And she cried out most theatrically,

"My spirit is with you and it is carried in the endless lows of your negligence."


What she meant to say was;

I feel as if;

I am the sleep you wipe from your eyes in the morning,
Or,
I am the ripped and stained pants you throw out,
Disregarded.


She carried on,
but to herself,

"oh, How dejection stings!"


Like the tearing of skin but duller.

Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.

Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course,  that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **!"
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is **!**!**!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! **!**! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.

I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".

Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented.  What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song.  There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song

     She said she was a dove
     But she's my Octopus of Love
     A hundred hands in search of one thing
          only
     Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.

     When she whispers in my ear
     Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
           and into my back pocket  
      O! She's my Octopus of Love
      She"s not at all what I dreamed of.

     When I hold her in my arms
     She sets off all my alarms
     She tells these great big whopping lies
     Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.

    She said she loves me dearly
    Visiting the most expensive shops
    Buying the most expensive gear
    I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,

  O! She's got me in her grasp
   Her tentacles they hold me fast
   Then she asks what's all the fuss
   And she's so innocent looking
   Man! She's a lovely Octopus.

"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...  
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"

"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and  the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.

I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.

I go on 'Yknow  whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily  with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".

"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".

Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the  crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!

Friends, family, foes, and those of woe,
I invite you to dance this delicate tango with me,
right on the line of reality and fantasy.
It is here, that,
I invite you to the mad tea party.

Now, let us get one or two,
three or four,
maybe ten, one hundred, zero things straight,
you are not to be late to the mad tea party,
you are to set your time straight and do not stray,
but rather show up without delay at the time that serves your mental estate,
at a time that feels right with your bones,
now, now don't miss that time and don't be late.
We are of strict dress code here at the mad tea party.
You are not to wear what you saw on him and she and her and we unless it is of,
suitable expression to your situation,
you are to dress accordingly with your mentality,
nothing else will pass the test.
You are to act accordingly.
Do not laugh when not appropriate, and sit up straight when your spine tells you.
Do not speak when your mind is forced to be spoken.
Now, have we all straight.

I cordially invite you to the mad tea party.
Where we dine and wine and tell tales of time,
and rejoice on the words those delicately spoke,
and dance on the lines theatrically strewn across the room,
and sail across every last tale from you and he and yeah her over there too.
I invite you to the mad tea party.

I invite you tell of when you first saw the earth breath,
when the trees and the leaves set to dancing,
when you first heard the wind laugh at your grin,
and when the raindrops ran fearfully from the erupting sky.
I demand of you to tell nothing but that of truth,
and watch as the molecules in the air take to vibrating.
Take notice to musical clinking of the entities amidst you,
and take pride in the gentle stride of the clouds overhead.
Did you notice the flowers laughing at you,
in between the birth, death and rebirth in accordance with the sun?
Did you notice the flowers pull in their petals as they shyed from your step?
Take notice to the music and laughter around you at the mad tea party,
take great care with the feelings floating about the air, vulnerably buzzing from mind to mind,
before their decline and descent to rest their heads.


You see, it is here at the great mad tea party,
that we do not devoid you of the ability to do as your energy demands,
with the issues of time and dress and proper behavior.
It is here that we tend to focus on the earth and the breathing of the molecules and atoms  around you,
it is here that we go mad.
and it is here that I cordially invite you,
but before you make your reservation, please eliminate all hesitation.
You see the mad tea party is not readily accepted,
by the constraints of society and the binds of reality.
You see the mad tea party is misconstrued by masses more than just a few.
Those who long buried their soul look down on the guests,
for they are different than the rest, in that, they're welcoming,
into their soul the ability to go mad which is taught to be bad.
So before you make your reservation be inexplicably sure,
that you are in fact,
ready, for the mad tea party.

She came up to me one day in the office seeking help
She'd heard me talking about my nightmares
She was a lovely looking thing, she was big into dieting and health food and healthy eating
Some of the other girls used to consult her about such matters
Thinking her to be quite an authority on the subject
I think she might have had a sideline too selling some Health products
She was a...a gorgeous looking creature, she had lovely blonde hair which framed her beautiful oval face like a heavenly aura,
Maintaining always a resolutely bright and cheerful disposition
She radiated positivity and optimism wherever she went
(I suspected secretly that when she got home she probably kicked her cat around)
I'd be all agog just looking at her
I suppose yes! I probably had a little crush on her
Unfortunately I was a good deal older than she
So I could only see myself as a secret admirer, a dark lover from afar...

