Violas screech and the tamponade lemonade pomade asps Bingo and backgammon and futility creeping up on you The (ogogogogogogogog) monsieurs wail in dischord English is a scratchy handkerchief, unwashed The above poem has received first prize in the inaugural "Our Lady of Tangible Nausea" Sunday fete, and is now sweeping the world with its feathery broom of consonants and cheap yellow plastic dustbin of empty promises. The auteur, a Mr Hnr Drrs, expounds thus: "When I rit this I was trying not to seem too elegant; I didn't want to alienate the aliens what keep their glittering antennae focussed on my quivering encephalus, attuned to each neuronal spasm, believe so. And you should, if you were also, so tonight I'm welcoming STORMY BANANAS STORMY BANANAS STORMY BANANAS CYCLONIC DISASTER Where is my mind
Now just hold on one DAMN minute. There is NO evidence to suggest that I had any involvement whatsoever in the weapon smuggling that took place during last weekend's corporate hat-wearing function. I may have taken a small handgun as a mild jape, to poke fun at my superiors, but that sackful of assault rifles was not, I repeat NOT, mine. And just in case you believe it appropriate to continue spreading these malicious and libellous lies about me, besmirching my wholesome and respectable image, I will hint subtly that although the guns were not mine, I may well know some people who have cheese graters and various kitchen appliances. Say no more. These words aren't mine either, I was minding them for a gentleman who offered me a small sum of money to stand here with them and display them for public perusal. I have no real connection to them and can't be held responsible for anything they may or may not mean. In any case they are just a collection of letters, and if the random jumble is seen to be significant or meaningful, that's the observer's problem and not mine. People see shapes in clouds, hold subjective beliefs about other disparate ephemera, PATTERNS WHERE THERE ARE NONE, so don't you dare get all uppity and snoioopidooopitorous with me, matey.
I was waiting for a bus not like the ones you see, you see, but these episcopalian and gauche conveyances that trolley fat pensioners around as they wait for St Peter, when I was rudely interupppppppted by an overly friendly HAT salesman or as the case may be, person, who ignited my passion for trilbies and eggs, trilbies and eggs, it's all the same to a dying man, a hat is an egg and an egg is a hat, is a hat, is it, it is, yes, I have a way with wild animals, they can smell fear and I have no fear, apart from that of lifts, and animals don't understand elevators, one of their most appealing features I think, they have no need for these in the wild, or escalators or any form of moving apparatus for people, I suppose because they aren't, people that is, animals, are they, surely not, oh well the bus never came, the hat vendor kept on haranguing me and my friend Mr Fnipss, who doesn't even have a head, so the concept of hats is beyond him, as are most concepts, for headless Fnipss doesn't got, as they say in small towns east of Philadelphia, where the Rosicrucians and Christadelphians had their roots, or their origins, that is to say where they began, yours entirely without provocation, Hernley Von Plastiberry OCH
I am buying a salmon pink shirt and will get my hair cut with a dinky little mohawk and I'll put in lots of product. I'll wear my collar turned up and will use big words like "disgusting" and "expressionist". I will shake hands with my left hand and snigger at inappropriate times. There will be laughter, but I may only smile tiredly in the manner of one who has seen it all. If they find me boring I will dance, very slowly, and only using my lower body and my nose. I will insist on riding the elevator alone. I cannot be stopped, only slowed down for short periods of time. These are the words of the prophet Calib Cardboard Constona the Eighteenth. He who doubts, dost only destroy his own hose, and needs must weareth the hose of another, yea, and is verily a fool. I believe that children are our future. And old people are a burden on the state and must be recycled to feed the children. As children grow fatter, more old people must be sacrificed. This is the Way of Jeremiah the Foul.
