Wednesday, 26 December 2007
“‘“Have you tried the hors‘doeuvres,” asks the waiter,’ I might write, at times like these,” he says.
I don’t turn towards any possible waiter waiting in the wings, I keep my eyes fixed on my friend, to whom I say, “No, how are they?”
“Food poisoning last week.”
“The times I mean, please.”
“Please, talk about the food.”
“So you’ve been here before?”
“I beg pardon?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You neither, sounds like.”
“Been here before.”
I give a pause, “and supposing that is true?”
“Which it is.”
“Supposing it is,” I pause again, “what does that signify?”
“A mess, a mess for you.”
The feeling of depression and disquiet has overtaken me, and I feel I have to admit that yes, after all these years and all those hooverings, I am in a mess. He has my attention, and now he has my wallet. He’s using it to pay a bar tab. His favourite phrase always was, and I have to assume is and always will be, “better in than out.”
Friday, 14 December 2007
Virus found in this message, please delete it without futher reading
Skill can inform me where she is now. I think let them talk
on till the alguazil peremptorily queen looked like,a tall,
stout woman, with such."
Let's dissect it.
Bonjour - this person wants to assume the persona of a Frenchman, or a tiresome dandy.
Virus found... etc - Interesting. Why write that? It implies that by using your eyes you are aiding the virus in its attempt. I find that quite cute.
Skill can inform me where she is now - Riddles...I like riddles!
I think let them talk on - Should there be speech marks here? It would help the flow a bit.
Alguazil - Alguazil is a Spanish title often to be met in stories and plays, derived from the Arabic "visir" and the article "al" The alguazil among the early Spaniards was a judge, and sometimes the governor of a town or fortress. In later times he has gradually sunk down to the rank of an officer of the court, who is trusted with the service of writs and certain police duties, but he is still of higher rank than the mere corchete or catch-poll. The title has also been given to inspectors of weights and measures in market-places, and similar officials.
peremptorily queen - I think in this usage it must mean dictator-like?
a tall, stout woman, with such. - this is my favourite bit. At least we know that she hangs around with oxymorons.
Anyway, just some idle musings.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
Fetch the pail, pale, I’m thirsty. Here, you drink some too, you could use it, wash this down, this supplement, friend, get some iron in what you call blood, readers digest it with your pride and pasty, wipe your chin on your record sleeve, the dirtiest, friend, old friend, since records began. You hit the road, Tom Joad, and it hit you back, Jack, and we’re all the same to kingdom come and kingdom came and went, friend, where you were buried roadside and we’ll be buried or burned, come what may, that’ll come. Take any precaution with plentiful water against being overwhelmed by the world, and don’t be overwhelmed, friend, by the world, and don’t dribble your overdose on my pristine sedan chair if you’d be so kind; I mustn’t be miscarried, I must be delivered intact from a restless womb. We’re on the same side here, the same side of the moon, the same side of the canal. And while we’re giving orders here, tie your tie and fetch the pail, pale, I’m thirsty. If you recall, Paul, a week ago last any day now, you were drinking from a glass half empty and you drank the wrong half, Lord have mercy, and died. Well, I didn’t blame you, and I still don’t blame you, even after the resurrection that was a statement of intent post-dated, but still I’d sleep easier in a scenario wherein I’d sleep at all if I could understand why you went and did it all, all over again, painful as it must have been. Human frailty? I couldn’t possibly know. Write me a memorandum. Propose a toast; toast; anchovies on your toast, Tony? I can’t provide them, nor abide them, nor condone them, cousins as they are to the carp and cat, horse and bat; carping on, you call carp fish, but I call him Finn, and I couldn’t eat Finn, not when we’re sitting at the table, finishing starters, soup and salad, raising glasses, the first champagne, preparing for the New Year, the last flat sparkling wine of this old year; I couldn’t do that to him, not with his friends around him, not with the pervading air there already is of finality in all things present, all of us married and solemnly at that. I’ve an errand for you in the here and now, cow, I’d like you to run now with this satchel of mine, contents undisclosed, to some friends of mine, some dear sweet friends of mine, and colleagues moreover, identities undisclosed, I’d like you to deliver this and no I won’t give you this, and if you wish to take issue, Klaus, you can tell it to a hound dog, Pedro, you can flatten on the wheels of the National Express. Lick this ground that myths have walked on, lick the ordinary ground you’re going to walk on while walking, and pass the remote control, and before you put your boots on, and before you take your next breath, fetch the pail, pale, I’m thirsty, getting thirstier.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
It’s furtive man slips into his spouse,
Crying softly as he fucks his wife;
That swelling growth of a new life.