She'd been acting a little peculiarly of late since returning from her Easter holidays
I wasn't the only one to remark about it
Gone was her usual self assured poise and grace
Gone too her lovely bright positive glow
It was like some sudden terrible tragedy had befallen her
Like some big dark ominous cloud had suddenly appeared on her horizon
Now she seemed rushed and frazzled, strangely distracted, unsure of herself, hesitant
Clumsy, apologetic, not at all like her usual confident self.

So she came up to me when I was alone one day and asked "You know something about nightmares, don't you"
She proceeded to tell me this story
She used to drive to work but because of the unusually mild and clement sunny Spring weather coming up to Easter
She had decided to leave her car at home and walk to work
Probably thinking it to be healthier I suppose
The route she took meant she had to pass by a certain newsagents *** confectionery /sweet shop
Now coming up to Easter as it was
The owner of the shop had strategically placed in the front window of his shop a big Easter egg
Wrapped in pretty ribbons and bows and encased in a very colourful, most alluring box
Every day she had to pass this shop with its lovely chocolate egg prominently displayed
You probably know where this is going,
Yea! A secret longing began to grow in her
Passing that shop every day and seeing that big chocolate egg started to rekindle in her memories of the days when as a child she used visit her local Sweet shop
When the only ambition she had was to get enough money so she could buy the newest chocolate or sweet
She began to remember fondly thoughts of all the old chocolate bars and sweets she used to eat
Anyway this longing, this desire of hers... each day it grew stronger and stronger until finally, like a river bursting a dam
Yea, like a huge monster, it finally overwhelmed her
Yes! She... she SUCCUMBED!

