\”you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.\” – Indira Ghandi
Me and my dick have seen better times. I say this, in part, to rattle an acquaintance so anal grammatical treatises are practically dropping out of her arse. In the main, I mention it as a nod to fumbled moments better spent. That which doesn\’t kill you makes you stronger, some say. That which doesn\’t quite snuff out the candle has a propensity to simply maim instead. My pissy old dick is not so much a monument as an embarrassment: wrung out; battered; a stub of rubber cod after years of legally prescribed chemical abuse. The head all scarred and listing like a middle-aged spastic trailing a shopping cart full of kelp home after dark. A target for sticks of two by four. Crumbling bricks. Well. I refuse to tie it up in latex as a gift. Leaking pearls before swine. It limps on as we all do. Tiny wind-up soldiers marching in circles. Straight off the kitchen table and onto the linoleum. A runaway jihadi hoodwinked into modelling a suicide vest. We are all of us, at the end of the day, survivors of sorts. Rewind the tape. Spit it out. The morning anti-psychotic. The gastro-resistant gelatin capsules. Doctor Feelgood is in rehab and unable to answer the phone. My tumescent appetite trembles on the wire.