We're Not at Home to the Broke of Heart

I'm with the Light Brigade, she quipped, yesterday, Monday, with nary on the contrary, as if to say she was light on lumps. Tuesday followed, like all good Tuesdays do, and so did her grave train of thought: I'm on a top of the world, she stilted, beckoning belief, nose in chief. I am, persisted she, I am indeed — and it's nought not oft I say Indeed, 'tis it? Nought not no, I replied, calmly and rudely stealing an obvious glance at the time on my wrist.

The following Wednesday, we went for Melb's poisons of choice, at the old, bleak brew, we two. She ordered each tip-full, brought it to logic's conclusion and gravity's disarmament. And: I love you, I said, meaning each word but the last. Do you?, she tippled, cocking her chin for a laugh. I do, I continued, do you me? Do I who? Do I who? Forget it. I will. Applause. You, she began, seem different today. I snapped: I am different today. Why? I've on a different hat, to fool. To fool? You fool. That as may be, but ask a question— Quiet.

When Wednesday ceased, it seemed Thurs— Good morning, ever chipper I announced, for that was what it was — both senses. Is it? She turned her gaze to her Polish nails. Doesn't seem as though 'tis. Well, your seems apart, that is what it is, my loaf. I forced a stern look upon her. Did you get the newspaper? No. How could I have? Why don't you, then? I intend to. A snort this time. Any time soon? No, any time after I'm distinctly less pink, and washed. I have to do it myself do I? No. Yes I do. Yes you do, then.

What the fuck does I'm With The Light Brigade supposed to mean? Friday's response was merely an insular nod. Nothing? Yes, dear, nothing. What does it mean? Nothing. I fisted the wall. She peered, uncaring, behind her reading rims. Why that for? You won't tell me what you mean. Pah! You're the one who has to fix it. I know. I fingered the hole; this was going to take some fixing.

"That he is only the—"

Yes, Bough Breaker, I am that construction — the three-syllable conclusion to the above appropriation. Supposey it was borne from a mosey, innocently enough, and you'll be supposeying pretty closily. Of course, you'll know there's more — there always is —, but take that on board first, then yell. The answer, you know, was boldly Italian, and, yes, exclamated. Dreary me, deary you.

And so he went, off into the night, hands in pockets, pensive gaze in tow, daisy, of course, in hand, prepared with a joke: The love of a good women? Oh no; I want the love of a great one.

Fiction

Blissfully obscured beneath a trademark stream of brownish, brushed free of curls for the occasion, she looks up at the lens, either faux malevolently or provocatively, and unwittingly at mein mien — my provoked auge organs in particular —, and, at the time, unbeknows my existence, here used for an unexpecting shot-in-four dot com, rather like a Spence-taught Storker. Perhaps I even contemplated returning to original cynicism, always a part, but partially apart of late, or even looming through a pool of dance. Perhaps I thought of Octöber. Either ways, I spent a night truly feeling that ugly thing in my ribs, believe it or not (choose not and I'll appear less feeble). Reason, Logic and the Common Sense all know, and have gathered to discuss, the chances of double hands, which is, they know, as close to the Null as Null itself, but that's hardly surprising.

All you should take of this, dear lady, is that there is an entity, on the small side, whose blood-pumper will always take the time to pump for you, whither once a month or thrice a night, despite frequency or existence of archaic intercourse, and despite your justified opinion. Despite, sometimes, that the sunny side sets on mine. Despite my slipping from criteria. Despite the whole handfuls of clones at your disposal, some disposed enough to touch. Despite it all, dear lady. People are people are people are people, and here's one in particular.

Yours unclearly,

Laurance Melody

Tall Sally

A particularly obnoxious gurgle of the innards makes his presence unwantingly felt by the object next door, a tall spectacular who stoically votes against reaction — which of course makes it all the worse. In due moments, the seat-scraping begins, and everyone's empty. He's over the moon. He takes a daisy from the root, sniffs TV-taught sniff, then plucks, one-by-one, to the tune of Forget Me Not. The answer is affirmed. His sin of the flesh, of being born, has been forgiven (forgotten?) for this stroke, and he's not likely to do anything but seize (and hopefully something other than up). Of course, that's banking on superstition, something which he obsessively disbelieves while obsessively throwing scrunched up bits of paper into wastepaper bins, and is not, he knows, as concrete as a wonderfully firm Yes.

