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."
