Friday, May 10, 2013
The father threw his foreskin
Into a freezing salty lake
In the hope that his progeny’s promiscuity
Like father like son
Will bring contraception,
And no pox
To scar a conquering past.
And though snoring is done
It is no good for the soul
For it leaves but must stay
Stays but must leave
And by what passageway?
Out through the mouth
Or in through the nose
Or be lateral and do both.
His feet will never touch the ground
His hair and nails are rarely cut
The sun is unworthy of warming him
When he is relaxed upon his throne,
His eating implements are for him alone
He is friendless and retired
And too great to be admired.
Misfortunes that befall the world
May be put down to
The fetishes and taboos
Associated with the sea
Where none must gaze upon it
Nor bathe nor swim,
And to fish from it
Is to draw up hatred.
When a person falls asleep
The soul leaves for a time
And the person is spiritually dead,
For the soul becomes a thing
That seeks and inhabits dreams
Until it is caught by light
And it returns through skin
To rejoin the person waking.
A True priest of the Jesus Christ
Is akin to The Holy Milkman
Who is therefore celibate,
And whose lips will touch no other
And who wears a flimsy garment
And who sleeps out of doors
And who is first to tackle Demons
And who rises after the dead.
A homicidal maniac
Who suffers epileptic fits
And is manic one minute
Depressed the next
Is revered by Extremists
As one who is their shadow,
When vengeance is needed
The maniac is their likely hero.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Her parents don’t know when it began, her mental health workers can’t figure out why she is this way, her religious elders can’t explain how the devil got in. And here she is, a girl nearly twenty who is behaving like a fish. Like an erectus Axolotl, to those horrified by her choice to become a fish. It’s not that she’s intellectually or emotionally handicapped. And it’s not that she’s actually living under water. Well not yet. Indeed she has been contemplating university for quite awhile. She has a short term future to fulfill while she remains living on this oxygen saturated surface that has no call for gills. But she is unsure of what she should study. There are so many options. It’s difficult to predict the kinds of jobs that will be needed in the future. She may play it safe and do accountancy or law. Marine science is out, and so is teaching.
Her name is Dolphin. She used to be known to her parents and friends as Alexandria Constance Shervington-Smythe, but she changed her name to Dolphin by deed poll on her eighteenth birthday. Her favorite pastime is whale watching. She doesn’t like seeing goldfish swimming exposed in glass bowls. After watching it on DVD she couldn’t understand why A Fish Called Wanda was called funny. Dolphin hasn’t got a boyfriend at the moment, and she is an active user of social media.
As soon as she was able, Dolphin moved out from her parent’s home situated in the leafy hinterland of a growing metropolis to a one bedroom flat by the sea. Upon her becoming a fish she has a powerful need to live at the sea, and be subsumed in its smells, its sounds and when she’s thirsty to get a salty taste of it. She needs the ever shifting horizon to show her that a fish life is boundless. And best of all she will swim it.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
WANTED – HELP BY THE OCCASION. Strong young man, must be fit and durable and be flexible to work with a busy famous celebrity couple. No experience necessary. Oversized hands will be well regarded. Great hourly rate. Apply Box W000 In Your Capital City.
Oceanus’s mum had cut the advert from their local newspaper for him to respond. A job for a young lad with large hands eh. This could be her son’s best opportunity for gainful work. Celebrity couple eh. They’d pay well. I wonder who they are? Brad and Ange. Keith and Nicole. Tom and friend. There are a lot of them swanning about at the moment. Well Oceanus is going to have to apply to find out, won’t he!
Oceanus did apply and indeed he got the job. His oversized hands are to be employed as human chairs. He can do this sitting or standing depending upon the occasion, whether they are red carpet events like the Academy Awards or posing for the paparazzi and journalists. He is to dress in a dinner suit with sleeves optional, to not speak, and to remain as motionless and expressionless as possible during the occasion. His arms will hang down by his side, his large hands are to extend and stay rigid (the couple have offered him their personal trainer as a perk), and so as to not sweat beneath their beautiful bottoms, he is to wear gloves; this while the celebrity power couple hold court. Oceanus is getting the work and he is well paid for it. Social likes that he has some casual work and maybe he’ll eventually get off benefit; they and the celebrity couple tell him that he is useful.
