King Times and Lolly Pops

I was under the impression that yesterday, the 30th, was the last in July. I was, evidently, wrong. Now here I am in the midst of the 31st of July — a day I thought non-existent. Tomorrow, I will be where I was meant to be today; now, I'm in limbo; I'm between times. I prepared my mind this morning for a day that was marked with a "1"; my whole schedule revolved around the assumption that this was, in fact, the first of a new month. Fortunately, my plans didn't include walking up to strangers and pinching them, but still, it was a most inconvenient inconvenience to start one's Sunday.

I have taken this opportunity to explore the depth of Time and Space.

Remember, Remember The 30th Of July

Up we tumble towards the end of the month and the start of the next. I'm starting to feel like an oyster, you know?

Big Ben Gets Ticked-Off

Ben wore bushy sideburns and a day's growth of hair; Stephan wore small silver spectacles and an expensive hat; they both wore confused looks and they both stood upon the amplified centre of the amphitheater. Behind them, the river did its best to roll amidst the mud and twigs.
"I suppose you're wondering why I called you here," I said.
"Not really," said Ben. "You told us on the phone."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Sorry."
"We're wondering," began Stephan, "why you're dressed like a superhero."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Well isn't it obvious?"
"No," said Ben. "Not at all."
I looked down upon my beautifully tailored costume.
"It's quite nice, isn't it?" I said.
They shrugged.
"Anyway, I'll get down to business. Sorry."
There was a pause.
"Was that it?" asked Ben.
"Yes."
"Can we go now?"
"Yes — I'll join you."
I hopped down the stairs and joined my comrades.

We set off down the path near the river.
"Oh dear," said Stephan. "I think I just happened in my trousers."
"You mean..." I started.
"Yes, I'm feeling my lunch. I couldn't resist."
"No worries. We'll get you cleaned up in no time." And we did.

Splurge

I was sitting in a tree with my hands folded neatly into a crane when I happened to happen upon a happy little bird with golden wings. Interrogating the bird for some minutes, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't capable of answering back or comprehending my speech or hand gestures or knowing winks, so I pulled the pulley that held me aloft safely in the tree and raised myself higher into the branches. To my surprisingly serpentine surprise, the beak-laden bird flapped its flappers and followed me to my new carefully cautionary coordinates and perched precariously on my nose, where it proceeded to chirp excitedly and dig its claws innocently into my flesh.
"Hello," it said suddenly. My eyes widened eerily and weeped with not tears but wonder.
"Hello," I replied uncertainly, half worried that I was the subject of some cruel practical joke.
"So, how's things?" the bird seemed to ask.
"Um," I began nervously, "good, I think. How about you?"
"I'm marvelous," said the bird.
"Yes," I agreed. "You certainly are."

We wed the following year on a clear April Autumn day in a cheap chapel by the lake. Kids weren't possible, unfortunately, so we adopted a baby bird and a human. I was sitting with my lovely wife on the veranda and briskly brushing her beautiful golden feathers with a feather duster. She turned her glorious beak, and, by rights, the rest of her head, to face me on that lovely morning on the boards.
"Isn't life disappointing?" she said.

The Mediums

1. Writing.
Bound by the least restraints and definitely the most expressive.
2. Music.
Visceral and sensual; a different experience entirely.
3. Film.
Hampered by budget and time limitations — see below.
5. Theatre.
Nobody wants to see plays.
5. Gallery art.
In its day, this produced some incredibly beautiful works, but now, unfortunately, it's completely dead.

Note: Comics are excluded because they are covered in writing and art.

Film is for Fucks

With ignorance my ally, I used to proudly claim that film was the 'ultimate' medium. Because it combined all the other mediums into one super-medium, I naturally assumed it was the best. There was writing, I would say, in the script; there was music in the score; there was art in the storyboards and pre-production sketches; there was theatre in the performances; photography in every shot; put simply, every distinct brand of creativity was poured into a single product. How could it go wrong?

Well it did go wrong. Sure it's like writing, but it's worse; sure it's got music, but most of the time you wouldn't want to listen to it outside of the film; yes, there is art in the pre-production stage, but it's not there in the final film; the acting is like theatre, but it's more commercial and requires less talent; and yes, there's photography, but it's seldom used effectively. Film takes all the mediums and compromises them.

Film has severe limitations. Unlike most of the other mediums, film operates under strict time limitations. You don’t have the freedom of, say, reading a novel when you’re watching a film. With a book, you can read it as quickly or as slowly as you like, but with film you are virtually forced to endure it in a two-hour lump — at least if you want the experience the director desires. (Albums also have this time constraint, but it's not asking as much from the listener.) This limitation also inflicts on the filmmakers because two-hours isn’t very long to explore the complexities of ‘the human condition’; and if they try to go over that limit — 4 hours, for instance — then the audience will suffer. Watching a film can often be a very draining experience; you have to be really good to make a film over two-hours watchable.

