Those all-knowing philosophers dubbed ‘they’ say music makes the heart grow tender. As does a severe case of pneumonia or the shingles. Listening to the latest hit shingle from the Pneumonic Sonics, a tenderising shiver blasts not only the unhealthy divets of the pulmonary pipelines, but also sends a shuddering grind through the back annuls of the brain stem.
Groan. “country roads…take me home…” a cover of the song sung by the strumster who left on a jetplane in a fiery pile of embers, Don Jenver. When this lame wind knocks the smoke into your eyes, you really feel something is lost, more important than a kidney, less embarrassing than a shoe.
And here sits bedraggled and gangly older-than-I-should-feel I, gaze floating off into the outside dusk like a kids lost air balloon levitating into electricity wires.
The dizzying sunsets and sunrises which shot off over the plateaus of the last orbital spins gone by have brought along with them some strange and unforseen slivers of strife.
The Autowasher 16 can go fish, the mice can suck on sour worms.
Sadness can pile up upon a human tick-tocker like a soiled sack of washing by only three variables.
Three causes exist to eclipse the world’s son’s sacred hearts; and I’m guessing you could bet your butter on knowing them.
The Three Scrooges: Love, death and pimples.
Not so much pimples, but they do pour plight on any preppys promiscuous park-date promenades. No one wants to pucker up to a sack full of sausage ends pissing out puss. Except of course, freaks.
Yes, FREAKS.
Anyway, nobody died or found themselves pissed on by pimple puss. But rather, a visit from the Girl of the Frangipanis, accompanied soon by the gape of her subsequent departure, blew a few dynamite holes in the fortress of solitude this old sasquatch hides out in.
“oh, here we go, fuckin’ boring pining nonsense,” I can sense the callous crows jeering, “another whimsied wind-bag letting his load loose to the sympathetic search engine squinters.”
But, hold your clucky browser trigger finger, clever clickers!
I'm about to tell you a tale of a different gyp, a muscular spinneret of a story; of sex and survival, a fateful yarn of devils, poison, trapdoors and murder.
Yes, MURDER.
It’s a fortuitous fable of the undone underbelly belly buttons, the sunken, mishappen, ashen milkshakers, the bathrobed, robust bottlebrushed robots, the saged, the savvy, the slum-bitten and the strangled, this here is a declaration to all the sleeping snot-heads and their wrinkled flesh pants, the rocket-minds of the pillowcase philanderers, the sexy sluts of South Sydney, the rockinroll spiders underneath aftershave alley, the principal of the school of Hard Cocks, the rabbis and rabbits and stingrays with rabies, and the rickety shackles of the hard-bitten would-be emperor slaves, the dusty, blustery earthquake cavity kids, and the shoot-down hooter babes from the downtown stove chambers.
It’s a story of unrequited library books, of orgasmic fabrics and fishing hooks, of bandits throwing horseshoes and bandy horse-legged shoemakers hooked on harry and coughing up glue, of the sniffing nerdy perverts trapped between the walls and warcraft, of the suffering hungry slobs too stuffed to salivate. The following fortune-trolling is a page ripped from the remains of the unequivocal rent-a-tongue, inside-outs indicating how-to-use life in between hookahs and hokum, a plant-feeder for all the crushing variables within the pooling debris of human love, laughter, sore thumbs and cut throats, an alchemists transformation of a bluebottle to a baby tooth, a stark reminder of pickled eggs and lazy seats, ridicules, miracles, saviours, sadists, serpentine statuettes and slobbering pig-farming suffragettes.
This wayward folly I’m about to relay is full of them, this hobbly kitsch little family circle, and it’s all got to do with the chuckling, chundering, chinking, ching-a-linging, wee-willy-winking, slinking, tambourine tinking, chin-chinny-chunking, blinking, hot-bed bunking, shimmying souls of the millions before who have sunken into sand, into the spinning turbines of the day to night to daytime back to darktime turning twisting whirl, and ends with the moral of ‘send ‘em home for bread without sunshine.’
And it all began, as the merman stood bare-footed in the smoky doorway, yelling TRICKERY! while the Girl of the Frangipanis fled fleet-footed along the cobblestones, starlight immersing her tread, until upon learning the art of the air-bound damsels, she tripped over a toadstool and splayed out full-belly, flying through the moon-tinted alcove, howling like a wicked witch unto the night…
Or maybe I won’t tell you anyhow.
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