02/08/2013 - GET OUT THE STAG

Get out the stag, grab the porridge and I’ll meet you in the cloak room. We’ll make rogue anthologies and tempt storytellers into displaying their tales in fountain pen. The glen transcribes the cruise control with violent interpretation, so much so you might find yourself weird and callow. Walking goes on and on and on and intelligence corrupted. Is it cool to be a sole raisin in a carrot plot? Are all human’s great and born for gratitude? We need a wildfire to deconstruct the question with little snippets of advice. Sell people your art but make sure you douse it beforehand. Where do you call for your bathtub? Let’s paint the scenery with Aryan handshakes, with distant storm clouds, with funny bedlam.

Black people are not selling you their art because they know you don’t take too kindly to different approaches to scary subject matter. Casting is still an inferior form of melancholia; it makes movement go by lights and grazed mutton. The last two questions are the happiest and will trigger the roller derby with maddening gaseousness. Dinky electrons discharge their eyesight with dishonourable mention. Your eyesight too. Someday you will feel proud of your age, blackened by the bottom half of retribution. Haunting makes me feel stupid, if it’s any sort of consolation. Ghosts are too adept at shifting daffodils and occasionally the vases too. The last time I moved a vase back into place I discovered a honeycomb that pounded on my limbs like a massive raindrop.

You kick. I kick. Let’s cling onto the cheese shop royalty and pretend to be Cornish for a quarter of the daytrip. We’ll record the entire university for the sake of upcoming authors and the giraffes they keep in the scullery. The poor little blighters get boxed around the place and nobody even bothers to stand up for them or their aching, splitting hooves. The words are tumbling like black gems into hirsute mouths, incredulous like sphinxes in the exact same situation. The best outing for such a mythical beast is across the southern hemisphere, gliding across the water and the oceans and even sometimes the lakes. The printed stories will be gargantuan, romantic yarns of deft pliability. The truth will never be so ginger for the rest of its existing days. Who shoots roses from petunias, after all? Not the kindly sort, not the ladies who live at different ages. Eras mean minotaur to them, that’s the picture they get in their bunged up brain places.

The sweetness of ‘of’ makes the stag drool all the way from the cloak room to the very bottom of this iron staircase. You feel that dampness kissing your socks? Yes, that’s the very mandible that bit you in Mexico only the whole bug has been liquidised and devoured. The salute to insect cosmology is staggering when you saunter down to my unique level. I’m an entomologist who grazes with the stag and the giraffe alike but never the sphinx. Sphinxes distrust black people.