Friday, July 28, 2017

pollen

"...don't bite the hand that feeds you, it's said. I'll chew the f@cking digits off the first paw that rattles my cage." - ib

Outside in the quadrangles bees hustle atop the daisies.
     Jockey and drone. Inch and fart.
     Strung out. Buzzing.
     Pursuing the amber dust which underpins their shantytown.
     I sit nursing the hole in my tooth while the half shogun slam poet from Negril lays down his Mocha. Chases a crumb from the dreadlocks fizzing onto his lapel.
     His giggle tumbles out the nostril like a finely tuned summer sneeze.
     "Half past four is good," he trills.
     A master at racket ball, he squashes the opposition with a well timed glance to the midriff. He prides himself on his athletic bent.
      Less so, that priapic pilfering waist deep in the bowels of the lower third.
      It's a long way down from the twenty-second floor.
      The smile recedes abruptly and his eyes narrow as if surprised to find me there at all.
      He offers me a finger of shortbread.
      Berates the stricken of heart apropos of nothing and glances at his watch.
      "Hmph," he huffs.
      I look to the spaces lurking between bookshelves. Newspaper clippings. Marley's martyr. Despite ghosts past he is astonishingly far from advanced in years.
      The skin peeking out from under crumpled linen a youthful laundered suit.
      Up here in the ivory nest where the bumbling hover the reception is peculiarly rarefied.
      I vow to flee before he smashes my ball down centre court. But not before I deliver up a map. Surrender it entirely. His head is still dizzy with hurricanes. That perfume etched in the seam of Irene's raw silk knickers.
      Some fool's nectar.
      It's why I read so little, these days. The fear of synchrony.
      Religious intolerance.
      Road rage. 
      Pygmy villagers brandishing torches to light the failing thread from one paragraph to the next.
      "Ah well," he concludes. "I can't promise anything, but let me wish you all the best."
      He reaches across the desk to clasp my hand.
      The old magick.
      Invitations. Ropes which maim and cripple.
      Burn.
      And, lodged in the corner of his eye like an aristocrat in exile, something which resembles disdain.

Friday, April 7, 2017

eat poop

"Eat poop. Fill your boots," the mimeograph chants. Each letter rippling on the t-shirt's bib where he drops down in his armchair.
     A sackful of rubble upended from the rafters.
     The years, as they are wont to chime, have not been kind.
     Springs eaten at by various body fluids protest and expire. Explode. Cockles and whelks sewn beneath the waterline disintegrating in clouds where fishwives dance in lead clogs.
     Pablo Dillinger, errant choirboy, sibling to that medieval guild, is never hasty. Too rotund by far, a portly disciple, he is slow to respond to flattery or jibe. "Later" is his mantra. A Vedic hymn fallen on deaf ears mostly.
     A sullen mediator. A sulky correspondent.
     A Prussian brat.
     News comes to him that some words or other have been published in Sacramento, of all places. News falls unheralded out a trove shipped across the seas, greedily received, plugged through all the same by this dreadful pause he is powerless to commute.
     Red and black. Well, more of an orange. Dusted with ochre.
     It reminds him of the thirties.
     Bertolt deconstructed in the wings.
     Bottle caps studding the stage where the have fallen on the comet tail of Kristallnacht.
     Skulls.
     Even as the first air strikes detonate benignly, the scaffolding has come down. Labourers have fled. Joiners, painters. Bakers of bread.
     Pablo carefully unfolds a yellow slip. Until it occupies the space served up on a napkin.
     8½ x 14, halved.
     No staples. 
     He hoovers up the ballpoint.
     The brotherhood has been busy.
     Fuck, yeah.
     It tickles him immensely to learn that the word is right now in the process of being dispersed, undiluted, to see his initials in print, to think of entire paragraphs dribbling into corner culvert incontinent, or spirited away half torn under the windshield wiper of a runaway blue and silver civic bus.
     Fuck the Ministry.
     The primary content is thus. A 9mm parabellum handgun, fully oiled and loaded, manufactured in 1969, parcelled in a tricolour of vests. A panther on a leash.
     If we are not yet despondent we are disconsolate, nonetheless.
     No fleas on Ahab. 
     He already has paid six years in advance while on remand waiting.