Tuesday, March 18, 2014
SWEET TERRORIST GIRLS (THE PRELUDE TO A THOUGHT)
The detritus of a night’s drinking and
eating, talk, bad jokes and good laughs, are spilt across the black tablecloth.
The various musics in the background and the guests have long since vanished,
taking with them all their good philosophies, and all their better
explanations. The curtains, blood red
velvet, are drawn. Three wine glasses stand together in a little family group,
dregs in two, for we, Peter, Alba and Jone Johnson, were the last to let them
rest. Each one is clouded with fingerprints just to prove to me that it all
really turned out so marvellously well. This is the prelude to a thought.
Both of you retired to your bed I do not
know how many eons ago, but I am too overtired to sleep so instead I am gazing
into nowhere and toying with all those clever retorts that occurred to me too
late to be used. I am toying with memories of when there was more future than
past to be lived in my life, and I know there are thoughts I can escape from,
that I can re-educate, and thoughts that will return with exquisite
stubbornness. Those of this particular moment, I realise, are simply the same
as ever they were, but pondered, of course, with more pompous vocabulary, a
reflection, evidently, of the company we keep.
A beam of light from some other universe
I do not wish to investigate shines at a slight angle through one of the claret
stained glasses and throws a dash of sepia tinted infinity across the dark
tablecloth, a galaxy for a thought. I am mesmerised, sweet terrorist girls,
mesmerised, but a little sad and at a loss for words.
Monday, March 03, 2014
SWEET TERRORIST GIRLS
….at some stage
becomes like living in a film or some obscure novel….
I raise a glass to you, oh yes, to
sublime fragrant exquisiteness! And a toast to those who will never quite
understand the reasons why! Beauty, I wish not to know your real face! Oh,
terrible corrupted carrion! Carrion! The stork, Marabou, will not settle to feast and
neither will it cover itself with some lewd glory.
….game, pattern of moves, reality has no
substance, no restraints….
A toast! Oh a most glorious toast to the
most exquisitely spiteful one! Gore! Spite cloaks herself in beauty. My eyes,
such sad eyes, hold court again and again forever amen. My so sad eyes, oh, but
eternally sad, for decay bursts forth forever and a day, and there is not a
thing I can do to stave it off, to bind the rent, neither in this time nor in
fastidious memory, which knows no time.
....sweet terrorist girls, I drink to
you! You’ll never know the reasons why. Carrion! Marabou won’t alight, or play
some lewd cover….all play some lewd cover….
If there were film, if there were a
film, I would, at some stage, be living as a character in my film, or in my
very own obscure novel perchance, fading, fading away, at each passing moment
ever more brittle ‘till dunes of dust imperceptibly engulf this, my crumbling
corpse.
….sad eyes, anyway, it’ll all happen
again….
A toast! I raise a glass to the
conclusion of the game, for life is merely a contest, a confusion, a pattern of
moves. There is never any winning, there is never any winner and so, I would
venture to suggest, reality has no substance, and thus, no restraints.
….in the hall of mannequins what looks
like wax slowly slides away from the armatures with the faces of the infamous
now unrecognisable. The temperature is rising….glass eyes like marbles crack in
untidy collision across the floor….there was nothing behind them all along….
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