At an unsafe speed, I rumble through the trees--through the fall I fly, the stink of sewage in my nose--and I know there is no happiness that I'd call true. For happiness is fleeting and false, like this dandy-on-wheels, and I wish I were foolish enough to buy into the buying and the house and the dog and the car--though they appear all innocent, at heart they are all evil, except my roadster, of course, which I enjoy because it's fast (and perhaps a little evil). Now, Nigel, focus, and watch out for the retard with rotting teeth but nick the oblivious teen as a wake-up call from reality--ring your bell like a coked-up Pavlov and hope the dogs respond and make way for Master Tewksbury, he's faster than you; and I storm along the riverside--upshift! upshift! upshift!--with a death wish, perhaps, yes, certainly with a death wish, because I am an exotic bird of paradise that does not wish to propagate--propagation's for the common and the plain--I wish to go out in a colourful explosion of feathers, dancing my strange, exotic dance not understood by the populous who prefer the ignorant impregnators, the bacon and the burgers--now I'm on the ragged edge, dipping down and up, huffing and puffing and growing younger--ringing my bell, again, like a coked-up Pavlov to signal my mercurial pace through the sewage stink and cultural garbage--hark! my message is chaos with precision--whoever made this bike path had great aesthetic sense--I salute your work--I'm sorry no one notices, but we are all basically stupid. Ah! This is happiness, this is false, this is fleeting, but fuck it feels grand and fuck I feel superior and fuck it would be a good time to die, now, by smashing my head upon the road and being eaten alive by ducks--I just hope it cracks easier than a coconut and I taste alright without sauce--I wish to die--I'd like to be a cutter, that is, a cutter of corners, up upon my bicycle, my silent steed; but with sadness this ride must end. It is a shame. But I feel a little better now. I must remember this as a cure for my occasional bouts with malaise.
quickly beating heart
trees, sewage, water, and will
hidden underground
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Planetary Plagues, etc.
Reginald stopped by for an unscheduled visit and brought with him his magic pouch. As he rang my bell, I awoke from a drunken slumber and inquired, "What time is it?"
He replied with slurred enunciation: "It is pre-plague Renaissance. I know it is your favourite."
It is... He opened his magic pouch and indeed there was no time at all but those times that are our favourites--and in times like these one must really be outside! And then we were in an empty battlefield with no one but our ghosts. Like teenagers we traveled there by bicycle. We waited for the fight but there was no one there to fight us. Ah, it's just a field, then. So we rode on but not before losing our accents.
"What happened to your accent, Reg?" I asked.
"What happened to yours!?"
"I'm not sure... I do not know my voice at all... But to think of my accent frightens me."
"Let's bike on."
We rode to the university where wild Tropicália music crackled and pulsed and wasps buzzed about unemptied rubbish bins and I grew fearful of the plague while Reginald munched a bagel and played kitten with his cock. What was this plague I feared? I looked around and saw people who were advertisements and whose teeth were like dentures because they were so white and so straight. Is this style without substance or substance without style? Or is it neither and none? Ah, listen to their voices... Their accents are strong and false... As was mine--but now it's gone and I am left with a rubble of phonemes with which I must build my new Babel. But let's not build Babel again--it always falls down--let's come up with something simpler, something sturdier, something a little more like Lascaux.
In the distance I gazed at a girl with wild, red hair. I know her. I danced with her once in a Dublin bar. She is better than most but that's not much. I quickly realized she wasn't my Nicevenn when she professed to be a follower of Acca Dacca. I shan't strike up a conversation. Our orbits have briefly crossed and sentimentality is known to kill a planet and turn it to a moon.
We must leave this place before we die--Franny was right--there is no knowledge here--only horny professors with patches on their sleeves. There you are, my bicycle, my steed. We shall go home now in total darkness. Though there are no lights in the park we can get by with echolocation and a little bit of luck. It's all we need. Who cares if we die because this is a good way to go--speeding down a hill, towards a set of headlights, drawing me in like gravity.
He replied with slurred enunciation: "It is pre-plague Renaissance. I know it is your favourite."
It is... He opened his magic pouch and indeed there was no time at all but those times that are our favourites--and in times like these one must really be outside! And then we were in an empty battlefield with no one but our ghosts. Like teenagers we traveled there by bicycle. We waited for the fight but there was no one there to fight us. Ah, it's just a field, then. So we rode on but not before losing our accents.
"What happened to your accent, Reg?" I asked.
"What happened to yours!?"
"I'm not sure... I do not know my voice at all... But to think of my accent frightens me."
"Let's bike on."
We rode to the university where wild Tropicália music crackled and pulsed and wasps buzzed about unemptied rubbish bins and I grew fearful of the plague while Reginald munched a bagel and played kitten with his cock. What was this plague I feared? I looked around and saw people who were advertisements and whose teeth were like dentures because they were so white and so straight. Is this style without substance or substance without style? Or is it neither and none? Ah, listen to their voices... Their accents are strong and false... As was mine--but now it's gone and I am left with a rubble of phonemes with which I must build my new Babel. But let's not build Babel again--it always falls down--let's come up with something simpler, something sturdier, something a little more like Lascaux.
In the distance I gazed at a girl with wild, red hair. I know her. I danced with her once in a Dublin bar. She is better than most but that's not much. I quickly realized she wasn't my Nicevenn when she professed to be a follower of Acca Dacca. I shan't strike up a conversation. Our orbits have briefly crossed and sentimentality is known to kill a planet and turn it to a moon.
We must leave this place before we die--Franny was right--there is no knowledge here--only horny professors with patches on their sleeves. There you are, my bicycle, my steed. We shall go home now in total darkness. Though there are no lights in the park we can get by with echolocation and a little bit of luck. It's all we need. Who cares if we die because this is a good way to go--speeding down a hill, towards a set of headlights, drawing me in like gravity.
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