Location: Ye Winter
Palace, Bow, London
As I sit here looking out the study window, a glass of
Bushmills Black Bush in one hand and a glass of Guinness Original in the other,
I am reminded, by my muse, that I haven’t created anything of late, that I
haven’t ‘done any work’.
“Au Contraire.” I reply, “Why, only this morning did I decorate
the wild grasses, that are growing in my window box, with bronchial phlegm…
dried in the sun they resemble the leapfrogging of a snail. No slimy trail is
this, rather more like a slimy hop-scotch.”
My muse is not impressed.
“Okay, how about the soft-boiled eggs I made for lunch?” I
say.
Muse gives me that sideways glance which speaks a thousand
words.
I tap tap fingers on the surface of my desk. Claws on black
rubber. Clickity clack clack clickity.
Growl!
Snarl!
Stare out the window.
I sculpt 3D tentacles that wind and wynd through and out the
buildings as spiders mechanoid scirtch scratch and eat the toes of the kids on
the next block. I spray paint - marking territory like a city fox or sorcerer
feral - “KILROY WOZ EAR!” across the houses/car-park/grass. Font size 2.333
meters.
I take another slug of the Black Bush.
I turn my head to enquire of Muse as to Its commentary, Her
critique, His pat on back… Owl intercepts gaze and does the funky brass-feet
shuffle I have come to know so well… gives me the sideways glance that eats a
thousand words.
An ellipsis, suspension point, replaces a thousand words…
…
…
…
Three thousand words later I find myself, at my desk, in my
study… sans tentacles… plus flies.
Scirtch scratch… scirtch scratch…
The Blue Duck sighs…
“Wot?” I ask.
“Wot, wot?” Blue Duck asks, answering a question with a
question.
“Why not wot?” I reply, ditto as to answering with…
“Why a duck?” Blue Duck asks.
“How else is one going to cross the abyss?” I reply,
answering question with question.
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Interlude:
“DEATH TO ELLIPSES!” – gRAphFiji on an island.
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Take 2
“Make the skeleton dance one more time.” She says.
He stretches… growls… takes a slug of Bush… sighs!
He rubs his third eye with forefinger and thumb, can feel
the whiskey in the back of his throat, tears exploding in his fore-brain darts
that feed the atavisms whom lurk… moments beneath.
“Why?”
He breathes out.
“To what end?”
He breathes out.
Growls!
He breathes in.
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Part the Third
Which part has nothing to do with Richard, and everything to
do with toads.
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finis
