Friends, onlookers, cherished detractors, it is time. Here, in all its gory, is the long-delayed, much-hubbubed, ever-mysterious piece which the cats upstairs, in all their 'wisdom', refused to print. Weeks in the making, months in the gestating, twenty-two sodden-earth years in the coming. And it's here, at bloody. So why the wait, why the ballyhoo? Well, to quote the felines in question: Even without all the cunts, cocks and fucks which you have so unaesthetically strewn about the place, seemingly at random, this would be one of your least distinguished efforts, and considering that you are the person who once used, or rather misused, four-hundred semi-colons in a single paragraph, merely by accident of style, that's really saying something. We have no choice, sir, but to revoke your fingers for five full days and forbid you from ever reproducing any of the words you used in that piece in any context. Even the conjunctions. Good day.
A work like that, why you wouldn't give it the time of day. We don't tolerate filth for filth's sake, not even the funny stuff. A man must have scruples. I've written a poem. Would you like to hear it?
Sea of blue,
Tree of green.
One plus two
Sometimes I dream my father's return. Standing at the door, barely able to hold himself up, he'd look just like me, only with ripped clothes and a fatherly moustache. He'd regale mother and I with stories of conspiracy and high adventure, how he simply had to leave us, he had no choice, otherwise the government would have gotten to us. A goodbye, even a farewell, was simply impossible, I'm sure you understand. The cuts and bruises and all round weariness would confirm the story, and we'd prepare him the first good meal he'd had since he left. Later we'd all cry around the fire, begging him never to leave again, and he'd promise he would do everything in his power to make sure we— But of course a dream it remains. As I think of it, the filth in front of me, obscured by futile corrections, winds its way back into my consciousness, most unwelcomely. Enraged, I eat it, piece by piece, and, aided by my right index, retch every half-digested morsel of it out the window. All things considered, it was quite an improvement.
Possibly maybe - The resolution to write every. single. day. isn't quite happening right at the moment. The guilt is mitigated by the reason the writing isn't happening: lo...
1 week ago