Wednesday 29 January 2014

Monday 27 January 2014

IV

17 January 2014
                                                                           IV

You’ve escaped, my prose and I'm sorry you are dead. You quietly undid the doors on a moonless night and snuck out, leaving a goodbye note underneath a rock. I believe you were last seen in the boondocks as a captive of ruffians, enslaved, beaten and flattened to taste.

There was so much I still wanted to say to you, my lamb… I could have tried to explain. Why you were sick and untouchable… and you had to die running or retreat on some hill, to be destroyed by a cyclone, lightning, hunger and fallout. Why you had to go.

I was wrong too. Saw you, marauding, running with a bunch of strangers, thugs, ragtag sleaze, intoxicated imbeciles and genius fiends… notorious, burlesque… dancers, depraved priests, the source and summit of antique liturgies in back alleys fit for murder… You were the death of the party, the life of life. I didn’t know.


I saw you crawling like a snake, sliding in the dirt, hissing… believing no longer in the company of friends… with fangs to kill, relying on your senses, precision and ambush. Naturally, I was misguided: I thought you were the scaly beast, the dusty venomous worm shedding its skin in the grass. So wrong… When I found out, it was too late and you were gone…you weren’t the snake: you were the skin!

Friday 24 January 2014

III

25 October 2013

                                                                          III

My prose was up on the mountain… getting a taste for gulls and sacred songs… eating bitter herbs from barbaric lands. Then it was tempted by angels, seduced by harlots. My prose flinched… went for cloister and hermitage. When it broke out, it took a journey through the slums, asylums and jungles. It started living with the undereartheners, advanced in the abhorrent, the occult, the absurd.

She became a beast. An enemy, operating under many aliases. She murdered her uncle and poisoned the dog… wiped out entire villages. There was no precedence for acts so beastly and depraved… but all executed so delicately and sublime. My suave brute, my vampire queen. We remember when she was young and awed by splendor, with hips like herring boats and teeth like lionesses. I had leaded a white goat to the altar for her in those days…

That was before you were sick and tarred with shame. Now we are much closer. That’s why I keep you hidden and chained.

Thursday 23 January 2014

II

22 October 2013
                                                                           II

My prose lives shy and crooked in a lined burrow… like a wounded animal. It watches the passing of the camel train on rainy nights, doing three solitary dance steps. It winks, as lovers do, and villains. My prose itches, like a bald sweaty head covered in termites. But it lives, even though sequestered behind thick monastic walls in a strange sunlight. Now and then, it is allowed out for a walk on the premises.

Tuesday 21 January 2014

I


18 October 2013
                                                                            I 

My prose is sick... My prose is wicked... My prose is unattractive. By day, making a grand entrance from showbiz stairs, all smiles, clad in a silver glitter jacket. At night… scraping around on all fours in urine soaked alleys underneath a blue silk balaclava. It laughs… it sings… it coughs.

Friday 17 January 2014

[n.t.]



There once was a… no, no... In the summer of 1976, when wafer thin skirts in carnivalesque colours were all the… no. ‘Come in, my sheepskin stools and a deep hello down there’, was all she had said that first gentle… ah. With the precision of a Beverly Hills proctologist, Franz managed to… no, Herman managed to… K… Although expected, still the purple gooey substance underneath Suzanne’s left breast had left Inspector Kreckswitszki puzzled for… No! The world was dark and… He had one of those little propeller caps and a loaded… Seven long years it had been since Jim had seen his mentor, the one they called ‘The Bungalow’ and it… hm. At the point where one was certain all roads had dissolved into the beautiful insanity of the desert, that was where Carlos had burned the corpse of… no. The barman had little ears and a green complexion. Time & time… no