Tuesday, September 1, 2009

It's a revelation.

If your still alive,
when you're 25,
how should I kill you?
Like you asked me to?

As the nostalgia grew from his mouth, her ears slowly closed over as she buried deeper into her own psyche. She had realised what she'd steeped her little white canvas shoes into now. The onset of dementia was nothing compared to the anguish bouncing off the walls of their dingy flat, where it always seemed like it was three in the morning.
The feint noise of a two stroke crept up the street and up through the floorboards.
They were never disturbed. Aside from the postmen, who always seemed to shoot them bullets through the crack of light that crawled into their room. Even with all the fanfare about vampires, twilight, real blood, fake blood, moonlight and true blood, some people just never have liked the sight of day.
These were two of those people.

Afternoon tea was breakfast. Dinner was lunch. Supper was Dinner. Breakfast was a midnight snack. Brunch was an early Dinner. They were fans of The All Day Breakfast on Facebook.

Hang on, I must be back in reality again.
Look at all that washing up.
The hole is all plugged up with cornflakes.
Why don't they make wholemeal cornflakes?

Nightmares, riding in on horses made from clay, four harbingers of death, making motions with their hands, as if they were conjuring up thoughts you thought were your own. The march had begun and they began to kill. They ripped flesh with gnashing teeth. There was a butcher on every block. The horsemeat could only feed a few at a time. They entered an age of bartering, of slain foes whose only retaliation was to wave a white singlet, and to pray not to be prey that day.
The Zulu were riding in motorcycle sidecars, swerving and weaving through the nightmare, through purple smoke and common folk, jumping curbs while the passengers threw bottles of urine at passersby.

Patrice woke up to her bed on fire, so using her pillow she lit her cigarette and sat upright, burning holes into the corpse she lay next to.

I just put on a tape Grace gave me, one of the many presents she gave me for no reason. I have never listened to it before for no apparent reason. It is the Flacco and the Sandman compilation cassette. I had Flacco's book when I was a kid, and the first poem Flacco recites was my favourite one in my youth, the story of Happy Clem.
Sandman then goes on after about having four Serepax and two Moselles. I'm only 2 minutes into it. Indebted forever.

Cordial was training for pouring your friends hard liquor. Butterfly cakes are the things that I miss about youth.

I won the leadership award in Year One.

To bay at the stars, the summer medicine will drive us all to need nurses.
Grey nurses?
Green nurses?

Never waste a visit at a friends house.
They might panic about their innate non-belief in God, but appease all the austere glances and dig up the past.
It will be appreciated. Drag queens in funny cars getting quarter miles. Give them an inch I say. The lipstick marks on their guitars show them up to be less than shining stars. Start without a phone call. The insight one can find inside a saxophone with a rope, some pegs and auto asphyxia can be sneakily familiar.

Where is the title page.
The private side of death.


I grated butter onto my nachos the other day thinking it was cheese.
I still ate them all.
They had become a plate of toasted and crunchy, yet oil soaked, chips.
Echo one, echo beach. The dirt on my monitor is only being monitored by myself, it looks like a comma. My monitored behaviour is being monitored by the people who view it on their own monitor.

Hey Jude, you fucking prude, you stupid fuck.
Order me around and abandon any hope of results.

Swallow this and hit someone who cares.
Cheers Dad.

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