Pastures of Boredom

4:36

I feel a tentative happiness, an anaphylactic swelling caused by close contact with a Happy allergen, a distended belly full of butterflies and Happy parasitic organisms. This rests on the foreground of the angry virile eye of Jupiter, screaming a repulsive song of disgust, disgust at the sight of EVERYTHING.
Black plumes rise everywhere.
I am blind.
Black plumes rise and violate my lungs. Tendrils slither up my nose like oiled serpents, down my trachea and into their base bronchial nests. I close my eyes and I can see more clearly. I close my eyes and I don’t see the fissures, the cracks from which the plumes billow, a GENUINE TRAGEDY. AN ABOMINATION. Later the news ticker reads THE GESTATING SUPERPOWER, THE DEVELOPED NATION. The exit signs are taken down.
Footsteps are quieter on linoleum floors. It’s harder to grit your teeth when they’re not straight. “If you so much as fucking do something I will fucking etc.” and “I swear to god I will fucking snap if you say one more fucking word etc.” Meanwhile there is no exit, nowhere to flee. The doors have been quietly painted over. If you look closely you can see the slight rectangular outline of past hope. No one looks closely. Doors are a thing of the past, if they ever existed?
Destiny.
It is destiny that leads us to shuffle, carrying the growing burdens of mortality, to a dusty hollow. That thirsty bed with a reptilian pillow and sandy duvet. Our surprising destiny. SURPRISE! The passed wear that look… SURPRISE! As if the earth hasn’t always been a mass grave, an obituary to life, a spinning wheel of death. Death that grows with life; grows more putrid, more perverse, more unscrupulous with each rotation. Or perhaps it is life that is perverse? Life is a harbinger of death. Decay is natural, it is the initial spark – the match at the gas stove – that is depraved.
The injury is in the brain stem, the folds weep crimson, a different plume. The patient does not mind, they are already comatose and LOOK, like a giant mosquito bite their belly grows and grows! Like idiots we chuckle at the bedside, telling crude jokes and more bellies inflate. The patient weeps, the corners of their mouth turned upwards like a clipped toenail. The hearse is outside, but the driver cannot get in.
The news ticker reads PEOPLE ARE HAPPY, PROGRESS IS ETERNAL.

Bad writing never hurt anyone… right?

You were not alright, but I pretended not to see

the spots under your chin and that left bit

at the back of your head where you had no hair

your eyes were yellow and bruised and your cheeks were sunken

like my heart, every time i saw you

but i did not let myself look at the tubes coming out of your wrist

with the strange copper liquids, or hear the sharp breaths when you said

i

gasp

miss

gasp

you

gasp

as your machines played a symphony of beeps in the background

your smile was skin stretched over broken teeth, feeble

weak

you were feeble, weak and pretended not to see

my shaking hands suspended awkwardly between a handshake and a hug

my eyes darting across your broken body and settling on the clock on the wall

watching it vigorously as it went from 11:16 to 11:43

and you did not let yourself look at my red face or the pit stains spreading on my good blouse, or hear my hoarse voice croak

metoo

in quick response, like i was running out of time as your symphony crescendoed in the background,

because I was feeble, weak and pretended not to see

that you were not alright

a rhyming thing about people

It’s a sunday night and I’m on the floor

I’ve a story to tell even though my plane’s in an hour or so

Do you remember that night when it all kicked off,

I was real dizzy and you had that nasty cough

we had bruises on our elbows and dust in our eyes

my left contact fell out but I pretended to see fine

I remember scraping my knees and your shirt was ripped,

and the taxi driver was proper mad cos he weren’t tipped

even though we got mud all over his pretty black cab

but we didn’t care, we thought we was fab

you in your torn shirt, the one with the prints

it was covered in blood, it needed a good rinse

and my hair was all frizz and a couple of twigs

some leaves perhaps, a souvenir from the gigs

we laughed on the curb and shared a fag

I didn’t smoke back then but I took a long drag

I wanted you to think I were cool you see

I weren’t some sheltered girl from that part of the city

I could partake in some gentle debauchery

I could be like you.

You were laughing at my hairy pit

I’d forgotten to shave one and you wouldn’t stop talking about it

you laughed until you threw up on the gutter

I rubbed your back and called you a nutter

but you still walked me home, even though you were ill

and I lived far away, like six stops and up a hill

you held my hand because even though it was just us

there was always a chance of trouble on the night bus

I found a pair of rubber gloves, but they were both left handed

you asked me if they were the hypoallergenic brand and

I almost touched them to see

but then I remembered about the hepatitis c

you laughed and said I would do anything for you

I almost punched you in the nose because I knew it was true.

When we stopped at my door my throat was filled with cotton

I tried to speak, but all my words were forgotten

next time we’ll write a song together, you said, I’ll bring my guitar

we’ll meet at the old georgian bar

we’ll write a song about how we met-

that’s when you noticed my cheeks were wet

you flickered, and I cried out your name

I’ll see you, you whispered, I’ll see you again

I blinked, my story had drawn conclusion

because you were only ever a ghost, a fickle illusion.

