Wednesday, 12 January 2011

The Boy and The Bitch


There once was a boy who had not been tarnished, who had not found his way, who was lost who was indecisive.

There once was a man who was so sure of himself, so confident so full of life, and so egotistical, a very successful fuck face.

There once was a woman who was a man, so assertive, so strong, so rude and courageous.

There once was a girl so proud to stand tall, she would shrug her shoulders to the dirt within her sight, only dirt could remain beneath her shoe.

There once was a man who was so well known who would ignore the person in the corner who wished to know him. There once was a man who felt like a woman that he dressed like a man but still felt like a woman.

There once was a dog that yapped and barked and slept and shat and walked in the park happily living its life.

There once was a lady who had achieved great things, but was too great to help others achieve.
There once was a man who helped everyone he met until there was noone left to help at all.

There once was a boy who was the talk of the town, but did not like what the town was talking about him. There once was a frog that burped a green gas, who made all the other frogs yellow with envy. There once was a big girl who had no friend in the world except her pen and her diary. There once was a tall gentlemen who hated people drinking wine. There once was a lady with a bright green handbag who felt it made her appear more attractive. There once was a pearl that remained lost at sea. There once was a giant black diamond that was found and unearthed, but kept locked out of site, by the forces of evil so no one would know it existed. There was once some games that rich people played, like polo or croquet.

There once was a game that peasants played like stick in the mud, alone on the floor, which in fact unlike the expression "stick in the mud", gave children far more imagination to create with! However, there once was a time it was harder to tell which games brought more fun and enjoyment. There once was a boy who felt a little bit better for clearing out his closet every once in a while. There once was an artist who incinerated all his possessions so he could be reborn.


A little boy so unsure of himself wished he had not been out that night. He wished he had not seen what he had seen. It made him feel no better with the world. Perhaps the night was unhappy to have seen him too. Inside the room, a disc shot him down, bang. His glass dropped to the floor. He could see the shocks and smiles on the people's faces. Lots of peoples faces shone in the room. The teeth chattering, some gums looking false. Too perfect.

The suits, the pearls, diamonds, smart ties, long overcoats. The grey haired men with frames too stylish for their faces. The young men with frames at least twice their own age. The spinning women on heels with wine clutched to their lips. Too overbearing. What was the little boy doing in this domain. Was it an office? was it a hall? Was it a party? people dressed for an occasion. He crept through the crowds, noticed, unnoticed, unsure of which he preferred. "To see or not to see" he kept thinking. Either way he felt alone, good, bad, he couldn't quite weigh up the feeling. It wasn't that he didn't know anyone, he just felt like a nobody, simply a little boy. it was a party for people who already knew each other and he knew they did not know him. As he danced around each room beyond the hall, drifting in thoughts to himself, the thought did occur whether anybody else in the room cared? whether anybody else in the room was like him? A little boy, alone. Only men here! only family! What a tight nit community of bloodsucking nits in a cushioned scalp.

The boy overheard a man mattering to a nit who looked ready for the squeeze oily smiling out of fear, he couldn't quite make out what the man was saying, something like "We only pick you up and groom you to success if we like what you are doing. If you do what we tell you to do, simply we prescribe a type of lotion upon the scalp to draw you out, then the most exciting part is when we take our comb and run it through the scalp of this monstrous animal," the boy looks at the man this time who pauses to readjust his frames for extra clarity whilst addressing this nit"we look at you there wriggling as we clean the comb onto a nice white towel, and then we pop you. It works best when we use the corner of the metal comb! haha!" The nit smiling continues to laugh endlessly with a pointy shoe behind the other leg touching the floor nervously with its tip. The boy looked at the man again, "pop, pop, popping!" he heard, "popping, popping, splurge, blood popping you little system boy". The man who of course hadn't said that at all seemed oblivious to the little boy now staring intently at him. Perhaps the boy was delusional, hearing voices, strange weird thoughts.

The boy was suddenly pulsating very fast. He had seen a lady who he knew, but she had always ever addressed him with the back of her fur collar as she turned to ignore him. Not just his heart drumming, but his body felt extremely hot and sweaty.

She wasn't his nemesis, only it felt that he was a nobody. A nothing to her. Of course nobody knew much about the little boy but nobody seemed to care much anyway.

The boy felt his chest kicking. He put his left finger in his ear but the sound of heavy hooves and people trampled right through his transparent finger. der dum der dum der dum... The face of the woman beating closer in his eyes.

The hooves and thuds grew faint and silent. The boy let out a tear from his eye. The face of the woman was blurry on the left side, but visible enough to her turn into a fur collar with his right eye. Above this dance of the bully with the innocent, a bell was lowered down on a piece of string from above the boy and it started to ring upon his naked ear. His hands were tied to his glass again.


