD PAINT SPLASHED INTO RADIO FAT WIRES FELT PENS VOODOO SPUN CASSETTE LABELLED DELIVER US FROM BIKE CREAM BROKEN FURNISHINGS DAUBED WITH CRIMSON TOILET LENGTH ROLLED UP PARTY INVITATION WHO KNOWS NEIL DOWN STAIRS TURNS LIGHT BULB STONE PLASTER PHOTOGRAPHS AND BROWN SEALED ENVELOPES MARKED PRIVATE PIANO LESSONS CRUMPLED EXHIBITION LEAFLET FOUND SLAIN IN KITCHEN ON THURSDAY ONE HUNDRED MARKS LAUGH AND OTHER COPPERS BANK BOOKS COUNTER CARD SPIKED DRINKING SCISSORS IN DICTIONARY OF SOAKED NAKED TOES MADONNA OVER ROWS OF OTHER CLOTHED MADONNAS SHIRT FLOPPED OVER GRAVEYARD FENCE AFTER RENAISSANCE LOVE SWINDLED AWAY FROM JOINTS SHARED SMOKED ONLY HEARD OVER LEGLESS FESTIVAL VISIT CRIES FOR POKEY BATHROOM OR SULLEN PHONE CALL SURPRISING TROUSERS STAINED ALAS NEVER TO RETURN
OH WHERE IS MY KRISZTINA? (...)
LETTER TO DANNY FLYNN, NEVER SENT
Dear Dan,
Never mind that.
How's things? How's your thing?
Stop.
I must be careful not to write a letter you've already written.
I could write about me, but that would be dull for both of us. I know all that stuff anyway. Or I could write about you, like: how's your thing? But that would be dull for me until I received a reply, and then I wouldn't be here to read it. I'm going North. That's exaggerating. I'm not going further than Norway. Further than that and you need to be able to swim through icebergs, or fly over them, and I can't even ride a bike. All the bikes in Berlin have been stolen, so how should I learn? And how can I swim through something I've never seen? Even if I could swim? I do know what its like to be ice-cold in Kreuzberg. Its like a perfect Summer's day under an empty sky, only its minus fifteen degrees inside the trousers. But the outside is more bright and sparklish clear actually than a really good summers day.
Stop.
Summer in Paris is even more noisy. But the sky is a boring blue. Most of it hangs around the Eiffel Tower, though there are bits of sky over other parts of Paris, like the street-corner where they teach passing foreigners to say "Pssst! You wanna la sheeet?". But that's not real Paris sky. Real Paris sky is on postcards of the real Eiffel Tower, sold by shining Moroccans under the big cardboard Eiffel Tower. There you can have your photograph taken with a plume in your hat, and have it stolen, then buy it back at a hundred times the price from a waiter who once played an aristocrat in a Truffaut movie (...)
Dear Dan,
Never mind that.
How's things? How's your thing?
Stop.
I must be careful not to write a letter you've already written.
I could write about me, but that would be dull for both of us. I know all that stuff anyway. Or I could write about you, like: how's your thing? But that would be dull for me until I received a reply, and then I wouldn't be here to read it. I'm going North. That's exaggerating. I'm not going further than Norway. Further than that and you need to be able to swim through icebergs, or fly over them, and I can't even ride a bike. All the bikes in Berlin have been stolen, so how should I learn? And how can I swim through something I've never seen? Even if I could swim? I do know what its like to be ice-cold in Kreuzberg. Its like a perfect Summer's day under an empty sky, only its minus fifteen degrees inside the trousers. But the outside is more bright and sparklish clear actually than a really good summers day.
Stop.
Summer in Paris is even more noisy. But the sky is a boring blue. Most of it hangs around the Eiffel Tower, though there are bits of sky over other parts of Paris, like the street-corner where they teach passing foreigners to say "Pssst! You wanna la sheeet?". But that's not real Paris sky. Real Paris sky is on postcards of the real Eiffel Tower, sold by shining Moroccans under the big cardboard Eiffel Tower. There you can have your photograph taken with a plume in your hat, and have it stolen, then buy it back at a hundred times the price from a waiter who once played an aristocrat in a Truffaut movie (...)
LIFE'S UPS AND DOWNS
Forwards and fearless! Onwards and onwards! Never say stop! Never let go! Regardless of squeaks and shrieks and tyres lodged in a tram line! Ever this way and never again that! Amid battle cries of armies, the victory prayers of mothers for their sons! The restless jostle of fanatics in a crowd! Let there be rain and let me be soaked! To win and to prosper! To arrive beneath cheers of good hot welcome! No traps are built strong enough, no enemies great enough! There is no failure, there is no end! This be the season, this be MY time!
"Let there be victory!" sayeth a Lord. "These things are spoken! These things are done!"
Done in! All lost! Thwarted and routed! Beaten and burned! Some bugger blew the whistle! The allies didn't show! Where is the justice? The giddy celebration? Who told who to throw in the spanner? Who dug the pit? Who burned the boat? All the cards came a-tumbling down! All the kings horses fled off! off! with all the queens maidens! Betrayed and accused, three times over! Exposed and denied, a thousand times over! Tossed against the wall and shot, shot, shot! (...)
Forwards and fearless! Onwards and onwards! Never say stop! Never let go! Regardless of squeaks and shrieks and tyres lodged in a tram line! Ever this way and never again that! Amid battle cries of armies, the victory prayers of mothers for their sons! The restless jostle of fanatics in a crowd! Let there be rain and let me be soaked! To win and to prosper! To arrive beneath cheers of good hot welcome! No traps are built strong enough, no enemies great enough! There is no failure, there is no end! This be the season, this be MY time!
"Let there be victory!" sayeth a Lord. "These things are spoken! These things are done!"
Done in! All lost! Thwarted and routed! Beaten and burned! Some bugger blew the whistle! The allies didn't show! Where is the justice? The giddy celebration? Who told who to throw in the spanner? Who dug the pit? Who burned the boat? All the cards came a-tumbling down! All the kings horses fled off! off! with all the queens maidens! Betrayed and accused, three times over! Exposed and denied, a thousand times over! Tossed against the wall and shot, shot, shot! (...)
THE LIST
What sort is he? All smug and withered beneath that turban. Is that a turban? YOU THERE! WHAT SORT ARE YOU? Why does he not answer? What sort is he?
It is not a turban.
I am not asking you. HEY! WHY DO YOU STARE SO? Why does he stare so?
He will not answer.
I am not asking you. But what type is he?
He is the type prone to say nothing. He dictates there are no answers, therefore he does not answer. Nor does he question. In fact he does nothing. He IS nothing, and he is nowhere.
Rot! I see him squatting there. I see him grinning beneath his turban.
It is not a turban.
But I see him there and he bothers me!
Of course you see him, he is there to be seen. And he bothers you because he is there to see.
To STARE you mean!
Yes, he stares. And sees everything. YOU SEE EVERYTHING DO YOU NOT? But he will not answer.
He sees everything?
Yes.
Rot. Everything is too much for anyone to see.
He is not anyone. Believe me, he was made to see (...)
What sort is he? All smug and withered beneath that turban. Is that a turban? YOU THERE! WHAT SORT ARE YOU? Why does he not answer? What sort is he?
It is not a turban.
I am not asking you. HEY! WHY DO YOU STARE SO? Why does he stare so?
He will not answer.
I am not asking you. But what type is he?
He is the type prone to say nothing. He dictates there are no answers, therefore he does not answer. Nor does he question. In fact he does nothing. He IS nothing, and he is nowhere.
Rot! I see him squatting there. I see him grinning beneath his turban.
It is not a turban.
But I see him there and he bothers me!
Of course you see him, he is there to be seen. And he bothers you because he is there to see.
To STARE you mean!
Yes, he stares. And sees everything. YOU SEE EVERYTHING DO YOU NOT? But he will not answer.
He sees everything?
Yes.
Rot. Everything is too much for anyone to see.
He is not anyone. Believe me, he was made to see (...)
LOTS OF DANDRUFF BUT NO ENERGY
No energy.
Lots of dandruff and no energy.
So who'll go first?
To hold me up?
To keep me up?
Who'll go first to shut me up?
For pity sucks.
Shack up with me.
Shoot out with me.
Ransack my tomb and skive off with me (...)
No energy.
Lots of dandruff and no energy.
So who'll go first?
To hold me up?
To keep me up?
Who'll go first to shut me up?
For pity sucks.
Shack up with me.
Shoot out with me.
Ransack my tomb and skive off with me (...)
MANTHING
In a tank filled with a phosphorous fluid, buried in the frozen ground behind a useless mountain, is suspended alive and plotting, itching and cursing, a creature once known wider in the world. This wretched foetus-beast, this wraith, had been in its time a gigolo, a Romeo; a dandy of high notoriety. The punishment, this banishment, was apt, perhaps, and very cruel. The ones who hadn't worshipped Him were jealous, vengeful, cowards and sods; amongst them, three fat officers of the people's common court. Discourteous disappearance! mused half the dames in half the Realm; whilst, abandoned in their husbands' beds, the other half went mad overnight beneath a grief like infanticide.
Now the moon hangs low to illuminate that distant, silent, throbbing place, its resident wide awake: It is escaping!
