LA MUSA / THE MUSE

Sobre el vello púbico, la carne de gallina y las magulladuras, sobre delicadas venas bajo una piel traslúcida.

Pensó en ella, luego pensó que ella existía, después, simplemente, ella dejó de existir.

Lo pensó, luego pensó que lo que pensó existió, luego, simplemente, lo que pensó dejó de existir. Pensó, luego pensó que existió, luego, simplemente, dejó de existir.

Of pubic hair, goose pimples and bruises, of delicate veins under a translucent skin.

He thought her, therefore he thought she was, then, quite simply, she was no longer.

He thought it, therefore he thought it was, then, quite simply, it was no longer. He thought, therefore he thought he was, then, quite simply, he was no longer.





Photograph, "Te quiro", © David F. Brandon, Julio 2016

THE ONSET (VOICE IN OFF)

“The girl? I am so attracted to her because she would be the daughter I imagine Alba would have had had we decided to have a child. I cannot, however, see anything in her that would suggest potential fatherhood on my part. That makes the whole thing all the more fascinating.”

Two autumn gold leaves dance with the wind, they find an eye in someone’s obsession, find a home in a corner of other unseen eyes. A hand dreamt of them. They live in a velvet corner of some other fingertip’s dream. A root dreamt of them. They live in a velvet green corner of some other bud’s dream. The seed dreamt of them, mother to the creation, but not father to the creature. Static, it’s the peephole, it’s the end of the film, the end of words.

“They are both so beautiful. She uses her eyes in much the same way as does Alba. I am mother to the creation but not father to the creature.”

The onset, when those old slow black and white television valves turn off, the picture fast finds distance as a white watch face moon shimmering infinite seconds in total darkness. On the other side of this face, sailing through this face, static, background radiation, then it’s the peephole, it’s the end of the film, the end of words.

“The girl is the seed. I use her to create an obsession because I can't work without an obsession.”

Golden sails on the sunset, autumn leaves fall silent on stilled air. Death dances gaily at the back door of autumn.

“I use her as muse, beauty, an obsession that takes me somewhere dangerous and thus allows my mind some new deviant invention to delve into.”

Beyond, at the other end of the peephole, autumn leaves fall silent on stilled air. Images fade in the factory of imaginings, shadows deepen in the cathedral of depiction and images burn with their need to reproduce, looking back at the end of depiction, the end of the film, the end of words.

“So, I was father to the image but not even stepfather to the creature. The girl was the seed. Images, words, thoughts, rake them up! Pile them on the bonfire! They don’t hurt anyone anymore, and, when I stare back through the peephole, I might speculate that I’m looking back at the picture of my life, but, in reality, I’m being observed by the past.”

The illustration by A-Soma, © A-Soma 2012.

(ELECTIONS) DISSOLVE/RESOLVE/TRANSPARENCY

The transparent man was alone, transparently, sort of, in the middle of the transparent street lined with transparent protesters holding aloft transparent banners, transparent posters pasted onto transparent walls, transparent flyers floating transparently on a transparent breeze.

He was an artist, a transparent artist. He painted transparent paintings on transparent canvases, took and worked on transparent photographs in transparent computers, and wrote transparent stories on reams of transparent papers containing, evidently, transparent philosophy. He was transparent. He was a transparent husband and, transparently so, a devoted father.