(How would the woman ever learn to care, did she know how upset she made the unknown feel?)

He looked down at the glass tied to his hands. The reflection of light caught the lip of the glass like cars giving chase down a freeway, as if caught on camera by a helicopter flying above a Nascar stadium.

And as the wine swayed left very slowly, the glass smashed upon the concrete in to many fragments very slowly.

Pitch black.

Something was fidgeting. A slight ruffle followed by a soft moan. Naked, nimble fingers grabbed the mud clenching it oozing it. A heavy pant in the dark coming from the voice of a woman. A feeling of soft fur, and there is a trace of perfume lingering.

"I'm safe" thought the boy alone in the darkness.

Just then, a spark of light danced above as a lonely match flickered into life. The boy staring intently trying to figure out where he was. What was above him what was below him?

In silence, he could see the hooves of shoes and feet stampeding the ceiling. It was as though the boy was laying beneath the ground. Beneath the nits and farts, beneath the horses. Around in pitch darkness as if cemented unable to move, the boy inspected the transparent floor above the match still burning down.

"Am I dead?" thought the boy as the light disappeared.

A second match flickered, this time the boy tried to move closer but he was too weak. He saw the hooves again and the sound of people ever so faint. Slowly, building up, voices, clamber, jazz, cabaret!

He remained focused on the match this time reaching out to it in any way he could. His arm became free, stretched out extended as if by sheer will power, the match burning brighter and brighter as the boy wriggled free from the depths of his darkness. So bright did the match burn, like magnesium strips, the boy felt blinded! A heavy heat, his weakness held him back.
The drumming drones, flickering flame, nattering nits, horse's hooves pound so loud, SMASH!

"nnnnnn mmmmmm.....ssssoooooooooorrrrrr......" the boys eyes were cloudy, hazey the light had died down but his head was feeling sore. flickering teeth stared down at him. His sweat gland oozing. Dirty, he felt very dirty. Had he fallen. All the hooves of the feet seemed to be silent. He looked up, this time more clearly and people were surrounding him. Laughing at him, frantically covering their mouths at him. What had happened? Where was he?

How horrified they were of him, how horrific he found them. Wiping his sweaty brow, he looked around. How he hated people, the snobbery the camaraderie, the people fucking eachother behind eachother's back with eachothers wives. The boy knew the stories. The facial reconstruction he wished he could do to them, the plastic surgery, the face lifts.

The boy knew the types too well, former neighbours who drove their children in big four by fours around the suburbs. The bags under the eyes, the necklaces, purses and handbags that sucked life into them in shades of beige or green. "Not of this ilk are you?" he told himself. The suits with even more fancy pin stripes that were tailor made to express superiority. The games amongst gamers.

What was it they had, what was it the boy wanted from them? No lust no envy. The umbrellas that were made from fine wood. The silver broaches and the stylish glasses. "Fuck it all!" he thought in his head, never daring to mention it aloud. The thought of someone overhearing and thinking what an obscene little boy. Spare the embarrassment.

He realised of course he could never impress upon people he had set out to be on the wrong foot with in the first place. The foot they had used to stamp him under. He was a shy boy. Not ver confident with people. A person in his own right. He wasn't a man, and the system wasn't made for little boys. It was made entirely for men and women. Smart men and women who wore suits and skirts, and wrote cheques instead of dashing cash.

And as if thinking for too long without realising the actual situation, the boy lifted himself from the depths of his horrors. He could not figure out why he had been there. Shaking himself off, he stood up. The crowds returned to normal chit chat chomps chellalying like chadwell chillies. He felt glad the wine glass had smashed. The most beautiful moment of the night's effort was a slight shimmer of hope across its silver thin lip.

How oppressed these people were, he thought, stuck in their game, stuck in their system, stuck in the smartness, the sudo-cleverness, the eager attention to schmooze, to play into each others palms. The boy was alienated, felt alienated, it felt good. It felt free...really free!
"Children are to be seen but not heard!" he thought, joking to himself. This was an ugly stage where the young fall upon their own swords. The boy had made an error he could not erase. They had made an error he could not erase. From then on it was over. The deal had been settled. He would die a successful happy loser.

, ,

Is it right to be put, into the dirt before maturity,
has even lived its years out, into the grey fields
with song and dance, to share in pools of mud.
To play the dirty violin, to young folk,
to cough on that, sweet black soot.
We heard the voice of the boy cry out, but none did turn to care,
with hands inside the others coats, they looked each down the others,
throats to see what treasures the elder swallowed, or whether tonsils struck
sore by poverty, the boy bound to work his graft,
no overcoat and no fur tails.

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