chopper
Quick raindrops fell like waves onto his head as he looked all around him and damn if he didn’t know where in the hell he was, or wasn’t. Could it really be that he had come full circle to the shore again? After a long sleepless night on the beat in the forest senselessly beating his head full force into tree branches and thorns, he stumbled out onto the quaking sand and tide beneath his feet. But now he had a bigger problem. No shelter and rain falling all around him exploding on his shoulders. Well better get used to it. Yes, better get used to it since it was all that he had ever known. After all it wasn’t so unlike anything else he had ever experienced. getting rained upon, getting wet as something formless and soft flowed over him conforming itself to his shapes and contours like a drapery of knowledge falling over his shoulders. You know when you first get to know something, how it conforms itself to you filling in alot of little creases and crevasses in you.
A hinky little creepy little drinky dink! A little something to quench the foreboding way of thoughts when they become most pervasive and persuasive in the little crevices of ideas ensconced in what you know. Sometimes a man can keep on looking and yet shows no sign of ever finding, sometimes he doesn’t realize that he found it long ago. “You can eat small potatoes, but try on a heaping portion of rinky-dink.”
“A blue blue day in all this light,” he thought, “and I couldn’t drive a submarine to the fish market.” Sometimes his thoughts betrayed the instant of confusion that shrouded him in his waking life. he had known for a long time that he had serious problems, but when he really tried to concentrate on this fact, he came only to the same inconclusive disassociation with his environment. A grey dog on the front lawn was viewed in his convoluted mental meandering as a “greg-mound pacing that portculus,” a car wreck was a “wicked creck-up,” and on and on he would go like this until the time he drifted in the grey of his squalid little shack night slumber. Until the very preface of sleepiness precluded sanity and reality coming to steal upon him as the dreams of little nemo meant an escape from the everyday doldrums of early twentieth century paris. And then he would toss and turn upon the salvation army mattress and fret as Achilles in his tent was roused by the god’s multifaceted desire to retain his honour and both fight the enemy within the stone walls. Who was the enemy now he wondered often in sweat drenched cramps, his stomach doubling in upon itself as he rolled on the sea bottom. Questions- should he curse and spit upon passers by or secretly sulk and pessimistically foretell their coming writhing upon the fire basted in blood pits of hell? To hell now or in the future? One way or the other, it was forever and silent, complete. Sometimes busses come by and sometimes children run down my street of framed-out blinking.
His yard was torn away at the edges and the dry fine dirt of the weakened humus would blow up into the shadeless mid-day heat in little sciroccos across the neighbors own dirt patch here in the deserted summer of the end ways around his once... one-time town. Not really a place on the map, nor in the story but somewhere in between whats honest and whats the trash of so lowly a thought that flits about from time to time, threatening to be real again. His neighbors, perhaps, are reason and virtue and like ilk, maybe they are the Truth and Honor, sort of holed up like hermits in an overbread dead- town who look out from behind drawn shades, but never materialise except in his imagination like insubstantial dead poets memorised within the confines of dusty pine boxes and miserable three pence operas, he is a boy chanting “kill them...” in the devastated blitz streets and the broken lorries. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clemons, here comes a candle to light your way to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head. chop, chop, chop, kung fooey and siamese cats, fu manchoo, achoo, plaster dust in the nose, chop, chop, chop, pork chops and american apple sauce, saucisson, the maginot line, wurst, german sauerkraut, sour krauts, come on and kill them all. here comes a candle, here comes a chopper. chop.
A hinky little creepy little drinky dink! A little something to quench the foreboding way of thoughts when they become most pervasive and persuasive in the little crevices of ideas ensconced in what you know. Sometimes a man can keep on looking and yet shows no sign of ever finding, sometimes he doesn’t realize that he found it long ago. “You can eat small potatoes, but try on a heaping portion of rinky-dink.”
“A blue blue day in all this light,” he thought, “and I couldn’t drive a submarine to the fish market.” Sometimes his thoughts betrayed the instant of confusion that shrouded him in his waking life. he had known for a long time that he had serious problems, but when he really tried to concentrate on this fact, he came only to the same inconclusive disassociation with his environment. A grey dog on the front lawn was viewed in his convoluted mental meandering as a “greg-mound pacing that portculus,” a car wreck was a “wicked creck-up,” and on and on he would go like this until the time he drifted in the grey of his squalid little shack night slumber. Until the very preface of sleepiness precluded sanity and reality coming to steal upon him as the dreams of little nemo meant an escape from the everyday doldrums of early twentieth century paris. And then he would toss and turn upon the salvation army mattress and fret as Achilles in his tent was roused by the god’s multifaceted desire to retain his honour and both fight the enemy within the stone walls. Who was the enemy now he wondered often in sweat drenched cramps, his stomach doubling in upon itself as he rolled on the sea bottom. Questions- should he curse and spit upon passers by or secretly sulk and pessimistically foretell their coming writhing upon the fire basted in blood pits of hell? To hell now or in the future? One way or the other, it was forever and silent, complete. Sometimes busses come by and sometimes children run down my street of framed-out blinking.
His yard was torn away at the edges and the dry fine dirt of the weakened humus would blow up into the shadeless mid-day heat in little sciroccos across the neighbors own dirt patch here in the deserted summer of the end ways around his once... one-time town. Not really a place on the map, nor in the story but somewhere in between whats honest and whats the trash of so lowly a thought that flits about from time to time, threatening to be real again. His neighbors, perhaps, are reason and virtue and like ilk, maybe they are the Truth and Honor, sort of holed up like hermits in an overbread dead- town who look out from behind drawn shades, but never materialise except in his imagination like insubstantial dead poets memorised within the confines of dusty pine boxes and miserable three pence operas, he is a boy chanting “kill them...” in the devastated blitz streets and the broken lorries. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clemons, here comes a candle to light your way to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head. chop, chop, chop, kung fooey and siamese cats, fu manchoo, achoo, plaster dust in the nose, chop, chop, chop, pork chops and american apple sauce, saucisson, the maginot line, wurst, german sauerkraut, sour krauts, come on and kill them all. here comes a candle, here comes a chopper. chop.
posted by BrenGun at 9:50 AM
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