Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Trigger Glad at a Crime Scene

The pointed gun, to analytically put it, could be the extension of his vendetta, that which he shakes times few a day and tucks in his undies, alright, and when I – T Glad, a she – point it what could it be: Dentata? I don’t know. I speculate it takes an acutely educated guess, not acquired from schools big and small, and for my money you’re not equipped to make it.

An educated mobster isn’t an educated mobster y'know…

And you’re thinking she isn’t finishing what she’s starting and you’re guessing: Gangbanger, no?, not entirely missing the point, and then I finish it by saying an educated mobster isn’t a mobster, isn’t a monster, rather a gangbuster, just when your skin starts to leak head to toe, and I tell you I’m aiming for your fingernail and not the hand you guess I’m aiming at, if it were to blast your finger off that’s but the blind gun’s fault, not mine, and once I pepper spray your wound for purely antiseptic reasons, if you’re still not telling me whatever it is that I want to know about, just to shine my skills, not to make a point, I will aim for the next nail, the next, and so on till you tell it all short and tall.


Which one of those freezers in the city did you, Rattle Teeth, stuff your brother in and why? I’m aiming…fret not…for your fingernail…!


Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Shed and Don

It’s easier shed than donned, as first it did appear, he said.

The marble homes inside it an upside-down vision, dusted and stormed, reflected. Catapulted, its trajectory an upward straight-line – up and straight, in furtive flight. Trees, pillars, sky, roofless homes, unending rows of roofs, architecture, all culminate to a head-braced face, dashing against molten metal, the impact the marble cannot withstand, splinters and scatters, the withering ground its final refuge. Golinath spits his gall, leaps and pins down the perpetrator. Davood, after a unstruggled clever struggle, from under his rival’s grip slips, a snake shedding its skin, climbing his back, gripping his throat, he screams: ‘Who’s taller now, you lumbering gient?’ Golinath must stand up now or lie forever there, nose pressed to the dust. Either way, Davood’s victory, as yet unannounced, is apparent. ‘When I’m riot, you’re wrung!’ The rival stands up, the man half his size clung to his neck, to acknowledge defeat. ‘Let’s be the divided dominant.’ The wind blows askew and the crowd blurts out an uproar. ‘You mean, in other words, divide and dominate?’ says surly Golinath. Davood chooses to rather hold his peace.

The place is guided by heart and mind, or at least that’s what it’s been believed to be. What holds sway over what, between heart and mind? When you sever the link between the two you should know, they converse and concur. Clasp the vessels, in suspended animation preserve and observe them. Decades go by. While the greatest minds are at it, things go askance – glands, bones, spleen, for instance, revolt – things go berserk. Some die, others spew venom, some malnourish, others question. When things get worse, this worse, when it’s late, this late, it’s all but possible to restore the system. By the by, observance yields results, only there’s no significant difference, statistically speaking, between the observed: They both perform, albeit in varied territories, the higher function of reflection and expression in order to attribute meaning, in a world devoid of meaning, to inexplicable phenomena which is nothing but an offshoot of the compunction of wallowing in the lowest common denominator function of survival.

In the middle of everything, Davood gets comfortable in his new skin, the inexplicable adaptability of which surprises him. The media celebrate him. He sets the standards and what yesterday was written off as ugly is today an accepted norm: Beauty. He grows, his muscles swell up, what’s beneath his field of vision grows smaller and smaller. When he stands up after one of those treaties to shake hands with Golinath, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Yes, shoulder-to-shoulder in the sense touching shoulders. He feels out of sorts for a moment as he senses he’s catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror when he’s not. There’s no distinction as to who’s who. There’s no telling this is Golinath and that is Davood. It will no longer be Davood versus Golinath. It hereupon will be Golinath versus Golinath. He will not be quitting. No!

It’s easier donned than shed, was at last just as true, he confessed.


Monday, November 14, 2011

Love as an Artist

Sun paints the marketplace in golden hues. It’s a glimpse you thought she said you caught every day and what then is marvelous about it, you quander. At the center of the market, a man named Odd tells a woman named Go she makes perfect sense when she argues they must set their shop up elsewhere the next time. You don’t sell same goods twice for the same price, not just here, anywhere. They sell it once everywhere and sold here L, O, V and E just minutes after setting up shop. Odd and Go are conspicuously attired and so if you thought what they get out of selling what’s worth in grands for peanuts and pursued them thinking your pursuit would take you to their lair of inheritance, a mile into it, right about the third curve, your heart skipped a beat when you saw them dissipate into thin air.


O walks like a polite person, something she does whenever she’s been sold for ten bucks. ‘So, you’re love?’ B asks. ‘Part of, not entirely, yes’ O answers. She’s clad, upon first impression, in a translucent body bag. Inside, she’s scantily dressed, like a supposedly skint actress in a million-dollar film. ‘Care for a smoke’ he asks, offering her a cigar. ‘Hookah, tobacco-less; don’t smoke, no thanks’ she says.


C is at the dining hall fork and spoon and he couldn’t contain his desire to consume. ‘Love resides not in the heart, I discovered, nor does it reside in the brain or genitalia. It resides in one empty space between heart and lungs. This is a scientific claim, hypothetical or not, and not some fantastic claim. Now, tell me, just because you tell me you want to consume love, how do I isolate an empty space, salt it, spice it, cook it?’ B tells C what he isn’t in the mood to hear.

‘I don’t care what science had to say about love or lust or anything. I know what it is where it is when I see it and this time will be no different’ C retorts and rushes to the kitchen.


