THE CASH STRAPPED CARPENTER

The Wiseman lays before his students a vision of magnificence in creativity, the arts, universes of openings, and a few ask for more. What more could he ask for? For something magnificent shall be incubated.

The clergyman gave his acolytes a vision of malignance in creativity, in the arts, gave the congregation a book of rules, creation, and a great many of them asked for more. What more could he have asked for? For them, none the wiser, something malignant had been incubated.

The cash strapped carpenter lost his comfortable furniture loving lost soul to cash on the nail instruments of humiliation and execution, and lost his son and family into the bargain.

Old Joe had strolled, lolled in lush green woods among cheerful flora and fauna aplenty, but his work drove him and his timbers into a cheerless desert where the straightforward, clear-cut trees there, two a penny, cash on the nail, bore barren fruit and their sap was rust.

LET THEM STEW IN THEIR OWN JUICES

In “The Cellar”, an underground cinema on Duke Street, near the centre of the universe.

Background Radiation. Radio Dust. Pinpoints of Past Fire recede. Dust, riding the dial, slowly accelerates toward the audience through the static. The screen flickers into light.

The scene, a hovel constructed from damp scraps of discarded wood and mouldy, faded brown cardboard, but with a distinct air of pretensions of becoming a cathedral.

Here sitteth a pantomime sorcerer wrapped in hokum-pocum costume drama drag, sham fifteenth century Spanish court slippers stained with sewage. Here sitteth, dully illuminated in the sparks of some dying embers, cross legged, amongst piles of rotting entrails, a sorcerer stirring relentlessly at a blackened cauldron of thick, sick smelling stew. Here sitteth, under the black shadow of a cathedral steeple hat reaching unto truly celestial heights, the sorcerer, who, just at this moment, all fired up by the brewage, sheds his hokum-pocum skin to don his immaculate black and white habits as becomes the High Priest of the one and only church of what must and must not, and you had better believe it sons and daughters of the One and Only John Doe, our father who art in heaven. Somewhere.

The little lambs get to climb up to the dizzy heights upon that heavenly ladder to look him straight in the eye, to be blessed by the judgements, and are instantaneously damned in his ubiquitous silver mirror shades, the mirror shades he angrily snaps on at their disgusting, subservient, brown nosing approach (Aside),-

“Sometimes you just have to hold your breath, pinch your nose.”

Crucifixes, electric chairs, lethal injection benches bellows butcher’s apron, nooses ropes chains cables carving knives and crocodile clips, hammers and nails, racks and pullies and poles to impale, a ladder and a toolbox. A ladder and a toolbox, as carpenter and metalworker, as all round handyman is he known, the son of John Doe, The Born Again Priest.

The heights are climbed and the faithless find faith in something a little more heavenly, a little more mystical, at each and every rung on the way up and so they have more faith because, sermonises The Born Again Priest,-

“Lo, hallowed be my wisdom, faith becometh the absolute truth, hallowed be thy name, John Doe, thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven, erm....somewhere.”

And it comes about that all this truth is verily rattling about in each and every skull and making a right old din.*

And it comes about that The Born Again Priest, in all his infinite heavenly love and mystical affection, spreads his arms universally wide to welcome his precious flock unto his protective bosom. And it comes about that, lo and behold, he is up to his elbows in little boy’s and girl’s shit and blood, for, as we behold, they stand before him in sublime submission, anointed in blood and faeces smeared over their otherwise milky white flesh....milky white....

Full on, full screen mirror shades reflecting cameras and lighting rig, The Born Again Priest admonishes,-

“For this is the Northern European section of The Alliance of Civilisations and we do not countenance any of those other colours fucking up this tale, do we now?”

....milky white flesh waiting in trancelike subjugation for his oration. The Sermon on The Mound, Mons Veneris for, verily, The Born Again Priest truly believes, with high religious hubris, in heaven right down here and now and he is doing his damnedest best to keep the pearly gates tight shut to the hoi polloi.

The Sermon on The Mound, Mons Veneris,-

“Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not, suffer the little children to come, to come unto me for my pleasure, for, verily, of such pleasure is the Kingdom of The Born Again Priest!”

So, hardened Sheffield steel shears in one hand, silver mirror shades over his eyes, stainless steel pincers in his right hand, he welcomes the little lambs to his last judgment and, of course, they are ecstatically happy, euphoric, for they have drunk and eaten of him and of all the others and they can see what the future holds for them just where The Born Again Priest’s eyes should be, that is, submission, suffering and faith, but he, mirror shades high on his nose, he can see them for what they really are, Cuts of Meat! Cuts of Meat, for his is the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

“For mine is the power, and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen!”