One evening she drove her car to the shop and parked on the opposite side of the street
There she waited till the street was deserted, with no one around
When the coast was clear, she got out of the car carrying a big shopping bag
Wearing a big hat and dark sunglasses just like a movie star
She went into the shop and told the shop girl she wanted the big Easter egg in the front window
She lied telling her it was for her little nephew
She hastily paid for the Egg, then quickly bundled it into her shopping bag carefully covering it up with other items so no one would see
Then hurriedly she left the shop, crossed the street with her head bowed, got into her car and quickly sped off
Over the next two days, in an **** of orgiastic chocolate eating, she secretly gorged upon, devoured all by herself the entire Easter egg
When she had finished, she sat there, a sullen lump among the ruins of her feast
Bits of ribbons and bows and torn box strewn all around her
Almost immediately she began to suffer pangs of guilt, berating herself repeatedly and bitterly for her lack of will power and mental strength, for her perceived weakness of character
This went on for the next few days, she just couldn't bring herself to forgive her behaviour
And she couldn't fathom how she had let this desire overcome her
...Then curiously, she began to experience a strange recurring dream at night,
She'd dream that she went one evening to another part of town where she wasn't known again to buy her Easter egg
There was no one around at that hour
She'd buy her Easter egg, tell her little lie about her nephew, then bundle the Egg into her bag and cover it just like before,
Then she'd leave the shop and head down some backstreets not wanting to be seen by anyone she knew
At that time of evening the shadows had begun to lengthen, the backstreets were very quiet and deserted, had a very lonesome forlorn air
As she walked along, she suddenly began to hear what she thought were the sound of footsteps behind her, the tread of feet behind her...Big feet, Bom-bom-bom!
She'd turn around but couldn't see anything, not a soul and not a sound only silence
She'd continue walking and the sound of the Big feet would start up again
Naturally this began to unnerve her, she turned and called back at the shadows
"Is there anybody there?"
But no answer was forthcoming
She'd walk on and again the sound of the Big feet would come Bom-bom-bom!
By this time she had become so unnerved, so completely flummoxed that in a state of utter panic
She suddenly took off at a frantic girly gallop down the narrow backstreets
Behind her she could hear the sound of the Big feet quickening, coming after her
In a quick change of plan she decided to climb some steps that would take her back to the Main Street again
She hoped there'd be other people there who might be able to protect her
She was very disappointed then when she found not a soul upon the whole street
Well she ran and she ran, she tore down her own street and with key in hand she quickly opened her front door, then slammed it shut fastening all the locks and bolts as she did
With this done she heaved a huge sigh of relief, a huge 'Phew!" and wiped the beads of sweat from her brow
She backed slowly away from the door almost as if she was expecting at any moment, there'd be a mad pounding on it, as if some strange belligerent entity would be trying to gain entry.
She kept backing up, the suspense almost too hard to bear
Suddenly she bumped into something behind her, something big and soft... and furry
Soft and furry ???
She turned and well, her mouth, it dropped wide open in utter shock and disbelief
Her eyes, they nearly popped out of her head
For there standing before her was... THE CREATURE
"It was hideous !" she said tearfully
"What was hideous?" I replied quite intrigued at this stage
"It was a Big Rabbit !"
"A big...a Big Bunny 🐰 ?" I said
She went on explaining, standing before her was a giant seven foot Easter Bunny
"A seven footer eh!" I said as if I was knowledgeable about these things, which I wasn't
She continued with her story, the rabbit he had big floppy ears, big buck teeth, a twitchy nose and whiskers 🐰
And on his face he wore this pretty gormless vacant expression🤡
He was wearing a waistcoat which had all these Easter egg 🥚🥚 designs on it
And on his front paws were these two big red boxing gloves 🥊🥊
She looked around desperately for some means of escape but Alas!
For her THERE WAS NO ESCAPE, she swallowed hard
Suddenly the giant Rabbit's teeth began to
natter
As if he was considering some imminent action
Then totally without warning one of his boxing gloves
It suddenly shot out and punched her right on the nose knocking her clean out on the floor
As she sprawled there dazed and utterly confused, the Big Bunny, he looked down at her with his big eyes 👀
And then, with a sudden leap which surprised even her
He jumped right up onto her chest where he proceeded to bounce up and down on top of her
Of course, here she'd awaken from the dream drenched in sweat and screaming for the Giant Bunny 🐰 to get off her.
When she had finished her story she buried her head in her hands and sobbed quietly for a few moments before regaining her composure
She seemed very relieved to have gotten it all off her chest, the story that is not the Bunny
Well I suppose she was glad to get him off as well
She went on to say how stressed she felt during the day, how she found it hard to focus on anything as she was too busy thinking about the night to come and the arrival of her unwelcome guest
She looked at me pleadingly "He'll be there again, I know it, with those big eyes of his" she blubbed half in tears
It seemed obvious to me what'd happened, mentally she'd been beating herself up
And now her Subconscious was merely reciprocating by creating this giant Bunny to chastise her
It was just a manifestation of the guilt she felt for eating the Easter egg
For a moment I felt like I was Sigmund Freud.
I told her what I thought and said she shouldn't beat herself up, I told her we all had our temptations and that at times, few of us were strong enough to withstand their advances
I told her of the importance of forgiving herself
But nothing seemed to placate her
She still seemed overly concerned about the coming night and the prospect of the giant Bunny's re-appearance
She catastrophized and saw only dark things ahead
I knew I had to say something authoritive
Suddenly I had an idea, I put my arm around her shoulders as if to console her
"Look my child", I said really beginning to warm to my Father Confessor role
"The Beast! Do you really want rid of this Beast ?"
"Yes! I do! I do!", she replied emphatically
"Really! You really want to get rid of him!" I said as if to question her resolve
"Yes! Yes! I'd do anything" she replied
I felt we had to send a strong message to her Subconscious mind -
I told her "This is what you must do. After work go down to the same Sweet shop and there buy the most expensive ornate Box of Chocolates you can find 🎁
But this time instead of bringing them home with you, bring them instead to my house...
To the above advice I added a few more instructions
"And that's all I have to do" she said sounding surprised and hopeful once again
"That's all you have to do", I assured her, "you'll have no more trouble from IT ever again".

So in the evening she arrives at my house with a big box of fancy chocolates
I open the door and abruptly ****** the chocolates from off her
I say loudly "These Chocolates are all mine and you can't have any of them
Lovely Chocolates... and their all mine, all mine!!!
And you're not getting any!"
And I let out this evil cackle of a laugh
Then I said rather theatrically to her "**** off!, Get lost! Shoo! Begone! Begone!
And then I slammed the door right in her face
After a few moments I opened the door again
And began to chase her down the path shouting "Begone! Begone! The Chocolates are mine! All mine!"
I even picked up a stick and shook it at her.