All right, so if you can’t properly explore ideas as well as a novel, what does that leave? It leaves the all-important experience of image and sound. (And I’m not saying your film shouldn’t have ideas — I’m saying it should have something more as well. After all, ideas can be written down; you don’t need a film to express them.)

As I've stressed before, when you're making a film you have to use the medium to its full potential. Otherwise, you're just doing a second-rate novel. Why bother making a film if you're not going to invest any care in the only elements that separate film from everything else. You have to give it a reason for being a film; you have to justify the medium’s existence. Don’t make the audience think that the only reason you made your film was because you couldn’t write a novel. It’s true that it’s easier to make a ‘good’ film then a ‘good’ novel, but that’s no excuse. Make something uniquely filmic.

Filmgoers are fucks. Those crowds at film festivals who rail against Hollywood are fucks. Those people who want things about people are fucks. They hide their stupidity and ignorance ‘neath a veil of intelligence. The films they watch are those moving stories that explore relationships and all that rubbish. In reality, they are just watching dumbed-down literature. These sorts of films are the idiot’s novel. They don’t want to have to endure two-hundred odd pages of intimidating text; they just want the ideas compressed and displayed at 24 frames per second with a soundtrack to help it run along smoothly. Then, in the foyer, they can discuss the meaning with their wretched friends and interject other people’s conversations when the subject matters cross. Film is for fucks.

As a medium to express profound ideas, it’s secondary to a novel. As a medium for absolute sensual pleasure, it works. Films like 2001: A Space Odyssey are among a select few which have the right to be films. And no, Hollywood films don’t usually have this right; its films are hollow, badly-shot airport novels. Though when they’re good (which is very rarely), they’re preferable to uninspired independent dross.

But don’t get me wrong: I’m not trying to do away with stories and turn the medium into a sight-and-sound wank. You still should try to tell stories — no matter how cryptic or vague. It’s just that there should be more to it then that.

Cinema is still a medium I like, but it’s been sabotaged by the independents. I like it because, unlike writing, it’s a group thing. There are a lot of people who contribute towards the finished product, and, under ideal circumstances, this makes it a joy to make. It’s not lonely like writing; you’re not holed up at a computer all day. Ironic, really: film is fun to make, but not as fun to watch; whist literature is generally the opposite. Maybe we should just make films amongst our friends and never release them.

My Friend Doodle Wonders if Anybody's Listening

"I have come to the conclusion," said Doodle, "that you need to acquire more outside experiences; leave the house once in while. As a direct result, you shall become a better person – like me, perhaps."
I nodded dumbly.
"How can you possibly know anything when you're holed up like this?" he continued.
"Mmm," I admitted.
"Well, I've got things to do. Bye."
He picked himself carefully from the chair and bade farewell.

So off I went on my journey to self-improvement. By bus, I found myself at the station we had discussed and decided upon. I was uncharacteristically late by about 1 minute, but was happy to discover I wasn't the only one. No one was there as yet. I spent my time observing:

A sub-womanly dumpling nestled into a corner; Groups of black-lipped, black-dyed, black-clothed; Groups of giggles, groups of peers; A woman, who seemed more attractive then she really was, dressed in shades of brown from thirty years ago; Police with tempting holsters; No one I knew.

After the hour was hit, I was among the left-overs. No longer was it a place to meet. I left. The bus which would serve me best was scheduled to arrive in half an hour, so I decided to continue my waiting until then. And I did, making my entire patience reach an hour in length.

I wish I could get inspiration more often.

Why Democracies Can Never Work

Firstly, people don't know what's good for them. Secondly, leaders don't know what's good for their people. Thirdly, people shouldn't be in power.

Which means that the perfect system is fascism.

Caught on the Cross with Mr. Bee

They were politely nailing my right hand to the wood as I casually glanced over my left shoulder. To my apparent surprise, Mr. Bee was on the cross next to me having his left hand nailed.
"Hello!" I shouted.
He turned his head.
"Hellow!" He smiled warmly.
"What are you doing here, may I ask?" said I.
He considered this a moment before replying.
"It's a funny story, actually," he said. "I was minding my own business — you know, the flower shop — when all of a sudden a large scantily dressed man offered me a ride on a crucifix. He was so kind about it all that I felt obliged to accept. And here I am. What about you?"
"Me?" I was forced to recall. "Well, I came of my own accord. I saw this gorgeous little poster in town and thought it'd be a good idea. You know how it is."
"Yes," he nodded. I nodded back.
"Um," I murmured reflectively, "do you know what happens after this?"
"Not sure," replied Mr. Bee. "The afterlife, I guess."
"Ah yes, that old thing. What do you suppose it'll be like?"
"Quite nice, I should imagine."
We nodded again.

After a while, a nice young lady approached and offered to be my carrier.
"That would be splendid!" I said.
And so off we went into the scorching landscape of rolling dunes. I was pleased to note, twenty minutes into our journey, that my good friend Mr. Bee had also acquired a carrier and had nearly caught up to me.
"Hellow!" he called from the rear.
"Good Day Mr. Bee!" I called back.
As he bobbed up beside me, I noticed that his carrier was a noble Prince in royal garb.