In “The Cellar”, an underground cinema on Duke Street, near the centre of the universe, THE END, and voices are heard to mumble under their breaths,-

“Amen....”

And,-

“Where we gonna find something to eat this time of the night?”

*Those who have heard voices from the nondominant brain hemisphere remark on the absolute authority of the voice. They know they are hearing the truth. The fact that no evidence is adduced and that the voice may be talking utter nonsense is irrelevant. This is what Truth is. And Truth has nothing to do with facts. Those who manipulate Truth to their advantage, the people of the Big Lie, are careful to shun facts. In fact nothing is more deeply offensive to such people than the concept of fact.

(William S. Burroughs, Ghost of Chance, 1991, published by Serpent’s Tail, 2002)


A large part of the inspiration for this piece of writing can be found in a video clip by the multi media artist A-Soma. A-Soma and the Unlightened, Draps Bruts, from the collection of songs, Dark in Space. Click here to see the clip!

A PEACH, A BRUISE, BLUEJEANS AND VIRGIN EXTRA OLIVE OIL

The Sunrise Girl, Alba, is, at this very moment, peeling the velvet skin from a dripping, sweet ripe peach with her lips, not her teeth, her lips, and The Pretty Girl passes through her fruit perfumed field of vision causing perfumed fresh peach pink womb glow tasted on her tongue, wearing tight bluejeans perfectly. Perfectly, muscles dance slow and intimate together and her right hip falls a tad and she hits a pose, innocently, and cherished skin slides sexy, moistly. Shed that skin....

“Why don’t I put my lips to your deep blue jeans, Pretty Girl? Why don’t I put my lips to your sheer white cotton Princesa underwear, Pretty Girl? Why don’t I put my lips to your ever so slightly translucent light pink olive peach skin, Pretty Girl?” Thinks she, warmly sinking to the depths inside her ribcage butterfly lust and love for beauty peach pink but olive oil small death. “Wrap that fine light olive flesh torso, abdomen in clingfilm so airtight it keeps forever peach velvet clean and fresh deep sepia frozen in my desperate memory....”

Olive oil, pour olive oil on light pink olive peach skin snakes through such fine silvery ghosts of downy hair into her neatly tied navel, slightly breathing, rising up and down gently tensed stomach faintly shivering translucent skin breath of cool sepia sex oil lake preciously knotted navel where Sunrise submerges her index finger maroon black nail varnish, tip of tongue, nose, pour some more that glides and guides virgin olive oil curls through gossamer fine velvet downy cool and down slow and easy in another virgin direction tighter curls, first pressing quivering cold pressing, calm....

“Ahí, ahí....”

The Pretty Girl, naked, rests her shoulders on the edge of the kitchen table and, chin in hands, looks, unblinking, straight into Alba’s sad brown eyes. There is a small reddish stain of eczema on the pearl pale pink olive sheen skin that Alba notices on her right cheek and such fine ghosts of downy hair that The Sunrise Girl so desperately wants to tickle and tease them into life with her breath, breathe life into them with tip of tongue luster that glides and guides virgin olive oil through sheer white cotton Princesa underwear gossamer fine velvet down cool and slow and easy in another virgin direction gorgeous tight goose pimple blush young velvet skin from a dripping, sweet ripe peach, juice on her lips.

“Intenté anotarlo todo, intenté ver mi belleza. La belleza que ves en mi.”

“¡Eso no importa Jone! Prométeme que nunca te convertirás tan sólo en otra superviviente fea, amargada y retorcida!”

In a wicker basket cradled between Jone’s perfect, gorgeous forearms, there is an almost invisibly bruised peach. The fruit, with its precious bruise from which decay would spread if they gave it half a chance, is also suddenly so much more desperately, deliciously delicate and sad and beautiful, gorgeous, for its wound.

The Sunrise Girl, naked too, dabs her index finger into a sepia pool of glinting olive oil on the clear glass table and gently rubs a little into the tiny flaking blemish on The Pretty Girl’s cheek, leans across the table, over the basket of fruit, and kisses the same spot, licks it delicately. The Pretty Girl, sublime, lightly caresses Alba’s glistening breasts, her nipples, with the still somewhat slippery palms of her hands.

“¡Sabes, Alba, que preferiría mucho más ser una bella víctima que una fea superviviente!”

“Hagámoslo otra vez....”

“Por favor....”

THE CONVERSATION

“There, there....”

“I tried to write it all down, I tried to see my beauty. The beauty you see in me.”

“Give it no mind Jone! Promise me you’ll never become just another ugly bitter twisted survivor?”

“You know, Alba, I’d much prefer to be a beautiful victim than an ugly survivor!”

“Let’s do it again....”

“Please....”