The next morning she runs up to me at work with a big smile
"He's gone ! He didn't come last night"
She looked renewed, she positively glowed again
She assured me I'd be her friend for life and that she loved me to bits
For a moment I was beginning to fancy my chances with her
I had visions of the two of us together in some romantic scene
That was until she went on and said that I reminded her of her lovely Uncle Joe
"Her Uncle Joe", I thought, "****!... feckin' Uncle Tom"
Then I thought I should have charged her, yea! charged her just like a hospital consultant
$250 Euros upfront and come back in two weeks for another $250, sorry for a check up I mean.

Well that's it then... that's my Easter story, I've got to go off now and take my afternoon nap
Y'know I've been getting some funny dreams of my own of late,
Yea! I've made a new friend
He's been teaching me how to box.

The gruff factory worker
in the coarse leather boots
and stained zubaz pants,
yelped with displeasure
when the tour guide of
the Pullman company town
revealed himself to be a
PhD candidate in English
during a Q-and-A.

He questioned his credentials,
dismissed him as overeducated,
as soft-palmed, not of his caste,
loudly declared that he was
just another bureaucrat in waiting.

"Institutions just exist to perpetuate
themselves; they don't care about
the people, just about keeping
themselves alive," he theatrically
confided to his friend,
wanting to make sure he heard him,
took note of his flagrant, raging skepticism.

"They got to pay the lawyers."

"All these institutions, they don't care about the workers."

We strode on, amid the shadowed reaches of the empty train car factory the owners long ago abandoned to the rustling prairie,
left to the wind and weeds and elements.

When Dissent becomes illegal,
the Law becomes inhumane.

As Dissent is criminalized,
Democracy becomes a crime.

As peaceful protest
is met with violence,
Democracy will die theatrically
behind closed doors.

i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.*

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.

i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:

tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.

by Arcassin Burnham




Haven't been a third wheel for a while now,
and all you do is look at her when she smiles,
memories floating in the nile,
third wheel is not my style,
and i told you that this would happen,
were not talking for awhile,
i hope yall have a child,
as beautiful as she,
and name it kyle,
with that same smile,
she has,
and the phone,
when she dials,
you better pick up,
so she could tell you about the good news,
instead of going through your tribulations and trials,
what are you gonna do now,
what if,
theatrically,
you dont get to see that smile,
anymore,
and she calls her parents,
gets the kid,
and the keys,
and head out the door,
what are you gonna adore,
better do all your chores,
if you always wasn't such a bore,
your EX wouldn't have been a *****,
now i'm standing at your door,
waiting for you to hang out,
i can see your heart is broken,
but the crying we can do without,
don't you ever leave your bro,
for a girl or virtue,
i listened to your story,
now i'm in this place with you.

What are you gonna do now.

You sit only inches from me.

Every right turn's tragic momentum
Theatrically lunges you closer to me.
The smallest points of your elbow
Lightly brisk the top of my memory.

The tickle sends a shivering pulse
Between the blades of my back.
The knot of my neck is hardly strong,
But weakness has fled from my head.

The feelings emerged are nothing new,
But my feelings submerge about you.
Wondering how well you know me,
But how much more you know my friend.

The compassion of trust to a friend,
Verse the pressure of lust to a trend.

The car stops, my place is on the left.

Those ceaseless sounds
they continue to amaze
everlong as there shall
be praise.
Yes, lets giveth praise,
For music is the pantheon
which humanity hath raised.
Humans
construct their own narratives.

We are shrouded in these tales,
Each of us wearing our thoughts
woven from the cloth of memory
by the will of a dreamweaver,
And you, the dreamer/speaker.

No wonder the old gods fade, their notes replaced
with these stories we tell ourselves by the light
of day 'til night comes and again it's swept away
by storytellers who emerged from the dark
to practice their art and sing songs of new gods
which we raise up, construct, stitched like robes
we are clothed in these thoughts as our personae
roam, dramatis indeed, theatrically we seek/seeth;

Psychaé
wandering.

I sat there, a callow youth
Shallow, unwieldy with the truth,
And fearing to be caught in a lie
My words never gave the by
To my attempt at insouciance.
I gave away the game with my name
And hoped that my meager fame
Would decry any need to explain,
But social curiosity laid its claim
And suddenly I was the luminary
With a silly, boring past to bury.
I knew I should have been more wary.

