Category: story
Chapter Four
Hate filled baby has no abstract feelings or mental glitches; only incestuous betrayals of lust. The dust swept tangerine carpets suffuse whisky spills and sediments of decaying ash. Light bulb stationary, incandescent over a room of one’s own. Perpetuity of a sweat stained mattress trickles languorously as the shoddy white semen decays its lingering perfume, discharged from the pattered, flaccid penis of Abel’s underbelly. The halogen light bulb transcends boundaries limited by conceptual traits of space as it sneaks into crevices, between wooden floors and sparks an incognito idea amassed in the blast furnace of the membrane. “She’s visiting me in two minutes.” A couple’s waiting time belies an indemnity that the pulse of the heart beats faster at the close of approach. Candy coated frame, saccharine at first sight but irremediably tasteful at second: a pink cherry that loses its outer coat of varnish, as painted cottages drying in the autumn sun. Herring bow fishnet trousers displaced on the mahogany floor bounces back a ray of invisible light into photons of potentiated perception. Abel stumbles across to get ready for the opening. A heavy heart damaged by years of futile self-preservation, furtive silliness and audacious playfulness; that rotting feeling of premeditated anguish crusted by indecision and perseverance sheltered by vain smatterings of filial joy. Why does the balloon of love flat slowly towards an open ceiling that seems to be blocking everything else? “My mind is a cavernous sewer sucking dead leaves fallen from blaspheming trees.” The door is ajar kindling lost hopes and fettered dreams from pursuing romantic caresses that discard perception as a blind man’s stumbling block. Too near and the didact loses diaphanous traces of smouldering rapture; too far and the sentimental pornographer distils a saturated set of precepts to glorify the mundane aspects to a monochrome picture. The wind howls rapturously outside. Serendipity strikes upon the shoulder blade of a dreaming android. Lost in the cosmopolitan fog of polythene wrapped parallel universes. Prolix a cantankerous upholstery sunk in vanity and impregnable self-doubt; Abel restlessly looks to his twitching wrist for a comfort of bliss. Silent eternity lays languorous in a cherry picked white orchid. Nymphs laugh torturously in persuasion over an incoming calamity: atrocity exhibition caricatured without semblance. Knees shrink as wilting poppies without sunlight. A shadow, dark, charming, climbs past the walls and projects fate in a second. Frizzy hair styled straight sits on the perch of her two shoulders as the head swims inside. The reversal of play-acting is confined madness. Touch lips or get wet without saying a prejudged word.
The imperturbable death and renaissance of Orpheus attaches him to the transparent mirror that acts as a filter between reality and perception. Men that die for a woman lead tragic lives built on indisposition, fantasy and awakenings. Quilt of a fever severs interaction between a brazen, prowling leopard guarding a cage and a newt mammal fraught with anxiety, smattering holistically in indecision. Her hips flex rotund like pious leaves turning towards the celestial realms of solar paradise. They seem scared though, those lust ridden waves that bruise the merry heart with pain. Her hair turns sangfroid, rattling the steepest highways of impressionable dereliction as egregious boats hijack swamps of cereal spun pictograms shot using rotoscope. The animation tints blobs of incandescent memories affixed without a premise, banal as a crowing grey pigeon. Thin, rangy legs stride into the corduroy striped ceilings; porcelain china emits an invisible vibration unseen to the naked eye. She wears a yellow jumper, luminous as cross-dressing buffalos visiting a canary. Two moths have mute sex on the floor that’s scattered with potassium-soiled hair, lost from the scalp in dry indignation and starved innocence. The unrequited couple close the red door by pushing a hand as a torque in a rotary action manifested by breaking temporal forms. The door shuts. Doesn’t a narrative necessitate a rangy, glorified plot to put readers into a trance of catharsis, actuated by interminable despair, guided by voluntary illness. The hailstorm gushes in indolent precipitation funnelled as a gastronomic imbecile to the harmonious sound of springs working in a mattress. A stare of sloth succumbs to excite each other’s attention. Waiting, waiting. Romantic malady exits as the contact of physical bodies ceases the mucus green deposits in the nasal cavities of their faces. Dialectic written in third person removes maya of appearance: a maxim that love is suffering starts the conversation lit up by tangerine waves.
Picture perfect kiss melts the snow of the frozen tongue. Abel’s arms meet her figurative laxative, positioned in the mid-rift clasping the vagina. Simmering caravans mount a disk stored electronically within reach of both their arms. She mumbles as a sordid tumble dryer looped on the same cycle. That’s how it seems to Abel anyway. The wind whips against the corner of the confined cabinet, belched sonorously without a measure of decibels. The couple have transported along a magic bus to arrive stark naked, autistic by ear and numb by feeling. The pain recedes back to a hidden fortress governed illegitimacy by intractable fear. The gates of Eden’s whisper conduce sonatas served as love’s obfuscating sway.