"Hello, lady. How's about ditching those seven blokes you share for this one?"
"That sounds reasonable. How's today sound?"
"Coming from your vocal cords, heavenly."
"Oh stop."
"I'll try, darling. I'd ask you to stop being so lovely as to induce such pap, but I prefer it that way."
"I can see you do. So where shall we wander?"
"You tell me."
"I tell you what?"
"You tell me to kiss you."
"I do?"
"You do."
"Oh all right."
"..."
"Not on the lips."

Soft Poster Boy

Certain marital complications have led me to the conclusion of that there cliff, over which I happened to have fallen, and below which I now sit. And certain uncertaintities in regards to above matter have led me into the wilderness of the outwardly-loined halves of the human equation, somewhere I'd spent the best part of forty years avoiding. Like its creators, it's not a pretty place — Sticky and Diffuse, to name a fuse. But my habitating of it was, of course, inevitable.

Sometimes I feel a bear, who, after losing out in the mating stakes, has resigned to fates of permanent sleep, leaving little time to feel back. But I certainly don't growl like one, and, while on occasion mistaken, I'm not Gecko-Roman — at least not inversely. Mainly I'm just a Soul-Searching, inwardly motivated sock-stuffer, destined, as I am, to suffer. Oh dear, what am I? What've I become? What's my lot? Oh, I'm just a nobody— Quick! I must write this down. The world must know!

Elephant Limbs

If I said I was forthright, would you hold yours against mine? And so poses a thousand bleeding hearts from their respective pepper clubs, each with that long look of pale, sexless yearn. Get Out There, you scream, waving pantomime pelvis and hazarding Nothing-To-Lose — May As Well Try, the latter said with even more exclamation,--- But do they listen? Of course. Do they heed? Of course not. You throw hands, smash fists, and turn backs (yours), then stamp, like their collections, on out a there. They gaze at swung (and swinging) door, with a long look of sexless , pale resentment and self-pits, and then return to backwarding a course to the womb.

Even a stampede of their collective amounts only to quiet, inoffensive complaint. What hope? Who knows. Am I getting a forkful of compensation? Of — course. You know, I sat with the old girl last night, and asked for advice (hers), and she said — Dear, I fear I'm no help here: (yes, in rhyme!),--- and simply returned volley to her cross words. That almost, in itself, gave me the answer. So in the next, I informed them that they were so utterly hopeless, not even I could do a thing, and stomped off the grounds: One of my finer performances. 'Course, must be admitted that this didn't exactly achieve the desired effect, or indeed any effect, desired or not, but you can't accurately say I didn't try.

Ghost Talk

As certain upstairs apparitions have recommended, I could just keep stamp-throwing conclusive helloes — in other words (4), vague pleas — Please! — for Response — in the hope they have the desire-effect, but that runs the risk of coming off a pitying pap, and would betray my effervescence cool, which, logically, should dictate utter non-shallots over the matter,--- Dear sir or madam, this is being writ as both a Hallo and a G'bye, just in case one comes to be more apt, so you, dear, have the matter in your court. What It concerns, is, I'm sure you know, unneeding of explanation. Neverthelesser, Human Relations seems to have hid its secrets well, from me most of all, and that sudden cliff-edge silence has, for the second (and even third) time, left me barking up the tree of the Soul— Is it too much to plead to plead one small sentence? On any matter, of course, dear, although an explanatory one would ease moi the moist, particularly as a final. Oh woe, what did I do?,--- So, you see the problem? You can't just moon about with words like those. If spots were switched, I'd treat it like canned-meat — as in something I'd sooner delete than eat — and never again stick so much as an eyeball into the matter. But what is the matter? (With me? How much time have we got?)

I've bin scuffing my head for reasons, but I can't stumble 'cross the right Juan. It's really got me baffling. Was I too bold? Was I too c-ruel? What could it possibly be, wonders me. The No-Gos I hang with? My Scarlet Lady frequenting? What? What? ——————— Q. in the hall. How does one word such a thing?---: Dear, dear. Hey! Yours sincere:— Obvious, you know. But there is no way without having to say Bye Bye Pride. Exclamatory optional. D'ya notice my cleaver use of thick-blacks above?: A less sensitive me would now say all of 'em are thick; but I'd add all everyones are too,—— Thick is what makes me me and you you. What a dirty mind! What controversy! Outrageous — Did he, I mean Did he, just say that? Some would argue that despite its underlier, it's noting it that be the worst. Ah. What's that a-hangin' from my Akubra®? Why, it's a cork: Please, once more, indulge my Ghost Talk™.