Soon, however, we drifted apart; all that was left of him was a distant silhouette on the horizon. I turned my attention towards my own criminally underdeveloped carrier.
"Favourite books?" I asked.
"Off the top of my head," she began after a pause for thought, "I'd say The Crimson Cutie, Stephan The Gambler, Betweenways, The Tale Of Dr. Livingsworth, The Amazing Mr. Brimage and perhaps Ben's Delicious Roast. Oh yes, and Organs."
"Will you marry me?" I said suddenly.
"What?"
"Will you marry me?" I repeated.
"Yes, that would be nice."
"So that's a no?"
"No, that's a yes."
"Really? Terrific."

By the time I saw Mr. Bee again, I was already happily married and wearing a sharp dinner suit. It was at a gathering near a mirage of an oasis and I spotted my old chum taking a drink from one of the springs.
"Is this the end?" asked Mr. Bee when he saw me approach.
"Not yet," I answered truthfully. "There's still a few lines to go."
"Oh," he said glumly. "How about now?"
"Now there's only two."
"The end?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Hey!" shouted Tom Bowler. "That was more then a few."
"A few is anywhere from three to six," I explained.
"No, a few is three."
"But only roughly. Four is still a few."
"Four? More like nine."
I decided not to answer so as the thing could end itself.
"What about my childhood?" said my wife.
"Huh?" I really had no idea what she was talking about.
"What about my opinions?" she continued.
"I don't know," I said defensively.
"What about my name?"
"What about it?" I asked.
"What is it?"

Unwell with Nothing on the Hotplate

I was cooking a meal on the stove. In my head, some things were forming. One was: "poor people deserve to be poor." Another was: "rich people deserve to be poor." And lastly: "neither deserves to be poor." So I sprung into action. I turned off the heat, served my meal, then, in a burst of inspiration, ate it. Something else formed in my head: "people are nice, but mostly mean." This was followed by: "people are people are people are people." I sneezed in my soup and threw it out.

Journey from Post-Mortis

The smoke from the bar pours through my soul like a toilet cake melting on a gas flame. Patrons and gaudy suits avoid my probing eyes as they drink and inhale from wrapped and housed vices like strands of spaghetti sliding down a dusty canyon. My throbbing and brilliant heart sinks from view as I try to find a face in the crowd. And then I do.

The face is that of a lady with rich umber hair like smooth piano wire. Her yellow dress burns through the dull greys and uniform blacks like a lemon in a pool of oil. I stop sinking and start swimming myself to the surface once more. The room swings back into sharp focus as she twirls her sinuous neck and smiles at me. Her jet-red lipstick and billiard-ball eyes call to me like a dying bee on rough cement.
"Hello," she says. The word trickles from her mouth and sails with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces.
"That word trickled from your mouth and sailed with careless abandon on the muddy airs and graces," I say.
"Oh. Goodbye," she quickly runs out into the street.

The rest of the evening fades into nothingness like a stocky foreigner mapping out a course through unfamiliar woods with only a broken compass and a deflated football. It glides backwards and swallows me whole.
"You return my hole this instant!" I cry to the shriveling night.
But listen it does not and I'm left to my devices. Like an uprooted floorboard I stalk through the dark and massage my careful way back towards home.

The rest of my life played out like a rusty tap welded to a light-bulb.

Pencil Logic

Brandishing a buy like a silver dagger, eschewing it with pride.
"How much you get it for?"
"I think it was around ten dollars."
"You got ripped off. I've seen it for three."
"Mmm."
"Fix this gasket, will ya?"
"Why?"
"It's broken."
And on that overlook that overlooked, they watched the city and muttered at the streets. The streets were, of course, being rained upon. It was a typical but glorious winter day.
"I can't sympathise with that."
"Mmm?"
"Those cars goin' places, you know?"
"Mmm."
"Nowhere, really."
"Yep."

And on went the world.

Critics, Crocks and Waterfront Docks

For the sensitive artists who've put their hearts, their lungs and their so-uls into their work, critics are villains; villains who's job it is to destroy egos and ruin lives. There are, generally speaking, two reactions to bad criticism: first, you can stubbornly convince yourself that the critics have missed the point, you only write for the 'people' and you'd like to see the critics do better; and second, you could ruffle your duck feathers and let their words roll off you into the shimmering lake and say: "I enjoyed writing it, and that's all that matters. My goal in releasing this was to see if I could make other people happy, too, and perhaps make a few dollars on the side."

Of course when you get a good response from the critics you're overjoyed; they haven't missed the point then. The only reason one has to resent the critics is because they've said something critical; as we know, most artists really can't handle criticism. But all critics are are people with jobs doing a service, and that service is essential.

We need public response to art. If there was no criticism, art would surely decline. It would spiral downward into self-indulgence with no discerning eye to ground it. Even when artists claim not to listen to the critics, you know they're just being spiteful over a bad review. The truth is everyone does; everyone secretly wants praise.

