"Pack it in, the pair of you!"
"...a dildo and a beer box..."
"I asked Brian to bring in a loaf" - donated by Chris.
"I've had enough coffee today, I don't want anymore coffee."
"The purpose of a sock is to let the perspiration from your foot be absorbed...by the sock." - donated by Chris.
"You eat so much, how are you not fat?" - donated by Chris.
"Scarface, What a film."
"Gives him something to grip."
"That thing with me an' Tony."
"I found this massive elephant, was so cool, I just had to have it."
"If I was in flats, yeah."
And thus begins the era of the coffee house,
Oh, how intelligent we feel reading Kafka and Kerouac,
quoting the finest passages.
We are Jean-Paul and Simone,
but neither of us are a woman,
we embody both, its agreed.
Another round of coffee, we say,
with brands sprinkled in chocolate
and sit back on woven chairs, we will,
gesticulating wildly,
while engaged in heated debate,
on ourselves, others, and nothing.
As we steer ourselves cautiously through the everyday, avoiding awkwardness, embarking on absurd ritual, various opportunities arise in which we exercise our honesty. For the most part, the election of honesty which occurs during this exercise lays below the sphere of consciousness, and simply dictates our attitudes towards situations. Compulsive liars left to one side, we act truthfully, in a natural manner, in accordance with desirable ends; to be deceitful would usually negate our own practical will. We are simply managing the everyday. "Do you want sugar in you tea?" Yes or no, we answer accurately and without qualm; to refuse to would only hinder our own tea experience - not a desirable outcome, as anyone would agree. This bears a relation to desire; a subjective impression upon an experience, complete with outcome.
It is on a different realm where truth becomes more complicated; in fact becomes akin to the lie. Consider, as an example, an honest mistake. One afternoon someone has, in half-woken clumsiness, unwittingly placed a book in his bag after indulging in it for half an hour in the book shop. With no real inclination to purchase the book, he was simply flicking though, testing the water, and for some obscure reason, which Freud would probably have something to say about, it ended up in his bag anticipating the ensuing situation.
That situation is as follows. In the course of transcending the shop's exit, navigating that liminal space between those off-white security barriers, the alarm goes. Now if the local co-worker doesn't simply wave our subject through, dispassionately refusing to engage in their job any more that necessary, and conveniently giving him the benefit of the doubt, he will have a dilemma on his hands.
An unpaid book in his bag - an open and shut case. Now, a thief may admit defeat, or lie and claim ignorance; but the honest dimwit, guilty only of wading though the vacant waters of stupidity, has to make a case.
However, a dilemma arises as the incident radiates guilt. Thus, in an attempt to portray a convincing argument to the accuser, the shop keeper, he undertakes an activity of overcompensation. This occurs because he is aware of the appearance of the situation; his seemingly obvious guilt.
In this situation, the truth becomes as constructed as a lie. All the signs of invention are displayed as the accused attempts to avoid making the truth sound false. As the task involves convincing the accuser something which is held in suspicion, the accused perpetually strives to avoid the tale-tell signs omitting guilt; an effort which is thereby evident in his actions and mannerisms.
Henceforth, in recognition that this constructed truth sounds like (and is) a fabrication, the accused now proceeds to further overcompensate in an attempt to increase naturality, thus initiating a spiralling pattern increasingly departing from the original truth ad infinitum. Consequently, the subject is rendered invariably guilty of falsification, if not the crime.
meat poem
sown foot minge
clasp fat nazzok
only menial tasks to be enjoyed through lunchtime
due to dew all dues are due
theres a penguin in my juggling ball
it throws me and my lady off balance
when we help the cashier
to not be embarrassed by her clumsiness
leave the washing up
the washing up is a paradoxical melon job.
A pot of tea for one please,
A corner and a book,
For I am the coffee house loner,
It has a certain look.
No extra milk is needed,
No sugar and no fuss,
I am the coffee house loner,
There is but one of us.
I may require a coffee,
That pleasant caffeine lift,
I am the coffee house loner,
My visit may be swift.
But other times 'tis casual,
An afternoon is lost,
but for the coffee house loner
this never is a cost.
And over yonder corner,
A solo tea pot seen,
Another coffee house loner
Is swimming in caffeine.
Across the wooden tables
A mutual respect,
We are coffee house loners
Not children of neglect.
