McManus eats the sandwiches from
his cottage in the prairie. He'll lob them at us when we're not looking because
he's a right old codger bastard. I heard he had a wife once but she left him
for a green grocer with light grey hair and a dark grey watch. It was the most
romantic thing my mother had ever seen or so she said.
That's one way I sympathise with
old McManus: romance is a null concept. It's a pastime, if anything, one that
involves pointless trinkets and tricks in the bedroom. You soil the house you
live in when you love a woman. She comes to stay and there is no way out for
her. It's life a death trap which she covers with her own selection of drapes.
How faintly I live when on my own.
I knew a girl once who would
have killed to kiss me but I would have gone south of a rooster if she had ever
turned the other cheek. There are freckles then there is sunburn. It made me
involuntary and green and well worth the flee. It's no secret that she went on
to become a full-blown ugly goddess of infatuation. She owns a television and
knows all the cookery shows and that's how she gets her men now. She uses a
rolling pin and flattens then with a sponge.
I knew nothing when I started to
walk along this road but now I know just a little ahead of nothing. This makes
we good with red felt tip pens and an authority on all things to do with
McManus and his elderly ways. I shall probably share a fudge ripple with his
someday and there won't be a bit of irony between us.
For now I drink the grease that
slides out of the supposed heart. I have a needle and I jab it into cardboard
to prove a point to perfume. I am effervescent with glee when I see the blade
pull through. Not by the hairs of my chinny-chin-chin shall I call this again.
This is an ever-lasting disc
that skips over all the beauty that is mankind's loneliness. The screws fill my
eyes and leak out seminal fluid through the pores across my butt crack. I am
disgusting but I love myself in such a way that no woman without breasts and
kindness can hurt me with their dramatic hurdles. The disc is shaped like
McManus: it rides up in the crotch of the cleft.
Beady eyes stare out at me from
Valentine's rings. It teaches me not to be so ghastly when dealing with the
frizzy haired crazy women who insist on paying bills through prostitution and
cuddles from the taxman. I shall stamp out the gangrene in order to make this
idea whole again and I don't care who knows it. McManus probably has an
inclination but I daresay I distrust that old bastard with his heavenly
disruptions. Oh, there are miles to go.
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