I am illiterate ate a little eel it interred a tiny ant under a tiled trail at a tiny rate, yet I ain't interested. I enjoy reading the jumbled word salads that always accompany computer viruses, they are entertaining. More so than Alanis Morissette, who shrieks like she's just discovered a hair in her vomit souffle. I am without merit. No badges or iron-on transfers to endow worth unto me. I want to wear a blazer around with my own symbols of achievement sewn on the pockets. One of these will be the word ACHIEVEMENT mispelled and Mispelet and Miserlepeltenoeuf acheievement I want government pamphlets to peter out in the same way my emails do Dear citizen, due to the continuing drought it has been decided that Level 5 Water Restrictions must be imposed. These may have an impact on the householder and small business owner. To minimise distruptions to your stupid lifestyle, our special task force of slobbering microcephalic self-hating public management consultants have invented the following suggestions. 1) Kill yourself. It has been shown that the consumption of water dramatically decreases following death. 2) Kill others. See above. 3) Set fire to your eyebrows. 4) Raise an army of giant mutant ants and milk them for their glandular secretions, then use said secretions to keep your plants alive. Unless the mutant ants eat your plants, in which case you can sell the liquid as Billy Bragg's communist sweat. 5) Kill BILLY BRAGG 6) Find a hole, fill it in, then lie down on it as you have become quite tired. 7) Telephone a midget then hang up before he recognizes you. 8) Obtain a selection of wigs. 9) Treat your postman like he is a stinky puppy dog and hose him. Not with water obviously; see number 4. 10) Move to Africa and send yourself home in an unpressurised box, marked "UNLIKELY". 10b) Hooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooot It is with deep regret than we inform you that this email is terminated
I am writing this bent over my laptop, the greenish glow of its LCD lighting my face and giving it a ghoulish effect. There is a noise coming from under the bed, sending chills down my spine. I know that I'm probably just imagining it, but........well............it's getting louder. Like the sound of a silkworm munching mulberry leaves, but magnified a hundredfold. I don't want to look. I can't leave the temporary safety of the bed to investigate. It's not like I'm scared or anything, it's probably just a rat, although I've never heard rats make that noise before.......... I've got the pocketknife from my bedside drawer, reached over and grabbed it as silently as I could. The noise stopped briefly when I slid the old wooden drawer open, and my heart leapt in my chest. The thing has resumed its crunching, brown-paper crinkling, nerve destroying activity. I can't take it much more. 7 hours until daylight. Too long. What am I worried about? A rodent, a tiny harmless creature, tearing away at a discarded envelope no doubt. Am I an old woman? A terrified hysterical 50's stereotype, perched on a stool and wailing? Goddamn it, this is ridiculous. Okay. I'm gonna take a quick look, just a peek. Won't be able to see much, but I am not going to freak myself out like this over a damn rat. Here goes........ It got my hand, my fingers. My right hand. Some kind of animal. A cat, do they get rabies? Those red eyes, those teeth.........I'm typing with my left, the right I've wrapped in the blanket to stop the bleeding. What the hell is going on, I need an ambulance, a tetanus shot, something, an exterminator, a SWAT team.......... Got to get to the phone, to get out of here, away from this terrible thing, oh God is it laughing?! What the hell is that noise.....?!
Mind Over Matter The sin of envy eats you alive, its acidic slime gradually eroding, eating away and emptying you of all that is valuable. As Joel looked through the dirty glass of the CityBus window, down onto the BMWs and Mercedes that cruised conspicuously past, trailing exhaust and the odour of obvious wealth, the green-eyed monster stirred within him once more. On a meagre wage, paying an exorbitant amount on mortgage payments, his prospects of joining the ranks of the fortunate ones who drove their luxury cars towards lucrative jobs in well appointed offices seemed to recede into the very distant future. Joel sighed and returned his gaze to the interior of the bus. Along with 20-odd other wage slaves he was travelling the well-trodden path to his inner-city day job, assistant manager at a printer and toner supply office in Vernon City. His boss, a myopic and malodorous Mr Driscoll, had been employed there for over 15 years and was likely to retire within a few more. He was fond of fixing Joel with an assessing eye and saying in a confidentially hushed tone, “Son, if you play your cards right, you’ll be the one with the car-park and office keys.” This promise of a brilliant and bright future never failed to dim Joel’s day. Surely there was more to life than the vision of decades spent delivering toner and reams of A4 to the offices that towered over the tiny Powell Printing store. With a squeal of worn brakes, the bus slowed and ponderously pulled over to Joel’s stop. He alighted on the kerb next to a Starbucks and a bearded homeless man holding a styrofoam cup. His hand-drawn sign said in faded blue script, ‘HOMELESS VETRAN, YOUR GENEROCITY IS APRECIATED’. Joel slipped 50 cents into the cup and was unsurprised to hear a thud rather than a jingle. In the city pockets of invisibility tended to form around those who begged, busked or berated the passing crowds for small change. A culture of materialism pervaded, a self-serving ethos wherein the winner is the one who dies with the most toys. Where competition is the code there is always a loser, and these suffer not only the ignominy of comparative poverty but also the dull ache of obscurity. As he passed the homeless man Joel swore that he would somehow make his life a success and rise above the banal repetition of the everyday grind, yet retain the capacity to see those whom society has chosen to disinclude. But then Joel realized that life is not a black-shirt schnitzel party, rather a frenzied polka number in which everyone must dance, oh yes, everyone must two-step like there’s no tomorrow. We all have our part to play. There can be no shirking the responsibility that the dance calls us to accept. Polka is our lord and master and we will obey those hypnotic beats and bend our bodies until they break, for this is the truth; that we were born to dance, to hear and obey, hear the order to shake it to the oboe and accordion. Huh? That wasn’t in the synopsis, Barry. I thought we were embarking on a cheesy novelette that, like an omelette, is tasty at first but then the blandness and lack of spice becomes wearying and one is compelled to cast the unfinished remainder into the dustbin. Well a person can’t be entertaining constantly, and I reserve the right to give up very early in the piece. It’s all too hard to plan and execute writing, much easier to have a stream of consciousness rant in which there is no goal much less a standard to aspire to. Like a smashed watermelon thrown from a student’s dormitory window, the result may be ugly, scattered over a wide radius and covered with dirt, but if you are hungry enough you will be able to pick out the bits that are still edible.