A woman ignores the dusted gilded mirror in her room, expecting NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING! A gust of wind lifts away the curtain from her view, and the stone walls in her mind are suddenly shattered. The Manthing-thing that dripping ghost has now become is staring up from close beneath; and swiftly rises. To her shock, the Vision rises, to His task, He promptly rises; toward her shivering womb, the Monster rises, rises, rises. Gripping breast, losing leg, she fends a hand before a slathering mouth, then opens wide her own, as like to shout. He crashes down upon her, tearing cloth, bending bone; till she poses for His pleasure, for His rancour, for her life... Till she bursts at last with the glowering sun, some seven hours after.
Investigators ascertain that she (though far from dead) was victim to some atrocious crime. But the lady, dull and silent, voice used up and gone, is hardly present: like Manthing, who is never caught. A trail of broken damsels leads North for a couple of years, whilst murdered men with morals litter hotel corridors. Reporters do not bother, though, with fact and reason why; they build instead upon the Manthing myth: like Him, it will not lye (...)
In a tank filled with a phosphorous fluid, buried in the frozen ground behind a useless mountain, is suspended alive and plotting, itching and cursing, a creature once known wider in the world. This wretched foetus-beast, this wraith, had been in its time a gigolo, a Romeo; a dandy of high notoriety. The punishment, this banishment, was apt, perhaps, and very cruel. The ones who hadn't worshipped Him were jealous, vengeful, cowards and sods; amongst them, three fat officers of the people's common court. Discourteous disappearance! mused half the dames in half the Realm; whilst, abandoned in their husbands' beds, the other half went mad overnight beneath a grief like infanticide.
Now the moon hangs low to illuminate that distant, silent, throbbing place, its resident wide awake: It is escaping!
A woman ignores the dusted gilded mirror in her room, expecting NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING! A gust of wind lifts away the curtain from her view, and the stone walls in her mind are suddenly shattered. The Manthing-thing that dripping ghost has now become is staring up from close beneath; and swiftly rises. To her shock, the Vision rises, to His task, He promptly rises; toward her shivering womb, the Monster rises, rises, rises. Gripping breast, losing leg, she fends a hand before a slathering mouth, then opens wide her own, as like to shout. He crashes down upon her, tearing cloth, bending bone; till she poses for His pleasure, for His rancour, for her life... Till she bursts at last with the glowering sun, some seven hours after.
Investigators ascertain that she (though far from dead) was victim to some atrocious crime. But the lady, dull and silent, voice used up and gone, is hardly present: like Manthing, who is never caught. A trail of broken damsels leads North for a couple of years, whilst murdered men with morals litter hotel corridors. Reporters do not bother, though, with fact and reason why; they build instead upon the Manthing myth: like Him, it will not lye (...)
A MAN REMEMBERS HE IS MADE OF DUSTY GUTS & SALT & THUMPING BLOOD & WONDERS NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME IF THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE
He walks down a long corridor.
Doors closed on either side.
Noises are made behind the doors.
Someone approaches.
God's daughter?
A sickening monster?
Then, no more doors.
There is no noise.
No feel of carpet underfoot.
It is a boy approaching.
A distant light puts him in silhouette.
It is a difficult thing to see him.
Soon, a thin man.
At the end of the corridor he halts at a mirror.
It is a mirrored door, for there is a door-handle.
The door-handle is easier to look at than the thin man.
And look at it he does, he does (...)
He walks down a long corridor.
Doors closed on either side.
Noises are made behind the doors.
Someone approaches.
God's daughter?
A sickening monster?
Then, no more doors.
There is no noise.
No feel of carpet underfoot.
It is a boy approaching.
A distant light puts him in silhouette.
It is a difficult thing to see him.
Soon, a thin man.
At the end of the corridor he halts at a mirror.
It is a mirrored door, for there is a door-handle.
The door-handle is easier to look at than the thin man.
And look at it he does, he does (...)
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT BREATHE
A man half way through his life is asked by his wife if he loves her. He cannot answer. He does not know the answer, even though she demands to know it. All he can say is
“I would die before you now if you want it. Do you want it?”
And now she cannot answer, even though he demands to know it.
“I will hold my breath until you answer,”
says he, and he does so.
And still she does not answer. She cannot answer, is afraid to dwell on the subject, so changes the subject to another. Something mundane, she says, and he agrees, or disagrees, with words, or without; and ten years pass without him taking a breath of air, inwards or otherwise.
On some anniversary she says to him,
“Years ago you died for me, I know it now. Was that because you loved me or because you didn’t?”
“I could not say,”
says he with a sigh. A deep deep sigh stuffed with oxygen and smoke, for he breathes again.
“I could not say then; I can hardly say now. I thought long and hard, and believed I would never know the answer." (...)
A man half way through his life is asked by his wife if he loves her. He cannot answer. He does not know the answer, even though she demands to know it. All he can say is
“I would die before you now if you want it. Do you want it?”
And now she cannot answer, even though he demands to know it.
“I will hold my breath until you answer,”
says he, and he does so.
And still she does not answer. She cannot answer, is afraid to dwell on the subject, so changes the subject to another. Something mundane, she says, and he agrees, or disagrees, with words, or without; and ten years pass without him taking a breath of air, inwards or otherwise.
On some anniversary she says to him,
“Years ago you died for me, I know it now. Was that because you loved me or because you didn’t?”
“I could not say,”
says he with a sigh. A deep deep sigh stuffed with oxygen and smoke, for he breathes again.
“I could not say then; I can hardly say now. I thought long and hard, and believed I would never know the answer." (...)
MIRAGE
There, far off,
But closer than they suspect,
Is a shovel of people caught in a landscape.
They do not know one another;
They see one another, but do not speak.
A shiver is shared among them.
Large faces framed in a pond-oval sky,
Beneath glass clouds.
Soon they will peer through funnel-shaped windows.
Birds fly in rock as fish swim in sand.
Hard fruit is prized.
Claws are deep buried.
There is then, no fear;
For nothing shifts in the turquoise sea overhead.
Yet all eyes are raised.
Hollow sounds erupt from the crack.
The earth is split,
Her eggs must hatch! (...)
There, far off,
But closer than they suspect,
Is a shovel of people caught in a landscape.
They do not know one another;
They see one another, but do not speak.
A shiver is shared among them.
Large faces framed in a pond-oval sky,
Beneath glass clouds.
Soon they will peer through funnel-shaped windows.
Birds fly in rock as fish swim in sand.
Hard fruit is prized.
Claws are deep buried.
There is then, no fear;
For nothing shifts in the turquoise sea overhead.
Yet all eyes are raised.
Hollow sounds erupt from the crack.
The earth is split,
Her eggs must hatch! (...)
THE MISSIONARY
It is rumoured
that in a cave behind a village in Africa
dwells a shining wild savage.
Occasionally a goat will go missing
or a dog
or a cow
or a villager.
It is said that when the moon is slight
and all the land dark
he creeps out
to gather sleeping vines
from which he produces tough snares
which are discovered
from time to time
by locals
who cross themselves
and mumble weak prayers of protection
(the locals are Christians).
At the back of that cave
is a secret tunnel
which leads to a deeper cave
not gloomy or tight like the first
rather shimmering
and high as any church (...)
It is rumoured
that in a cave behind a village in Africa
dwells a shining wild savage.
Occasionally a goat will go missing
or a dog
or a cow
or a villager.
It is said that when the moon is slight
and all the land dark
he creeps out
to gather sleeping vines
from which he produces tough snares
which are discovered
from time to time
by locals
who cross themselves
and mumble weak prayers of protection
(the locals are Christians).
At the back of that cave
is a secret tunnel
which leads to a deeper cave
not gloomy or tight like the first
rather shimmering
and high as any church (...)
MISTRESS MOON
Where hollow hills join sordid seas
And vapours rise as venoms splash
And salt-sick fish collide in froth
To dash their brains 'twixt rock and bone
Or drown in honeyed pools of tar
Where pale birds flock to madly sup
'Tween blasted sheets of storm-whipped spuck
Thrown off that craggy southern mount
Late shunned by Mistress Moon who clings
'Neath shrouds of winter fog so dense
'Neath season's shadow cast so long
'Neath endless foreign nights so chill
That no sane beast adores yon place (...)
Where hollow hills join sordid seas
And vapours rise as venoms splash
And salt-sick fish collide in froth
To dash their brains 'twixt rock and bone
Or drown in honeyed pools of tar
Where pale birds flock to madly sup
'Tween blasted sheets of storm-whipped spuck
Thrown off that craggy southern mount
Late shunned by Mistress Moon who clings
'Neath shrouds of winter fog so dense
'Neath season's shadow cast so long
'Neath endless foreign nights so chill
That no sane beast adores yon place (...)
MURDER POEM
take his cover and cover her over
cover it up, cover it over
use his lies and mask them over
cover them up and cover them over
too much peace suffered too much sober
cover it up or cover it over
too much sense and not enough murder
cover her up then cover her over
crawl out sideways, sink in further
cover it up, cover it over
trust in god to lash the server
cover me up, lord, cover me over!
"I don't understand it," said Alice with a frown.
"Of course not," said the Murderer with a wink. "It was not written for YOU to understand."
"Fiddlesticks, bother and buttocks!" tutted Alice (...)
take his cover and cover her over
cover it up, cover it over
use his lies and mask them over
cover them up and cover them over
too much peace suffered too much sober
cover it up or cover it over
too much sense and not enough murder
cover her up then cover her over
crawl out sideways, sink in further
cover it up, cover it over
trust in god to lash the server
cover me up, lord, cover me over!