Then there's the public service that comes from criticism: it guides people as to which works they should experience; after all, you can never know everything; you really do need someone to help refine the pile a bit. Imagine stumbling into all those thousands of books and films and albums completely blind. Even after a lifetime dedicated towards art you'd still miss out on something.

Art without criticism just wouldn't work; they need each other to thrive. There's no point criticising the critic. They make you and they break you; respect them.

The latter section of the first paragraph is taken from a comment I wrote in "The Death Of All And Everthing".

Mr. Bee's Debut

The eponymous Mr. Bee rose from his chair as I entered.
"Hellow," he said with a friendly grin.
"Hello," I concurred. "How's things?"
He thought for a moment.
"Things are good, perhaps," he said finally. "What about you?"
"I'm fine."
"That's good."
One of those gangly Lampshades entered.
"So I was riding my camel, see," it said, "when all of a sudden, a great windstorm rose from its chair and swept me off-a-my saddle. I landed in the hot sand, see, and the camel came-a-tumbling down beside me. So there we were: two perfectly able creatures beat by a bit o' wind. It was degrading, I'll tell ya. And I wasn't about to sit there and take it. So what I did, you see, was rise from the sand and throw my two fists at that wind with all the power that was left in my tank. But my hands just fell through it, and the nasty wind laughed with a roar that again swept me closer to earth. Heed my words, patrons: don't go-a-tackling no wind!"
"Yes, sir," said good ol' Mr. Bee. "Consider them heeded."
"Aw, that's awful kind of you," said the Lampshade. "No one much trusts me 'round here."
"The End," said Mr. Bee.

A Lifeless Ordinary

The seeds of pleasure run a deep crease through this one. This deathly seeker with intent in his eyes. Resting his hands in all the right places. This careless wretch. The figure of just the right height leaning 'gainst the lamppost and smoking a beer. This unscout, uncouth life will be lived but unloved. Though it instead should be feeling its way through a misty communal shower.

But I'll wait. I'll wait 'till you have an apron wife and kids on bikes. The smell of baking and the sound of a creaky veranda. The sight of you suited with a briefcase passing the pickets and waving. The deathly faces will greet you and remind you of what you forgot. Then, I suppose, you'll talk and talk and work your way 'round it. But inside those three there is instilled the image of a wretch.

One found each crease in the haze. The hands hugged and soon enough rested. One felt dead and sought and destroyed. Like a glass ashtray. In the lamplight the shadow flung and thudded and breathed alcohol.

And then I'll pray for once. An arm for an arm and a seed for a seed.

Weak Whistles

The sun and the clouds and the air and all that were badly framed. I'm deeply hesitant and afraid to talk to that person in grey who is counting slowly. I'm feeling morbidly overshadowed by some strange event. I'm wondering why that person didn't hang. I'm wondering why that person quit unannounced.

I'm feeling the usual rubbish. I'm feeling as though I'm weeping on my shoelaces. I'm feeling floors. I'm baffled like a calf. I'm envisaging some strange event. I'm thinking of people spinning around and crying like a sprinkler. I'm thinking of bold bars and nice alleys. I'm wondering about a bowl of sweets.

The moon and the stars and the air and all that were up. I feel like I need some perspective. I feel like going and watching an ugly kid starve to death.

Virgin Rail

A pier or something, I dunno.
"Sex ranks below friendship."
"Huh?"
"I'd rather have a good friend then sex any day."
"That's because you can't get any."
"Sex is nothing. I can't stand the thought"
"You've never had it, have you?"
"That's beside the point."
"Mmm."
"The thought of luring a woman to bed with compliments in some hazy bar repulses me."
"A fear of rejection, I see."
"No, a fear of compromising my principles."
"What about when you want kids or something?"
"Well of course. I just don't believe in casual sex."
"Prefer to do it on your own?"
"Har har. It's just that sex causes so many problems. Lust has nothing to do with love."
"Not even when you are in love?"
"But then it becomes a weird love/lust hybrid."
"Have you ever been in love?"
"Not really."
"Then how can you say?"
"I observe."
"Have you even had a girlfriend?"
"Well there was this girl when I was 4..."
"4?"
"Yes."
"And since then?"
"Well it's hard to say."
"None?"
"Kind of."
"Why not?"
"It's hard to find the right person. It takes time."
"You've got sixty more years, give or take."
"Plenty of time, then."
"Yes. Plenty of lonely nights."
"As I said: I don't need sex. It doesn't mean anything to me; it's hollow, trivial and destructive. Many great minds have been ruined by its grip."
"Do you wanna fuck or not?"
"All right."

Little, Little Thins in Big Shells

This is something I wrote a while ago and didn't use.

A gathering of, say, seven gathered on a green, daisy-laden hill one morning. One said to one: "Good morning". The other, without interest, agreed. And they, the seven, unpacked and feasted upon their bringings. A seven kilometre high Goddess – quite beautiful, if I do say so myself – uprooted herself from the earth and stood with silent reckoning above the previously calm, alternately peaceful, scene. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, however, there was really no reason for her being (but when has that stopped a God before?) so she politely excused herself. The mostly leering group didn't feel too disappointed, as the Goddess was so big that one could never get the right sense of perspective (or proportion, for that matter) to be properly aroused. So they all made glorious love on the grass.