He wore a transparent trilby style hat on his transparently balding head and his thoughts were transparent, and from his transparent ears and from his transparent nose grew transparent hairs he had to regularly trim as befits the transparently middle aged, and perched on his transparent nose, a pair of transparent glasses helped his transparent eyes to see. On his transparent shoulders hung a long transparent coat, almost down to the transparent street. Under this transparent coat he wore a transparent three buttoned jacket over a transparent shirt and a transparent vest (over a transparent paunch) tucked tightly into his transparent trousers which were buckled up with a transparent belt, his transparent fly zipped carefully up. A transparent tie pinched his transparent collar to his transparent throat and his words, had there been any to speak of, would have been transparent too. His transparent cuffs were fastened with transparent cufflinks which would have read, had, clearly, they not been totally transparent, “GUILTY” one, the other, “NOT GUILTY”. Through his transparent underpants you could see his transparent testicles nestling in transparent pubic hair, and his transparent penis too, transparently leaking a little, slightly silly, and pathetic and not at all threatening or different looking, just like all the others tucked away into their very own transparent underwear. Under his transparent armpits, through transparent hair, he transpired a little, transparently, as you have probably quite rightly guessed, but he smelt sweet because he had used his transparent roll-on deodorant that very morning. And his transparent feet were warm inside his transparent socks, clad as they were in transparent leather soled shoes. His transparent feet and his transparent legs carried him in slow motion towards The Transparent Parliament. On his transparent finger a transparent wedding ring. In his transparent hands a very tall transparent flagstaff atop of which fluttered a huge, a magnificent transparent flag with its corresponding transparent cords and transparent tassels. He was escorted in his transparent protest by twenty or thirty transparent policemen and women, preceded by three transparent police cars, dressed, these agents of The Transparent Order, they were, in their transparent helmets and transparent uniforms, carrying transparent Mace and transparent truncheons and transparent shields with transparent letters that would have spelt out “POLICE” had they not been totally transparent. And they shouldered transparent guns and slung transparent pouches of transparent rubber bullets, transparent real ones too, and, in their transparent underpants, their transparent genitals were no more or less pathetic, no more or less threatening looking, no more or less leaking, no more silly looking than were his. Under their transparent fireproof knickers the transparent policewomen’s vaginas, their triangles of transparent pubic hair, seemed little different from, well, from his transparent wife’s and his transparent daughter’s. Behind him three enormous armoured police vans, each of them totally transparent of course, closed the transparent procession, everything transparently in order and The Transparent Authorities would never have even dreamt of putting any of their transparent firepower to use for, transparently, it would have been of no use.

In front of The Transparent Parliament, adorned with innumerable magnificent transparent flags, he stepped up beside his transparent wife; saw her transparent breasts transparently small and still transparently fine-looking. Inside his transparent underpants shriveled his transparent penis, at the same level as his wife’s transparent genitals, inside her transparent knickers. They had once introduced the two to each other, not only to make transparent love, to make transparent orgasms but also to make their transparent daughter who now lay deep in peace, immaculate, deep in transparent velvet in a transparent coffin on transparent trestles, her transparent lower body draped in yet another magnificent transparent flag, a transparent coffin, her body, open to The Transparent Universe.

Gorgeous was she as part of The Transparent Universe. The early autumn sun shone through the three of them, shone through them all, shone through it all and lit the cool damp green grass under their transparent feet. The early autumn sun glinted fiercely in the purple ripples of universes floating in myriad pools and puddles and in fine blue sky reflected in undulating mirrors of streams. The early autumn sun shone, turned the fallen and falling, fluttering leaves into every shade of orange red and gold imaginable, and illuminated the butterflies in the forest, beams of light through the trees, the bees, the birds, darting here and there, the red squirrels so trusting and not a single solitary footstep ever to be seen on the sumptuous carpet of the forest floor. The butterflies shone so elegant, the dragonflies glowed metallic, awaiting.

The Transparent Dignitary strolled forward from the transparent ranks of The Transparent Politicians and stood before the three of them. A transparent man in a transparent uniform handed him yet another transparent flag, neatly folded into a manageable square, and on this transparent flag was resting a transparent ribbon curled around The Transparent Medal. And The Dignitary had a transparent speech to be made but, as the situation was so transparent, transparent words were unnecessary and transparent speeches of transparent sorrow and transparent regret and transparent thanks and transparent anticipations for the future were forgotten, left in The Transparent Parliament, left in all the transparent drawers of transparent offices, in transparent desks in transparent buildings on thousands upon thousands of transparent streets.

The transparent mother cries transparent tears that trickle from her transparent eyes. Her transparent husband strokes her comfortingly across her transparent shoulders, which shudder transparently. She glances up a little then extends a transparent finger to the lip of the transparent coffin, brushing gently its transparent, open lid. Her tears are no longer clear. Nothing is clear any longer. Her supposed daughter is burnt, has a tortured look on her face, black and blue. She is glued to the black velvet in her own congealed blood and putrefaction, her wounds festering, but alive. Alive, every orifice seething with maggots, metallic bluebottle flies buzz here, and there. Varnished wood grain coffin, peeling varnish, cold tarnished brass handles drip gritty raindrops, drip, drip, drip, and the damp flag clutched to her supposed mother’s breast suddenly has a nation to go with it, and each and every soaking flag has colours to go with it, and a state, and a supposed cause of course, it is only common sense and each and every sodden banner too suddenly has its supposed demands against this collective against that, and everyone is cheerfully, earnestly part of it and everyone is dressed in drab shades and tones of washed out grey and the dirty grey rain falls, kicks up the dust, the grey ash in the littered street and thousands of feet churn it all into mud and the noise of the protest is deafening, chants, shouts, megaphones feedback, the beating of shields that clearly read “POLICE”, and the police play their part and the public theirs, the game, dodge the water cannon, there has to be a threat round every corner, in every darkened doorway, it is common sense, breaking glass, bricks and flaming bottles fly, red paint too, and the smell of the protest is choking, teargas, everything, sweat, shit, everyone smells slightly rotten, gagging, of sewers, spilt blood, corruption, death, decay, burning rubber and petrol, and someone’s daughter, supposedly, gets trampled underfoot, supposedly. A bluebottle scurries across her cheek and the last of the hoary old hippy dreams of those days of yore, of being one with the universe, is shot to bloody shreds as every hoary utopia is shot to bloody shreds and so, one way or another, everybody is cheerfully, earnestly playing a bit part in the game, extras. Extras, everybody works for The Bank.