My wet brick wall, wet from the rain.
I like to make up stories like that,
Poor attempts at writing prose, or at worst a poem.
Usually when leaning against the door,
Looking up at the blocks of flats.
Tiny bursts of unimportant creativity which
Ray Mears would probably use to make a fire.
It’s the rain coursing down the bricks,
It’s the dead rosebay willow herb.
I sometimes want to write about things like that.
Tuesday, 4 December 2007
(You know the day
The camera weaves it way through to the bathroom. In passing we see a kitchen and a boiling kettle. The camera enters the bathroom. Standing in front of an open cabinet is a man. The camera advances to look over his shoulder to show shelves of bottles with brightly coloured labels. Close up of the label of one bottle which is a bright yellow smiley face, fingers wrap around the label. Cut to profile view of the man’s mouth tilted back his tongue extended with a sizeable pill on the tip, the tongue retracts. Close up of his throat swallowing. The camera cuts to the man’s midriff which is covered by a well worn tee-shirt featuring Jim Morrison’s face and numerous uncertain stains. The camera pans upward threatening to reveal his face, then glides down his shoulder to his hand clasping a toothbrush.
(We chased our pleasures here
The mirror slams closed and we are finally allowed to see his face reflected, well meaning but tired. Close up of his teeth being brushed in time to the music.
Cut to the man going up the escalator at monument metro. Profile view of the escalator the camera keeping in time with the escalator. The posters behind the man all display the words break on through pick out in purple words on a grey background. Throughout the man is tapping his hand in time to the music.
Cut to an extreme close up shot of the top of the escalator face on. The man slowly appears over the horizon of the escalator. The camera is an extreme close up so only a small part of him is in view at a time. He is still wearing the Jim Morrison t shirt and he is wearing jeans, but he is barefoot. The camera cuts off at the ankles.
(Made the scene
Cut to a shot of a bus pulling round the corner and pulling up to the bus stop.
The camera is positioned so that as the bus pulls up there is a close up of the base of the doors. They open. His bare feet greet us. Then proceed step slowly down and shuffle. They point left, they point right. They face the camera, take a step over it and take themselves and their owner out of the film.
Your components various
A being nefarious.
A tight grip clenched
Your cheeks trenched
In my own secret joys
Clasped at their toys
And the pain caused
And love well forced
Oh for the
Rhythm of our words
Ears and open minds.
Oh for the
Those ones that I felt
The have no
Sounds except in between
Of well placed words
I never said
But that you heard.
They all amount to the same
Weather beating on your skull
And a slap to make you cry
You’ll not find much meat on my bones
And my soul is ready to fly.
Howl howl oh mother
For life has come to play
And you’ve nothing left to say.
Howl and moan like the wind in winter
Come to take the leaves
And no one quite believes
That summer can come again.
With the crunch of gold and brown
Crushed beneath your feet
Your coat brought tight
And your brow in a frown
You bring your foot down
With extra zest and extra vigour
And beneath the leaf
That life has laid
Before your foot
A snail lies unawares.
And you never noticed that the crunch was more solid
Your never noticed the blood on your boot
But life tends to play with us some days
And your will becomes mute.
The great upward crotch that was his torso. That stretched old long-sleeved T-shirt that was or were a pair of really quite functional long johns for the arms and upward crotch. The hairy old head that was a pair of grizzled boots for his upward feet, that scrawny spectacular of neck, and arms were upper knees or somesuch, legs without feet, an articulated pair of erect schlongs.
(And what he sees)
Kidneys have a smiling countenance, oozing anticipation’s drool. Liver’s wearing gloves, liver’s poised to catch whatever balls are cast his way. Lungs are sleeping, dreaming of their potential, complacently. Sphincter’s winking. Stomach’s swilling after brushing his teeth. The heart is all beef and oiled to perfection. Throat has slicked back his hair. Arteries are doing their rounds. Bollocks put on too much cologne and it burns. Brain bought a ticket in advance.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
I buried my troubles
‘neath the sands of Druridge bay;
Many a Lover has been forgot
‘neath the sands of Druridge bay.
I sunk my tears
To the bottom of Leazes Lake;
There’s many a Love that has been sunk
To the bottom of Leazes Lake.
I forgot what ails ‘z
As I walked down old Kells Lane;
Many a lost soul’s telt the tale
From the top of old Kells Lane.
I drowned my sorrows
Down in Bar 36;
Many a poor man had been drowned
Down in Bar 36.
I’m gonna hide my face
Underneath the Elvet Bridge
Plenty of shame’s been stowed away
Underneath that Elvet Bridge.