Turmeric whisks of balsamic trouble stir the anaesthetic ache buried under the leer of hatchets. She bends her disjointed back furtively forward, sensing an opportunity. ‘An opportunity of what?’ desires Abel in his sullen, macabre state of readdressing a chemical imperfection. He pulls his orange and grey striped socks up in a remedial jocular action to signify an offence of battle. He looks into her dense, vivacious yes. Carnal eyes. Both of their hearts coalesce to beat slightly faster, laughter chained to cover the anxious apprehension. She wants him to come nearer. Her lips quiver, as the wet tongue spreads open like an arch forming a bridge for a train. Abel slides his hand over the lap of her thighs, caressing them virginally as he open his thirsty yet satiated lips. A kiss.
“I’m dead but I’m alive.” Abel winces.
“I love you in misery.” Female returns.
Sentient recollections of imprudent erections weave an undercurrent that majestically disintegrates into a proliferating release of hormones. Regret acts as shame’s guardian overseeing the vapid space that tilts globular like manic depression. The sky shines in symmetry shimmering effervescent discs of intangible feelings untouched by humanity’s core. They feel like walking in the park every day, sunned by the magenta horizons of tractable pasts. Those binoculars append an unruly microscope sucking the ugliness tortured to further perfection. Secrets, squirms and foretold lies intone easels of humdrum desire. Automatic body signals recede inside the cavernous armpits of our mistakes. Hypnotic stare cradles impalpable disintegration of salacious wanting, hunting nothing but the heart. The beloved lady cleans her translucent window; spraying fiery brimstones of taut, tease releases through aerosol figs. Grounded beneath the shadowy skies, the tumescent cottage exasperates in unhealthy despair. Leery, suspicious, disembodied trust. Dazed and confused, upset and amused. Curtain rails don’t hold particles of dust; they disperse in isolation unknowing of imminence. Locke’s sensory perception promulgates twisted sinews cadavered as linnets flapping empty wings. Travelling in a sea of love, an inflatable balloon trips up amidst dark grey clouds precipitating hallow deceptions. Their faces cradle heat, eyes dilate outwards, spines conflate sturdy, mouths wet in anticipation, legs crossed in simulation and hearts weeping for adoration.
“The expressions that I give to you cherish autumn plums as ladyfinger’s kind.”
“Most impressionable tolerance you have for prudent distaste.”
“Man loves woman as object like stars shed dust in space.”
“Girl loves boy cleansing doubt, spreading misfortune and organised madness.”
“Patient diagnosed as terminally ill. They say it’s inconclusive.”
“Sudden deaths, incurable as a cancer, lick pale wounds hatched beneath graves.”
“Mordant obituary for slave driven hate.”
“Life is a history of past mistakes that seem forgotten but are dreamt again.”
Gallows humour swings their temperaments seditiously as two pikes turn jack-knife strife upside down. Asses warm the area of sitting with knees bent, head erect and feet touching the floor. Can this love struck, maladroit illness avoid inveterate guises of obsession? The two are too closely linked together like octopus’ tentacles and gooey slime. He binds Kafka, Woolf, Joyce, Dostoevsky and Dylan Thomas to produce orange-screened magic. Monet impresses the brushstroke of an angel black in the death of a song. Their eyes angelically translate shame. Paws stuck to their cadaverous laps, rangy legs stiffen as anxious distractions twist buttocks, hips curtail maudlin showers of wet. Butterflies, equidistant from the sky and earth, swoon temporally to allegories pertaining to no context. An imperceptible dichotomy envelops a dilemma. Listerine glistens in the background as her straight dark brown hair forms a cutting to a jocular, transmigratory scene. The issue between the two appears to be a dream. Mistaken reality, obsessed with self-immolation, developing an acute psychosis dreading of death, or love. Is there a possibility, within Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology, that Wittgenstein’s paradigm of language games desists opposition to a liberal minority?