A few months later, they had succeeded in creating a baby that was unique in that it was the product of seven completely different people. This is where the sense of marvel ended, though, because the baby was a hideous mutation, and, once it reached 3 years old, was bigger then a two foot tall house. The real danger came at age 7 when it reached 600 kilometres in height. Suffice to say, it died soon after, and, in the process, killed a good million people – who weren't very happy anyway.

One of the seven later went on to become a good ol' drug addict. First with speed, then with Satin's semen: Heroin. He/she did the usual stuff: stealing money off friends, selling kidneys, writing heavily nostalgic novels. All incredibly interesting, I know.

One of the seven went on to become dead at 85.

One of the seven went on to publish a great book that nobody bought – or liked. So he/she found herself/himself a pier to live under and mated with a mate of the opposite sex who actually turned out to be of the same sex.

I wasn't watching the remaining four, so I never knew exactly what happened to them. But on the upside, I thought of a joke: why do fish who live in shells never let any other fish into their shells? Because they're Shellfish! Stop me if you've heard this one before.

The Birth of All and Everything

Everyone says that punk was created by the Ramones, The Sex Pistols et al, but Crow Jane by pre-war blues artist Skip James is, in my opinion, one the first punk songs ever recorded. Sure, it may resemble a typical blues song in structure, but with lyrics such as:
Crow Janie, Crow Janie, Crow Jane, don't you hold you head high
Someday, baby, you know you got to die
it bears a striking similarity to the ethos behind the punk movement — and over 30 years before Johnny Rotton first screamed "I am an anarchist" into the microphone.

But this is only the half of it. You could justifiably argue that Vivaldi created punk back in the 18th Century with his composition: The Four Seasons which was booed off stage when first premiered in Paris; echoing the reaction the conservative population would have to punk in the '70s.

The Birth Of Rock 'n' Roll, however, dates back to the tribal thumpings of primitive man (all recordings of which have since deteriorated) which was revolutionary in its day and considered "noise pollution" by the more articulate Cro-Magnons — just like Rock 'n' Roll!

This information was correct at the time of writing but the writer understands that it may change considerably as soon as he puts the finishing touches on his time machine.

Gladice Giddy

Gladice Giddy built her house on a hill and peopled her garden with plants and flowers. She worked at the post office and lived on a house on a hill. For reasons of inexperience and masculinity, she didn't have a personality. But she was quite pretty.

She also didn't have a spouse or a partner to speak, and that was because of resentment and mild jealousy, and a brief shelving of the personal. She didn't have any aspirations either, and that was due to ineptitude and stubbornness. All she had was a house on a hill.

Gladice was never happy or sad and never tried to be. Everyday she awoke from sleep and either went to work or didn't. She always ate breakfast and dinner at home and almost always ate lunch at the post office. She never read books or watched T.V or listened to music.

She spent her free time staring out the window of her house on the hill. She believed in heaven only in the sense that she believed death was heaven. Sleeping for her was as good as it got. She never dreamt.

I Love Thy Heavenly Old Man

It seems that people who heavily rely on God, who need his guidance to make it through life, have problems. Usually mental problems. Everyone else just does it out of habit; plodding off to Church every Sunday and not paying much attention; praying for something good to happen once in a while. These people can definitely do without it — it's not making any difference to them except in regard to their Sunday mornings. The only reason they are religious in the first place is usually because they were brought up that way and have never questioned it. If you, for instance, actually sat them down and asked them why they believed in God, they really couldn't provide a substantial answer.

For the mentally ill or traumatised, God can have a placebo effect; they use him as a beacon of hope and righteousness to overcome their problems. They think that he is the answer; and, even though he doesn't exist, he is. This belief has helped many troubled people in the past. But "help" is too strong a word; assist, maybe. Because, while the person in question may no longer be messed up on drugs or abusing their spouses, they inevitably become boring and stale. Sometimes they just become plain annoying. You have to place it in the Grand Scheme Of Things and say: "sure, we've gained a law-abiding family man, but we've lost an interesting psychopath".

Most of the God-believers in the Western world will have committed at least one sin in the eyes of God, so even if he does exist, they still won't go to Heaven. That said, I still think we should invade foreign countries in his name and sacrifice atheists.

Stories from Willie The Drink

I sat on the chair with my friend Willie The Drink and played with his old grey whiskers.
"You stop that at once!" he screamed. "Do you want me to tell the story or not?"
"Sorry," I said ashamed.
"It's all right. Now for the story. There lived once a man named Curtain and Curtain once lived in a house that once was built by a group of off-duty sailors who once were embryos. Curtain and his friend Bongo were once very communist-like and once conspired to rid the world of the once very un-communist-like politician who once made the rules that they once lived by. They once thought him very evil and once thought they'd be helping a lot of people by getting rid of him. Once they met outside his house that once was built by a group of builders and discussed their plan. They once had with them a bag of tools which they once thought would make good weapons.