"I don't understand it," said Alice with a frown.
"Of course not," said the Murderer with a wink. "It was not written for YOU to understand."
"Fiddlesticks, bother and buttocks!" tutted Alice (...)
MY FIRST POEM
1. For all the rock-veined spunk-stained
2. thrusts and schemes of a blind-alley lust
3. that screams from that time
4. from that drowning Valentine
5. slowly choked out of reason
6. (...)
7. t'was amateur treason
8. ill-dressed for each season
9. embarrassing even
10. with pride swallowed whole
11. down to quivering soul
12. then wrenched up with beer
13. and gobbed into ears of unwilling
14. but steadfastly silent young women (...)
1. For all the rock-veined spunk-stained
2. thrusts and schemes of a blind-alley lust
3. that screams from that time
4. from that drowning Valentine
5. slowly choked out of reason
6. (...)
7. t'was amateur treason
8. ill-dressed for each season
9. embarrassing even
10. with pride swallowed whole
11. down to quivering soul
12. then wrenched up with beer
13. and gobbed into ears of unwilling
14. but steadfastly silent young women (...)
NOTE ON BLUE PAPER
Emotionless still, he continued his faint-hearted search for passion in the heat, welcome and feared, of another new summer. Through this motionless summer he meandered and searched, till a teething amount of it, passion that is, was splashed upon him by a passing washer-upper-cum-pastry-roller in a passing German-Brazilian restaurant.
He stiffened, then ducked to catch a hint of it. He softened, then ducked again.
For she was smaller than a woman and his own neck was extraordinarily long. He cowered, and kissed, and bit out both tongues. She, mild like her mother, fluidly smiled and dribbled and ran with bare hands a-plundering about his docile hair and skin. They thrashed intelligently for a longish while, in his hole or one of hers, and bothered reluctantly to do it more often. Confirming the attempt on both their lives, they troubled to do it more often. They worried alone, and as some kind of pair, but suffered to do it more often. And, almost as shocking as that: more often than not it came off.
His method, defensive perhaps, but cripplingly clever, was to imagine himself high in a body in one of his dreams, and filled to the teeth with one of hers.
Her method, or whether she had one at all, he never imagined. He never considered nor guessed (...)
Emotionless still, he continued his faint-hearted search for passion in the heat, welcome and feared, of another new summer. Through this motionless summer he meandered and searched, till a teething amount of it, passion that is, was splashed upon him by a passing washer-upper-cum-pastry-roller in a passing German-Brazilian restaurant.
He stiffened, then ducked to catch a hint of it. He softened, then ducked again.
For she was smaller than a woman and his own neck was extraordinarily long. He cowered, and kissed, and bit out both tongues. She, mild like her mother, fluidly smiled and dribbled and ran with bare hands a-plundering about his docile hair and skin. They thrashed intelligently for a longish while, in his hole or one of hers, and bothered reluctantly to do it more often. Confirming the attempt on both their lives, they troubled to do it more often. They worried alone, and as some kind of pair, but suffered to do it more often. And, almost as shocking as that: more often than not it came off.
His method, defensive perhaps, but cripplingly clever, was to imagine himself high in a body in one of his dreams, and filled to the teeth with one of hers.
Her method, or whether she had one at all, he never imagined. He never considered nor guessed (...)
NOTE ON BROWN PAPER
Each day it took three days to warm the room. On the first day of each day he remained in bed too cold to move. Too cold to shiver. Too cold to eat foil-wrapped pizza. On the second day of each day, his remains collected some dust and a bucket of wet coal from under the house and pretended to kindle a fire. Startled by the cackling flames, his remaining remains would retreat into the gap between the sink tiles and the clapped out oven. On the third day of each day, too tired to eat foil-wrapped pizza, he dozed, then finally set off for work. At work, he did nothing but thaw his spine in the large microwave oven, and eat his paints. At curfew time he would set off, exhausted but alive, on the journey to somebody's home. Anybody's home, but his own. At that place he would sup warm tea and cook parts of himself on a grate. Speaking recklessly at chairs, he would inevitably, to the best of his ability, skill-lessly postpone another journey to somebody else's home. Inflating and deflating himself in the manner to which his hosts had grown accustomed, he would take the opportunity, whether it arose or not, to clean himself with thanks, feed himself with chocolate eggs, stretch himself, prostrate himself, and occasionally copulate. Eventually, towards the start of the following three days, he would excuse himself, relieve himself, and plod off some place. He would disengage successfully, grimacing pathetically, and sod off. Thus, dead-beat, breathless and bitter, apologising through shivers, he would at last piss off (...)
Each day it took three days to warm the room. On the first day of each day he remained in bed too cold to move. Too cold to shiver. Too cold to eat foil-wrapped pizza. On the second day of each day, his remains collected some dust and a bucket of wet coal from under the house and pretended to kindle a fire. Startled by the cackling flames, his remaining remains would retreat into the gap between the sink tiles and the clapped out oven. On the third day of each day, too tired to eat foil-wrapped pizza, he dozed, then finally set off for work. At work, he did nothing but thaw his spine in the large microwave oven, and eat his paints. At curfew time he would set off, exhausted but alive, on the journey to somebody's home. Anybody's home, but his own. At that place he would sup warm tea and cook parts of himself on a grate. Speaking recklessly at chairs, he would inevitably, to the best of his ability, skill-lessly postpone another journey to somebody else's home. Inflating and deflating himself in the manner to which his hosts had grown accustomed, he would take the opportunity, whether it arose or not, to clean himself with thanks, feed himself with chocolate eggs, stretch himself, prostrate himself, and occasionally copulate. Eventually, towards the start of the following three days, he would excuse himself, relieve himself, and plod off some place. He would disengage successfully, grimacing pathetically, and sod off. Thus, dead-beat, breathless and bitter, apologising through shivers, he would at last piss off (...)
ONE THOUSAND AND ONE WAYS TO BECOME A FASHIONABLE ARTIST
(Notes) At a gruesomely historic benefits party thrown up at Culture Castle, a shirtless, ticketless, legless young Noname is doomed to spurt unto the universe a boggling picture of itself never before imagined - knocked out in cheap oils, signed across its breadth, crammed into a handy frame...
On his journey to the great unveiling the future master of Artyfarty World would meet two mates; one in a dirty great limo, one in a dirty great pit.
But way back there in the beginning, in his weedy hovel beneath Waterloo Railway Station, Noname's existence was suspected only among his two enormous brothers, Bigbeard Hammer and Littlebeard Sneak. Risen from the urban bog, these towering symbols of Ego and Bull were irresistible to stick-shaped women and bendy, oily, voyeuristic men. Both were ugly and mad as the hats they wore. Corrupt, ruthless and inseparable, but above all fashionable, they were the original Wonderlads. And praise the King and Jesus, his destiny at last over-filled, Noname would be the last (...)
(Notes) At a gruesomely historic benefits party thrown up at Culture Castle, a shirtless, ticketless, legless young Noname is doomed to spurt unto the universe a boggling picture of itself never before imagined - knocked out in cheap oils, signed across its breadth, crammed into a handy frame...
On his journey to the great unveiling the future master of Artyfarty World would meet two mates; one in a dirty great limo, one in a dirty great pit.
But way back there in the beginning, in his weedy hovel beneath Waterloo Railway Station, Noname's existence was suspected only among his two enormous brothers, Bigbeard Hammer and Littlebeard Sneak. Risen from the urban bog, these towering symbols of Ego and Bull were irresistible to stick-shaped women and bendy, oily, voyeuristic men. Both were ugly and mad as the hats they wore. Corrupt, ruthless and inseparable, but above all fashionable, they were the original Wonderlads. And praise the King and Jesus, his destiny at last over-filled, Noname would be the last (...)
OUT OF THE HOLE AND INTO THE FRIDGE
Come, Ye, out into the rich world!
Come out!
Come out!
Come, Ye of little fat, come out of yer hole!
Come out!
(Second verse)
Open big yer eyes, roll forth yer tongue
And yer sleeves, right up to yer tangled-shaven arm-pits
Slap yerself hard awake
And prepare for the gruesome second coming!
Ignore the peppered glass
The fabulous bunting
The perfect silhouette
Without an edge
The clam that stinks
The dirty slice
While the maniac clock with its second-hand joke (...)
Come, Ye, out into the rich world!
Come out!
Come out!
Come, Ye of little fat, come out of yer hole!
Come out!
(Second verse)
Open big yer eyes, roll forth yer tongue
And yer sleeves, right up to yer tangled-shaven arm-pits
Slap yerself hard awake
And prepare for the gruesome second coming!
Ignore the peppered glass
The fabulous bunting
The perfect silhouette
Without an edge
The clam that stinks
The dirty slice
While the maniac clock with its second-hand joke (...)
PET SHOP
The meanest hour. Chill wind finally defeated. In all senseless dullness, a pet shop window and its contents blankly examined. Plastic brass cages. Plastic wicker baskets. Plastic wooden hutch. Freak show props. Haunted kennels, silhouette bones. Glass rubble fish-tank, razor-blade fish. Death camp rodents huddled like friends, and a scorpion driven schizophrenic by a shorting neon. The arse of a bunny. Something the reptile refused to eat. In the spotlight, tonight's special: six mongrel kittens, the littlest no longer shivering. Back there in the half-dark, the skin-trade counter, brooding through massive, guilty oak. From a room beyond its shadow, now: the croak of a nightmaring bird of paradise.