“Why, mummy, why?”

“Why what, darling?”

“Why does everybody work for the bank?”

“Oh, ooh! To buy the boys a tank.”

DISOLVER / RESOLVER (ELECCIONES TRANSPARENTES)

En cierto sentido el hombre transparente estaba solo, transparentemente, en medio de la transparente calle flanqueada con manifestantes transparentes que enarbolaban pancartas transparentes, carteles transparentes pegados en paredes transparentes, octavillas transparentes que se arremolinaban transparentemente en una brisa transparente.

Era pintor, un artista transparente. Pintaba cuadros transparentes en lienzos transparentes, sacaba fotografías transparentes y trabajaba en ellas en ordenadores transparentes, y escribía historias transparentes en papeles transparentes que usaba a montones y que contenían, evidentemente, filosofía transparente. Era un marido transparente y, también transparentemente, un padre entregado.

Llevaba un sombrero de fieltro transparente sobre una cabeza transparente amenazada por una incipiente calva y sus pensamientos eran transparentes, y en sus transparentes orejas y su transparente nariz crecía un vello transparente que tenía que cortar regularmente, acorde con su transparente mediana edad, y descansando sobre su nariz transparente un par de gafas transparentes ayudaban a sus transparentes ojos a ver con mayor nitidez. Sobre sus espaldas transparentes colgaba un largo abrigo transparente, que tocaba casi el suelo de la calle transparente. Bajo su abrigo transparente lucía una americana transparente con tres botones transparentes que cubría una camisa transparente y una camiseta transparente (sobre una panza transparente) bien metida en sus transparentes pantalones, sujetados con un cinturón transparente, la bragueta transparente cuidadosamente subida. Una corbata trasparente apretaba el cuello transparente de su camisa a su transparente garganta y sus palabras, de haberse pronunciado, habrían sido también transparentes. Los transparentes puños de su camisa se cerraban por medio de unos gemelos transparentes sobre los que, de no haber sido totalmente transparentes, se hubiera podido leer la palabra “CULPABLE” en uno, “NO CULPABLE” en el otro. A través de sus transparentes calzoncillos podían verse unos testículos transparentes, acurrucados en un vello púbico transparente, y también un transparente pene, goteando un poco transparentemente, ridículo, y patético y en absoluto amenazante o de aspecto diferente, sino como el de cualquier otro, refugiado en sus propios calzoncillos transparentes. Bajo sus axilas transparentes, entre el vello transparente, transpiraba ligeramente, transparentemente, como probablemente habrán ya adivinado, pero desprendía un olor dulzón porque esa misma mañana había utilizado un desodorante de bola transparente. Y sus pies transparentes estaban calientes dentro de unos calcetines transparentes, cubiertos como estaban por unos transparentes zapatos con la suela de cuero también transparente. Sus transparentes pies y sus piernas transparentes lo transportaban a cámara lenta hacia El Parlamento Transparente. En su transparente dedo una alianza transparente. En sus transparentes manos un mástil transparente muy largo en lo alto del cual ondeaba una enorme y magnifica bandera transparente con sus correspondientes cuerdas transparentes y transparentes borlas. Escoltado en una manifestación transparente por veinte o treinta policías transparentes, precedidos por tres transparentes coches de policía, engalanados, estos agentes del Ministerio De La Orden Transparente, con sus cascos transparentes y sus transparentes uniformes, llevando Mace transparente y transparentes porras y escudos transparentes con letras transparentes que hubieran dicho “POLICÍA”, de no haber sido totalmente transparentes. Y con las transparentes armas al hombro y los morrales transparentes llenos de pelotas de goma transparentes también al hombro, además de balas de fuego transparentes, y, en sus calzoncillos transparentes, sus transparentes genitales no eran ni más ni menos patéticos, ni más ni menos amenazantes en su aspecto, ni goteaban más ni menos, ni tampoco más ridículos que los suyos. Bajo sus transparentes bragas incombustibles las vaginas transparentes de las mujeres policía transparentes, sus triángulos de transparente vello púbico, parecían muy poco diferentes de, bueno, de las de su transparente esposa y de las de su transparente hija. Tras él tres enormes furgones blindados de policía, por supuesto cada uno de ellos totalmente transparente cerraban la transparente procesión, todo ello transparentemente en orden y Las Transparentes Autoridades en ningún momento habrían soñado con utilizar siquiera una de sus armas de fuego, transparentemente, no habría sido de ninguna utilidad.