"Once they had finished discussing and once they went up to the door and knocked on the door until the door was answered. The man on the other side of the door was the man they were once after and before he could ask them who they were, they beat him to death with a wrench and a crowbar. They were once trying to find a place to hide his body, but before they had, the cleaner came around. The cleaner once came around and once saw two men with the body of his employer and was then beaten to death with a wrench and a crowbar. The two men didn't want to do this, but once thought they had to in order to keep them out of jail.

"Once, the politician's wife returned home and saw two men with the body of her husband and cleaner. Once, the two men were forced to kill the politician's wife with a monkey wrench and a crowbar. The two men couldn't find a place to hide the bodies, so they once decided to cut them up into little pieces and put them in a car which they once drove with the body parts of three dead people in the boot. They were once driving this car towards a forest which they once thought would be a good place to dispose of the mutilated bodies of three people they had killed. They were driving this car once and were once stopped by a policemen. A policeman once stopped a speeding vehicle on a dark road at night and was once killed with a monkey wrench and a crowbar so that two men who he didn't know could remain out of jail.

"A little boy found an arm sticking out the ground once in a forest he used to play with and once told his mother who once told a policeman. Once, the two men had buried four bodies in a forest with a monkey wrench and a crowbar that once bore their fingerprints. They were once both in a house that was once surrounded by policeman and they once ran out of the house holding guns and were shot and killed. The End."

"Wow," I said. "That was a sad story."
"What are you talking about, you idiot? That was a comedy!" yelled Willie The Drink.

I'm as Hot as a Pancake or: How to Solve Third World Debt

The third world — the small one — has — will have — problems. Like an opal on a bed of rice on a bed of flowers on a bed of ice, like all that — it's quite complex — and, confusing; it's hard to understand; you have to be strange and smart and — no one is. No one has any meanings to put forth or jangle over the slums like a key that glints with silence — with pitiful awe — and no one has a big enough beard or thick enough glasses or wide enough ankles to offer one, simple — brutal — compassionate — solution that will succeed or fail — or live in theory only like a whale. White, and other colours are for painting one's own town red — for breeding and buying small magazines in paper bags; for opening steak houses in Mid Western jungles; for barking up dogs. None know things at all — and no one can help themselves — but we can all rejoice in our chemists and smoking rooms and downstairs liberated adult bookshops. But the solution, when you think about it — when you think about it — is simple.

First, we need to discover — to find out — to feel — to check up on, and we need — require — enough rooms with enough white beard whites and sleepless nights — and then — like all spinning planets and stars — we'll have enough pure simplicity and nothing we'll break our doors — our feelings will bubble and sap in our laps and we'll find and discover and check and discover and see at last — see — our imaginary walls. Then we can lie low like street rats or alley cats and hang like flies over bins and around clergymen. And we'll grip and sow and hang heads low and overthrow and grow and greet the street and its flies and cats and rats and glowing eyes and meet with overflowing empires and suns and hats on business and sleet on seats and crows on sills and exchange pills with beds and slips of streams and dreams. And then — there — in the minds of men — to be replaced by the minds of wo-men — and the minds of other kinds we can't hope but find in the worst possible places — like where seas are parted — dearly depot — and dears and brought by elders.

So you see, it's not impossible.

Appropriate

Translated text... I have some problems there... I don't want to miss out on foreign language works completely... But I'll always feel... In the back of my head... That it's somehow been compromised... I'm unwilling to learn any more languages... One is enough for now... So I'll never know... Just how much influence the translator has had on the text... No language... As far as I know... Has the same structure as English... Which means that the whole rhythm of the text... Of the language... Will be lost when... Translated... Slavishly worded... Plot-based... Things like this will have no trouble... Being translated... But those which care for the sound of the sentence... Where it's integral to the plot... Where it flows... These will be compromised... Compromised by the translator... Who will... Try... Attempt to... Translate the flow... And... In... The... Process... The text... Whatever it is... Will be changed... And then... In that circumstance... In those circumstances... The book... Story... Poem... Will be essentially... In essence... Co-written by the translator... A good translator... Will have to do this... While a bad translator... Who cares not for how it reads... Will be the faithful one... That said... That's what I said... You can still get an idea... A feel... For these... Works... Where it all falls flat... In Futility... For only curiosity's sake... Is where... Poetry... All about the language... Is concerned... You can... Find out... About... Technique... Their techniques... Imagery... Symbolism... But the whole beauty... Of the form... Of the language... Of the rhythm... Of the movement... Will be lost... Bad Translators will try to re-write the... Feel... And end up... Rewriting the poem itself... A small solution is... Available... In which... You... Whoever... Has a copy of the translated poem... And the poem in the original language... Depending on the language... Depending on the original language... It may have to be written phonetically... So you get what the words mean... And you get their sound... Still... It's not ideal... It will never be... The same... As reading it... In its own language...