Another pot of tea please,
I nestle in the booth,
For I am the coffee house loner,
I know no other truth.
the rain rattled the rusty roof
and i pondered penning a poem
i carefully considered a crucial concept
the ingenious inclusion of intense alliteration
to tell trite tales of the tall tall trees.
but this painstaking process was proving problematic
for can i convey a correct critique
of the swinging swaying solitary sycamore
if i'm forced to follow this format?
so i sat in a seat in the sauna heat,
to ask if this task was a worthy feat,
to ask if the process id previously prescribed
was adequate enough to help me describe,
and suddenly came to a callous conclusion,
this crass confusion of consonant fusion,
was such an illusion, such an intrusion,
and so the solution, to end this pollution,
was rhyming profusely,
sometimes quite loosely.
but when put to the test,
it turned out to be quite a mess,
the rhyming of words,
was proving absurd,
i'll try something else for the rest.
All the while I sat
The rain kept thundering on
I could not hear but
I wrote in sevens and fives
Until it was gone
And o the trees, in their newfound freedom,
Recovering from the attack,
A thousand rain bullets per second,
Had found their way to the ground.
And betwixt the sodden branches of war,
New shards of hope, by beacons of light,
The torches of victory shone through once again,
As a new day swept the land.
then my mind grew weary,
and thus became my pen,
it ceased to govern the words it spewed,
i started to rhyme again,
a new concern arose,
a bud i had to nip,
towards alliteration,
i suddenly started to slip.
alas, can you believe,
below my restless quill,
i was laying lines linked by letters,
and rhyming with such skill.
be gone, reckless habit!
your guiding of my tongue
cant do this moment justice but
will always be more fun.
The village slept nestled amongst the tree line. A handful of cottages, all different from each other, sat randomly in the presence of only one another, dirt tracks breaking up the grassland to connect them. I entered the village with one thing on my my mind, a bed to sleep in. I had grown weary after two days straight of little food and much fighting, and I needed to rest.
Upon noticing the absence of villagers outside, I glanced at the houses. All were dark apart from one, in which a table top candle was clearly visible. Ignoring my fatigue I bounded towards the house, clambered up the 3 steps which led to the front door, and knocked.
The knocks echoed in the woodland clearing, cutting through the silence of the night. A plump housewife stood before me, a dirty white apron covering her cheap pale blue dress. After a split second looking at me she spoke:
"You ain't comin' in 'ere."
I was having none of this. I drew my shotgun from my back, cocked it in one swift motion and without giving her a second chance I pumped a smattering of lead in her direction. She flew backwards into the house, leaving blood clinging to the doorframe.
"Like shit I'm not," I said, stepping over her trembling corpse.
But my lack of subtlety had roused the other villagers. I realised that I would, once again, have to delay my much needed rest. As the remaining lights in the village started to flicker on I ran through the house in which I had made my unwelcome entrance. No one else was there, but in the master bedroom I found some more shotgun shells. These will come in handy, I thought.
I could hear the villagers getting excited, they must have discovered the dead housewife. I realised this particular village was unlikely to be very fruitful so I decided to leave. But I knew the villagers wanted revenge. The locals had gathered their arms and were shouting incoherently outside, branding torches. I went down to join them. A stark shriek from a petrified woman cemented their knowledge to my presence, and I blew her away with a newfound shotgun shell.
The remaining neighbours, about ten in all, started towards me with various guns at the ready, as I stood on the doorstep,. I swapped my shotgun for the small Uzi I kept strapped to my right thigh, and started to run.
I darted to the left of the angry crowd as they threw bullets at me. I reciprocated their gesture with bullets of my own. They were the bigger target so little effort was needed to catch a couple of them out.
But as I ran around my victims pelting lead at them in quick succession, one of the buggers caught me in the shoulder. I span round on the spot with the force of the bullet. The remaining villagers kept on shooting, and, without too much hesitation, so did I.
MOTHERFUCKERS!
My gun started clicking, it was out of rounds. I let it slip from my grasp and land on the floor while I took a grenade from its shackle on my chest. I snapped off the clip and launched it into the crowd, who didn't even notice. They carried on shooting at me, and missing beautifully. I ran from the impending explosion.
The grenade, from its location central to the group of villagers, exploded sending them flying outwards like a flower budding in fast-forward. A dozen or so unassuming neighbours lay on the dirt path, their faces in their own blood and the blood of their friends.
I swore at my wounded shoulder and made ready to go. I needed rest and food more than ever. Hopefully the next town, only a few minute's run though the forest, would give me what I need. Otherwise, they're in for a world of pain.
"I've got nearly 20-20 vision in my right eye."
"No battery left on my phone."
"I'm gonna be down in about 10 minutes, I'm with my mate, Rob."
"What about that Chinese bloke?"
"Seahorse is the other way, innit."
"I can't sing like Rod."
"Have you ever been on a coach for 10 hours?"
