Archive for September, 2009

blind worm briefly pursues god

September 26, 2009

I do not usually post fiction on any type of blogsite. This started life as a 9 line poem, and it wasn’t very good. But I thought the theme would make a good blog – rather than write it out as what would essentially be an explanation of the poem, I turned it into a kind of story-blog; a blogstory. I apologise for the terrible wordpress formatting, it was the best way to show both paragraph breaks & ‘chapter’ breaks. So, here it is. Here is:

Blind Worm Briefly Pursues God

 

Blind Worm lay shaking in the mud. His knotted body, vomit-speckled with putrescent leaves, pulsed and convulsed in the post-dawn frost.

“Love!” cried Blind Worm.

“Love!” he cried again.

And silence cried back, nothing. Not the wordless, splintering nothing; the crack of morning, as the trees stretch their branches after the windless, breathless, vacuum-black night. Not the suburban, sub-warble oscillations of a Sunday morning breakfast-baiting garden stroll kind of nothing; the mohair slippers pounding past like jack-hammers; the apocalyptic ramble of the compost-heap pilgrim. No, not even the shrill, far-away peal of God’s alarm-clock-nothing, as some very reverend reverend tugs with erotic rhythm on the ropes, his palms raw. Just this loud, disturbing nothing. The great wall of nothing.

Blind Worm rolled onto what was probably his back, and he cried again,

“Love!”

So loud that he sent his naked, pipe cleaner body into fits and spasms. And at either side, the frost pinched the worm, and the worm began to bleed. Eking out into the nothing, drop by hollow drop. Smack. Smack. Smack. And the solid nothing around Blind Worm took shape. Smack. Smack. Sm–, the worm turned onto the wound, and muffled its manifesting syncopations. The nothing returned, save the blood soaked platform that Blind Worm had concocted in his mind’s eye – his universe, for now, was large enough. Blind Worm breathed, then held his breath, in case he missed some tiny cry of ‘love’.

 

The kaleidoscope cemetery of the peripheral flowerbed choked on the plastic water-can water. Hack. Breathe. Hack, as the water was thrust down its throats by the violent hand. The rank-and-file infantry corpses of the flowers wept, or leaked, or over-flowed into the dirt. Mute Rose, buried at the very fore of the bed, looked out across the empty hell, the no man’s land of Sunday, where the bomb-shell feet of children run and play and murder all the daisies.

Mute Rose heard the worm, heard its low-level bellow, and bled her rosy buds, petal by blood-stained petal, out across the soil. Her closed, dead head weeping. The other flowers turned their lively heads away, and looked instead up at the sun and saw nothing but themselves reflected in its eyes and they admired themselves there. Mute Rose saw the little cut of pink ribbon wave what was probably its head pathetically above the grass – its bleated word repeating, daisy-chaining through the grass;

“Love, love, love.”

She raised a foliole stump, and waved it pathetically back and wept. Willing her precious red jewels to wilt and fall from her stamen, Mute Rose punished herself for her muteness. Her thick crown of petals paled; paling red, to pink, to white and dead. Abdicating now, she bent double and pricked at herself with her wiry thorns. The scratching devil-claw, black-death sores arabesquing up her body. Mute Rose mouthed the word, forged it on her anvil-tongue and dropped it, heavy, burning and clumsy, to the ground for it to wither and die; it was nothing.

 

Blind Worm heard the heavy, clumsy thud of nothing in the soil. He began to inch towards it.

 

Waddling through the frost-capped, bombed-out wasteland, Deaf Fowl spied its wriggling little snack. It spied the upturned faces of the rank-and-file flowers, with their sun-bleached petals and burned-out eyes, dwelling on the fading figment of their beauty. It spied the solitary rose that was not looking up at the sun, but had butchered itself nonetheless; it flapped its various demolished phalanges, its torn appendages, weakly and dimly in its sepulchral plot. And it spied again, its wriggling little snack. Deaf Fowl grinned and waddled fatly forwards.

A stone flew past the deaf bird’s ear, but it heard nothing, and it wasn’t disturbed. A second stone clipped Deaf Fowl’s wing, and this time it swung violently around. In the dark wood, dark framed door there was a child, and in its hands it clutched an arsenal of rocks and with its feet it was stockpiling more. And in its head, in its unvoiced whisper, Deaf Fowl heard the child cry,

“Hate.”

Before launching another judgemental projectile, that knocked Deaf Fowl down. Then the child was gone – sucked back into the yawning gloom of the doorway. Deaf Fowl shook its absurd head, its dewlaps slapping, and staggered drunkenly to its feet. It stumbled. It tottered. It wheeled and it gaddled. And it regained its moronic composure.

“Hate.”

Deaf Fowl sneered at the writhing worm. Then, propelled by some broken-leg gallop, the bird was soon looming over the worm, a great towering behemoth, and it grinned from its stomach for food.

A wandering black cloud, as if suddenly conjured, washed like a polluted veil across the sun.

Deaf Fowl craned its flesh-ridden skull towards what was probably the face-end of the worm. With one crooked claw it flipped its snack over. Smack. Smack. Smack. Blood was leaking from the worm. Smack. Smack. Smack. Deaf Fowl licked its beak. It wrapped its emancipating pincers ’round the worm, and tore out its sacrificial guts.

“Hate.”

Heard the fowl as it pin-pricked the worm’s visceral balloons, the duodenal ribbon still rooting them into the corpse. The gasses escaping in vocal little bursts.

The black cloud continued its drift, thrown aside, and the sun rose back from that dark deep.

Deaf Fowl looked up, squinting and seeing the sky in a dull iridescence. The sunlight pierced its skull, past its pale, cling-filming skin, and the bird grinned. It trained a narrow eye on the sun, and inside it saw God. And it gurned at God. And it waddled fatly away.

 

j.

post-script; so, which character are you?

the SCUM manifesto

September 23, 2009

“Unhampered by propriety, niceness, discretion, public opinion, `morals’, the respect of assholes, always funky, dirty, low-down SCUM gets around… and around and around… they’ve seen the whole show — every bit of it — the fucking scene, the dyke scene — they’ve covered the whole waterfront, been under every dock and pier — the peter pier, the pussy pier… you’ve got to go through a lot of sex to get to anti-sex, and SCUM’s been through it all, and they’re now ready for a new show; they want to crawl out from under the dock, move, take off, sink out. But SCUM doesn’t yet prevail; SCUM’s still in the gutter of our `society’, which, if it’s not deflected from its present course and if the Bomb doesn’t drop on it, will hump itself to death.”

– Valerie Solanas, 1968