Bad Bones and the Sag

That old phone don't ring no more and that sweet old sun refuse to shine (at least not on my watch — although the glass ain't top-notch), and that empty bed (how sad a sight!) is as empty as it always was, and much emptier than it once wasn't, almost as if, by force of miracle, a cast has spelled my doom, no matter how persuasive my offer (or how slick my hair-gel) —: full of every waxed positive, abounding with compliments — of the stonewash nature —, and even, on occasion, with a fistful of fresh, fat cash (though not in the way you think — if you indeed do — nor in any logic-based way), --- No, like, as it is, I've told, when the skin settles off your bones, so too does any chance of peeling off knee-highs, and so too does, by rights, health and entire happiness: whole happiness — as in, round the Horne — is full of itself back in those less-hunched, less-lessoned days of yore (and mine). But what's the use of spilling milk over it? How could that improve it?

It can't, quoth a new paragraph, nor can it hope to improve anyone within ear's range, --- Virtually it is but a truffle:— hard to swallow, harder to afford, but overall distasteful (couldn't we learn a lesson from that? —: and, in hope, we can't be lessoned by it). But what of it? Let's get the swimmers off and leap into the ice, like René and his alumni have always told and taught us, leaning, as they were, on life-to-the-fullest.

As Black as That

Firstly, to the matter of Heart — here owning to no one but itself — it must be said that, for all its obvious and peculiar deficiencies, particularly in relation to bloodless relations and reason, it is the thing — the thing — which we all stair-trip to obey, and which, when glimpsed through an unthought utterance or vulnerable glance (as opposed to keyhole or blouse), we spend an inordinate mound of time pursuing, often against the rigid and coolly sound laws of arithmetic we reserve for the menial. But the irrational part of the brain — opposed, as it is, to the lifeless organ behind the marimba — is not merely a built-in trifle that sheds the salt, for although it guides us, no matter how ill-advisably, through the ceaseless interactions we make a day and a life of wading through, it does not for a second make any of its caught-gooses feel anything less than utterly worthwhile, even for that of a right of passage with a wrong of outcome — Lesson Learnt; Now I Know — and even when it calls you an Idiot for having done it. Our maths half, however, whose responsibilities are greater only in the sense of Black and White, is never anything less than punishing in both mere feeling and mere fact when the result is anything less than correct, as no trance of emotion is ever achieved or vested upon its tasks — and that's how the world stays and goes round.

In contrast, the matter of Meaning does not come from either of these sources, particularly not the former. In fact, it derives from no less than fiction, whose lifeblood requires definition if it is to pump more than twice in the ear of the reader, listener, viewer, and whose envelope instincts insist upon a lack of ugly nihilism: the one thing in this globule village worth lacking. Can you blame us, then, if we, like the Frenchmen, seek it here, there and everywhere? Whether all this bears dwelling upon is up to the Heart to decide, or the willing to debate, but certainly it is worthy, in the least, of an endnote, albeit one that is firmly after the useful definitions; and though it may not be atop the list of pulse-racers, it also surely deserves a place among the more cob-webbed of the archives, along with the rest of academia's fat. There's been honours honoured on much less, after all.

For all intensive purposes, I'm not the only one gifted — and I use that entirely arbitrarily — enough to step outside the frame and stand back, finger on lip, and nod in that informed manner originally forged by the image-conscious among the gallery-dwellers. There are, in truth, roughly half a billion of us, and although, if you've taken my drift, that may seem entirely xenophobic, particularly in lieu of my own lack of colour, it is actually more forward-thinking than you, if to you this applies, would care to admit. The politically proper view is, as anyone with an ear knows, that every single human form on this earth is cut from the same industrial-size cloth, and thus all equally worthy of equal treatment. But this overlooks the factors of culture, from which no one can readily escape. The reason I have singled out the luckiest of the races as being the only ones capable of removing subjection and moving forward is because they, unlike the too-tanned, are not, in the general and popular sense, persecuted in the same manner as the rest, and persecution, I believe, is something which irreparably makes the Heart the Brain, and thus removes any possibility of reason or ration. Now, obviously they can't be blamed for this, for we are largely responsible, ashamed as I am to admit it, but they certainly can't be considered equal — at least, no more than a dog can. It's merely what they've been dealt, and if it were up to me, it would never have happened. And the same applies to the halves we seek, who are, bless them, all Heart — there was never even the threat of a brain in their history. And pretty Hearts, while perfect for one lifetime and one life, and utterly indispensable for anyone who isn't a rock, are not ably equipped to deal with the progressing of the species. That does not make their role any less integral — personally, I don't think I could ever live without them, and I adore them in the extreme —: all it means is that, in the broader sense, they are not fit to dine when important matters are afoot. Before you brand me a chauvinist as well, let me tell you that if the balance were reversed — that is to say, if we were all Heart and they balanced — I would be the first to admit that I and my kind would not be the people to turn to in matters of great weight, and, taking that a step further, if the tanned (et al) were the persecutors and we the persecuted, I would have no problem handing over the wheel.