Why was  I here when it was clear
These people and I were disparate?
Was I so desperate that I needed
To risk an embarrassing removal
To seek these stranger’s approval?
Was I such a egotistical *****
I craved applause when there wasn’t any?
I knew coming here I didn’t know forks,
More accustomed to dinner with sporks,
My napkins had heretofore been disposable.
Socially my thumbs were unopposable
Yet here I sat feeling totally unacceptable.

Yet I was the intended near-inlaw,
Feeling much to be the social outlaw
Recognizing glances and non-glances
Of those who were game to taking chances
To see if I remained seated to brazen it out
Or had I, with an excuse, or better, a shout
Stood and wilted, or scuttled away theatrically
Empowering chatter for those women who natter
And seem of no matter at all to the men
So they can return again to their talk of money
And find nothing in my existence slightly funny;
Finding it necessary to ignore me all the more.

But, raised as a child of little parental concern
I could teach these paragons with so much to learn
That every individual is exactly and precisely that.
They would be wise to take their feet, tip their hat,
And effuse with gratitude, issue some platitudes
And beatitudes that I could so easily obliterate
Their tendencies to pontificate and exacerbate
Their images as characters in a humorous play.
I might receive them of that burden this day
By letting them listen to the tales I could say
Transporting them from this table to non-fables
About what it means to exist with little food.

But I spare them this education, my declarations,
Because I know they desire not any perorations
From a person of my painful lack of pedigree.
I knew I must be satisfied with the planned perigee
Of this cometary gathering, the blathering and chat,
The acceptance of the crucible of where I sat
Like the Cheshire cat, smiling as if this were fine
And my status here were not firmly on the line.
I watched my intended blanch when I said
Or did something she didn’t have in her head.
I counted, the times I was addressed unpleasantly.
I knew this romance was to terminate presently.

Incessant musings of you compel me
to cease attempts of drawing our bond
to a close inevitably only reminiscing
your coquettish simper, manic gaze, the depth

of your unhinged voice as you theatrically recited
a brilliant rendition of the divine, Comedy
captivating my awe and admiration, interludes
to endless rounds of battles unilaterally sparked,

by you out of the blue. Instantly silenced as I
never knew when you would start them nor how
to bring quarrels to an end, incapable of finding
rational meaning or a reason for there never were

any other than your debilitating insanity
of which you were tragically aware. Asking for
forgiveness wiping out my tears in those,
rare glimmers of lucidity short lived moments of delight.

I vividly remember myself laughing in your arms,
as you recounted ironic comic versions
of Bible anecdotes. Where Jesus was just another fellow
with whom you sympathised, rhapsodising over

your uncomprehended similarities. Gentle gestures
towards strangers, innate altruism, love
for Earth and Humanity as a whole.
With individuals you appeared to have a problem

as they recurrently rewarded you with a cross.

At Day’s End

Beneath the jungle canopy all is quiet, and very still.
The heat it prickles up and down my back, beneath the sweat.
And the faces that I see from where I crouch, look tired and ill,
And the cam-cream smeared theatrically about my face,
feels not quite wet.

And I carefully check the rear-sight of my rifle once again,
Trial the muzzle back and forth, from side to side.
For the thousandth time I wish that it would hurry up and rain,
And I wonder, were I him, where I would hide.

And I hear them scraping track-plans and that worries me a bit.
The harbour though should shortly settle down.
Then Frank will come and take me back to man my weapon-pit,
**** give out the evening o-group with his usual, surly frown.

Then as the barking deer call forth the fresh, cool, restful night,
We'll stand-to, listening quietly 'til there's no more light to see.
'Tis now, oft-times, we hear the noise of someone else's fight;
(queer, how those distant, violent sounds, engender peace in me)

And at the last, when darkness comes, each boot I shall unlace,
And these sweat-soaked, dirt-encrusted socks, place in my shirt to dry and keep.
With webbing spread beside me and my rifle, cleaned and in its place,
I can lie at length to rub my toes in peace,
Then go to sleep.