Ruby taut nipples ripple in the shallow end of dispossession and irretrievable delight for Abel. He sits pensively, suggesting an informed awareness of her craven malady. Rape shadows the vulnerability of prostitution. Effortless sadistic vanity ejaculated in a heartbeat’s pleasure as the shrivelling of the penis recedes in territorial regret. Love, that being of Eros and copulation, is ultimately selfish. The foreplay, teasing, taunting and caressing obliquely pencil motiveless scenes of transient harmony; they touch hands realising the withdrawal of each other’s presence. Fingers shake minutely and sparsely. Recollections of their dreams seem unobtrusively distorted by fragmented planes that have drifted beneath the seabed, only for an octopus to entangle seaweed green hidden under a pliable stone. Heat rises in the dense air. Staccato lines engineered to controlled perfection dwindle dwellings of dwarfs. Back to the nipples. Chest lays bare a fear tattooed to white melatonin. Unravel a double helix strand using a zeppelin’s accuracy and find unsolvable questions that keep coming back to bite. Her face, opal as her open lips, permeates secrets of unrecovered repression trapped in infancy. They cease to look into each other’s eyes again; miasmic tundra wants to shipwreck impudence between the thighs. These ringing sounds drive paranoia through society’s kettle that boils until it starts over again without preconditioned thought. Would the narration of premise by an unreliable writer create an aesthetic scope that looks inwards into the skies and outwards into human bodies?
Immutable discs swerve iridescently in an inveterate demonstration of the inviolable horizon that contains nothing. The ballad of big nothing rings echoes inside their fatal heads. Fear has no description within the metabolic tract of our gigantic aprons. The clothing underneath signifies ironic distension waiting to receive an invitation.
Transmutable orange paradigm clears one ring of trespassed trepidation. Enfolding self-reference raises blood to the knees and shakes to the head. Finnegans wake with no apostrophe; Abel feels his testicles oscillate next to his inflating penis. Such brown, ocean tinted, ketchup splattered eyes can’t scream at the impervious past. Apricot sunset was time reset five hours ago with no sunrise beckoning a dream. Synchronicity when their eyes meet again wets such an intense appetite that their erogenous zones remember memories past. Salvation is an act of apprehension. Wisdom seekers seek celibacy but build guilt in solitude’s island craving an interpersonal unity that anthropological prescience can’t control. Free-floating jazz saxophone sporadically surfs sonorous waves listened as symbols to sounds transmuted by language.
“My face is implacable. Your belly aches.”
“Heart’s palpitating faster, unclear to smouldering formations lost in a burrow by a wind farm.”
“We embody certain feelings linked to our past that characterise our relationship and make sanity out of irrevocable cathartic love.”
“Maniacal perspiration segmented as fragments drenched across frivolous tar, centipedes, mushrooms and opulent lemongrass dipped in clementine flowers.”
Such abstract, unconscious communication was sought to mend two broken hearts into one unified love. Tales of nomadic expedition- Robinson Crusoe, Candide or Optimism, Eugene Onegin- cellophane wrapped as crispy duck porcelain white misty mountain.
Experimental tumbler glasses widen the frame to perception’s shiny silver gaze. Abel’s eyes meet carnal desire imprinted with sangfroid, becoming woman’s eyes. An eternal play collapses in on itself to transgress archetypes containing caricatures of societal biases and limitations. A miasma brings forth subconscious potential manifested in illimitable material space, unfelt by skin. As dawn slowly breaks through the darkness of horizon, Abel joins his hands with his lover, absentminded, contemplating insanity, death and suicide whilst living life as a reflection of the collective unconscious.
Hands fumble to the key of the play button: Say Yes sounds clear. Their bodies erect draw naked urges of residual lust scanned as red grapes succulently provide a balm of trust. The pain of isolation is a distant memory drowned with sea salt crisps; platypus screens salamander’s next move for private advantage or insecurity of fear. Words shout out in the open. He closes his eyes: “She’s still around.” He opens his beady, translucent eyes: “She’s still around.” A heavenly dream. We shared an eternal dream.
The End
Chapter Three
I.
Abel walked on finishing his cigarette
Striding at length as he wonders at death
The finite body opposed by infinite mind
A tree grows for centuries flowering birds
Farms pen pigs that are slaughtered after two years
Cigarette butt flicked towards the rosy thorns
He exhales the last toke, fleeting as smoke
Tender octopus with no backbone swims discreet
Incognito as a chameleon green in a rainforest
What if the sun was made of marshmallows?
Spongy centre holds rough exterior together
The heart capsizes in a coma of social distress
Memory swashes backwards to blow back fumes
Chimneysweeper covered in black rents a home
Abel closes his eyes and imagines not being
Heidegger trap into indefinable temporal limits
Owls hoots bawdy as it searches for a mate
Long peacock feathers show masculine feminine
Reverse the roles that humans are positioned to play
One foot in front of the other intuits logic
Symbols of pitch darkness set against the full moon
Motherly comfort as opposed to the scorching sun
His arms bleed profusely from imagination
Troubled waters lay steep as an addiction
Siamese twins crawl as lynx peers dark
The vertices of Abel’s eyes form a vortex
Looks back to remind himself of loneliness
The tattered rag of garments enshrines desolation
What if hailstorms produced a glitter of happiness?
