A toy stood
on the counter top. He was bent at the knees and looking severe. He had a ring on
each arm, wedding bands as arm bands. He couldn't dive with semi-precious
caution or seven-carat cartwheels. His head was lead and the lead was painted a
delicious colour. Ultraviolet eyes looked out on the lino floor and a half-open
mouth sucked in and snarled at shattered tea cups. He would fall in his own
time and the time on the clock on the wall was as ripe as a green banana. If he
had anything but tiny screws holding up his arms he would be formidable. His
legs were plastic and stuff. He will fall on your foot, just give him a chance.
A chance will come as a chance will come. It is a minty madness. There are
sugar cubes on the opposite table. He will ignore them as he doesn't eat. The lino
will shatter him anyway; his loosened arm will fly the farthest, possibly under
the washing machine. It will stop on the limb when it rumbles out of place. Oh,
the long way down. Oh, the cracking acrylic. He will land on his head, his
heaviest part. It will not hurt again.
Mysteries in
the library are all to do with the books. The spines are for the particulars
and the leaves are shrivelled for the right sort of queen. Never question the
awe-inspiring power of lemonade sipped behind a bookcase. Never say never in
Hindi or Swahili: it'll burn your heart. Rocks live for ages and like for
nothing short of eternity. Let us frolic to the library and see what is on the
shelves. Maybe we'll find a guide to a computer long since obsolete. Maybe
we'll find a fridge magnet wrapped around a pillar. Maybe we'll find the
answers to what you've been looking for since yesterday evening. I might just
tell you everything. I might throw CD covers at you. The LP is hidden behind my left eye: they've dared you to pluck
it out. Call up or shrivel up. I want to go to the black section where they
keep all the dark tomes and goodies. I want to read Satanic works and scoff at
their wording. I want to read early editions of the Bible and do the same but
with cheesy biscuits in my mouth. I want to hope to read nothing so poor for the
rest of my life. I will wish at your latest edition and bow below the reams of
thought. I have poured my soul onto an envelope and I will send it to my sister
in Quebec. She will open it and deposit it into her library and tell absolutely
no-one to put it among the poetry pamphlets. The boards must be walked upon by
rain drops or nobody will believe the sound of empty creaks. The novels are my
bastard friends and the short stories my collective youngsters. I shall eat
with them on my shoulders.
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