have you found your next darling spithole yet?
not meaning to come off rude but
i just don't have photo albums in my home anymore
of all those weathered stacks
of glossy tourist postcards and airbrushed polaroids and half-arsed private promises that led to
quick pity ***** and more simpleminded conversations (weather? news? one plus one?)
when you ran out of coffee grounds
and breakfast was cold
and the fingernail scars being shamefully picked on were still quite scarlet
like vampire tongues
fresh off a feast, a binge, a hellfest
of a hot-lipped hunger pang
how many towns did you ravage and terrorise and theatrically swoop over with your velvet raiments
how many people fainted
at the mere sight of your anaemic cadaver-sheet skin and anabolic empty marble glare
how many ****** pitchforks punctured your abdomen and how many furious torches
burned the inside of your pelvis and how many corroded teeth did you lose chewing on
leftover bones the next night
sitting all alone in your grandiose dining hall that smells of decaying rats and halitosis
spitting out the occasional tough marrow or stray spider leg (you never really got used to that odd brackish flavour),
how much of it was
worth it to you?
you were acting on impulse
instinct
some other impressive, egregious “i” word you have yet to figure out;
i can't blame you.
blame is too weak a word for anyone with half your brain to ever understand
i can't blame myself
except sometimes in the middle of the night when my teeth refuse to unclench (pissoffpissoffpissOFF)
i understand
you're the same as everyone else (nothing wrong with that i'm wrong i'm wrong so wRoNg) but
sometimes understanding doesn't mean forgiving
[just nod] yes i understand
okay fine, you crave makeup kisses
caked-up made-up fake love fake blood
painting broken boundaries all over brocade bedsheets screaming
slipping almost begging
WARNING don't cross this line and carefully step over the crude chalk drawings
where many unfortunate deaths have occured
splintered spines and shredded vascular systems and cannibal sick sighs
you barely even toed it and you lost an entire ******* arm
past that finish line
where they unhinged their jaws like singing serpents and gorged mercilessly
until their overbloated stomachs
ballooned up and burst into confetti just in time
for the next baby shower birthday party funeral eulogy
and you might be the next
victim
will you fall for that
a g a i n ?
never ****** mind that—
because we're all about acceptance here.
we're all about holy terrors cavorting with holey beggars
we're all about your tremulous callused hands on the inside of someone's delicate insides
coil up their wrenched guts again musicman
spill your unraveling lullaby all the softly shrieking butterflies have desperately searched for a way out
and you crushed them all
just to feel iridescent powder sparkling in your stained palms at 3 a.m.
reflecting the gentle throb of the glow-in-the-dark stars and the grating television static and the godless blue in your undilated pupils
when she's lying next to you fitfully asleep
dreaming of an infinite field where the weeping azaleas never bloom (she still wonders what it meant)
ribcage left ajar just a peep
cascading umber hair and stick-insect limbs splayed all over your worn pillows
sometimes unconsciously feeling your freezing nape
and you feel nothing
at all
i hope you're happy (satisfied?)
or i hope at least, that she rinses off your fraying toothbrush after she uses it to secretly purge in your newly-cleaned toilet
if that's not too much to ask for
and you also left some day-old lemonade and reheated battery acid by the fridge door
just in case
but you missed out on buying coffee grounds again
even though there's an unhealthy smattering of pinned yellow-note reminders
right next to her faded number
and you'll be moving out next week
oh well. oh well. unwell.
my obscene picture collection is still incomplete even though it's set to display on a national gallery next week [this is your cue to clap]
but you never called back so
i hope you're happy (****—sorry—satisfied)
she's not
and please, don't forget to gargle.

A dog’s day

It’s not that I’m lonely I like the beauty of the landscape
without having anyone to interrupt my thoughts, telling
me how nice it is.
My dog sees my mini-Savannah as enemy territory
barks and birds take flight leave her in the car with
open the window and try to take a few pictures.

We are going out for lunch, my wife and me, food
is not as great as nature, golden grain and green vines
it is about forks and knives looking decorous talking
about nothing and chewing in silence

The door to the yards is ajar so the dog can go into
the living room when we are out.
She pretends to be distraught it is an act, she knows
I will bring her leftovers; when we return, she great us
theatrically, I know she has slept on the sofa, drinking
water in the loo and barking at noises outside.

This is a sign of the times
but no one recognises signs
any more
no one sees the writing on
the wall,

the selfie syndrome in the future
will be the psychiatrist's paycheck.

I'm as guilty as anyone can be
look at me
take a pic
theatrically slick
psychiatrically sick
look at me
take a pic.

serious situations
precarious positions
we seem to need
positive affirmations,

when a cup of tea
works just as well,
it's just as well
I put the kettle on.