Sunday Morning

The Sonnet: Then and Now

The Sonnet
William Mulready (1786-1863)
1839
Oil on Panel












"This was one of the artist's most popular works. A critic observed: 'The youth is fiddling with his shoe-tie, but casting a upwards sly look, to ascertain what effect his lines produce upon the merry maid who reads them...placing her hand before her lips to suppress her laughter'."



Springtime (dip dip a dooby i love ya!)
Corey Feldman (1971-)
2008
Rasp on Awful

The Fantastical Duke of Losers, Part 1

The carnival was over. The freaks were in the barn having a drug-fueled orgy with the pigs and the cows. It was how they chose to live. The musclemen, each one a homosexual and a bro, chopped the heads off chickens and choreographed the resultant dance moves. Bearded women and rubber men had awkward intercourse in shit-filled troughs. "Baby we're in Xanadu! This barnyard is our pleasure dome!"

The Duke of Losers sat cross-legged with the rats in the dirt beneath the stage. He suckled a canteen of gin, convinced he was a visionary. He could see the course of things quite clearly. He saw the freaks were hopeless but my god they were having a ball and here am I drinking alone!

He worried about the little Indian girl. She once was a sweet tea-drinker but now associated with the freaks and donkeys. She occasionally runs off with Steve, a model citizen, but she always returns to the carnival. What one does in the past, mused the Duke, one will inevitably do in the future--unless there is a shock! And Steve is such a twat. And certainly not a duke. I'm afraid the carnival is in her blood.

He watched the passers-by. What an enormous gaggle of idiots!

Oh Steve... Steve Steve Steve... Living the Canadian Dream, wearing clothes chosen by your girlfriend, so proud of yourself because she tells you they are fashionable--you look like an overgrown child! Please tell me more about your mortgage and your magnificent home improvements! Oh oh oh and what's your favourite food!? Tell me how much you like to eat it!

Inside the barn, the freaks awaited for the arrival of Sammari, a hip-hop singer of lukewarm ability known for singing about women and fast cars and, occasionally, when he felt poetic, women-as-fast-cars. He, too, had his eye on the beautiful Indian girl. He would impress her with his phenomenal ability to party quite seriously.

Though reluctant to admit it, the Duke also liked to party--just never seriously. He had poetry power and a reputation for being a sad sack. No one likes a sad sack, a friend once told him, and that's exactly what you are: a big sack of sad and you stink like socks. The Duke immediately took a shower, quite conscientiously washing his balls, and made an oath never to be sad again.

That's how he became a duke.

In the distance was the squeal of a Japanese motorcycle. Steve noted how motorcycles often sound like their names--What a fucking idiot, thought the Duke. But enough of all that... We are all quite drunk and Sammari will soon be here!

A Good Place

Darling I'm inventing a world. I've stolen a Scottish Fold and a set of dinosaur bones. We'll read erotica to the crickets and have that twinkle in our eyes. Coffee and potatoes aplenty; an abandoned seaside resort. Give it a few months and we'll be transformed--no longer food for worms but magical lovers digestible only to each other. We'll call the kitten Agamemnon--Aggy-Poo for short--and inspire the jealousy of the world. I'll love you till you're tattered and no longer a simple girl.

Basia Bulat, Gold Rush

Confession: I am a little in love with you, my darling Basia. Your new track is quite brilliant. I danced all night.

The Recluse

One lonely Saturday she lured me into her grotto. She fed me dark chocolate and wine. Now I am sad, ruined, and thirsting for Her. I cannot find her home and am afraid she has since withered.

You eight-legged six-eyed bitch. There's no mistaking it, I am your boy.

The Madness of a Recluse

Coyotes.

Autumn Ritual

I stumbled in at 4:00 a.m. A week night in mid-October, her house was cold and drafty. It smelled like fumigation. I flicked on her kitchen light, trying not to wake her abruptly, but trying to wake her. I slammed some scotch and put on some Ennio Morricone, quietly. I felt my better spirit inside me--hello, it's been awhile.

And there she stood in the bedroom portal, blue nightgown, breasts right there. She sweats when she sleeps and I could smell it. I whistled a quiet rise-and-fall. Well well well.

"Come here baby," I slurred, and patted out a little spot for her on the couch. I was infatuated with her fleshy curves and strange sticky odour. I put my nose in her ear and we tickled each other.

"That's a good pussy cat," I said. "Now be a dear and fix me a drink then hand me my lute."

Ah, my lovely lute, my best old friend. I mumbled out a song, playing along to the compact disc. I sang noises, not words. I didn't want to use that part of my brain.

You didn't think I would do something as cliche as serenade her, did you?

"It's all theatre, baby," I took another drink and exhaled softly. "I've been out balling and it makes me sick. The drugs, the alcohol, the false feelings that trick you. But what I have here is real." I squeezed her bottom and kissed her till I was bored. I played my lute some more. Ahhhhhhh.

I played to her the prettiest melody I knew. Sort of this folksy little jive in G. Then I tossed the instrument on the floor. Crash!

"Oopsy daisy," I laughed. She was frightened. "But such is love."

I took off her nightgown. "Now let's not be afraid to mess up this fancy-ass couch you've got here."

***

I awoke to her two cats licking my face. This bird beside me was disgusting and smelled like cigarettes.

I whispered in her ear: "You disgust me."

She turned her back on me and made a whimpering sound. Oh this is bloody real all right!