She’s standing in the kitchen adjacent to a rack her height. ‘Where is she? Did you or did you not double lock double-check the house?’ C asks B. O is such slender thing she could stand behind a leafless plant and not be seen. ‘There!’ B says. She moves and halts beside the fridge. ‘Now where?’ C yells, growing impatient.

O shoes her shoes and gloves her hands (what is that?), puts her feet up in the air and walks on hands (is this), whirls like a dervish (some form of veneration?), whirls like a dervish out of her mind out of control, whirls on one hand, whirls on fingertips and she’s up in the air (what?), shoots to the ventilation above (?), clears through it like it’s a hoop (!). Seconds pass, there comes a thud, running footsteps echo and fade. Their eyes explore every nook of the kitchen as if she’s present somewhere somehow invisible and only when they fix their gazes upon the spread-eagle body bag does it dawn on them dear love has fled.

‘Love was here…

Love is an artist…’

‘I don’t get it’ B says.

‘…a hormone-driven


C demarcates the body bag and scribbles at its foot with a permanent blood red marker: Love was here.

With B fired from his cookery, C backpacks under the influence of an indefinite wanderlust.

L dislikes O, as he thinks she looks loud but O isn’t really what she looks and he’s like if you look it you better be it, even so he fakes a genuine smile because after all it’s the team that matters and it’s all about spirit. O never forgets to leave the translucent jacket behind which L forgets to forget half the time and consequently had to stand and endure Go’s rebuke and this adds to L’s so-called virtues (his dislike of O being one) yet another virtue (again on account of O) called envy. V and E couldn’t wait to see O back again, she being the last to return, and are all platonic hugs and kisses for the millionth time. Once the celebration fades, feast feasted, they’re laid once again up on a beautified platform.

‘Come on, come and fetch anything for ten bucks, come, come on and fetch L O V E for just ten bucks’, the man named Odd bellows at the top of his lungs. When he pauses, the woman named Go ensues the call. It’s a cloudy day and out of thin air a crowd emerges and encircles the shop whilst stocks last.


Monday, November 7, 2011

Birds, Fat Boys and Little Men!

What was I saying? Yeah! I forgot to take my Veracity Spectacles off.

Our ship was floating over miasma having entered earth’s atmosphere. Birds were sweeping down across right below us. In their claws clutched for prey were little men. Or was it? Some of them were fat boys. It was simplicity to assume they were captives clutched and dropped against their own volition. In actuality, some of them waved at us and even winked. The rest of them had they caught sight of the ship would have smiled, stuck their tongues out, grinned, put their fingers up or ground their teeth. These are essential human expressions as we’d come to learn and must be anticipated. But from such a state of euthanasia, it wasn’t. Birds persuaded little fat boys and men. Or was it the human pack? When the claws released them, dropping deep down below they exploded. Some of them were immobile but for the inertia of descent while others spinning all the way down to respective targets. The smoke was infuriating. The ship had its Armor Forther on, yet it shook a little. Birds abandoning their flight plunged into the madness below. I hadn’t slept the last day and I was so exhausted I slept with the spectacles on. The clouds would take their time before raining down a cascade of toxins. I had no intention of catching that sight. I’d much rather shut my system down and dream of harmless nightmares.

When I woke up, the ship was far away from earth’s atmosphere. Earth rendered uninhabitable by earthlings. That was what my console had to say. We’re sailing home to tend our own. It was sad we couldn’t do our planetarian work for Earth but it was solace to know I’d soon get to walk the dusty sands of my home planet.


Thursday, November 3, 2011

End of the Voll

Whiz lived up in a punctured volleyball. The ball was punctured, yes, but wasn’t so much shrunk. It retained the shape of what one would call a near-imperfect globe. It had a mouth wide open and the puncture in particular was known as zone hole. Dey Kanna!, who owned the ball, the story goes, hung it midair when he found another ball to play with. From under a guava tree, when it’s time for supper, Whiz flew up and down and everywhere before feeding on a fruit-feeding bat after which high on hot blood in her potbelly she was back again inside what they called Voll, the ball. Whiz and her ilk, the residents of Voll, had sworn never to drink out of the semi-divine Human, near as a Gatherer can tell.


Dey came leaping one morn. Clumsy on a diet of five appams, it was obvious he was denied that extra glass of coconut milk. He held a cloth that stank of kerosene. Standing at a safe distance from a swell honeycomb, he draped the ball and struck the match. It was all smoke and the bees buzzed and fled. By then Voll had come down, having shrunk it was burning bright. Dey drank the nectar as much as he could and the comb was flung all over the place. Soldiers went and gathered what was leftover. That was how I came to savor my bite. I myself never went anywhere anymore than go round and round the rim of this rusty plate that I call my open universe. Why because this is far more adventurous than scaling a blade of grass or circling the inner walls of a jam bottle and rather much safer. Dey kicked the smoky ball and it dropped flat not far from the shade of the tree. That, you see, was the end of Voll, once home for hundreds of dear-departed Suckers. I’d like to imagine Whiz was somewhere else still going abuzz and not in there drunk to head asleep.


Dey ritually climbs the roof every day, glides the length of the roof and dives on a mound of sand. Sometimes he lands on his feet, sometimes on his butt, sometimes he lands his head stuck to the mound but he climbs and dives over and over even so. When where I’m circling is feet away from where he usually lands, it’s not the fear that at one point he might stomp on me. That he will not for the fear the rim I’m so obsessed about will slit his foot. What if the plate the rim is part of were to somehow topple. What if I was stuck beneath it and he stomped over it. The ground is wet, so it’s soft as cheese, and the last thing I’d wish for is to be squashed in such a seemingly complex plain fashion.


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