If anything is going to change, these sensitive barriers must be broken down. Yes, it may offend people in the short-run, but there's backlash to every change regardless of its provocation, and the sooner we learn this, the sooner we can achieve what the least articulate among us refer to as Peace and Harmony. When people argue from the Heart against equality, I, let me tell you, am as appalled as anyone could possibly be, for Heart-based prejudice is the most nocuous substance known to man, and should never, ever be tolerated, but my argument here is stated with as much objectivity and logic as I or any man can produce, and with absolutely no guidance from that most persuasive of organs. Only superficially could this case be seen to resemble prejudice of any kind, and those who argue anything deeper are merely showing their own prejudices. If you can't see that I am against persecution of any kind (and especially the kind that we have dealt in our sorry past), then you're nothing more than a brainless fool, another of the many things stacked against us.

Leaflet Warfare

Sometimes it slips from mind — that chore part of this gen-er-ation — and after a long period of thus, the realisation that you, in fact, are, comes as an elated, elevated shock. Suddenly you stare out windows with a new sense of verve, and the drizzle and sunshine present nothing in the way of dispelling. Opportunities abound. You're part of the Y. Superficially, that's like being the previous one but with one less leg, but on the deep (lake-wise) level, it's wholly, uncompromisingly, one-thing's-for-surely above all prior letter-branded booms. So open the door. Look out at the salt, hands on hip, and inhale.

What to do? Oh, live with the similarly-minded in squalid ecstasy; climb very small mountains; rally together against carnivores and anti-terrorists. There's so much big, fat choice afforded us. What if I take this? What will I do when I'm ugly? What if I die tonight? With that in mind, I (and we!) may as well party like it was seven years ago. Don't you feel the rush? The rush of change. The rush of revolution. We'll succeed where every single hitherto failed. We'll fuck on the lawn. We'll mercy our enemies. We'll upthrow the gov. and undersell the tax.

The only way we can move forward is to forget the failures of the past. Come, all you Y Sisters, and roll your fillious fannies this way, with the roosters and the Movement. When we look back, crusted though we may be, we'll see Love, Spirit & Revolution, and we'll shed for nostalgia! We had an impact. Who else could you say that for? We may, may, be the last who do.

The Great Novel, we'll all write, upon ancient steps, clawed together as Kerry's road-trip rambling has taught us. And the dry, the half-dead, the gray, the bald will be splashed into irrelevance, like they should have been all along. If we's gonna lead, we's gonna have hair. Show it, grow it, know it. It won't get better without it. And the only way we'll win is if the women (say it so it rhymes) lower their standards, making everyone, essentially, equal. The next time I ask, say Yes! and put the boot up those conservative wingers with a swift lift of the skirt, and a nudge of your Y Sister charm.

Coats for the Betterment

As you may have know-teethed, I have uplifted that iconic still from Harold's moving version of Undie's sketch, featuring, truly, my true self, and used it as a somewhat of a something which goes just there (—>) and positively beams with graffito-optimism — don't you think? The skoon in question was one in which I, as the headmaster (street-wise, if you know what I mean), made my credit-inspired transformation into a tux Romana and leapt off down the street to unearnest Zapparhythms. Obviously my caricature’s past wasn't dwelt upon, being made primarily for an audience who are only sure of two things: its amateurism and its lack of graphic gagging. But certainly that history was there — in almost every frame; I made sure of that.

Credit where credit's accepted: Whenever you glance left, remember that that's my miniscule form but Hazzold's frame, and, apparently, Uncle's ideo (someone's graffitting too). On that bracketed latter, I have, for our sake, dubbed hum Deacon, purely so I can say that that wall there features some of Deacon's remarkable blues. But that's off the rack: The point I'm endeavouring is thus: Harri is responsible, primarily, for that there. Got it?

Pub Life

I'm sure there are many out there who, after being jerked around by the mailman, turn to that most eloquent of drink, drink, and bottom-up. Then, after dunking their fill, they crawl on home to mamo and father, and fridge.

"It's like the most great tamo-reeeeen," they scream. "Or the loveliest of tumbones."
At this point, they seem inwardly motivated, and their hair-pins fail to hold their thoughts in firm, proper place. But they do seem to be having a particularly good time, somehow. There's dim lights, wet spots and ugly sponges, but all in all it's an everyone's-invited.