He has one cigarette left but nothing to light
Head turn right to see gay sheep skipping on grass
Psychedelic mantra that shaman strums blues to
Climbing intangible stairs that block foresight
Incompetent wry simile as Schopenhauer’s will
He wills to see the world in flames and burn
And then reconstruct an ideal for peace to reign
Communist manifesto with an anarchist revolution
How else can brainless masochistic people change?
The world’s a representation of a flow of images
Assimilate a canto by Ezra Pound upon colourful frame
Borders without words stagnate reception of actions
Insinuate cystic fibrosis facial gestures through art
Disseminate physical diseases as genetic mutations
Born without a heart or brain dead from the start
Physically handicapped develop both before ‘normal’ people
Repetition force-feeds views to manufacture moods
Get lost in immature sin with insolent indignation
Prove a point by mocking yourself in a portrait
Eliminate fear through a walk written stanza.
II.
Half way there to the house
A halfway house to prostitute myself
I’m back to talking about myself
Control others’ actions to cover my vanity
I can only find an identity through murder
The poison tree warms my insides with blood
Why not attack a defenceless cripple for fun?
Rape, torture and sadomasochistic pain in depression
Confusion and insecure reprisals attack disquiet
Seesaw of feelings from lack of stimulation
Her ruby lips transverse the melting pot of my brain
She’s the antidote to my sick parasitic curse
I thought it wasn’t possible to regret being born
Someone has to deal with my intelligent quarrels
Side with humanity until I can’t feel anymore
Rabbit hat trick as a blind magician sawed in half.
III.
unemployed writer walking sordid in winter
spring’s on the horizon across the wind’s bay
hay fever from nascent crops pollutes the waves
sea settlers build from palm leaves and trunk
foster home for the helpless wanderers of Earth
poverty is shame for a homeless man begging
the resources are efficiently maximised for some
minority reports dwindling care within a community
cadaverous poor sulk with dissident unity
IV.
fear sucks love deep as a crimson flower
an abyss that concentrates upon time
latent roots coil in the bird’s nest sour
autumn bronze leaves scatter as gold hearts mime
conjoin heads, swimming away form death’s guilt
doubt creams insipid visions of loathing
heating the teaspoons that drugs the vain silt
shoreline recedes at frantic blue, doting
lion sharks prey as bricks lay summer’s stress
seaweed brushes past rocky beach: red hand
escape questions route of yellow art dress
the sun beams orange as a scarecrow lands
turn anger of revenge into love’s fear
remove envy and pride like mother’s care
V.
Blinded by impertinent vanity
Furious for not staying in control
Lose sign of money’s feelings
Eternal replay of the same emotion
Shame’s spine vents fury at others
Apprehension stings sharp as a bee
Amber honey deposit sweetens music
Saccharine melancholy wilts with time
Purse strings tight or medical agony hardens
Ten-foot pole streaks across azure sky
VI.
Reimbursement of heaven’s despair
A shooting star travels as I leer
He doesn’t know that meaning is fear
Couple’s song tweet as release of tear
Trainspotting shoots vein as my arm cares
Forest bark radiant as help nears
Travel through a wilderness of time
Head’s humming in repetition’s crime
Usurer wants to lend more with climb
Centaur’s head pierces fixed dimensions
Medieval ritual fences
Shame of my armpits razors offence
I love myself as much as you do
I love you as much as you love me
There’s something in the way of real love
Scared to commit to eternal sin
Tree of paradise lost swims with fin
Despot’s pain hurts as a sleeping kin
Sure sign of lust defiled with egg yolk
Radiator condenses blue sulk
My head’s a tempest singing to folk
Palm trees hold coconut at the top
Battle commences though pecking shop
Wind whistles air as the leaves stay soft
Helium balloon floats in vacuum
Sound trapped as ears vibrate across tomb
Fleeting feelings understood in room
Black pit for Ophelia’s nightmare
Try in love to seek clearer brown bear
Snow-white angel pounces to shed fear
VII.
Mother moon silver in crescent
“do the washing up in the sink”
she knows the way to clean red hands
her breasts heave with succulent milk
womb is where the cradle was rocked
she fights in pain to keep Cain sane
ascetic devotion to love
Abel lost his heart to his mum.
Crayon cyan skies
Hut collapses abridged
Sand springs grasshopper
Lotion clears sunspots
Forge a dreaming child.
Chandelier flashes green bright
A man approaches woman
Rain under the influence
Afraid to tell truth as fib
Squander chance to meet again
Lost touch of the purple hand
Girl buried his head in sand.
Knees are dead sore
String a match long
Wave a red flag
Nose is raked white.
