It is a twisted plane that we tread on
with wet feet. We have no idea these days how to live in strife or anything
else beginning with the letter 's'. It is a passion play to be alive and one
that is so easily missed if you spend your time staring at arses. The water is
the land and the land is the water. All surfaces are level to the ageing mind.
Stoop and you're doing something wrong.
There
was a man I met once whilst on the River Ganges. He had hairy toes and pink eyelids that never
flickered even when I stabbed at them. He was bleeding from the nose and crying
from the lips. Something about lost crayons and eternal damnation. I asked him
about the cliff and if he had ever attempted to traverse it. He told me in a
whisper that his wife had tumbled from it in the most horrific way possible. I
tried guessing but each time a thought popped into my head he always turned to
me and told me 'No, that isn't the right one'. Dear God, what this man must
have been through. He treads through water every day and yet he is never clean
enough to squat down and pass the time in child's play.
He
opened his mind to me and let me peek through his ear hole. It was a
precious sight and a precious site. There was no citation I could have made
that would make him wink into nowhere. His skull was as pink as his eyelids and
his soul as dark green as a dark green thing. I tried to drink from it but he
kept looking at me. The rose was blowing in the wind behind us and nobody had
stopped to ask it for shelter. Dandelions laughed at the sadness with which
it's stem broke.
I
suppose I am binding my hands with this tale now. I suppose the yes on my lips
is a no on the hips. I feel disconnected from connections to connectives from
my past and I cannot help but bleed and lead. The dog will falter if you call
its name. Elvis costs nothing more than a handful of grain and a kiss from the Netherlands. It will not bring him or the dog back again. All it takes is the shards
of ice you sometimes find in the Ganges. It is so fine it does not break the
surface. There is a mystery to my ethanol. I drink from it purely to go blind
and yet it never allows me the pleasure.
I
do hope this means something to you because this means absolutely nothing to me. Vienna is
where I shall go to next, in search of an answer to the markings on my
calendar. The paper is thin and lightly glossed. New York is in the potato; I
carry it around with me to remind me. I hope you think me callous when I say
this. I hope you realise that I am bleeding urine all over your furniture and
the furniture you will have in the future. I stab at thee. I stab at the last
bell. The boiler is boiling burnt boils and I cannot understand the hum. Roll
and you are droll to the last. There are no bells in the land of the seaside.
No comments:
Post a Comment