Altogether a wakeful cast.
Other eyes, savage and vague, no longer scrutinise. Lose focus.
Reflected black in black black glass.
The rope-noose halo of a shirt collar.
In contrast, next door is brightly lit with closing time. Crumpled beer cans expelled by an Asian ghost in overalls. He flicks, flicks, flicks habitually at new indelible stains. Radio noise, relentless, is mixed with the troubling stench of wasted food.
Drifted away. Swallowed down hunger and drifted away.
Twinned doorways, cracked paint. Cracked windows, cracked street numbers. Two posters freshly soaked in rain glue. A pair of sleeping men, slumped down faceless. They sleep as they live, without dreams (...)
The meanest hour. Chill wind finally defeated. In all senseless dullness, a pet shop window and its contents blankly examined. Plastic brass cages. Plastic wicker baskets. Plastic wooden hutch. Freak show props. Haunted kennels, silhouette bones. Glass rubble fish-tank, razor-blade fish. Death camp rodents huddled like friends, and a scorpion driven schizophrenic by a shorting neon. The arse of a bunny. Something the reptile refused to eat. In the spotlight, tonight's special: six mongrel kittens, the littlest no longer shivering. Back there in the half-dark, the skin-trade counter, brooding through massive, guilty oak. From a room beyond its shadow, now: the croak of a nightmaring bird of paradise.
Altogether a wakeful cast.
Other eyes, savage and vague, no longer scrutinise. Lose focus.
Reflected black in black black glass.
The rope-noose halo of a shirt collar.
In contrast, next door is brightly lit with closing time. Crumpled beer cans expelled by an Asian ghost in overalls. He flicks, flicks, flicks habitually at new indelible stains. Radio noise, relentless, is mixed with the troubling stench of wasted food.
Drifted away. Swallowed down hunger and drifted away.
Twinned doorways, cracked paint. Cracked windows, cracked street numbers. Two posters freshly soaked in rain glue. A pair of sleeping men, slumped down faceless. They sleep as they live, without dreams (...)
PILLOW DAMP
LOCKED WITHIN THE BED-STUFFED DAY
LIES ADAM WITH EVE, IN JAIL
BUT THE ROOF DOES SHAKE A-SUNDER!
AND THE ROOF DOES FALL A-SUNDER!
BE NO LID TO CONTAIN THEIR JOY
IT SPREADS AND ROLLS WITHOUT
THAT SLEEPING ROOM, COMBUST-ING!
THAT TINDER-BOX, IGNIT-ING!
SPINNING THROUGH THE BURNING AIR
THEIR PRAYERS DIVIDE THE FOG
A FEVER, NOW, A-MONG THEM!
A HATRED, NOW, U-PON THEM!
LEAKING THROUGH THE ASHEN SHROUD
SMOKING THROUGH THE KNOT
EVE, SHE LEFT THE PILLOW DAMP (...)
LOCKED WITHIN THE BED-STUFFED DAY
LIES ADAM WITH EVE, IN JAIL
BUT THE ROOF DOES SHAKE A-SUNDER!
AND THE ROOF DOES FALL A-SUNDER!
BE NO LID TO CONTAIN THEIR JOY
IT SPREADS AND ROLLS WITHOUT
THAT SLEEPING ROOM, COMBUST-ING!
THAT TINDER-BOX, IGNIT-ING!
SPINNING THROUGH THE BURNING AIR
THEIR PRAYERS DIVIDE THE FOG
A FEVER, NOW, A-MONG THEM!
A HATRED, NOW, U-PON THEM!
LEAKING THROUGH THE ASHEN SHROUD
SMOKING THROUGH THE KNOT
EVE, SHE LEFT THE PILLOW DAMP (...)
THE POINT
To get back to the point...
Yes, let us get back to the point.
They rambled off in different directions and slowly arrived at the point.
Together again they studied the landscape. What there was of it.
He said: "I can't see over the horizon."
She said: "Look the other way."
He turned a full hundred and eighty degrees. And saw nothing. He turned a blind eye. And then turned on himself:
"Damn my senses, I see nothing!"
She said: "Move over."
He moved over.
"Do you see now?" she enquired from somewhere above. He felt, then, her hand on his shoulder.
"Yes. Perfectly well. I can see the whole earth. At least, I see a mound of earth and a very deep hole. I see who weeps at the bottom of the hole (...) and I see what is crouched on the mound.
"But," he conceded again, "I can't see past the horizon."
"You are not looking with the correct organ."
This puzzled him for a moment or more. He sighed, hauling himself onto an elbow.
"If I look this way (...) I can see our home."
"Your home."
"And if I look this way (...) I see us again as lovers under the old sun."
"You only see you."
"And when I look back there (...) I see all that is to come. That is, I see all I deserve."
"Look further."
"But when I look beyond (...)"
"Here, use this." (...)
To get back to the point...
Yes, let us get back to the point.
They rambled off in different directions and slowly arrived at the point.
Together again they studied the landscape. What there was of it.
He said: "I can't see over the horizon."
She said: "Look the other way."
He turned a full hundred and eighty degrees. And saw nothing. He turned a blind eye. And then turned on himself:
"Damn my senses, I see nothing!"
She said: "Move over."
He moved over.
"Do you see now?" she enquired from somewhere above. He felt, then, her hand on his shoulder.
"Yes. Perfectly well. I can see the whole earth. At least, I see a mound of earth and a very deep hole. I see who weeps at the bottom of the hole (...) and I see what is crouched on the mound.
"But," he conceded again, "I can't see past the horizon."
"You are not looking with the correct organ."
This puzzled him for a moment or more. He sighed, hauling himself onto an elbow.
"If I look this way (...) I can see our home."
"Your home."
"And if I look this way (...) I see us again as lovers under the old sun."
"You only see you."
"And when I look back there (...) I see all that is to come. That is, I see all I deserve."
"Look further."
"But when I look beyond (...)"
"Here, use this." (...)
POINT OF IMPACT
tik tik tik tik tik tik tik!
Two ancient typewriters, a black Optima and a blacker Mercades, collide to result in the following recipe:
The south facing wall of a dust filled cathedral topples outwards to crush a dozen plastic flowers deep into the earth from whence they long ago sprang. The earth, therefore, is flat. These conditions met, tubes of acrylic paint are boiled and squeezed onto a map of foreign parts. Ash is sprinkled over. Typewriters with dice for keys (red) are buried in ash. Pompeii is buried next in typewriters. (Who has not written of Pompeii? Of bony strangled sex and corroded keys?) One key fits the metal box, which is filled with Hungarian foot powder, or better still, fine gold pigment powder. Turn the key. Open the box.
wak wak wak wak wak wak wak!
Pee in the box. Mix a paste and spread the contents, like gold icing, over the length of the Earth. The shell will harden. Use the meat grinder. Turn its handle to churn postcards from the Fantastic Isle into postcard dust. Scatter thousands of leaflets across any old map, to the farthest borders of the new homeland. At the Black Sea, take the image, faded by now to grey, of a babe bobbing like a sponge on waves; and let it go. Just let it drift. Light twelve Tibetan incense sticks, each for a saint, fragrant and inexpensive, hand made in silence by Nepalese children. Consider your personal inventory of worldly goods. Smoke a cigarette and steal a potter's wheel. Climb onto a balcony. Dunk lilac flowers in Trendfrisur hair gel (wet look) or marmite. Before exhaustion takes a grip, dip your bendy plastic ribcage in Best London Vinegar, one rib at a time. Roll them in the flakes of gold. Push the resulting mass deep, deep, deep into the garden earth at the rear of the cathedral. Leave them as long as you are able. Do not pick at them (...)
tik tik tik tik tik tik tik!
Two ancient typewriters, a black Optima and a blacker Mercades, collide to result in the following recipe:
The south facing wall of a dust filled cathedral topples outwards to crush a dozen plastic flowers deep into the earth from whence they long ago sprang. The earth, therefore, is flat. These conditions met, tubes of acrylic paint are boiled and squeezed onto a map of foreign parts. Ash is sprinkled over. Typewriters with dice for keys (red) are buried in ash. Pompeii is buried next in typewriters. (Who has not written of Pompeii? Of bony strangled sex and corroded keys?) One key fits the metal box, which is filled with Hungarian foot powder, or better still, fine gold pigment powder. Turn the key. Open the box.
wak wak wak wak wak wak wak!
Pee in the box. Mix a paste and spread the contents, like gold icing, over the length of the Earth. The shell will harden. Use the meat grinder. Turn its handle to churn postcards from the Fantastic Isle into postcard dust. Scatter thousands of leaflets across any old map, to the farthest borders of the new homeland. At the Black Sea, take the image, faded by now to grey, of a babe bobbing like a sponge on waves; and let it go. Just let it drift. Light twelve Tibetan incense sticks, each for a saint, fragrant and inexpensive, hand made in silence by Nepalese children. Consider your personal inventory of worldly goods. Smoke a cigarette and steal a potter's wheel. Climb onto a balcony. Dunk lilac flowers in Trendfrisur hair gel (wet look) or marmite. Before exhaustion takes a grip, dip your bendy plastic ribcage in Best London Vinegar, one rib at a time. Roll them in the flakes of gold. Push the resulting mass deep, deep, deep into the garden earth at the rear of the cathedral. Leave them as long as you are able. Do not pick at them (...)