Delante del Parlamento Transparente, adornado con magníficas e innumerables banderas transparentes, se posicionó junto a su transparente mujer; observó sus pechos transparentes transparentemente pequeños pero aun transparentemente hermosos. En el interior de sus transparentes calzoncillos se encogía un pene transparente a la altura de los transparentes genitales de su mujer, dentro de sus bragas trasparentes. En una ocasión se habían presentado el uno a la otra, no sólo para hacer un amor transparente, para tener orgasmos transparentes sino también para concebir la hija transparente que ahora yacía en paz, inmaculada, envuelta en terciopelo transparente, dentro de un ataúd transparente, sobre caballetes transparentes, la mitad de su transparente cuerpo cubierto en otra espléndida bandera transparente, un ataúd transparente, su cuerpo, abiertos a El Universo Transparente.

Era preciosa como parte de El Universo Transparente. El sol del incipiente otoño brillaba a través de los tres, brillaba a través de todos, brillaba a través de todo e iluminaba la verde hierba húmeda y fresca bajo sus pies transparentes. El sol del incipiente otoño centelleaba intensamente en las ondas moradas de universos que flotaban en multitud de charcos y en el espléndido cielo azul reflejado en los ondulantes espejos de los arroyos. El sol del incipiente otoño brillaba y transformaba las hojas caídas, las que caían y las que revoloteaban en todos los tonos anaranjados, rojizos y dorados imaginables, e iluminaba las mariposas del bosque. Los rayos de luz atravesaban los árboles, las abejas, los pájaros volaban como flechas de aquí para allá, las ardillas rojas tan confiadas y no se veía ni una sola pisada solitaria en la suntuosa alfombra del bosque. Las mariposas brillaban con tanta elegancia; las libélulas lucían un brillo metálico, al acecho.

El Dignatario Transparente dio un paso al frente desde las transparentes filas de Los Políticos Transparentes y se posicionó delante de los tres. Un hombre transparente en un uniforme transparente le entregó una bandera transparente más, cuidadosamente doblada en un cuadrado manejable, y sobre esta bandera transparente había una cinta transparente que abrazaba La Medalla Transparente. Y el Dignatario tenía un discurso transparente que pronunciar pero, como la situación era tan transparente, palabras transparentes eran innecesarias y discursos transparentes de dolor trasparente y pena transparente y transparente agradecimiento y transparentes expectativas de futuro quedaron olvidados, abandonados en El Parlamento Transparente, dejados en todos los cajones transparentes de las transparentes oficinas, en escritorios transparentes de edificios transparentes en miles y miles de calles transparentes.