"That was like a rectangle of fire."
But I was not to be deterred, the sign was out there, and I was going to read it. Arthur's questions on what I could possibly hope to achieve fell on deaf ears. My mind was made up, and I left.
The road ahead was to be challenging; an epic journey in which I would cross the whole island, virtually. Although, I had no real reason to hurry, no life-threatening obstacle to overcome. It wasn't like my wife needed to heart transplant and I needed to collect it and be back before time runs out! But, I did feel a sense of urgency. An overwhelming sense of purpose had grabbed me, and was clinging on with some force, so I left as soon as possible. With my cling film bag full to the brim with crumbs and such, and triumphantly tossed over my shoulder, I made headway.
It was just after noon and the sun was strong. I sighed at my furry coat, as it efficiently kept in every darn ounce of heat. A wiser mouse, or less adventurous one, I'd like to think, may have put the mission off until a cooler, less busy time. But not I, I set off without a second thought.
I headed north, at first, then west past the statue. This was a grassy affair and even though the glaring heat was sure to demand the most from me, the day couldn't have been more beautiful. The tourists seemed to stray no further than the edge of the paths, and that was great as far as this mouse was concerned. No need to confront the humans until it was necessary. I made a mental note to keep to grassland for as long as possible.
But before long this simple wish had been refused. The path circumnavigated the statue, and because I was inside this circle, I was trapped. This was as far from my home as I had ever been. Beyond here, all I knew was vague directions, based on vague rumours. The midday hour had brought peak numbers to the area and the path looked impenetrable.
This was only the first sign of tourists and I was at a loss! Barely half an hour and it seemed I was beaten. I sat down and opened my bag, went for a bit of wholegrain bread and started to ponder my predicament.
But no sooner had I placed a stray nut back in my mouth when I heard a strange rustle, followed by a sound which can only be described as a slurp, of sorts. I turned around to be faced by a rosy cheeked, drooling Hector.
"What's that, a erm, a nut is it?" he said.
"This thing in my mouth? I replied.
"Hmm, any more? More . . . nuts?" His words were obscured by immense quantities of saliva.
Unsurprisingly, it turned out that that Hector had been following me since home, under the impression that I was out looking for food.
"Hector, have you even been beyond the path?"
"Ah, yes many times," said Hector to my surprise. "Much to eat on the other side, much food."
I explained to him that I needed to get across the path and if he helped me I would make it "worth his while". This was all he needed, and with a quick "c'mon!" he bounded off around the statue. Without having gone far we came to a tunnel with water flowing through it. Hector led me into the tunnel and after some time in darkness we emerged back into the glare of the afternoon, in a grassy expanse. This area was far more grassy than where I lived, and this appealed to the mouse in me. As promised, I gave Hector some of my food. I asked him if he had been any further out than this, to which he replied that he had not. The wary look in his eyes as he said this told me that he didn't intend to, so I left him munching away, and continued my journey.
But before long I was faced with another obstacle, or rather, obstacles - tables, chairs, and people. People carelessly bumping into each other, dropping coins, dropping sandwiches; people knocking over furniture as they scrambled around performing the activity they refer to as 'lunchtime'. Baby's were screaming, children were laughing, men were taking photos of their girlfriends against the backdrop of a huge blue-green woman.
I'm going to slip through unnoticed.
I could see the fabled sign of enlightenment, containing the hitherto illusive name of our island. But no more! No more will the clouds of mystery rain ignorance drops upon me. No more will I be imprisoned behind the walls of my own inexperience! The time hath come for awakening!
But I had to get to the sign, it was facing the other way, and this meant getting past these people. I was getting restless.
I ran.
Women screamed, kids screamed, men repressed their screams. I just kept on running, ignoring the rising chaos which was growing around me. Tables were being knocked over as I flew under them, running under the patron's legs. I had never run so fast! The adrenaline surged as all hell broke loose in the cafe garden. I ignored my mousely instincts as barely touched baguettes landed to my left and right. Food was the last thing on my mind as I raced across the concrete.
Then I came to an abrupt halt. But it was not the kind of halt that a wall might cause, no, this halt had a much more gravity induced feel to it. I was surrounded by darkness, but this soon subsided and I was again in harsh sunlight. Only now I could not move. I lay on my side, experiencing what seemed like emense pain, all over. And again, darkness crashed down on me, accompanied by a soundtrack of cracks.
The screaming had stopped, and I could hear various remarks of relief. The tourists were regaining their calm. As I looked straight out with my one working eye I saw a sign which read 'Liberty Island'.
Liberty. It was not a word I was familiar with.