(PRAYER)
gold FAR thread CATCH weak cover alone voice touch open
find clutch keep between hot BREATHE all care stroke hum
thin ride fall longish WALK naked field loud no word hush drop
TROUBLE sleep ravish dig deeply bones daylight FISH laugh HEART
SKIP shrink prick go sea STORM cliff bird grin wall
(prayer) hold scribble draw curtain protect forget NOT EAT defy
purple blanket PIANO soothe tight hair skirt NAME (lay beneath)
tomorrow away against look come fruit slowly silent stone cometh (...)
gold FAR thread CATCH weak cover alone voice touch open
find clutch keep between hot BREATHE all care stroke hum
thin ride fall longish WALK naked field loud no word hush drop
TROUBLE sleep ravish dig deeply bones daylight FISH laugh HEART
SKIP shrink prick go sea STORM cliff bird grin wall
(prayer) hold scribble draw curtain protect forget NOT EAT defy
purple blanket PIANO soothe tight hair skirt NAME (lay beneath)
tomorrow away against look come fruit slowly silent stone cometh (...)
RIB CAGE
INTO HER RIB CAGE
THE PHRASES HE TOSSED
THEY SANK TO HER BELLY
UNSUFFERED AND LOST
INTO HER VACUUM
HE AIMLESSLY THRUST
THE BLUNT OF HIS SENTENCE
THE EDGE OF HIS LUST
HE CUT OUT HER SILENCE
AND CREPT PASSED HER STARE
BUT FALTERED ON PURPOSE
TO FALL THROUGH HER HAIR
HE CRAWLED TO THE WINDOW
(SHE NOTICED HIM FADE)
HE PULLED BACK HIS EYE-LID
THE BED WAS UNMADE (...)
INTO HER RIB CAGE
THE PHRASES HE TOSSED
THEY SANK TO HER BELLY
UNSUFFERED AND LOST
INTO HER VACUUM
HE AIMLESSLY THRUST
THE BLUNT OF HIS SENTENCE
THE EDGE OF HIS LUST
HE CUT OUT HER SILENCE
AND CREPT PASSED HER STARE
BUT FALTERED ON PURPOSE
TO FALL THROUGH HER HAIR
HE CRAWLED TO THE WINDOW
(SHE NOTICED HIM FADE)
HE PULLED BACK HIS EYE-LID
THE BED WAS UNMADE (...)
SCARECROW
man cannot live from bread alone
if you feed rats for seventy-five years only with bread and water they will eventually die
in france the potato crops still suffer from the destructive beetle the allies dropped over germany during world war II
if you collect these beetles in jars, burn them alive and spread their ashes over an affected crop, the beetles numbers will be greatly reduced in the next season
the only type of scarecrow to enjoy continuing success in combating the destruction to crops caused by any type of pest is a living scarecrow
a living scarecrow fed on bread and water alone will live for exactly seventy-five years
dead scarecrows are content with their lot
living scarecrows do not enjoy rats, beetles or crows; nor do they enjoy being placed in fields to deal with rats, beetles and crows for a working life of exactly seventy-five years
to tell the difference between a living scarecrow and a dead scarecrow, persuade the living scarecrow to betray the dead scarecrow, or vice-versa
dead scarecrows keep secrets better than living ones
crows enjoy beetles but do not eat their ashes
rats enjoy beetles but prefer to eat old cardboard which has a lower nutritional content but tastes better
rats also eat scarecrows, but will only tackle living scarecrows in large numbers (...)
man cannot live from bread alone
if you feed rats for seventy-five years only with bread and water they will eventually die
in france the potato crops still suffer from the destructive beetle the allies dropped over germany during world war II
if you collect these beetles in jars, burn them alive and spread their ashes over an affected crop, the beetles numbers will be greatly reduced in the next season
the only type of scarecrow to enjoy continuing success in combating the destruction to crops caused by any type of pest is a living scarecrow
a living scarecrow fed on bread and water alone will live for exactly seventy-five years
dead scarecrows are content with their lot
living scarecrows do not enjoy rats, beetles or crows; nor do they enjoy being placed in fields to deal with rats, beetles and crows for a working life of exactly seventy-five years
to tell the difference between a living scarecrow and a dead scarecrow, persuade the living scarecrow to betray the dead scarecrow, or vice-versa
dead scarecrows keep secrets better than living ones
crows enjoy beetles but do not eat their ashes
rats enjoy beetles but prefer to eat old cardboard which has a lower nutritional content but tastes better
rats also eat scarecrows, but will only tackle living scarecrows in large numbers (...)
SCARY STORY
ticking
ticking clock
shadows
long shadows deep
deep with sorrow
sorrow yet to come
ticking
ticking clocks
amid shadows
your own long shadow
frozen till the 'morrow
your sorrows upon you
open the dusty windowed doors
step onto the balcony
lean over the edge
the rotten edge
and look down
look down (...)
ticking
ticking clock
shadows
long shadows deep
deep with sorrow
sorrow yet to come
ticking
ticking clocks
amid shadows
your own long shadow
frozen till the 'morrow
your sorrows upon you
open the dusty windowed doors
step onto the balcony
lean over the edge
the rotten edge
and look down
look down (...)
SITCOM
He lit the candles, bolted the doors, then opened the windows wide. Leaning within the frame of one, he smoked two cigarettes. Sighing, he lost himself to the din of the traffic, to the wind in the trees. He ate a little necessity, then collapsed on the bed, well pleased with himself after all. Over the previous working month he had loved and saved, or murdered away, the saddest people he knew. He had beaten the laziest, and strung up with ropes the most blatant on Telecom poles. He had urged on those with potential - they had listened and improved - and halted the most ridiculous in their tracks. He had coaxed and chopped, caressed and edited, until at last he had bent the characters of every person he had ever known to suit his purpose.
Spurred on by these successes, he would tomorrow, before lunch, bend the characters of all the people left in the world he did not know. Ultimately, he would turn the face of the world to a new side. Perhaps, to its better side. Before embarkation upon the task, during those years he still recalled, he had lived above all as an advertising man, pushing this and that into the lives of all the men and women he ever met, and millions more besides. In this, he had been effective too. He had methodically collected worldly goods, and been happy enough in his own eyes. He had enjoyed people generally (his key to success) and jealously adored half a dozen people in particular. He had been, in some minor way, a drug-abuser, a fact which had upset only others. Neither his brain nor his health were faulty, and all his organs were yet his own (...)
He lit the candles, bolted the doors, then opened the windows wide. Leaning within the frame of one, he smoked two cigarettes. Sighing, he lost himself to the din of the traffic, to the wind in the trees. He ate a little necessity, then collapsed on the bed, well pleased with himself after all. Over the previous working month he had loved and saved, or murdered away, the saddest people he knew. He had beaten the laziest, and strung up with ropes the most blatant on Telecom poles. He had urged on those with potential - they had listened and improved - and halted the most ridiculous in their tracks. He had coaxed and chopped, caressed and edited, until at last he had bent the characters of every person he had ever known to suit his purpose.
Spurred on by these successes, he would tomorrow, before lunch, bend the characters of all the people left in the world he did not know. Ultimately, he would turn the face of the world to a new side. Perhaps, to its better side. Before embarkation upon the task, during those years he still recalled, he had lived above all as an advertising man, pushing this and that into the lives of all the men and women he ever met, and millions more besides. In this, he had been effective too. He had methodically collected worldly goods, and been happy enough in his own eyes. He had enjoyed people generally (his key to success) and jealously adored half a dozen people in particular. He had been, in some minor way, a drug-abuser, a fact which had upset only others. Neither his brain nor his health were faulty, and all his organs were yet his own (...)
SOFA SPONGE
Sat pleasantly clenched-up and cross-legged with alternating urges to urinate and expel rising panic bile. Warm beer bottle frozen in grip. Pushed through a cigarette burn-hole, deep into the dry sponge filling of my favourite doctor's Sofa of Therapeutic Conversation, Sympathy and Consolation. It might have been Apathetic Consternation, Flatulence and Resignation but the moon was high and it made little difference. Like myself, it was tightly upholstered in genuine chameleon-hide. In broad daylight it served as just another itchy and stinking bonking sofa, upholstered in nasty green corduroy. In those carefree, semi-squatting days, I had no sofa of my own to sit within, so I sat often within this one. For, at the end of our last bout of wound-diving, my friend The Specialist had generously demanded a return match. Stretching generosity to the limit, he had also invited a horde of his lip-flapping case studies, on the pretext that something note-worthy was about to happen to the planet's karma. Everyone believed it. Various theories had dominated the evening news. For myself, I was convinced I would lose four inches of height from just above the nose, either due to a crashing helicopter, or, with better luck, during emergency remedial surgery. We discussed ourselves through a nicotine smokescreen till the weirdos arrived on the stroke of midnight. After ten minutes of respectful dead silence, the doctor unlocked a large first-aid-cabinet-cum-Sony-entertainments-centre, and distributed its liquid contents. Those who recognised the host easily loved him. He was endlessly knowledgeable and eloquent on many unfathomable topics (...)