One night at dinner Oceanus and his mum have a conversation about happiness. Was this the type of work that could numb his self esteem pain? He says he is getting pleasure from the job, and it’s a pathway to happiness, long sought by many, but rarely found. For his use Oceanus has a future, like his dead dad and his proud mum wish for him. His mum says every day that she is happy for him. His gross hands are his right action for the right people, and in the right time in his life. The merits of his oversized hands actualise him, making him useful to others. Mum has read her Hume and Mill. But Oceanus tells his mum that he is little more than selfish, because all he wants is happiness and that is a selfish feeling, and the celebrities who sit on his hands are also selfish; and his happiness will end because of his relentless pursuit of it. Testing him, mum asks which of his two masters’ pleasure or pain, would Oceanus choose to keep. One without the other would surely rid his selfishness. Oceanus said he would rather keep them both despite himself, because he would find a way to be selfish without them. He would only feel less guilty, that’s all. Mum asks him why, and all Oceanus could say was there was no feeling he could get rid of, if he were truly honest with himself.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Jackson Hosanna is a great man. He is great in wealth, great in power, great in progeny, great in substance. He is to be avoided unless the asexual flesh of a mere person offers him another juicy favor, and Mr. Hosanna is in the mood for it. It is strange that one man, an unnaturally powerful magnate, is so feared in a modern country profound in its worldly undertakings and influence. In the vernacular of the ordinary citizen, he and his country have ridden under, sideways and upside-down each other’s backs in a masterly fashion. The ride has been a long one, ever since the inheritance. And sometime during this ride Mr. Hosanna, despite his much publicized political neutrality, has attained the position of ‘Business Lord’ or the one ‘deferred to the most’. And he is a man who takes everything. His nods of assent have gained countless tax breaks and labour concessions amongst other ‘gifts’, and neither the most corrupt politician in the land nor the humblest cleaner can comprehend the unbalanced relationship between this one businessman and this great country down under. Mr. Hosanna for giving absolutely nothing is indeed famous.
Now anyone would see, if they were looking to undermine the man, that Mr. Hosanna has master class flaws, although his arrogance, his bluster and his bullying as personality imperfections actually work for him. It makes him socially acceptable. He is also a married man who possesses a slim and cultured wife, often seen at social functions, though rarely heard outside their circle. Of course personal foibles found in all influential people particularly the famous are always well monitored, which keens tabloid interest, and which causes the person on the street to seek a connection. His snoring for instance, (his habit appears in magazines under health issues) that could collapse sporting coliseums is subterranean text in prying newspapers and the gossiping glossies. Only Mr. Hosanna’s wife is in a position to raise his snoring to a level of national concern; the public would certainly support her, and if academic researchers directly correlated a heavy bodily weight with heavy snoring, and should she be fit for a long and harrowing divorce.
Monday, April 1, 2013
The first one came when Colin inextricably fell to the pavement one morning on his way to work. Revived by passers by, an ambulance was then called and New York Downtown Hospital general admissions took him. After the tests, no concussion or brain injury were found, and Colin was let go with just a bump on the back of his head. But not feeling too well, Colin called work on his mobile and then went home.
Now two days later while Colin is shaving, the bump on the back of his head moves to the bridge of his nose, opens its scabby eyes and pinhole mouth and says hello to Colin in Colin’s voice. Anybody normal would freak and jump the nearest window, but Colin, in his low state of mind, said hello back. And after breakfast they went out for a walk together.
And Colin fell again, though not as bad as the first. He didn’t need to go to hospital. And now there are two bumps which say hello in Colin’s voice. Fine, said Colin to himself. I hate my job, I live alone, I don’t get on with my parents, and money’s tight….fine. I can live with a couple of bumps that say hello to me in my own voice. Anyway it’s been awhile since anyone, a lover, my mother, anyone, has said hello to me in the bathroom first thing in the morning.
He wasn’t taking any more chances though. No more walks for awhile, eh. Two bumps which opened their scabby eyes and said hello to him first thing in the morning, was enough. Often they said it together. It was like hearing excited siblings clamouring for his attention. So Colin rang his work and said he was still too ill to come in. His boss suggested he take his holidays. He needn’t worry, he wouldn’t be sacked. Colin was one of the sharper economists working in the financial district of New York.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
The townspeople of Little Grumble complain every day. They complain publicly and without inhibition. The town is famous for it. Our Little Grumble: the moaning capital of the world. Tourists come from afar to hear the townspeople complain. Usually the complaint is about the temperate climate or something more trivial. Occasionally it might be about the stink from the town’s sewer, which runs through Parliament Square, and which successive governments have promised to fix but have failed to do so. For the tourist, especially those who come from extreme climatic conditions, it is a real novelty to hear someone complain about a little rain or soft sunshine. On any pleasant Little Grumble day Northern Hemisphere tourists feel less ashamed about their February blizzard complaints or when hurricanes arrive in late September. Other tourists however, can’t believe how lucky the Little Grumblers are, and wonder what is really going on. Maybe there is some sort of syndrome running deep in the town’s psyche. Of course not everyone in Little Grumble complain. These are the incomers who have found a better life here but don’t get involved in local issues. They have their complaints like everybody, but they prefer to keep them private.