La madre transparente llora lágrimas transparentes que se caen de unos ojos transparentes. Su transparente marido acaricia sus hombros transparentes, que tiemplan transparentemente. La mujer levanta un poco la mirada y acerca un dedo transparente al borde del ataúd transparente, acariciando suavemente la transparente tapa abierta. Sus lágrimas ya no son claras. Nada es ya claro. Su supuesta hija está quemada, la cara parece torturada, negra y azul. La chica yace pegada al terciopelo negro con su propia sangre coagulada y putrefacción, las heridas purulentas, vivas. Vivas, cada orifico plagado de gusanos, moscardones de un azul metálico zumban, vuelan de aquí para allá. El ataúd de madera barnizada, el barniz levantado, las asas frías de un bronce sin brillo gotean una lluvia arenosa, gota a gota, gota a gota, y la bandera mojada pegada al pecho de su supuesta madre tiene una nación que la acompaña, y todas y cada una de las empapadas banderas con sus colores, y un estado, y una supuesta causa, por supuesto, es sólo un caso de sentido común y cada una de las pancartas caladas de repente tiene también sus propias exigencias en contra de este y aquel colectivo, y todo el mundo es alegremente, seriamente parte de ello y todos están vestidos en colores tristes, apagados, en tonos de un gris deslavado y la lluvia cae sucia y gris, levantando el polvo, la ceniza gris en una calle llena de octavillas ignoradas y miles de pies lo convierten todo en barro y el ruido de la protesta es ensordecedor, cantos al ritmo de los puños alzados, gritos, megáfonos que chirrían, el golpeteo de los escudos que dicen claramente “POLICÍA”, y la policía hace su papel y el público el suyo, un juego, esquivar los cañones de agua, es preciso que haya una amenaza en cada esquina, en cada portal oscuro, es de sentido común, rotura de cristales, ladrillos y botellas llameantes en el aire, también pintura roja, y el olor de la protesta es asfixiante, gases lacrimógenos, de todo, sudor, mierda, todos huelen a algo ligeramente podrido, nauseabundo, como a alcantarilla, a sangre derramada, a corrupción, a muerte, a putrefacción, a neumáticos quemados y a gasolina, y la hija de alguien, supuestamente, pisoteada, supuestamente. Un moscardón corretea por su mejilla, y al último de los viejos y caducos sueños hippies de antaño, de armonía con el universo, se le mata a tiros a sangre y fuego, al igual que se mata a sangre y fuego a las viejas utopías y así, de una u otra forma, todo el mundo está alegremente, seriamente interpretando su pequeño papel en el juego, extras. Extras, todos trabajan para El Banco.

“¿Por qué, mamá, por qué?”

“¿Por qué, qué, cariño?”

“¿Por qué todo el mundo trabaja para El Banco?”

“Para comprar tanques a los chicos.”

THE LUNATIC NOSTALGIC

"You’re not very good."

"No."

"Will you return?"

Life, Pussy, remember? You came home looking tired, delicate, slightly out of this world, but so beautiful. Your hair was lank, your skin the colour and transparency of alabaster, but so beautiful. You had last showered on the morning of the day before. I knew I would taste the original you, The Pretty Girl.

Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who cared for conversation?

Later on, my arm across the small of your back, yours across the small of mine, my fingertips caressed your right hip gently through the satin of your slip, yours caressed silky skin, for there was no satin there to be felt.

Outside, the seven thirty five morning moon sinks westerly over the rooftops, sweeps into its westerly swoon. The moon, the colour of the winter flesh between your legs, so beautiful.

Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who had cared for conversation? Then you spoke.

"You’re not very good."

"No."

"Will you return?"

Then I awoke and in a flitter we were gone, you somewhere far, far away to the East on a sandy summer coastline, drinks with young friends, easy laughter and conversation, sun, the sea lapping up to you, Pandora’s amphora, and me, gone, of course, as always, into timeless reveries of lost love lust and life, the little deaths of ourselves together, but so beautiful.

Far away to the East, please, you might just be feeling a little longing for me, looking at what I’m looking at at this very moment in time, or perhaps, even, from another world, from another time altogether. We travel in time!

TERRESTRIAL/ETHERIAL TRIANGULATION

A vacuous evening calls into question
the Terminator over Agatharchides
which adds contours and perspective

The Rays of Aristillus tell me
distance between points must be rescaled

Clouds outside cutting between this point here
and the final leg far away to the East
bring our time to mind

Every other terrestrial point is another criminal
stealing our scale

The moon
the colour of the winter flesh between your legs
its proximity has induced my mind to
this line of thought

"You’re not very good."

"No."

"Will you return?"

With every thought of fleeting life there comes a thought of lingering death, the death of us together. Oh my darling leopard, there is too much unwanted invention battling in my head to leave emptiness enough to remember it all, to remember the moon the colour of the winter flesh between your legs, for, modestly, you were never one to go completely naked into the summer sun.

Death is dithering on our dark doorstep.

Too late, oh far faded leopard
for slow death hath fast overtaken
thine capacity for speedy decision

I nurse you.

Not a coherent word, let alone phrase, was uttered all night, for, who had cared for conversation? Then you spoke unto him.

"You’re not very good."

"No."

"Will you return?"

THE LUNATIC

Galician oak keels stretch their ribs on Atlantic swells, Oceanus Procellarum. An ancient oak keel stretches its ribs on Atlantic swells. Five centuries ago as it is today. Three vessels, three stowaways, the only adventurers left in this slightly known universe. An ancient oak prow dives over the whitewater into the pit of a vigorous wave.

This is a postcard from the cheap picture shop of childhood memories.

“Wish you were here!”