Sat pleasantly clenched-up and cross-legged with alternating urges to urinate and expel rising panic bile. Warm beer bottle frozen in grip. Pushed through a cigarette burn-hole, deep into the dry sponge filling of my favourite doctor's Sofa of Therapeutic Conversation, Sympathy and Consolation. It might have been Apathetic Consternation, Flatulence and Resignation but the moon was high and it made little difference. Like myself, it was tightly upholstered in genuine chameleon-hide. In broad daylight it served as just another itchy and stinking bonking sofa, upholstered in nasty green corduroy. In those carefree, semi-squatting days, I had no sofa of my own to sit within, so I sat often within this one. For, at the end of our last bout of wound-diving, my friend The Specialist had generously demanded a return match. Stretching generosity to the limit, he had also invited a horde of his lip-flapping case studies, on the pretext that something note-worthy was about to happen to the planet's karma. Everyone believed it. Various theories had dominated the evening news. For myself, I was convinced I would lose four inches of height from just above the nose, either due to a crashing helicopter, or, with better luck, during emergency remedial surgery. We discussed ourselves through a nicotine smokescreen till the weirdos arrived on the stroke of midnight. After ten minutes of respectful dead silence, the doctor unlocked a large first-aid-cabinet-cum-Sony-entertainments-centre, and distributed its liquid contents. Those who recognised the host easily loved him. He was endlessly knowledgeable and eloquent on many unfathomable topics (...)
SPANISH DOG SONG
Sing along:
Caverns and mountains with caverns and ditches and dirt roads with ditches through mountains and fast flowing streams of undrinkable water.
Hours and hours and hours. All spent.
Dogs and more dogs chained to a stone. Or a stump.
On a hill behind a village crumbling under candy wrappers.
A dark silhouette: a tent.
Under cruel, warm stars.
Wicked and kind.
Way off up there, with the master.
Meat and clean water.
All the horse meat and salt meat and dog meat in Spain.
Fuck-magazines and fag packets and mud-rain flowing into the south.
Farmers in their rubbish-tip fields. Drunken in open trucks.
Tin buckets, and a hundred radio stations playing four songs.
Songs of Spain.
Dog pain (...)
Sing along:
Caverns and mountains with caverns and ditches and dirt roads with ditches through mountains and fast flowing streams of undrinkable water.
Hours and hours and hours. All spent.
Dogs and more dogs chained to a stone. Or a stump.
On a hill behind a village crumbling under candy wrappers.
A dark silhouette: a tent.
Under cruel, warm stars.
Wicked and kind.
Way off up there, with the master.
Meat and clean water.
All the horse meat and salt meat and dog meat in Spain.
Fuck-magazines and fag packets and mud-rain flowing into the south.
Farmers in their rubbish-tip fields. Drunken in open trucks.
Tin buckets, and a hundred radio stations playing four songs.
Songs of Spain.
Dog pain (...)
THE SPY
A man in a room in shirt sleeves wears no trousers whilst radio jingles destroy the air from the flat next door. A sneeze from below and a woman calls out for him to move to the balcony, which he does. On the balcony he leans into the wind and watches events at the tram stop in the street beneath. Soaked and dripping, he returns to sit by a lamp inside, but the lamp inside is broken. So in the dark he lights a match and lights a candle, too. When the telephone rings, it rings once and stops, upon which the man folds his arms and watches a clock for some time to come. Then he looks into the dressing cabinet mirror at the reflection of his features, and the clock ticks on with a concrete purpose...
Thump! From next door someone loudly laughs, and he rises to peer through the wall with his special double-vision x-ray eye-balls. Clearly the world is not well without, and he shakes his head in dissatisfaction. After a time he nods off, hands clasped as if in prayer.
While he dozes, he is spied upon from a high corner of the room.
The man starts awake as the door-bell buzzes, then sits and listens before rising and entering the hallway to open the door, which he never opens to foreigners.
The watching spy seems neither surprised nor bored by these events.
The flat is entered by a new man who wears a dripping coat and scarf, while that radio broadcasts rubbish, ever louder, through the wall. When a woman giggles someplace near, the new man moves to the thinnest wall, but as he cannot see through it without special double-vision x-ray eye-balls, he bangs on it and screams and bangs and bangs the wall and screams again. During this time, in a flat above, the bathroom door leans open, but the sound of running water is no longer soothing to its tenant (...)
A man in a room in shirt sleeves wears no trousers whilst radio jingles destroy the air from the flat next door. A sneeze from below and a woman calls out for him to move to the balcony, which he does. On the balcony he leans into the wind and watches events at the tram stop in the street beneath. Soaked and dripping, he returns to sit by a lamp inside, but the lamp inside is broken. So in the dark he lights a match and lights a candle, too. When the telephone rings, it rings once and stops, upon which the man folds his arms and watches a clock for some time to come. Then he looks into the dressing cabinet mirror at the reflection of his features, and the clock ticks on with a concrete purpose...
Thump! From next door someone loudly laughs, and he rises to peer through the wall with his special double-vision x-ray eye-balls. Clearly the world is not well without, and he shakes his head in dissatisfaction. After a time he nods off, hands clasped as if in prayer.
While he dozes, he is spied upon from a high corner of the room.
The man starts awake as the door-bell buzzes, then sits and listens before rising and entering the hallway to open the door, which he never opens to foreigners.
The watching spy seems neither surprised nor bored by these events.
The flat is entered by a new man who wears a dripping coat and scarf, while that radio broadcasts rubbish, ever louder, through the wall. When a woman giggles someplace near, the new man moves to the thinnest wall, but as he cannot see through it without special double-vision x-ray eye-balls, he bangs on it and screams and bangs and bangs the wall and screams again. During this time, in a flat above, the bathroom door leans open, but the sound of running water is no longer soothing to its tenant (...)
STONE CHIP
Sat wedged in the café window, as it were, on my usual leather perch. Sipping boiling tea in all the brightness of the day. Sweating through my anorak whilst peering through the wide plain glass, onto the wider plainer street. Catching little glimpses of the wider, plainer world beyond. Beyond all this, beyond all that. There were chips in the street I closely, or idely, observed. Here and there, scuff-marks, cracks. Dents and holes in the sun-baked road, in the hot iron rails, in the lamp-posts and drains. Scratches and knocks in the vehicles closely parked or, yes my eyes were quick, in those whizzing passed. While women and men sauntered about, jittered about, quite sightless. So it seemed. They touched one another with fingers and words, or whistled nameless tunes, unknown by my ears through the separating pane. The hanging sheet of boundary. I ceased counting dents to put things again in their place. The people all had names, I knew. All of them. No. All except one. A clock attached to a church by the river struck a quarter past three in the afternoon, causing the cafe window to lightly shudder. As it happened, as it struck, the sun shon very well indeed. All about was yellow. No. Not all. Two women in skirts walked by holding hands. As they entered the sidewalk-stage before me, one casually kicked up a sharp little stone, which spun in the dry city air. Though close as all that, I could hardly tell if it had been dislodged merely by accident. The thing shot towards my face and I blinked... During the time my eyes were closed, my hands withdrew from the table and settled to rest on my knees. I straightened my hunch and drew a breath, steady and long, as I had recently been taught. I drew four more breaths, deep and strong. And readied for the moment (...)
Sat wedged in the café window, as it were, on my usual leather perch. Sipping boiling tea in all the brightness of the day. Sweating through my anorak whilst peering through the wide plain glass, onto the wider plainer street. Catching little glimpses of the wider, plainer world beyond. Beyond all this, beyond all that. There were chips in the street I closely, or idely, observed. Here and there, scuff-marks, cracks. Dents and holes in the sun-baked road, in the hot iron rails, in the lamp-posts and drains. Scratches and knocks in the vehicles closely parked or, yes my eyes were quick, in those whizzing passed. While women and men sauntered about, jittered about, quite sightless. So it seemed. They touched one another with fingers and words, or whistled nameless tunes, unknown by my ears through the separating pane. The hanging sheet of boundary. I ceased counting dents to put things again in their place. The people all had names, I knew. All of them. No. All except one. A clock attached to a church by the river struck a quarter past three in the afternoon, causing the cafe window to lightly shudder. As it happened, as it struck, the sun shon very well indeed. All about was yellow. No. Not all. Two women in skirts walked by holding hands. As they entered the sidewalk-stage before me, one casually kicked up a sharp little stone, which spun in the dry city air. Though close as all that, I could hardly tell if it had been dislodged merely by accident. The thing shot towards my face and I blinked... During the time my eyes were closed, my hands withdrew from the table and settled to rest on my knees. I straightened my hunch and drew a breath, steady and long, as I had recently been taught. I drew four more breaths, deep and strong. And readied for the moment (...)
THE STORY OF SPARK
Not at all long ago there lounged upon the earth a lad so removed from his times that he considered himself a bright spark. Indeed, being a hard head and a ropey neck taller than the rest, he reckoned himself the cleverest and most brightly shining spark among all the heavenly bodies in all the seven skies. And he might have been right, as we might witness. One morning, short before dawn, whilst out for a breath of cold air and a good smoke, the lad chanced to meet a pretty short maid. She was, to tell a fact, the prettiest as well as the cleverest short maid in the whole lengthy world. And they met right there in the starry gloom, as if coincidently, for the very first time. "I could never love you!" announced the lad without a thought. "Oh, hello," said she. "Are you chatting me up?" "Foolish girl!" answered he in his casual way. "I understood from that gleam in your eye that you were enchanted to meet me. Or was it simply the brightness of me wot glanced off the dew of your cheek, as we happened to meet on this slippery slope, under all these fat stars? Either way, I could never love you!" The short maid blushed. "You have a fair point," said she upon a tippy-toe, regarding him ever more closely. "I have as many fair points as there are fat stars," said he, and he continued upon his way, in all apparent ignorance of her shocking fairness. Off and off, he went at a pace, and on and on and up the next hill. To the work of his legs he now whistled a tune, an oddly beautiful tune, the notes of which neither rose nor fell, but rather hung on the mist as if awaiting some perfect conclusion. At last his road crossed that of a plotting widow out shopping for strange ingredients (...)