Dramatic exit to jealousy’s play
Stunt growth of shoots as wheels fall off the cliff
Hang a jury in penance of reason
Near death experience harboured rescue
Boat ships from naval base through brown sandstorm
Skip a rope to perfect muscular strength
Embalm envy’s note in comfort of time
TV screen manipulates nature’s sail
Sell a life for fake necessity’s worth
Multiverse forms an entrance scene to act.
Hangman sketched out in sand
A game of privacy
The virgin loses first
Stand round ring of fire
Endless flirt gets nowhere
Sits to reject himself.
Stand naked in front of a mirror
Underwear drops to everyone’s gaze
Feel the wrath of neighbour’s attention
Shut down computer as dad enters
Corrupt police officer smokes weed
Lone mum fights council for benefits
Watch the clock tick down for the day’s news
Shiny plastic protects black inside
Don’t question the dick’s authority.
The play of a monk and a serial killer
A monk is meditating in solitude next to a green spring with birds chattering and trees whispering as the world turns slowly.
Killer: you seem to be having a whale of a time. Are you an idea?
Monk: it’s lovely to meet you. Even shadows have shadows. Has your will been murdered by falsehood?
Killer: I murdered my will. Once upon a space, I mistook a lamb’s bollocks for a mermaid’s elbow. The repercussions were endless and I became falsehood.
Monk: the water of the spirit finds balance in liquid swords, The will is the idea. You can laugh along at will.
Killer: your despotic arsehole is quixotic at heart. My parents were an early casualty; I raped them at birth. Her womb was my gravestone. There’s nothing really here.
Monk: triple sixers’ lasso asphyxiates in bloom. Your heart is an empty room and isolation in peace can mend the broken rues.
Killer: when did you lose your personality?
Monk: when did you lose your humanity?
Killer: I never had one.
Monk: one love will mend your sycophantic ideals. You float away onto a distant sky to waltz with velvet harpsichords. If only you can see.
Killer: I saw the pope taking a shit under my bed. The turd softened the blow.
Monk: the blood that crowds your veins at night is a silent mistress asking for forgiveness. We are walking in a sleeping paradox of paradise.
Killer: man can either inspire or conspire. Pure nature has become a soft machine sucking on ruby flesh. The conscious and unconscious are inseparably linked to murder. I kill out of inadequacy.
Monk: a sloth smiles lustily upon mushroom fields; the mind sees but cannot choose the will. The tree paints itself white: my eyes are unclouded with the soporific wisdom of longevity.
Killer: my slogan is death: I sing it with a smile. Innocent, naïve, silly in your dreams, you sleep in your futility as idealism controls your mind.
Monk: we’ve been divorced from timelessness through centuries of crooked deceit as you ejaculate out of your pram. Reclaim the present as an eternal labyrinth. Your body will realign with your soul and your mind will feel unity as whole. You’ve murdered the centre of an eternal cycle; your conscience is death. When you wake up from your nightmare you’ll finally be free.
End
Chapter Two
Abel: Conglomerate division of multinational corporations dictate the expenditure of local consumers as profit maximisation leads to individualised homogenous pursuits of material goals that layer the commodity fetish of citizens in social anxiety.
LH: An exact point, sir. The wind’s picking up.
Abel: Name? I’m that guy who was killed by my younger brother in envy and revenge, as sententiously misgiven in the Bible myth.
LH: Abel and willing. The name’s Lionheart. Synonymous with the brute muscular strength of Mufasa who consequently ends up being the purveyor of a guilty conscience bequeathed to his troubled, adoring son. How have you ended up here?
Abel: The mind is an illusion and I am present everywhere and nowhere. This dialogue, Socratic at heart, has been formalised through the narrow dictum of the shallow, narrow range of the English language. Bark of this tree is rock solid; the ground is watered in Blake’s tears. A human abstract. Selfish, vain, cruel, jealous love that binds me to unmitigated suffering without the hope of eternal redemption. We’re all mortal. Life is a countdown of how long you can last before guilt and shame rape your insides and kill you. Dorian Gray meets an archetypal Dostoevsky ending as the character succumbs to the mental migraine of remorse as the scene ends in crimson red: “dark secret love does thy life destroy.” I walked here from my cabin after waking up with an erection promulgated by a love that’s enshrouded in fear. Maybe I’m not here after all.