Forgetful and Deathly

Piercing like a shrill pin and breaking and crawling and tingling skin. And gripping and grinding and clutching and bruising and wheezing with weary cynicism. And lit and unavoidable and painful and responsible and biased and broken. And comparatively unimportant. These are a few of my favourite things...

To Ball-Point Ben and Milwaukee Mushroom

Hey, folks! Sorry I haven't updated for a while, I've been real busy with this commercial I'm shooting for ACM. Every day last week I came home and went straight to sleep – even without dinner! – so I haven't had much time to write anything. But it's all finished now and I just thought I'd let you guys know what's going on. Anyway, I haven't forgotten you – I'll write more frequently from now on, I promise. I'm so, so sorry that I've abandoned my flock for so long. I hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. Well, that's all from me – Bush sucks and things are funny.

The Penguin, The King, The Woman's Best Friend and The Fleshy Tripod

Hugh The Beautiful Penguin, Stephan The King Of Mexico (in disguise as a commoner), Harry The Woman's Best Friend and Ben The Fleshy Tripod were at large on a hill. They had with them a tall, handsome flag of blue and yellow which they stuck in the grass near some daisies. They christened the hill "Daisy Hill". Hugh The Beautiful Penguin, Stephan The King Of Mexico and Harry The Woman's Best Friend began setting up their beautiful tents on the hill – "Daisy Hill". Ben The Fleshy Tripod already had his tent prepared.
"Good gravy," said Hugh The Beautiful Penguin.
"Yes it is, isn't it?" agreed Ben The Fleshy Tripod. "I'll make some more."
"I think it's because of that great big mixing spoon he has," said Harry The Woman's Best Friend.
"Nonsense!" cried Ben. "It's all down to those special juices you put in."
"No," interjected Stephan The King Of Mexico, "I think it's Hugh's colouring that makes it so good."
"If anything," began Hugh, "it's Stephan's ointment."
"Maybe it's my great big mixing spoon, Harry's special juices, Hugh's colouring and Stephan's ointment that make it great together," said Ben.
"Yes!" agreed the rest of 'em.

That night they all contracted food poisoning. By dawn, there was a large pool of brown vomit streaming down the side of the hill and caking in the sun.
"It was Stephan's ointment," cried Hugh, "that made us sick!"
"My ointment was fine!" screamed Stephan. "It was your stupid colouring."
"No, it was most certainly Harry's horrid juices that made us sick," said Ben.
"It was that dirty spoon of yours, and you know it!" yelled Harry.
"Maybe it was Stephan's ointment, Hugh's colouring, Harry's juices and Ben's spoon that all made you sick," said a greedy tyrant with tits.
They all turned to look at the strange battle-equipped woman.
"Would you like to see my great big cooking spoon?" asked Ben.
"Would you like to see my beautiful colours?" asked Hugh.
"Would you mind if I made some special juice?" asked Harry.
"Would you like to taste my ointment?" asked Stephan.
"No," replied the woman flatly. "I have a battle to attend to."
"Oh," said Ben.
"Oh," said Hugh.
"Oh," said Harry.
"Oh," said Stephan.
"We're in a battle, too," said Ben.
"That's right," said Hugh.
"A great big battle," said Harry.
"A dangerous battle," said Stephan.
"Really?" said the woman. "Who are you fighting?"
"The Tyrants," they said.
"Interesting. What would you say if I said I was one of the Tyrants?" said the greedy tyrant battle-clad woman with tits.
"Well," said Ben, "I'd say: 'wow, what a coincidence'.
"And I'd say: 'oh dear'," said Hugh.
"And then I'd say: 'that's incredible'," said Harry.
"And I would say: 'small world'," said Stephan.
"Well I am one of the Tyrants," said the tyrant.
"Wow, what a coincidence."
"Oh dear."
"That's incredible."
"Small world."
"So what happens now?" asked the tits.
"I was thinking we could all sit around and hold my great big cooking spoon," suggested Ben.
"I think we should all lie down while I splash my colours about like a rainbow," said Hugh.
"I was hoping you would all taste my ointment," said Stephan.
"I had my heart set on sucking the juices out of your Tyrant vagina," said Harry.
There was a pause.
"So no fighting then?" said the woman.
They shrugged.
"In that case, I'll be off. I'm already late for the battle," she said.
"Oh," said all. "Bye."
"Bye. I'll be sure to tell our resident whore about you guys."
She waved and disappeared down the hill.
"Maybe we should have followed her," said Ben. "We are in that battle, after all."
"Let's go that way then," said Harry.

A few hours later, they found themselves at a battle of sorts.
"Well," said Hugh or Ben or Harry or Stephan, "this is it."
They ran down to the battle holding their tents as weapons. The first person they saw was the greedy tyrant with tits.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Hugh with a spear.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Stephan with a sword.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Ben with a pencil.
"Hello," she said as she stabbed Harry with a brick.
As Harry fell towards the ground, he tried to angle himself in such a way so that he could bury his head into the vagina of the tyrant woman. What happened instead was that he stabbed himself in the head with the spear that had initially stabbed Hugh. Suffice to say they all died.