Not at all long ago there lounged upon the earth a lad so removed from his times that he considered himself a bright spark. Indeed, being a hard head and a ropey neck taller than the rest, he reckoned himself the cleverest and most brightly shining spark among all the heavenly bodies in all the seven skies. And he might have been right, as we might witness. One morning, short before dawn, whilst out for a breath of cold air and a good smoke, the lad chanced to meet a pretty short maid. She was, to tell a fact, the prettiest as well as the cleverest short maid in the whole lengthy world. And they met right there in the starry gloom, as if coincidently, for the very first time. "I could never love you!" announced the lad without a thought. "Oh, hello," said she. "Are you chatting me up?" "Foolish girl!" answered he in his casual way. "I understood from that gleam in your eye that you were enchanted to meet me. Or was it simply the brightness of me wot glanced off the dew of your cheek, as we happened to meet on this slippery slope, under all these fat stars? Either way, I could never love you!" The short maid blushed. "You have a fair point," said she upon a tippy-toe, regarding him ever more closely. "I have as many fair points as there are fat stars," said he, and he continued upon his way, in all apparent ignorance of her shocking fairness. Off and off, he went at a pace, and on and on and up the next hill. To the work of his legs he now whistled a tune, an oddly beautiful tune, the notes of which neither rose nor fell, but rather hung on the mist as if awaiting some perfect conclusion. At last his road crossed that of a plotting widow out shopping for strange ingredients (...)
THE SUCKERS AND THE HAIRS
From a rubbed out patch high above (that is a rubbish strewn garden leagues beneath) that fallen perpendicular,
THAT BAD HORIZON, THAT FOOL-STUMP HORIZON,
crept forth a singular apparition - sunk, sunk, squeezed and sunk. Bled to laughing-point. Skinned to dropping-point. Smoothed and patted; pleased to howling-point.
From a drain papered over, a crater, a bunker; a white limb too, dislocated, and flung itself forth. The smooth suckered arm, some thirty years long, thrust itself out again; crusted and mocking, bleating and failing, it tossed itself out again. Dredged an alternative audience - it did, yes it did - and gathered with salivating suckers a speedy inventory of cheerless fan-wreckage...
DEBRIS AND SKIN-DUST AND KIDNEYS AND LEMONS!
But observe clearly this. Floating a little way above: the stretched and hooded mind. The crumpled, shaven orb that sees, perceives, conceives, snatches at sleepless rest: revives, survives and spunks! spunks! spunks again!
And lo! Flung out with that boneless arm: a nerve disentangled. Endless and reckless; wincing and fruitless, it spatters itself - oh yes it does - across the limited backdrop...
AND WHAT DO THEY DISCOVER, THE SUCKERS AND THE NERVE?
After all that scratching and etching, belching and rapping?
JUST WHAT DO THEY DEDUCE?
"WELL DARLING..." It seems they deduced the scenario of a face. Faultless and blameless; a target most worthy and open to those who are closed (...)
From a rubbed out patch high above (that is a rubbish strewn garden leagues beneath) that fallen perpendicular,
THAT BAD HORIZON, THAT FOOL-STUMP HORIZON,
crept forth a singular apparition - sunk, sunk, squeezed and sunk. Bled to laughing-point. Skinned to dropping-point. Smoothed and patted; pleased to howling-point.
From a drain papered over, a crater, a bunker; a white limb too, dislocated, and flung itself forth. The smooth suckered arm, some thirty years long, thrust itself out again; crusted and mocking, bleating and failing, it tossed itself out again. Dredged an alternative audience - it did, yes it did - and gathered with salivating suckers a speedy inventory of cheerless fan-wreckage...
DEBRIS AND SKIN-DUST AND KIDNEYS AND LEMONS!
But observe clearly this. Floating a little way above: the stretched and hooded mind. The crumpled, shaven orb that sees, perceives, conceives, snatches at sleepless rest: revives, survives and spunks! spunks! spunks again!
And lo! Flung out with that boneless arm: a nerve disentangled. Endless and reckless; wincing and fruitless, it spatters itself - oh yes it does - across the limited backdrop...
AND WHAT DO THEY DISCOVER, THE SUCKERS AND THE NERVE?
After all that scratching and etching, belching and rapping?
JUST WHAT DO THEY DEDUCE?
"WELL DARLING..." It seems they deduced the scenario of a face. Faultless and blameless; a target most worthy and open to those who are closed (...)
THAT STICKY PLACE
Butterfly came landing
She bent to kiss a branch
And dug herself a home there
(Rest now)
Erupted soon a moth
Of better, badder beauty
Which leapt across the flood
Below and pranced about
The yawning vale where
Petals pour down spinningly
On ants who do not care -
For toil here is light enough
But lighter yet the head
Which wags in fever to deny
That, YES, His Storm is blown aside
But, NO, it failed to cure the Wound
It only rapped upon the crust
Without that sticky zone of reckoning
That Glory Place I made my own
That sullied place methinks now CURSED!
An ant pit DAMNED and QUEENLESS!
(Breathe now) (...)
Butterfly came landing
She bent to kiss a branch
And dug herself a home there
(Rest now)
Erupted soon a moth
Of better, badder beauty
Which leapt across the flood
Below and pranced about
The yawning vale where
Petals pour down spinningly
On ants who do not care -
For toil here is light enough
But lighter yet the head
Which wags in fever to deny
That, YES, His Storm is blown aside
But, NO, it failed to cure the Wound
It only rapped upon the crust
Without that sticky zone of reckoning
That Glory Place I made my own
That sullied place methinks now CURSED!
An ant pit DAMNED and QUEENLESS!
(Breathe now) (...)
THESE ARMS
The heavy young soldier is cast from his velvet land, built upon metal. No arms has he, and headless he stands guard there, blurred before images of citadels, stapled to the wall beneath layers of fluffy grey fabric. He regards, as mother did, the curvy yellowed spout, broken; and the last peacock feather. All dusty and balding, he feels, is the faithless snake, who once swept through lands, and lighted plumes, over oil-drenched chain-smoking townships. Enough to make your teeth jar, he reckons loudly with himself. But now, before the inky passport rots: must run, must run must he! Fast out of time with the train ticket, he scarpers; whilst, with jagged sentiment, the poison-pen love letter is stolen back from that horrid woman, from the basement of that grubby junk-shop. Boast upon boast! What a goat! Still, minus head and arms, too expensive to fix, too suffersome to look upon; all spread-eagled out across that unwashed tablecloth: Find these arms! orders that tiresome wife at a stroke (...)
The heavy young soldier is cast from his velvet land, built upon metal. No arms has he, and headless he stands guard there, blurred before images of citadels, stapled to the wall beneath layers of fluffy grey fabric. He regards, as mother did, the curvy yellowed spout, broken; and the last peacock feather. All dusty and balding, he feels, is the faithless snake, who once swept through lands, and lighted plumes, over oil-drenched chain-smoking townships. Enough to make your teeth jar, he reckons loudly with himself. But now, before the inky passport rots: must run, must run must he! Fast out of time with the train ticket, he scarpers; whilst, with jagged sentiment, the poison-pen love letter is stolen back from that horrid woman, from the basement of that grubby junk-shop. Boast upon boast! What a goat! Still, minus head and arms, too expensive to fix, too suffersome to look upon; all spread-eagled out across that unwashed tablecloth: Find these arms! orders that tiresome wife at a stroke (...)
TWO DREAMS
I had carved the facade
of a fabulous building and
I the master stone mason
well pleased with my effort
imagined completion
until in the evening
they brought in my brother
a brat amongst helpers
who readily hindered
and slandered me loudly
till I grew impatient
my vision now cheapened
my temper now boiled
as brothers we fought
but they preferred him
and his minor works
till mad with disgust I
threw down his stones and
they were astonished but
would not concede
his fashion was vulgar
had spoiled the temple
so cursing the lord
my pride yet intact
'genst flesh of my own
I desperately fought
though
I knew they were right (...)
I had carved the facade
of a fabulous building and
I the master stone mason
well pleased with my effort
imagined completion
until in the evening
they brought in my brother
a brat amongst helpers
who readily hindered
and slandered me loudly
till I grew impatient
my vision now cheapened
my temper now boiled
as brothers we fought
but they preferred him
and his minor works
till mad with disgust I
threw down his stones and
they were astonished but
would not concede
his fashion was vulgar
had spoiled the temple
so cursing the lord
my pride yet intact
'genst flesh of my own
I desperately fought
though
I knew they were right (...)
UNFINISHED BATH
(PRELUDE)
a shade in a shadow
in a cast-iron pit
once cast from that shadow
then forever out of it!
...outside a pub in a hot bath in the snow in december in berlin in no particular hurry to reach the next scene
(SCENE I)
A thin person walks passed and frowns.
Another hurries passed and grins.
A third skates by laughing aloud.
One steps out of the pub:
"Can I help?"
"Not at all. Not today. Thank you very much."
"Do you have clothses?"