LH: The tell tale heart in all apologies. A sorry epitaph. I was smoking a joint before you lumbered up stridently. Weed rolled up in hemp paper smoked to produce an effervescent high that eclipses the vertiginous summit of a lonely mountain. Consequently, everything starts to make sense. There’s a layby guarding a brook about 10 minutes from here that has its roots in an old Irish fable. The farmer was ransacked by a flock of ravenous pigeons as self-sacrifice was impeached by ignominy. Innocuous at first sight, taking possession of wheat and corn made the farmer furious, with revenge burning through the furnace of his dome. He assigned hit men to gun down the pigeons, although he was never successful in completing his bloody deed. Banquo was missing from the equation. I wonder if the world will cave in on itself as the heartless bigots of authority stamp out the voice of the minority. The UN gives precedent to minority groups whilst being funded by the richest groups. A public show of remuneration. How fucked up is your family?
Abel: Cataract of sorrow that thrashes with yellow deception. Secrets and lies. Social engineering built on mistrust, reticence, rejections and indomitable pain. The divided self: families are insane. Nietzsche was right when he said that groups have inherent madness whilst the solitary man can keep perspective. The problem was that no one could relate to him. Isolation from society can be a bird’s eye observation of all the insecurities people conceal duplicitously, but it also makes paranoia an irremediable habit. Dad struggles to open up about his guilt, reticence and inverted lack of attention whilst mum controls the family’s emotions in her fear stricken attitude that’s bloated by shame of her past and an angry sadomasochistic marriage. Look back in anger. They both have a heart of gold. If you remove an individual from a group and talk to them about their feelings, they start to become a lot more humane. A brother who looks in envy and a sister enshrouded in anxiety mean a dispirited, broken family have a holy communion of self-torture whilst empathy grows with maturity as you recognise that everyone’s in the same boat.
LH: Add the Freudian sexual dimension to that and you have an unbreakable family. The warmth of my mum’s chest as a child will never be bettered. This is ludicrously open and frank. I’m enjoying this. The head feels weary but the heart’s still in tact. Season in hell.
Abel: Deficiency in serotonin lacks vivacious enthusiasm. LSD would recharge the batteries.
LH: Lucy in the sky tripping colourful balls as the tower of a purple giraffe gnaws on an ant weighing two pounds with a length of 1.8 inches.
Abel: Do you have a light? Remarkable night sky that environs thousands of distant stars that we can never understand. Helium and hydrogen react together. Crescent moon reminds me of her smile. Squalid atonement of iniquitous chivalry that contradicts treason.
LH: Hatred spews hatred in destruction. It can also let you be aware that love exists. One needs to exist for the other. Like time and space, for example. Or good and evil. I’m a learned cynic. Aristophanes’ frog jumps onto the ceiling as it climbs up molten walls in a confabulation of prosaic detachment. Stan is a role model. Here’s a red lighter.
(hands over red lighter furtively as a miserly old man would)
Abel: Thank you, in kind. Butane fuel to spark the short race to lung cancer.
LH: Mayfair lights the board of Monopoly. Purchase that and you’re sure to be within the top two. Blue card.
Abel: Tranquil sublimation of a central nervous system lacking serotonin. Only a pawn in their game.
LH: The knight cheated by death in the seventh seal. Either/Or says yes.
Abel: I’m choking under the pain of self-constraint as my limbs are limited by the physical laws of nature. Everyone can feel. The organs pump blood towards the centre. What time is it?
LH: Time to get a…03:46.
Abel: Suave. You can stick a watch up your gaping anus.
LH: Peremptory submission to a handheld device doesn’t control the regulation of insertion.
Abel: Time is a mediocre concept designed to ingratiate ourselves into the mechanical habitat of working life. It is the reversal of memory. I think I’m going to have to leave it there, Lionheart. Fucking brilliant name by the way. Can play around with that.
LH: Yes, Abel. Time is running out. Sleep is the cousin of death. I’ll remember you in my dreams. Especially when my brother threatens to kill me in the future as I plot to have an affair with his girlfriend. Look, there’s a fox trotting silently in the dark.
Abel: My eyes can’t see. I see. There’s the image that I was expecting.
LH: Farewell. I hope that you find love in your dreams and dreams in your love.
Abel: Thank you for illuminating me. Recalcitrant deconstruction of societal values conforms to bring two people together. Beauty of irony.