Mare Nectaris. Sperm, puddles ponds and brooks of sperm. The rivulets, the streams, the sweat, The Siren, the tide turns, the sperm the sea the sperm waves and the sperm whales sing to each other. Sperm, a drop dissolves in the ocean. Mare Nectaris. Sperm glistens in the rise and fall, cooling on your chest and breasts.

An ancient oak prow dives into the trough of a vigorous wave. The Galician pine mast creeks the cleats stretch drenched knots shriek tighter for me, for The Pretty Girl, and, of course, for Alba who is Dawn.

Ultramarine blue, I washed my face in the spaces between their legs, for there it smells of home, it smells of a safe haven from a pristine world. It smells human. The perfume of humanity. It smells of guilt for life and I could live for a hundred thousand years and I would still be yearning for it, for my Mare Vaporum. Yearning for guilt. But I felt no guilt way back then and I feel no guilt now and I shall feel no guilt. Kiss it! Pleasure never melts away to the heat of my tongue. It is I who dissolve, tongue in the heat of the meat. I kissed the creases out of your lips and your orgasms were bolts of sapphire blue.

“Blue?” Alba mouthed in an abstracted, detached sort of way. “Blue?” mirrored The Pretty Girl, looking absentmindedly through the both of us, “Green, emerald green....perhaps....”

Sapphire blue my sequence you embrace as emerald green

Heed the difference little mind

The sapphire blue light bathes you perfect
caresses our languid dawning bedroom scene

Words rudely commandeer your splendour
demand of me a scribe to find

A hunched and aged scrivener generously given
the perfection of the image is forever riven

I kissed your lips again and they said,

“Hello Peter! Hello Pretty Girl!”

An ancient oak keel stretches its ribs on Atlantic swells. An ancient oak prow dives into the trough of a vigorous wave. The Galician pine mast creeks, rigging, the cleats stretch drenched knots shriek.

Dawn. Dawn, who, of course, is Alba, Lacus Somniorum, turquoise blue, cerulean, cobalt blue bolts of sapphire blue. Ultramarine blue. Navy blue, The Black Sea, The Red Sea, The Dead Sea. I bathe my face in those places between your legs. The old cold sea. The hot roiling sea. I am down and it is so dark, up, foresail shredded and brilliant light whitewater and down and suffocating, drowning hot and sweaty with hauling on the capstan, winding in your nerves, giving it my all, and that, of course is when all the typical old, previously mentioned, clichés surface.

Freud was a fraud.

“Mother?”

Peter, Bug Eyed Peter, is not working for penetration.

Mare Crisium, a bolt of sapphire blue. Mare Serenitatis, Mare Nostrum.

BEAUTY BLIGHTED

Sapphire blue my sequence you embrace as emerald green

Heed the difference little mind

The sapphire blue light bathes you perfect
caresses our languid evening bedroom scene



Words rudely commandeer your splendour
demand of me a scribe to find

A hunched and aged scrivener generously given
the perfection of the image is forever riven

EXILED NEAR WILLOWTOWN CREEK (WEEPING WILLOWS)

This is the sorrowful story

Told as the twilight fails

And the monkeys walk together

Holding their neighbours’ tails

Rudyard Kipling, The Legends of Evil

My fellow exile, investigator into wordly (and worldly) crafts, F. G. M. presented me with his research paper entitled “Tempori Cedo” with the idea that I made some constructive comments on the text. After due deliberation on said text I decided to be as honest in my appraisal as is humanly possible though, I have to admit, I do not know exactly where I stand on the issue of scientific criticism (being investigator rather than critic) aside from the observation that I take his part on the stand he has made.

“Pass the syringe....Ah, mmm, thank you kindly.”

My first reaction was that there was far too much use of the first person singular “I” as the subject of the verb, but then, half way through the paper, it dawned on me just why this was so. I am the first to admit that my “I” is simply a fleeting crossing of flight paths where isolated images come together for just long enough to cause sufficient friction, friction enough such that the temperature warps a connection in the memory and, in that memory, we sense we have captured a fleeting identity. Yes, there are too many “I”s but it is the same. That is how it is. You have your “I”s, I have mine. They have their “You”s, we have yours and when the virus decides, its first word is “I”, to inform me that I exist. Then “You”, so that you can put the finger on them.

I suggested the Jesters should not sound so apologetic, for, after all you are an exile too. Let your characters apologise I offered, avoid at all costs putting humble, apologetic attitudes into the mouths of your writers. “Introduction” is the wrong word. Monkey does as monkey is. Make it more cynical, more cutting, call it “Irrelevant Apology” or “No Thanks to You”, but they were having nothing of it, so I gave up on that count. They insisted, “We are finally ready to break our silence!” And that was it.

