Hail Mary

Initially, I had this post branded as "Dick The Holes With Fellows' Folly", and intended to explore the average male's perspective on sex during the December holidays, but taste, morality and good judgement rallied together in favour of this most prudish of alternatives, and I was, unfortunately, outvoted. Being not one to accept defeat, I shall in actuality do neither. Cheerio.

Post Waste

Season's.

Hush Music

The finest strain of tea, and the finest of company, and there was I — me —, lashed between uneducated, crawling thoughts, each making an unwise break for my mouth, and chewing, as one does, on a December tart, whilst that unspecified companion of mine, clad boldly in red halves, echoed my jaw's joyous rhythm, only with a decidedly more mundane treat (and beat, while I'm at it), and, I suspected, a more workaday approach. As you will have no doubt gathered by now, this is a situation I often find myself in, but its bottoms are still, teasingly, never quite got at, despite my very sensible reach, and the only way I can inch myself closer (centremetres sound too ugly, you see) is by picking and clawing, sparing nothing in the process. So be it that I may never fully repay your patient eyes!

"It's a mystery to me," he decided, employing the least of his vocabulary.
"Oh, I know," I said. "Oh, I do!"
"You do! I know — I'm glad."
"I do! I am."
"Oh I'm sorry, what of you? I failed to ask. All this of me — unhealthy! What of you?" (This is all to the best of my recollection, mind.)
"Me? Oh, you know — you do. I rummage, I find, I get attached. And the prefix un ruins my fun. That's life, they say; yes — mine especially. There's the early heavens and the late hells, but limbo's the worst. Concrete, even the vilest, has the cool comfort of conformation as its plus; limbo has none such. Limbo is hell masquerading as two possibilities. It shows a skylight to safety and hands you a spade. Do I even mind, though? Somewhat, yes. When someone goes rueful walkabout, later citing a specious fuse, I lose kilos, and demand, quietly, a straightforward sentence. I'd much prefer a felled axe to swinging ligaments. I know, I know, I know — like a Disney lemming to a cliff, someone went off me. Yes, I went off, all right: first, like a rocket; last, like milk. What is it exactly? A smashing surface and an ugly depth? Temporarily interesting virtues? A role and nothing more? Heaven forbid great features. Curse these well-formed boobs."
"Oh, you're a woman this time?" chimed in Ben, helpfully.
"Ya-huh. Innovative spin, no?"
"Lesbian?"
"Of course — I hail from Northcote."
"Coward."
"Wilde."
"Tell me, Miss, is this she to whom you refer (or so I infer) of the earth or of the air?"
"Of the nothing."

Ben: Out of All Proportion

Specifically for my gorgeous muse — named, of all things, Ben —, here is a response to mere prodding. Perhaps one day, on a quiet, earthly beach, his presence alone will set about the musing, but for now his soul purpose can only be reached through goading fists — gorgeous goading fists, granted, but still not innocent, inspirational ones. Thus, I, atop my newly artificial podium, have a question to pose out of all proportion: what shall I wreak?

Smoke! Of course! Raisin affairs —. Or does thou wish to confine his proddee to celebrity fashion criticism?: "Did you see Nickel's prairie dress? It looked as if she'd sat on an effigenic Las Vegas wedding cake at a humorist convention in Berlin.". Yes, my savoir-faire extends even that far — although I suspect my raison d'être neglects those far-flung fields. Do you, Ben? Either way, I have no Francweese tongue and have run out of clichés. But there's always the quo—

"Why do we spend so much or our time reading about fictional characters when we have so many real characters at our disposal, characters who are untainted by the laws of narrative and artistic knowledge, and with whom interaction is infinitely more fulfilling? Are we really so sheltered and hollow that we favour pale reflections of life over the real thing? We listen to other people sing aphorisms in our ears and read about other people's fictional lives on our laps in trains, buses, trams, where we are surrounded by other people, and yet no one does a thing about it — no one glances left. Christ! I mean, we're nearing the end of the last possible year where my age matches the century."
"Um, yes. Very insightful, Ben," I yawned. "Um— Happy birthday?"
"It wasn't really, but I appreciate your belateness."
"Belatedness," I corrected.
"I know; I was being smart."
"Well stop it. I'm tired."
"Fine. Goodnight, darling."
"Goodnight."
"—Darling."
"Goodnight."