Chapter One
Wintry solitude solicits frosted perspeks as the frozen leaves twitch with the onrushing northerly wind carried by the sea currents. Purple haze smolders up to the wooden ceiling in a lonely den. The beige curtains are drawn closed, touching the mahogany floorboard as the imperceptible rays of the sun are blocked by the opaque object in vision. A glass table holds an empty mug, two pairs of socks, a box of matches, case for spectacles and a writing pad. A broad black crow howls belligerently as it swarms busily around the perimeter of the cabin. The room is lit with an isolated light bulb, beaming radiantly in the dark to provide shadows and sight; it hangs high up from the cobwebbed ceiling, covered in grey sooth as the yellow divests through tungsten filters. The inside is intemperate, as the single glazing of windows provide an inadequate barrier to the gusts of sporadic winds, whilst air escapes through the bottom of the brown door. A single maroon mattress lays in languor upon the metal exterior of a bed. The bed is positioned perpendicular to the window, which is directly in front of the door. Abel languorously gets up from the semen stained bedding to walk in a clockwise direction towards the emaciated white sink. It’s 2:45 am. A chiselled mirror, minute enough to only reflect the face of Abel, is positioned five feet and six inches from the ground. His prolonged erection momentarily distracts his gaze as the naked tip of his penis feels the contact of a cold ceramic wash basin. A jocular jiggle subsequently stirs the cleft of the shaft as it looks to enter the hollow cylinder of the red drain plug. A surface containing a kettle, toaster, two round plates, a knife, two forks, a tablespoon, a 350g cereal box of oats, pint glass filled half with cow’s milk, a granny smith and an empty saucepan stands to the left of the sink. Another breeze indolently slides through the crevice of the brown door as the light bulb hangs stationary, out of reach from Abel’s sweaty, maimed hands. He walks clockwise towards the bed to put on a cashmere sweater, blue boxers, grey cotton trouser and picks up his portable music player with white earphones. A couple of cigarettes lay hidden within an indigo hooded jumper; Abel puts his hands into a pocket to grab and transfer them into the pocket of the grey trousers that he has put on. On the way out, as he walks clockwise, he picks up a pair of socks from the glass table: they’re orange striped with polka dots white. He shuffles his feet; a strip of hair runs through the middle of his upper feet, into the socks and places them into his black enamelled shoes that have been worn out after lugubrious trails. Abel opens the brown door furtively as he jauntily closes it to step outside with time.
Feet were cold. I’m outside but they’re warm now. Sandy dark seeps leeches that lurk stealthily: intangible premise makes sore eyesight divulge in philistine axioms. Head is full of guilt. My dad taught me well. I wonder if is she’s playing with her hair, rubbing her thighs gently, planning the future whilst thinking about sordid me. I don’t always have to be an immoral morbid procrastinator although the nullity of sin is weightless in proportion to the imaginary gates of hell. Terrifying propaganda that makes me cum with pleasure. Fuck, it’s pitch black in space. Empty dark matter filled with sub atomic particles that seem empty: quantum physics can’t be seen by the eye. Stratified axiom that comments on a scientific premise enunciated with time. Memory’s cupid trick. Let’s put one foot in front of the other whilst an arm waves diametrically opposite to the placed foot of choice. Left arm, right leg: right arm, left leg. Evolution’s roots have premeditated learned actions that are near impossible to change unconsciously: the determinism of habitual thought controls my body. I’m like a futile dog with rabies that’s colour-blind and uses his basic intuition to ground his paws. Unperturbed by the breeze if the limitless air, I walk knowing that my mind is in the clouds. I doubt that I imagine everything. I feel like Molloy and Stephen Dedalus ironically wincing about the metaphysical dexterity contained within the infinite mind; perhaps it’s just a cheap imitation with no feeling. An egocentric asshole that struts on a Shakespearian stage, conning the audience like Iago, in a play of retribution, deceit and truth. Tornado doesn’t register on a seismograph. Streetlights ahead of me: visible white light that my eyes can see. Let’s turn back to see the exit of the door that led me to this scene. Brown, oblong, engraved, tasteless, banal: an open casket or a closed coffin. Streets if colour fanatical in purple shadows that drift fleetingly as tidal waves that corrode the sandy seashore I could be hiding within a box with no idea of the outside: limited perspective. Infinite creation lies in fear. I think it’s time to put my earphones in and imagine lucidly as I hallucinate in a rapture whilst the external environment stays fixed. The night’s still, although dark, with the route foreboding a narrow strait; the path tunnels into a black abyss as I stare towards nothing. Well, I think it could be concluded that I’m sufficiently aware of my surroundings. Alone and in the dark. Oh, lake of fire by the Meat Puppets. A cover for nirvana. I’ll range against the machine in my waking days as sleep contracts the cancer of love. There’s an element of misanthropic fever that runs through my playlist. The world treated me badly so I vent indignant refutations if a patriarchal hierarchy controlled by money’s swinging dick. A rebel looking for a place to be. My mum taught me that. Not explicitly though; never rebel against blind fear of society in case you get lost