“We are finally ready to break our silence!”

“The antidote?”

“There is no known antidote, sir....”

Little rocks, little lumps of ice, little old bits of space junk, exiles, young and old alike and I am, near Willowtown Creek, weeping willows, orbiting. The field is launching me into orbit. It all orbits and it all has only, has solely a slight physical effect as becomes shooting stars, as we become shooting stars, electric threads, fleeting frictions, beauty.

Friction. Me on my back in the black grass in a pasture in a place I have only just invented, in a field, near Willowtown Creek. Willowtown Creek, Taylor County, Kentucky, U.S.A. Weeping, for my ideas are threadbare thoughts, shooting stars never on a collision course to let me know that they exist, and if ever they did, of course, my “I” would scream to the universe, “I....I can’t sew....”

I be a pure thread of white cotton fine

But not ‘till lovingly woven

Do a funeral shroud I weave sublime

David F. Brandon, A painter

“Hand the monkeys the loom, my good man!”

PARTS OF THE BODY (WERE WE ONLY WORDS)

Were We Words Words stabbed me in the back struck me dumb
Soundly scolded
Wind knocked out of my lungs
I smiled
But only on the surface did I smile

Mine and yours stabbed me in the back struck me dumb

Scolded
Soundly scolded
I lapped it up

Lapped it up good Pretty Girl
Pretty good and pretty hard



Words are more powerful than the thought
The thought is slower than the steel
The eye is fast but

The steel gets there first

The steel



My Ma Ma Mummy Safety punched me in the chest
Soundly scolded
Wind knocked out of my sails
I smirked
But only on the surface did I smirk

You punched me in the chest

Scolded
Soundly scolded
I lapped it up

Lapped it up good Pretty Girl
Pretty good and pretty hard



Words are more powerful than the thought
The thought is slower than the fist
The eye is fast but

The fist gets there first

The fist

Be Ba Ba (Blacksheep) Beauty Girl slapped me across the face
Soundly scolded
Wind knocked out of my sails
I sniggered
But only on the surface did I snigger

You slapped me across the face

Scolded
Soundly scolded
I lapped it up

Lapped it up good Pretty Girl
Pretty good and pretty hard



Words are more powerful than the thought
The thought is slower than the fingers
The eye is fast but

The fingers get there first

The fingers



Me Ma Ma Mummy Masochist looked down upon me over my shoulder
Soundly scolded
Wind knocked out of my sails
I sighed
But only on the surface did I sigh

I looked down upon me over my shoulder

Scolded
Soundly scolded
I lapped it up

Lapped it up good Pretty Girl
Pretty good and pretty hard



Words are more powerful than the thought
The thought is slower than the fingers
The eye is fast but

The fingers get there first


The fingers

The fist

The steel

SWEET TERRORIST GIRLS (THIS IS HOW IT WENT)

Sweet terrorist girls, I drink to you...
youʼll never know the reason why.

Carrion, The Crow wonʼt alight,
or play some lewd cover.

All play some lewd cover.

Anyway, it’ll all happen again.

This is how it went.

The illustration used for this "song" was produced by A-Soma, © A-Soma 2012. Coloured by the artist David F. Brandon, 2012. The "song" was also written by me in the 1970's, except for the last line, which is also a contribution from A-Soma.

DELICATE, YOUR BODY TO SUCCOUR

Delicate, your body to succour, I smelt you; I smelt every intimate smell of you because I had smelt you, every intimate smell of you, and so I smell you, every intimate, private, delicious smell of you. I will smell you, every intimate inch of you, and every intimate smell of you.

I was going to smell you, every intimate smell of you, but you took every delicious scent from you away. I was going to smell you, but I can no longer.

Delicate, your body, I sensed you. I sensed every speeding beat of your heart because I had sensed you, every speeding beat of your heart, and so I succour you, every intimate, glorious speeding pulse of your heart. I will succour you, every intimate inch of you, at every soaring beat of your heart.

I was going to succour you, but you took every glorious speeding pulse beat away. I was going to succour you, but I can no longer.

A LOST STORY FOR A LONG LOST DAUGHTER

How long has it been, Pretty Girl, since you emptied the house of your secrets, its secrets, packed them all into your backpacks and Tesco plastic bags with their stretched out handles tied in bows, and left? Left without a so much as a goodbye, without a wave, without so much as a second’s look back? Left me empty. Left the house empty. How long?

Although, I guess, you’ll neither ever hear or read, or care to listen to yet another stale anecdote of mine, let me tell you one last story.

