Saturday, 27 September 2014

Entangled in a Few Tufts

Dozing under a tilted roof I discover raw onions, peppers and pork meat stuck to the ceiling with egg yolk. A curly head walks in, I ask her if it's her food, she says: "no, it's my life".

I sit on a crest top by the sea and watch what looks like crawly spiders, but really is a swarm of little monkeys swimming in the sea.

A person is swimming in the flood as well, entangled in a few tufts of seaweed, dragging all the seaweed along with herself as if she was swimming in a green and tasseled furcoat. Big-shouldered and shaggy; like they are in fashion now.

Snow Cream


Glazed twists in pastel green
Snow cream 
Hansel and Gretel
Ziggy Stardust.

Toxic or amazing?
Glitter and hundreds and thousands
Candy icing
Pink unicorn.


Sunday, 14 September 2014

Drip With Pastel Icing

The sky is clean and baby blue, a few cotton tufts of clouds slide themselves along, and then they turn pink and vaporous like candy floss. An unseen golden cherub shoots at them with glinting golden arrows, and they pop like balloons. They explode into a million little pieces like the villains of '90s computer games, as sprinkled doughnuts in in the grass drip with pastel icing.



My first novel (similar style) on amazon http://amzn.to/1pal5op

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Glittery, Poison-colored Paste


I went for a random city wander in midst the sandwich papers, autumn leaves and flyers on the floor. Between the slowly awakening neons winking moodily at the city sunset from sleazy windows, from behind plastic palm trees garlanded with Christmas lights, tinsel and fake sunflowers, pushing the violet hour away slowly, with flickering fits and starts, as the blue velvet swirled in convulsively, grimly threatening to drown out all of the day’s light and life.

I kicked before me some crumpling night club flyers and looked at the long road before me, noticed a drug store to my left and remembered about some nail varnish that I wanted. Inside the store, I stood momentarily mesmerized by the long row of make-up displays, full of pink and silver, purple, green and red colours, black, yellow, and gold, too. I slowly picked up one nail varnish, turned the bottle on its head and watched the glittery, poison-colored paste move slowly and sluggishly, like amoebae, through the tiny glass vial. The glitter was very fine, in dark silver and purple tones, and it seemed strangely animated, the way it slowly let an air bubble swim from one side of the bottle to the other, like a cute brat popping bubble gum.

I stood there with the nail varnish, thinking, “I wonder if they are actually all as ugly as this, or whether some of these could pass for good taste”.

I picked up another. Here, the glitter was much less fine and dusty, and it was multicolour, more like confetti. It was swimming in bubble gum colour pink fluid, and had a similarly caterpillar-like way of moving its gooey consistency about, as I turned the bottle over and a bubble of air went through the body, like a pulse, it seemed.

The lip pencil section, with fragrances and tastes as well, had me particularly transfixed, as a dance of words like “ballet pink”, “blushing nude”, “sexy cherry”, and “dreamy decadence” stared into my eyes. “Such crudely misogynistic, pseudo-girly conceptual tags for such pathetic, distasteful goo”, I thought, “what a shambles”, as a big and bulging pink cloud fell over my brain.
I started to think pink handbags, Barbie dolls and watermelon martinis, white cars and palm trees, and then again, I started to think that all the make up and nail varnish I ever wore was like so much dust from a poisoned cloud settled on my skin, and on everybody else’s too, like so many worms and maggots moving over my lips and eyes and nails, a thought I found difficult to shake off.
Yes, I thought, I had recognized the decay to be what it was, decay, rather than the lavish joie de vivre that happy people fondly refer to as decadence. Creeping out of a rotting cake like a stray worm and trying to make it on my own amongst the bubblegum-plastered streets, ducking the crushing boot of society, seemed to me just as insane as staying in the mold, hatching in the familiar nest of desperation and thinly fading southern comforts, and whiskey sours rubbing off and off on purple velvet bar furnishings like a big, fat, vulgar fungus on the soul.



First published in IndieBerlin at http://www.indieberlin.de/art/inebriated-philosophers-polly-trope.html


My first novel (similar style) on amazon http://amzn.to/1pal5op

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Adjust the Ill-adjusted

I was obviously very drunk. Like children's hands reaching into a bathtub full of foam and toys, an invisible hand from outside reached into my heart and poked at it, like at a marshmallow. Although everything was getting a bit vague, I was hoping for a revelation from this innermost, marshmallow-like depth of myself, which I all too often gloss over with hard candy. It's how I can fall in line with society's and the media's obsession with "making it", with chasing opportunity.

As I am sure you know, no-one is ever good enough in their capacity as self, in the present, and the aim is always to be better. Better than...? I walked unknown, unlit streets with a tear in my eye, each step closer to shutting down, hoping for a car to kill me or a hole in the ground to swallow me, but no. Only dark homes, and sleeping windows. Cheap double glazing and unwashed net curtains, battered bikes, chained to battered railings, rubbish out front, faded door knobs.

My first night on a park bench, I swallowed every objection that it might cause cystitis. That would be almost guaranteed. But I finally don't care. I am a grown-up. When I was little, I was told I would make up for all the wrongs, clean up the whole mess. As if that were some kind of honour. I would bring peace to the world, wipe out poverty, put a stop to racism, and make it a green planet. 

Wrong. I'm walking around at night depressed and pretty drunk. Bit of a chicken and egg as to which came first. But, it occurs to me, depression is a dirty word. What I feel now is nothing like the "depression" they describe in mental institutions. It probably is, only there, they systematically lie about it. It's depressing, but you have to see it from their perspective, too: a mental institution is a socio-emotional correctionary. A psychiatrist's job is to adjust the ill-adjusted, not to explore the beauty of their visions. They can't very well say that depression is an emotion from outer space that occurs when an individual realizes, to their pain, that the social pressures surrounding us don't provide guidance and stimulation, but instead deliver self-policed oppression, together with a false sense of purpose, all couched in a pompous rhetoric designed to make us accept and take pride in our fate as the pawns of capitalism.

The true purpose of life is unknown. To have an aim in life is, of course, the alpha and omega of each person's integrity in this contrived microcosm. Have a foot in the door, the other on the ladder, it seems to say. Is it very morbid if I say I still prefer to have one foot in the grave, and one foot in the shower.