And so the morale of this tale? Well, the troops therein are actually in good spirits today, thanks mainly to the good spirits they drank last night.

He Ain't Timber Yet

I have recently introduced a timid voice to the fold; a voice whose timbre resonates comfortably within the range of his bedfellows. Now that he owns a piece of land on my ladder, he as eligible for official duties in this timocracy, though by no means is he conscripted to accept them. Initially I thought he would be timorous about having to suddenly compete with the elite, but he seems to have risen the occasion admirably, even going as far as cultivating a whole yard of timothy upon arrival.

His main rival, who has, on occasion, lent his name to foolery, seems to be up to the old tricks again: three posts of tommyrot this time. Although these indicate he is at least refining his ultrasound techniques, I do not, let it be said, believe this in any way indicates a rebirth of reliability. In fact, I doubt there'll be a fourth for at least six-hundred months.

Hooters

Apparently I've made the switch — and activated it. Henceforth here will be hindsought as the anew of a new phase; the second façadical opening in as many. Why should this be any different? Well, it looks slightly different. And it seems my options are limited somewhat; you may have noticed the lack of insightful italics below the links (and even when I plunged into a maze of aich-tee-em-el, I could not rectify this). Also, it's interesting and perhaps predictable to note that I'm currently falling well below last year's quota, and that figure only rose from null in the third month, its birth date. Now, either I could waste precious hand motions making up for this or sit back and let the whole thing slide. Most likely I'll opt the latter while pretending to do the former.

In other news, I'm sure there were much more important things discussed. Still, here it is. And, as all of my friends will testify, today was spent as a crusade for Sunny Boys, in the most literal sense possible. None of them, it seems, were willing to do the much more important things on the things-to-do. But can you blame them? You certainly can. Pricks. But we'll see whose fingers get stepped on on the cliff edge. And whose ears get twinged by passing bicycles. And whose industrial-strength bits and pieces melt off. They drink, they drive, they bloody form verbs from adjectives. Still, you've got to love 'em, don't you? No. Especially not the tiny one with the beard.

I'm sure their breath has more bait than every Pacific line while they're pouring over this. And it's worth every ounce. Long live long-livers.

That Time of the Season!

"Again!" I screamed, rising from my highly portable chair.
"Again?"
"Again!"

And so it was. After a few more agains, I allowed them a rest and a drink.
"What was wrong with the last one?" asked the troublesome among them.
"What was wrong with it?" I chuckled. "My dear fellow! What wasn't wrong with it?"

A time later, Ben opened his eyes and rose from the grass, mischief in his brow. He smoothed off his dinner suit and waxed the thinnest of thin smiles at no one in particular, then plucked the thermos from the makeshift and pummeled a delightful cup of hot chocolate. A thick brown mustache soon showed his appreciation.

"If I weren't such a bigot, I'd come over there and finger-wipe that artificial facial hair clean off. And I'd do it pretty damn lovingly too," said Harry, nodding convincingly.
"And if I weren't such a reasonable person, I might just let you," said Ben cooly.

Tom was in the ice box, rummaging for soda, as per. He had just finished wedding an arrangement of his kinfolk's concoction and he wasn't going to swallow it without the aid of non-alcoholic bubbles. Thankfully, the task turned out a complete success, and Tom and his soda soon shared a kiss.

"Again!" I called, prompting them back into Action mode.
"Shall we do it any differently?"
"Certainly not."

And that's how it went. That was my day. How about you? Did you have a good day too? I hope you did.

A Nation's Drum

It's sun-drenched today — I'm sure you've noticed. Believe it or not, I spent the best part of the early four on a corrugated roof, cork hat in tow. The stars were out, so the sky was empty. I don't think they're early-risers. Still, a naked sky is better than a blue one, and I remained rooted. Interestingly, there was a starving kid on the lawn. We had a long discussion about the fate of the semi-colon before he collapsed. My doctor's eyes pronounced his death.

When I returned in of doors, I dictaphoned some arguments about the over-reliance on dashes and the stop-start clunkiness of late, some of which may have been paraphrased from my recently deceased, and then made a cereal breakfast by cutting a rectangular eye-hole in the box. The rest of the morning was soundtracked by a certain singer-songwriter's Southern Hemispheric insights on what makes this place great. Him.

And now here I sit, feeling rather like sticking my head in some dirt. We've all had those days. I also feel like prancing about the garden. We've those too.

Now I'm going to put the first syllable in Tuesday and feast.