When I was eight or nine, or thereabouts, I had an exam at Cheam Common Junior School, mathematics, and mathematics was from some other infectious dimension as far as I was concerned. It was an infectious Monday. When Mum came into my back bedroom to wake me for breakfast and drew the curtains back, I looked pained, told her I had a pain in my stomach and didn’t feel at all well. In reply to her “Where does it hurt dear?” To her warm fingers on my tummy, I simply yelped. “I can’t go to school today!” I whimpered. “Wait there in bed a moment my love.” And she tucked me in cosily and went padding down the carpeted stairs.

I felt cosy warm and safe. I heard the front door slam. I felt slightly less warm and safe, for we had no telephone in those days and, in emergencies, calls were made from Shirley and Angela Parry’s parents place at number eighty seven, from next door. I felt uncomfortably warm. A slamming door was an emergency.

Into my bedroom marched Dr Goodliff, all black pinstriped three piece suit, an enormous golden fob watch on its chain tucked in his waistcoat pocket. I know it was enormous because of when he took it out to check my pulse instants later. “Well, what have we got here then my young man?” He asked in a voice that suggested there’d be no mucking about here, but I didn’t have to answer because my mother already had so he was already staring at his watch, moving his lips to some soundless rhythm, his fingers on my wrist. It was right off the scale! Wouldn’t yours have been? What I really wanted to know was, “Is it a Timex like the watch daddy’s just bought me all shiny and new?” But I was stunned into silence by it all. Goodliff, wirey grey hair combed severely back over ruddy ears like a plastic tar wave rushing a rock on Bognor beach, dug his fingers into my tummy so I yelped again, a little louder this time, more because I was surprised than because I was acting. “Mmmm....”

He opened his little doctor’s bag. I hoped he wasn’t going to cut me all up right there and then. He opened his little black leather doctor’s bag and fished out a sort of rubbery contraption with a boring black watch dial and a bulb thing at the end of a rosy pink tube. “Right then young man, let’s take your blood pressure, just for good measure!” It was right off the scale! Wouldn’t yours have been? The room was beginning to smell of, distinctly of disinfectant and you simply do not argue with disinfectant, do you? Or mothers. Or doctors, but especially your Mummy and, I’d get a couple of days off school at this rate, wouldn’t I? You go that far and there’s no turning back, is there? With these infections there’s no turning back, is there?

Mummy, but especially Daddy too, a tube of Acriflex antiseptic in his hand, was fond of saying,“You don’t mess about with infections, my lad!” Acriflex wafted on the still, stuffy bedroom air. I was crying quietly. And Mummy tucked me in cosily and Mummy and Dr Goodliff both went thumping down the carpeted stairs, holding a muffled conversation I could make nothing of. No maths, no school! Phew! And, gradually, my heart was thumping less than they had thumped down the stairs to the front door, which slammed shut. And so I thought about Dan Dare and days in bed with my books and comics and I didn’t remember about slamming doors.

Suspected appendicitis was the diagnosis and I had been too distraught to even remember the ambulance ride to the hospital, which I should, by all rights, being a toy car boy, have enjoyed to the full. At least no school, but that was before the cutbacks and there were teachers and maths classes on the children’s ward, but these teachers smelt of disinfectant, not of mothballs and Mummy wasn’t there and there were too many kids who wanted to offer consolation, to touch me softly, to talk and play, even to read me things and leave their Beano comics on the starched pillow and I couldn’t swallow the food, except, of course, for the ice cream, so I cried my eyes out because I was no Dennis the Menace, I cried bitterly, solidly for the first two days ‘till I ran out of energy to cry anymore and slowly began to be able to look everyone in the eye, specially the little girls, who all seemed to want to play at being my mummy.

I was about a week under observation but, of course, I was never wheeled out of the ward to be returned hours later with all sorts of transparent tubes and bags and gear stuck and bandaged to my arms and legs.

I never told my mother about my lie. I had never told my mother about my secret, my Pretty Girl, never. Nothing about my secret life, my secret lives, never.

My mother, as I’ve so often bored you silly with, was a writer. After she died I inherited a box of her unpublished work, notes, rough drafts, some plays and short stories, poems I could never bring myself to read. Now you’ve left, and my wife is gone too, I’ve been browsing.

To my astonishment, one of her short stories began thus, “When my first son was eight or nine, or thereabouts, he had an exam at Cheam Common Junior School, mathematics....”

Pretty Girl, please come home, if only for a moment, and fill our house with secrets again.