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!
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
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."
"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."
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
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
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