on our own. These earphones translate data written in binary that has been recorded in a studio using various carbon cables and plastic machinery, into audible heaven. The missing link being the brain. I pick up the vibrations through my ear drums as it oscillates down the canal to be processed by the cranium, specifically the hippocampus. My memory intuits the emotional response as the harmony spreads like wildfire, through the central nervous system. Time by Pink Floyd. Morning bell resurrects amnesiac recovering from Kid A. Drum pounds, guitar strings, piano synthesises and vocals tune the melody. Bands appropriate rhythm logically with chords of four, although the non-linear lyrics and trumpets serenely disturb the order of receptivity. I missed the starting gun. Split white light into seven through a prism as Newton proposed: I think I see the dark side of the moon. Only the reflection of it though. Back to sense impressions. For some reason, my body shiver when I strike a chord with a particular section of music. Could be some sort of mechanical glitch. I learnt that time is a relative concept that has no dimensions whilst being assimilated with the concept of space as it fits into our understanding of reality, although it explains nothing. That was one song. Sunrise by Murnau: beautiful silent film about regret in love as the inviolable exchange of emotions takes place at the end. I’m on a roll. Smoking marijuana to this song will leave the room spinning in iridescence as I climb up a stairway of dreamy revelation whilst suppressing my innate appetite for emotional destruction. High tide creates low tide: Bob Marley knew what the fuck he was talking about. I can’t be left wishing all of the time. She’s waiting for me. I wonder if being dumb and blind constitutes an illness when you can see perfectly clear and think in rational terms. Who’s next? My generation live in Leeds. I seem to be going backwards in time. More solitary protestations of the social order whilst dreaming of an overhaul in the economic system as the cultural hegemony strangles my balls. I want to spread faeces all over the prime minister’s vapid face. He’s only a clown acting as a puppet to keep the existing order going for the rich. We’re all living in a lake of fire. Kierkegaard’s notion of the ethical suspension of the unknown puts me in a guilty position of acting in the name of God. What if God is walking along side me? More probable that she’s inside. Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac so everyone could live in eternal peace. Madness lies at the top of a hill. Ideally, fear and trembling should be conceptualised as an allegory for the internal destruction that Shiva demonically initiates within and without. I’d rather be Niels Lyhne escaping fear, order and reason at the behest of fearless love. Eternal beauty, or infinite misery. Perhaps it’s a false dichotomy. It almost certainly is. Aristotle’s syllogisms break down on account of the first two propositions being true: who can tell the truth of falsity, or vice versa? Affixing truth to metaphysical speculation reduces the capacity to transgress upon abstract concepts. Language games of Wittgenstein tie the tongue like Chomsky’s theory that language is innate to everyone. Wasn’t that experientially learned? Fuck, I forgot the matches on the glass table. Here’s a relevant tune: night-time by the xx. I love her. My mind is a crawling caterpillar reaching out towards the distant stars. A quick stop revisiting a confused emotional disposition that an idiot would be proud of. Dostoevsky’s idiot has twice the intelligence of all of you. Emotional awareness harnessed through immediate sensations that have a trigger in memory through dreams as Proust sublimates in insinuation. Guilt at having flirted with other girls whilst being in love with one girl. I really need a joint. We escape. That brings me onto Radiohead. Sometimes, the world feels like it’s being played out as a film, or more poignantly, a play. The midsummer’s night dream that plays out eternally. Annex two incongruent images in a prudent simulation to abstract a metaphorical connection that relates to the past and will determine the future. That’s how dreams work. I’m awake at night dreaming whilst walking and being aware of my surroundings. Music to my ears. I see someone lurking behind a tree as there’s a shadow inflected from the streetlight. Maybe he’s got a flame and I can sing Light My Fire by The Doors. No, that would be inverted of me. The boundaries of sexuality close the doors of perception. That’s something that Huxley never wrote about. Addicted to dad’s guilt or mum’s shame. I’m migrating towards my mum. Hamlet in black is in disguise as he crumbles under the lofty impotent weight of an incorporeal substance: his ghost of a father that chains him to a guilty conscience. Poor Ophelia. She’s lovely. Cigarette will be permissible; let’s approach this motherfucker. Freud’s Oedipus complex is a Trojan in the rectums of many households. Brave Achilles speared through an inopportune moment as he stubbornly refused to enter combat until the convenient end. Everything fits in epic poetry. Look at Dante’s divine dissemination of the levels of hell and how he enters paradise after a prolonged bout of anxiety and depression. She’s waiting at the gate. Trees provide sustenance for humans and animals alike. Looks like a shady character. Should have brought my hoodie. Fucking social anxiety impairing my limbs to walk forwards in greeting. I like people. I’m scared too. Those would be spectacular opening sentences to any two people. I’m dealing with one here. A healthy distrust, snigger, nervous agitation and apprehension awaits me. Hello, I love you.
aesthetic fiction 