writings43
Tuesday, 2 August 2016
Friday, 30 October 2015
EVIDENCE
And
this body intends to be nowhere else but here, sitting on this chair; the one
with the legs made of saliva.
The
object of this physique is to establish whether or not the seat, supported on its
spittle-limbs, is in fact a chair or not.
These bulky
bones make an impression on this chintz cushion that is stuffed with teeth-torn
nails; jagged and ripped half-moons.
The air
is thick with terror. It passes through the investigative figure’s shaking lungs
and re-emerges as a shared joke.
Tears the size of lagoons drop to the carpet which, is no longer a nylon weave but has become instead a shaved scalp.
The
formless form places a cracked glass to its thirst, what was once clear, cool water
is now strands of hair. It chokes.
Fingerprints
litter the floor and on the bed a greasy pillowcase shows where a phantom head
shifts uneasily from side to side all night.
Sleep is impossible until the conundrum is solved. The weight of an insomniac is equal to that of a 50 litre barrel of blood.
It
tosses, scratches, rubs. Flecks of irritation permanently mess that corner. But
it is not known why this phenomenon occurs.
Neither
is it understood who or what dirties these clothes; shit-stained underwear skid-marked
with itches.
Off-white
sweat patches mapped into armpits. Mucous seepage everywhere.
Everywhere.
A
climate of effluvia everywhere.
A Lice
When I stare at my miserly body mirrored in the intimate imitation
of the hours of yesterday, I ache to step outside the limitations of its guilt-edged
frame.
I want to go beyond the sensation of the scared child glaring
blackly back, to shut-down its tirade of tyrannical thoughts and openly become a
ferocious cloud, a mighty waterfall or a cyclical happening of ceaseless breaths.
I have prodded and pushed myself into many inappropriate
positions. I have tried to face-up to the lies of the loaded dice and I have
eaten the earthly flesh from both sides of the nonsense-mushroom; only to gag
on its bitterness.
Wonderland was the
world I was told to long for; the place where anything could happen, the place where
I could grow a new head.
Instead I have become my own infatuation, my own torturer
and my own mean-minded master. I wear weird costumes and queer masks, I perform
bizarre tasks. I invent fabulous horrors for myself and I disobey my commands.
There are no rules here. I drop like sand through my own fingers; I am an esoteric
storyteller.
And I am the heroine, hurled into outrageous adventures, swirling
anticlockwise through corridors of locked doors.
I tease myself with out-of-reach keys and ingest drugs that make
me shrink, then swell me to enormous proportions. I cry tears big enough to
drown in and float along in this plot like an upturned boat.
Occasionally I get stranded on a strange island, where cats
and mice play cat-and-mouse games with me and scare away the imaginary birds.
Some days, dressed as a white rabbit, I magically return to
the beginning, to chastise my make-believe other and taunt my invented self
with a hypnotic watch that ticks backwards.
Glove Story
Gloves mate for life but,
the solo-glove is a mutant udder, an other of deformed
teats, seeking another. Another in search of its misplaced (s) wanting to
pluralise into a conjoined-twining.
It is also a stranded deep-sea creature washed too far
ashore, unable to return to its aquatic habits.
Within the solo-glove’s jewelled imagination, it senses the
five thefts of the finite.
This uninvited criminal act is deliberately performed by a tricky sand-villainess. Often regarded as that in which judgements flourish alongside one
another, this femme fatale steals the solo-glove’s
liberties.
This uninvited criminal act is deliberately termed, ‘Sightseer’
and purposely labelled, womanly.
Undeterred by her sticky
mittens, the solo-glove suffers incessant
dizzy spells but, as our unlawful lady’s name
suggests, she is not only the solo-glove’s nemesis, she is also the solo-glove’s
honoured guest.
The scheming of those refracting, factual
moons, whose relatives are not adverse to any occurrence that
has too many broken others, is represented
by those devious brothers; Previously, Currently and Up-and-coming.
They are the solo-glove’s fractalised selves.
When it is past the tense stage and no waking-words can alter
this because its
nocturnal-flagships have emerged and merged, the solo-glove’s
emasculated cries will take first prize, morning, noon and night AND IT WILL
CALLOUT FOR JUSTICE!
And see, here are the solo-glove’s gory hands, and its embarrassed
eyes, and swinging sex organs that spit
and crackle and flash –
All are so quick to vanish it’s as if a star has come to personally
deliver the collapsed pain of its spectacular implosion.
To ensure the solo-glove does not forget it is inseparable
from its other-handed pair, thumbprints are taken.
Despite this, the solo-glove continues diving though ultramarine
hoops, searching for forlorn treasure-maps, grabbing at sheets and stabbing at meat.
And slowly but surely, the next phase appears to go on and
on and on, eating the solo-glove’s heart out.
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