Autobiography

Your face resembles an egg that has fallen out of a basket and cracked in such a way that it mirrors human features. Your hair sprouts from the smooth, beige, eggshell scalp like wires tangling and intertwining into a thick carpet loom, covering your most misshapen features. When you talk you gurgle a yolky, unintelligible stream of profanity that transfixes your audience and causes them to nod and mumble gratitude in their shocked and repulsed states. You do not walk but you wobble uncertainly from one point to another. You refuse help from those kind and brave enough to offer it, for you are too proud and unwilling to admit that you cannot take one step without your constantly shifting center of gravity causing you to fall and tumble in circles. Your sense of style is usually twenty years behind everyone else, never outdated enough to be vintage but always so that you would fit in with the nouveau-riche of a Russian mining town who trade tapes of the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. You have a filmy air of self-importance and intrigue that is transparent enough to be easily seen through if one were to focus hard enough, but you make it difficult for anyone to focus what with your gurgling and tumbling about.

Some of my thinkerings tonight

It is 3:21 am and I cannot sleep because my nose is dripping like a glassblower’s arse. I am sitting cross legged on my bed, which smells like socks and vicks vaporub. I have a packet of chips and half a bottle of san pellegrino. The chips are salt and vinegar flavored and make me gag, and the san pellegrino has lost its bubbles and tastes like the water from a can of tinned mackerel. There is a man shouting in Portuguese outside my window, he drowns out the birds. I don’t mind, I only like birds when they are chargrilled with a side of chips.

There are lots of things on my bed, they include:

  • Ray bans that I only wear indoors because there’s no sun this is fucking england
  • Two watches that I only remember to take off before going to sleep and can’t be bothered to put away properly
  • An Arctic Monkeys CD from when I couldn’t download it from iTunes and had to go to an HMV like a 30 year old
  • Some beads
  • Lots of tissues, some have germs but most have lipstick stains
  • A very large bottle of water I use for hydration purposes
  • A neglected hairbrush

I usually have many more things on my bed, but I cleverly relocated them to the floor as part of an ongoing zoning project.

Two of my knuckles are colder than the rest, there are questions to be asked about that but perhaps not in public.

The Dinner Party

 I feel their eyes on my sans serif

their tongues nipping at every letter

“why’d she do that” “oh good grief”

“you know, she could have worded that better”

poison, poison transported through satellite

materializes as a bare boned grin

how silly it is to try to be right

how thick to think that you could win

their heads were set in a rigid ring

eyes dripping ruby acrimony

stained teeth, through bright lips whispering

secrets of righteous sanctimony

but lo, then comes the great ant queen

with her daughter-soldiers dipping

dipping and dripping, it’s almost obscene

but the ringed heads keep lipping

their monad minds will soon hive

into a being almost aware,

although not so much to be considered alive,

still enough to blow up affairs

gripped in this glycolic snare

what can I do, I wonder

I willingly drink this cancerous air

and it rips my cells to sunder

Restaurants

I wrote this in a restaurant today. I don’t like restaurants. Or, more accurately, I don’t like who I become in restaurants.

Going to a restaurant is an actual experience no matter which restaurant you go to. I mean, you go through so many emotions in the time between entering and exiting, it’s almost profound. It begins with that gnawing emptiness that you get when you are first shown to your table, the sudden hunger that attacks you from behind as your nose struggles to absorb the onslaught of aromas wafting from the kitchen. Then, as you read the menu, your mind paints flavors onto your taste buds and they wet themselves in anticipation.

Then comes the most difficult part, the agonizing exercise in patience. This usually involves furious but tentative sips of orange juice punctuated with forced small talk and reluctant nibbling of bread. By the time you’ve discussed how relatively warm it has been the past few days the glass has been halved in quantity (half empty, as your starved outlook sees it) and the bread has gone stale. You drum your fingers on the table and smile at the waiters. It is not the warm or friendly smile you would share with a friend or close acquaintance, nor is it the noncommittal smile that you would allow another member of the service sector. No, it is a multi-layered smile, a dangerous smile, a baring of teeth. Your hollow eyes follow plates of food, steaming plates of nutrition, plates of decadent goodness carried on the shoulders of cherubs… but they never come your way. Sometimes they appear to come close, oh and how your heart flies. No other sensation can amount to the feeling of seeing that plate of food flying towards you, magically appearing from where? Where do the plates come from anyway? Who makes them? What are you doing here? Why is it so cold? Oh, the room is spinning…

The suddenly, without any prior warning and adhering to no fixed law, your plate appears in front of you. There it is, not exactly like you had imagined an eternity ago when you had first looked in the menu, but here nevertheless. Here and yours! Distress is replaced with elation which is replaced with determined concentration as you attempt to fit as much food into your mouth and down your throat without embarrassing yourself or choking too badly. It only takes four mouthfuls and two declarations of ‘oh my god this is so good’ before your stomach has had enough and everything begins to taste like grit and chicken feed. The music becomes terrible, the waiters are suddenly less attractive and godammit why are these chairs so uncomfortable? The condensation from your glass has dribbled all over the table and you have been inadvertently mopping it up with your elbow. It is too hot. You wave your arms around to signal for a cheque. It takes a few attempts but just as you are pondering the morality of dining and dashing (is it still wrong if you have to wait ten minutes for the cheque?) a waiter materializes with one of those lovely leather receipt holders and a smile as genuine as mother-in-law’s hug. The transaction is done, the experience is over and you leave dragging your engorged gut and whatever is left of your self worth behind you.

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The Visit

Before I thrust you into the coming short story, I wish to draw your attention to two things:

1) I am now emangine.me! (thank you Haya!)

2) I haven’t written anything other than emails in a while, so this might be like when you get overzealous at the gym, end up pulling all but seven muscles and gaining half a kilo on account of the Burger King you rewarded yourself with.

You have been warned!

Read the rest of this entry »

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