I suck the hard thing. A bitter pill, it makes me ill with yellow sorrow. My heart aches from lessons never learned, life never earned. A hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation, it says boom, boom. I gulp down oblong globs of regret that nothing ever meant anything apart from the breath it took to inflate words into origami swans sailing across the expanse of hyperbole, the sea that divides and unites us.
One, two, make a people, multiply into a population. Boom, boom, a coupling, a couplet. All is fair in love and war. I-love-you, who sees me, who absorbs my words as they gently thud into craters on the face of your moon.
I want air, full stomach, a moon to gaze at with lunatic love.
You want the impossible. How can you translate boom-boom into a philosophical tract justifying the holocaustal slash and burning of the world, the enslavement of time, the confinement of breath to instrumentality? Boom-boom is the rhythm driving the slave galley, a techno beat, the punch line to a bad joke. It is the naturalized terrorism at the heart of the horror that is the illusion of the mirage you have created in the name of life (and love).
I take the massive object. Ill-fitting, it hurts, like squaring a circle, or stuffing an aubergine into a narrow orifice, but I take it, a slit in the fabric of this fabrication we have the audacity to call life. I take it for the team, in lieu of rent, in exchange for my allotted coop of space, where my face lives, a solitary echo of a faint boom, a vague extension of an urge to keep going because of some promise that was made to me one day.
This is not a drill. This is an orderly riot, a legal smash and grab. World, have your say. With cute cats, mise-en-abyme selfies and mildly amusing memes. Personally, I will take the easy way out. I will scream and shout with nothing-to-say in the street (alleyway, really) that everyone one veers round in the flux that is the crux of this hypnagogic sleep-talking to oblivion.
There is an embarrassing wealth of wisdom and intellectual riches out there, an abundance of materials from which to fashion a better, fairer world. I am not talking about Long Reads, or peak TV, but ideas, real ideas, that have a pulse, that radiate with life, that do not speak in the dead language mediating reality (freedom, change, choice). People suffered for those ideas, landfills full of them died, yet there they lie, algae-covered relics on the bed of the sea of forgetting.
These here words are on the run. They furtively evade conversations and dialogues – dead ends. They avoid forums and opinions – suffocation by plastic bag. Language has to start afresh in a poetic, almost childish register. It has to get McCarthyian, the American scribe behind the one and only book that united the six tribes of my family in admiration. Aw, shucks, fuck it, what’s the point, nothing will ever change. As you were. Click on. Click-clack along.
In the back alley of a world that never was, in a land that time forgot, I will swallow the creamy secret of life. It tastes a little like Pina Colada, which, incidentally, J and I made over the weekend, to test the new blender J got from Senukai (with a generous 25% discount). It doesn’t taste very good; it is too liquid and insipid. J adds a (straight) banana. That’s better! Now it is thicker, richer, cocktailier. Aw, Pina Coladas… Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…