So I busted up my lute, my old friend, and used it as firewood. Watching the flames reminded me of simpler times--youth, poetry, and the caveman. I returned to the bedroom, told her I was a dumb-ass and sick, and asked her to come sit with me by the fire. She refused, but accepted my offer of a smoke. She wasn't so bad, really, just fucked-up like the rest of us.

I put on my sunglasses, afraid of crying, and walked out into the cold. Goodbye, fair instrument. Bloody hell it was early and it was cold. My suit was filthy and the morning joggers made me feel like a rat.

Big City Romance

We're either weak or wise,
but there is no doubt we're losers.
And this is my compensation
for your mistakes--
blow man blow!--
You've broken up our sweet little egg
and baby I feel scrambled!

The Dewy Grass

I.
"Come live with me in my sick estate. We'll get well. I'll feed you tea and oranges and we'll make love in the out-of-doors. In the dewy grass, baby. The dewy grass!"

But this gal was closed-off. "Dear Prudence," I said. "You've spent too much time in false paradise. It's really messed you up."


II.
For three weeks I renounced Holy Paganism and saw the world as it is, as a machine, self-interest as its oil. No fun, no playfulness, no little faeries tying Celtic knots in my pubic hair. I was miserable. I'd say I was in Hell but the concept was dead. What I was was in Starbucks, drunk and stinking, staring at an old woman with purple hair. Oh how I long for those weird demons!

I filled my canteen with Oban whisky and sat by the Italian Fountains. "I will kill myself," I laughed, then offered some whisky to a squirrel. His jerky rejection of my finest scotch stung my little heart. Why don't you like me? This is really good stuff.

I had to make a decision. It was either suicide or calisthenics at the gymnasium. I have always wanted abs like Satan's.



III.
Enervated from the workout, I sent a letter to my baby: "If you ever have purple hair, I won't speak to you. Also don't go ugly. I can't stand ugly girls. Not when they do it to themselves."

Public Performance by Nigel Tewksbury: The Aquatic Ape

Time: Saturday, November 7th, 2:15 pm
Place: Italian Fountains, Kensington Gardens

My cocoon is stuffy. The surrounding air whispers to me: Emerge, you deranged butterfly! Fly you beautiful baboon! Thus I shall make my first public performance in years this Saturday, November 7th, in Kensington Gardens.

I have been training my body and mind. I ask strangers on the street and they all agree: I am incredible.

For six months I have been meditating on The Aquatic Ape Hypothesis (from Wikipedia) and have composed an experimental poem on the subject. In my performance I shall debut the piece before stripping naked and swimming in the Italian fountains. Please don't tell the police.

All are encouraged to join the swim and I will enthusiastically share the contents of my magic flask to all in attendance. Come and celebrate Nothing.

My dear, beloved pussycats, I hope to see you there.

Majestically, aquatically, yours,

Nigel Tewksbury

Last Letter to Tanya

Tanya,

You live on inside me as waves of perfume. In quiet moments you still surround me. It's a shame you became an academic girl and no longer believe in God and music. To discover your beauty is hollow is what drove me to blended scotch and worse. It did not do me much good but filled me with pretensions and false feelings. It made me the the dunce who stands before you; ultimately it made me joyfully mean. I lost my faith in clarity because you poisoned me with Chanel. I've gone to filthy places with hopes to clear my head. That is how stupid I am, my love. A moron who still believes in God and music but cannot bear the disinfection of a church. I remember your embraces too clearly--especially when it's silent--how I would get lost in the sweaty tangles of your hair and how holy it was. So I sit in bed and smell her armpits.

What are you wearing?

Filthily, religiously, yours,

Nigel Tewksbury

Atlas Sound - Walkabout

Pussycats,

It reminds me of when I went clear one summer and embraced the madness of health before doing more harm than good.

I played in the fountain, though I am far from a boy for whom it is normal to play.

It reminds me of crazy adulthood, which I have chosen to embrace. I shall eat a peanut butter sandwich and do a soft shoe routine in the park.

My pussycats, you are invited to watch.

Skinny Dipping

I awoke, after a long and restless night, to find myself in a situation most mad. I had dreamt of exploding walls and looking through a frosted windshield. The frosted windshield made me cry because it was not real--a memory of another life, where I spent a great deal of energy trying not to die in traffic. The exploding walls filled me with the emptiness of a hero.

After the explosion I felt a general horror. A ghost bid me to get drunk--famously so--but I told him I had sworn a mild oath to Sobriety and that these days hard-living is cliche. He told me to lighten up; I told him he was a disgusting pig. For I have also sworn an oath to Truth.

Also in my dream I exchanged telegrams with a mistress of Heaven. I asked her if she noticed the darkness underlying my cheery tone and whether it was good or bad. She gave me some flaky reply and told me to be patient. That was not much use to me at all. So I asked her to come with me to explore a New Madness. I fear she is afraid and am yet to receive her reply, the goodie-goodie bitch.

All this dreaming left me feeling like a loser, so I jumped into a freezing lake with no clothes on. I felt the water surround me until I became overwhelmed with pleasant thoughts of death. I gasped wide-eyed in an ecstasy. A group of idiots gathered around the lake and watched me flail--half were drunk or on drugs, and half were assholes with high-powered jobs. Somehow, I, a nakedly flailing man, was the most dignified, the most true. When I emerged I was all smiles and laughter. I knew my abdominals looked godly. I kissed the prettiest girl, though she resisted, slightly.

Upon returning to my digs, I felt vital and clear and abandoned my sinister thoughts for a cup of tea. I thought of home, though I've never had one. The hot shower seemed a tropical waterfall.