They floated promisingly towards the afterlife.
"Do you believe in God?" asked Ben.
"No. Do you believe in God?" said Hugh.
"No," said Ben.
"Me neither," said Harry and Stephan respectively.
"Oh dear," said Hugh.
Suddenly God appeared.
"I suppose you want to shoot up my arse?" it said.
"No, why should we want to do that?" they asked.
"Because that's how you came here in the first place."
"Well we certainly don't want to go back."
"Oh. Never mind, then. Toodle-oo"
"Bye."
"Oh and one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I think, therefore I Ben-penis."
Good ol' God disappeared.

They started to fall.

Eventually, they landed in a river in a rainforest next to a slab of Solo™ and went to sleep. Someone buried them eventually.

Why Ben is Not a Christian

Ben, whose Southern can is in my possession, once proudly claimed that life was, in essence, life. As aphorisms go, it wasn't the most revelatory, but it still served to illustrate Ben's illustrious passion for philosophy. Indeed I can't remember a single exchange I've had with him where he didn't start a sentence with: "you know what life is?". Of course the answers to these self-posed questions were invariably "life" with a big fat question mark, but you could tell that he was, at the very least, thinking about the bigger picture.

One rainy morning, we were in each other's company at a small café and I spoke.
"Silly, bad and silly, you know?" I said.
"I'm not sure I follow, O Soldier," said Ben.
"I'm talking about these two words, you see?"
"I think I do! What words are these two words?"
"These words are: "blog" and "zine"."
"Ah, I see. One's short for "web log", the other's short for "magazine", 's'at right?"
"Yes, that's right! Isn't it odd that both of them are specifically – in most cases – amateur projects?"
"That is odd. Speaking of which, have you heard about life?"
"I've heard that it's life, yes."
"Ah, but have you heard that it is what it is, my Sword Swallowing Friend?"
"Not in so many words, no."
"Well now you have!"

One day we were holed up in the Chelsea Marina Hotel Off Chapel and we found each other in the lobby.
"Hello Ben, my beautiful, my beautiful balloon," I said.
"Hello you Silly Sailor. I've got a brand new angle on life now, don't you know?"
"Oh boy! What is it?"
"Life is nothing much."
"Wow. That's the best yet."

Ben eventually married a large, sweaty warthog who wore a small but well-tailored floral dress. They lived happily ever after.

Wise Words from a Child Abused

Oddly enough, someone got the impression that I was abused as a child. What does that say about me? His explanation for why he thought this way was that my nihilistic viewpoints were common among people who were abused as a child. I also mentioned in passing a theoretical example about a child abuser who went overseas to help people in need which no doubt got the ball rolling in his head.

Jumping to these conclusions, he advised me to seek psychological help. And, while I didn't do that, I did take suitable inspiration to use a new pick-up line at the Grand Hotel.
"Hi, I'm Hugh. People think I was abused as a child."
"Really?" the brunette combination of startling features would say.
"Yes. I wasn't, though."
"Oh. Pity."
"Yes it is. Well, bye."

So what it boils down to is this: I get all the benefits of a man who was abused as a child, but without the emotional anguish that comes with actually being abused as a child. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty in setting the record straight.

Hello Dolly?

I went to the bars, the music halls and the cafés and none had your face – or your body, for that matter. I went to the dusty Odyssey and swooned 'neath your tower on a horse with an incurable thirst. I swung along crowds in daylight shadows and searched from the neck up.

A gave you a string, too. Over a dozen of them.

So my last port o' call is here on this pier. And here I am, peering at the continents and at the waves and at the – um – water. I'm considering shouting, you know. Shouting a big "Hello?".

Mr. Mister, as they call him, may have, theoretically, squeezed my glum portrait from your wall and held you like a pill and a needle in his white paper teeth. Maybe this braying calf knelt with care 'neath your window and waited with a bell 'till you emerged for the symphony dressed in slimming, sparkling black. He must've carved out his jaw just right. And you must have had one of those flutters and simply forgot to farewell the holed up mailman who was only a downward dig away.

'Twas nothing serious, you know. Sparkling words, you know. The occasional exchange in company, you know.

I guess this is goodbye – though it means less when I say it.

Natural Selection

Let me please wring the necks 'till blue and red and plainly gone. Let the clipboards fall and the pens fly. Let the shirts crumple and the ties twist askew. Let natural selection take its course and succeed where, with me, it failed. And why? Well, because they did their job. The filtering faces of the high-rises. Now dead, mind you.

The Times Machines

Now there's a novel idea:
The invention of time machines in the future causes chaos as every man, woman, Dick and Harry and their respective dogs travel back in time to claim great works of art as their own. Further expansion of this rather insipid idea would be to have an organised group of Government art officials go back in time to prevent all the stupid vain plagiarism. It soon gets out of control as meticulously preserved billion year old copies copies of Great Expectations by Harold Green pop up in archaeological digs. As a result, people stop placing value on art and the world explodes.