"No. Not today. Not with me. Not on me."
"No zick woolly? Long socks? It is cold out here!"
"It is not. Not yet. Leave me alone."
An hour later and the water is cool.
A police wagon pulls up.
"Hey! Sie! What's up? What's that?"
"Nothing and nothing. (Bugger off.)"
"Ausweiss bitte."
"Zu hauser."
"Where do you live?"
With the pointing of a long white finger, quickly re-dunked:
"Up there."
They stare for long moments.
"Is zis your bath?"
"It was given to me. I can't prove it." (...)
(PRELUDE)
a shade in a shadow
in a cast-iron pit
once cast from that shadow
then forever out of it!
...outside a pub in a hot bath in the snow in december in berlin in no particular hurry to reach the next scene
(SCENE I)
A thin person walks passed and frowns.
Another hurries passed and grins.
A third skates by laughing aloud.
One steps out of the pub:
"Can I help?"
"Not at all. Not today. Thank you very much."
"Do you have clothses?"
"No. Not today. Not with me. Not on me."
"No zick woolly? Long socks? It is cold out here!"
"It is not. Not yet. Leave me alone."
An hour later and the water is cool.
A police wagon pulls up.
"Hey! Sie! What's up? What's that?"
"Nothing and nothing. (Bugger off.)"
"Ausweiss bitte."
"Zu hauser."
"Where do you live?"
With the pointing of a long white finger, quickly re-dunked:
"Up there."
They stare for long moments.
"Is zis your bath?"
"It was given to me. I can't prove it." (...)
WHAT USE
What use be a flower
Held up against thee
If that flower be less subtle
Yet opened up to me?
What use be a flower
Held up against thee
If that flower be less subtle
Yet opened up to me?
WHERE WE ARE
Try to remember that
less than one per cent
of all you've seen and known
is within your knowing today.
Fragments of the rest are
now and again recaptured
as walls and windows are
by accident shattered.
These memories crash
through your front door
dazed and babbling
like UFO hostages (...)
Try to remember that
less than one per cent
of all you've seen and known
is within your knowing today.
Fragments of the rest are
now and again recaptured
as walls and windows are
by accident shattered.
These memories crash
through your front door
dazed and babbling
like UFO hostages (...)
THE WILLOW THAT WOULD NOT WEEP
Once upon a time there gently ebbed, far from any man's brick hotel, a brightly shimmering deep blue lake. Out of the rich earth upon one side of that lake sprang a tangled olive jungle, whilst over on the other shore a vast ochre wilderness sprawled. The jungle was a noisome place for it was filled with sumptuous foods, making it popular with more wild creatures than could ever be counted; whilst the desert lay like a giant hoary blanket, upon which all further life would be snagged and scorched by the sun to its dusty doom. But before we go any further, here is an odd little fact: When this story was told for the very first time, the lake and the jungle and the vast wilderness, too, were known by a great many names in a great many languages. But none of those names had been invented, or ever used, by any Man. At the water's very edge, quite away from the jungle and just where the sand dunes began, there miraculously clung, and even thrived in that utterly difficult place, a single handsome tree. A Weeping Willow it was, to use a man-made name: young and strong and thick with good sap. From an emerald mound all studded with ruby-flushed poppies it sprouted, that wonderful temple to Nature, like a veritable frozen fountain of leaves. And thanks to that tree's merciful shade varieties of exotic grasses flourished around and about, and unusual wild weeds and queer bulbs, all quite delicious; and the picturesque emerald mound and its flora stayed cool as the underground waters from which the Willow drank, even at the height of the most toasting and not-far-away doom-riddled day. All manner of creatures would, when schedule allowed, leave their neighbouring hectic jungle home to visit and chew excellent cud, sup the crisp water and generally indulge in a mindless or contemplative, balmy rest (...)
Once upon a time there gently ebbed, far from any man's brick hotel, a brightly shimmering deep blue lake. Out of the rich earth upon one side of that lake sprang a tangled olive jungle, whilst over on the other shore a vast ochre wilderness sprawled. The jungle was a noisome place for it was filled with sumptuous foods, making it popular with more wild creatures than could ever be counted; whilst the desert lay like a giant hoary blanket, upon which all further life would be snagged and scorched by the sun to its dusty doom. But before we go any further, here is an odd little fact: When this story was told for the very first time, the lake and the jungle and the vast wilderness, too, were known by a great many names in a great many languages. But none of those names had been invented, or ever used, by any Man. At the water's very edge, quite away from the jungle and just where the sand dunes began, there miraculously clung, and even thrived in that utterly difficult place, a single handsome tree. A Weeping Willow it was, to use a man-made name: young and strong and thick with good sap. From an emerald mound all studded with ruby-flushed poppies it sprouted, that wonderful temple to Nature, like a veritable frozen fountain of leaves. And thanks to that tree's merciful shade varieties of exotic grasses flourished around and about, and unusual wild weeds and queer bulbs, all quite delicious; and the picturesque emerald mound and its flora stayed cool as the underground waters from which the Willow drank, even at the height of the most toasting and not-far-away doom-riddled day. All manner of creatures would, when schedule allowed, leave their neighbouring hectic jungle home to visit and chew excellent cud, sup the crisp water and generally indulge in a mindless or contemplative, balmy rest (...)
WILLY BLOOD
"Good evening. They say my name is Willy Blood. They say too - that is, my enemies say, and come to think of it, here at the end of now, every royal bastard I know, says - that I am a vampire. Well, that is high bollocks. Never was it true. At least, an exaggeration. At most, a hideous misinformation. A nonsense above nonsense. But yet, candidly, and I may just mention it... I do like the taste of ladies. And, now that I've begun, they do like it when I taste them. Where is the evil there, pray? Their busy-body mummies and daddies may not like it, nor their sneaking, spying husbands, nor their lovers, too, of that be assured. The daddies want to run me down, string me up, drive me through. Well, SUCK 'em. Suck 'em all. Damn them to bits and beyond. But the Lord of Truth; he knows it: they love me to the core (in their childish ways). They need me like a villain, like an ending, like a... friend! These lassies are perky, before they go down. Yes, yes, they are. They say so themselves, heart-mad and horny, crude as old nuns. Midst their ailing and revolting prayers. If a lass gets sick, its from love for me! Me, the wanted, the bender of wills! The stretcher of minds, teaser of limbs - limbs weaker, whiter, deader than mine. Yet, I be the cure, and they know it. And all the while the blood-thirst rises like a day-drunk ghost. Till the town bells toll again, at the end of your gangrenous city; beneath my animal moon. Toll, do the bells, dragging me to the nape of a silly young neck, all pale under plastic or diamonds, all wickedly curved, then broke, then cold to the touch like ancient ham... They sniff me out themselves, they do. Track me down when they're ripe (and they are ripe)..." (...)
"Good evening. They say my name is Willy Blood. They say too - that is, my enemies say, and come to think of it, here at the end of now, every royal bastard I know, says - that I am a vampire. Well, that is high bollocks. Never was it true. At least, an exaggeration. At most, a hideous misinformation. A nonsense above nonsense. But yet, candidly, and I may just mention it... I do like the taste of ladies. And, now that I've begun, they do like it when I taste them. Where is the evil there, pray? Their busy-body mummies and daddies may not like it, nor their sneaking, spying husbands, nor their lovers, too, of that be assured. The daddies want to run me down, string me up, drive me through. Well, SUCK 'em. Suck 'em all. Damn them to bits and beyond. But the Lord of Truth; he knows it: they love me to the core (in their childish ways). They need me like a villain, like an ending, like a... friend! These lassies are perky, before they go down. Yes, yes, they are. They say so themselves, heart-mad and horny, crude as old nuns. Midst their ailing and revolting prayers. If a lass gets sick, its from love for me! Me, the wanted, the bender of wills! The stretcher of minds, teaser of limbs - limbs weaker, whiter, deader than mine. Yet, I be the cure, and they know it. And all the while the blood-thirst rises like a day-drunk ghost. Till the town bells toll again, at the end of your gangrenous city; beneath my animal moon. Toll, do the bells, dragging me to the nape of a silly young neck, all pale under plastic or diamonds, all wickedly curved, then broke, then cold to the touch like ancient ham... They sniff me out themselves, they do. Track me down when they're ripe (and they are ripe)..." (...)
WORDS AND PICTURES!
Here are some words:
AHHH!
fuck
Tickle (crossed out and replaced with 'fright')
AND SHE EASILY CHOSE
TO FLOURISH LIKE A WOMAN
Here are some more words:
Fancy (crossed out and replaced with 'walk')
FUCK!
ooohhhhh! (crossed out and replaced with Oh.)
MONA LISA PREFERS TO BE FAMOUS
LIKE THAT WOMAN IN THE LOUVRE
Here is a picture:
x
Now fold this page into two parts and complete the following rhyme (...)
Here are some words:
AHHH!
fuck
Tickle (crossed out and replaced with 'fright')
AND SHE EASILY CHOSE
TO FLOURISH LIKE A WOMAN
Here are some more words:
Fancy (crossed out and replaced with 'walk')
FUCK!
ooohhhhh! (crossed out and replaced with Oh.)
MONA LISA PREFERS TO BE FAMOUS
LIKE THAT WOMAN IN THE LOUVRE
Here is a picture:
x
Now fold this page into two parts and complete the following rhyme (...)
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#LibraryOfBadIdeas #ParadoxPaul |