The Bucolic Tulip

The bucolic tulip is hesitant to flower; her petals are heavy w/ semen. Expecting hesitation the cadaverous golfer gives birth to a sensational shite. My weekly beard affords me weak consolation and reassurance with regard to something or other.

Held

He was not allowed to be morose or silent; allowing himself to become this way would cause other parties to succumb to similar temperaments. He loathed the current dynamic though and subsequently he tended towards silence and sadness. To get up to his feet and exit the premises, is that something he was capable of? It seemed as if not. So, for the time being, inert. Resigned to the presence of these vulgar morons all around him. The weight of weary conversation. He smiled, his eyes were wet, he felt drained.

Invitation to Heaven

What follows is an unfinished extract of something or other.

What chance did one have to absent oneself from the proceedings? Answer: none. Zero chance. So one absents oneself mentally ie by getting pished out one's skull ie the usual methods. Here he was a 38 year old man in the position of being gripped by a curious kind of inertia, an inertia that held itself over him for sustained periods. What could be done about it? Solutions were yet to occur to him. Life wisnae so bad apart from the fact one had the tendency to become immersed in torments. And then there was these tunnels you could end up in and not even fucking realise it. Hopeless, completely hopeless, one had the urge to abandon all hope.

One had to maintain a keen sense of the absurd in order that one not go completely doolally. A classic case of the horny auld goat no longer able to something or other. Eh? Things to be taken into account: his perpetual resentment towards everyone and everything. Not a huge issue.

A fifth drink was to be ordered, and then consumed. But he would have to be wary of the rate of consumption. He could already feel a slow, heavy stupefaction settling over him. Not a disagreeable sensation he supposed. His friends were arranged in groups away from him. Some were dancing, others just talking. A group of three over there, his girlfriend and his best friend. This was fine, the condition of sitting alone at the bar being preferable at the current juncture. Perhaps he could slump forward, still gripping his bottle of beer as he was sometimes wont to do. No, there would time later for such shamefully unabashed drunkeness. So, his friends had seen fit to abandon him. This was fine, a completely agreeable state of affairs. Really. The cunts got on his fucking nerves anyway. The need sometimes to just be fucking left alone. He held the beer bottle tight and took another swig, his eyes gazing at nothing in particular, the dim gleam of bottles behind the bar perhaps or the purposeful movements of the two barmaids.

So, ye had zero fucking chance, okay, so we've established that, okay, so what now? Thus liberated from the constraints and burdens of hope or potential, he began to drink faster and faster. Mibby a wee whisky. His girlfriend looking over at him. Fuck sake, why was every cunt avoiding him? He should just go home, right fucking now, go home and have a good greet. The thirty fucking eight year auld man boy in the fucking huff. Perpetual resentment, man, he was addicted to it. Another beer please. The barmaid brought it to him wordlessly, perhaps a bit alarmed at his rate of solitary consumption. He could not discern a way to proceed. (The trees, damp streets, wind and neighbours converged in a wordless conspiracy on this rainswept afternoon).

He snapped back into lucidity. Perhaps he would stand up and immediately vacate the premises. Was this something he was capable of? Fuck. He had fallen over. He grinned. A couple of young guys were helping him up. He chuckled and grinned, all teeth and bulging eyes. Face flushed like fuck. Man. He felt fucking amazing. Time fir a wee dance. A wee fucking boogie. He had both fists raised in the air as he ventured onto the dancefloor. He began thrusting his hips. Then he began this syncopated motion whereby he thrust his hips in time with his fists, like as if he wis pumping a burd. Needed to find some wee honey to grind up against, fuck the burd Displeased with the situation, yes, definitely Christ, things took their fucking toll, it couldn't be denied that things took their fucking toll because they fucking did.

Disintegration Loops

At that moment he didn´t particularly like her anymore. Or anyone else for that matter. Including himself. A combination of regrettable factors had led to this dismal state of affairs. The oppressive heat, his brother´s boisterous companions, the noise of drums, an anxiety-inducing hangover and the sun beating down on him moronically all conspired to perturb him greatly.

Not too long after that they found themselves, just he and she, in a nearby pub. An unbearably strained atmoshphere gradually established itself as they sat over two bottles of strong Belgian beer. It was impossible to even look at her. It felt like the saddest possible thing in the world. Then they were walking back to her flat. He held her hand for a while until she shook it off. She suggested he go home, he became upset. Terrible, it was fucking terrible.

Back at her flat they smoked some marijuana and it put him in a bad way. He felt deeply, deeply perturbed. She recited poems and seemed amused. He didn´t know who she wa, didn´t know who he himself was.

Somehow he eventually managed to get a few hours of sleep. He awoke at dawn and sullenly left. His whole body felt as if wrought by agony. He headed homwards, purchasing a packet of cigarettes en route, an uncharacteristic act. It seemed as if things were over between them but, in fact, only one week later they would travel to the coast, fall in love and eventually move in together.

THE END

He Could Not Recall the Correct Move Order

Then he saw a girl. He recognised her.

It seemed a small audience had gathered. People watching with interest. What were they watching? What were they thinking? He wanted to get up. He wanted to get up and dance, dance with them. Real close. The dancing. Dance real close. With movements approximating the wind. Weird snaking movements. It made perfect sense to him. He could hallucinate suitable music at will. An admirable feat, probably. He no longer cared. He had grown quite weary all of a sudden. And yet he felt he must continue to affect this strained grin, as painful and humiliating as it was. Complete exhaustion and ennui. An overwhelming greyness. He stood up. He donned his coat. Snap out of it, he suggested to himself. A dawning warmth. A blooming sensation. The old familiar tingling and numbness preceeded a surge of something or other.

Perpetual Consolations

He possessed a mind given to certain inexplicable obssessions and the most extreme vanities. It wasn´t too problematic most of the time. When compared with what? The various plights he observed around him. He sat on the red chair with his glass of whisky and turned the light out, listening to the passing traffic. The blinds were drawn. The chess board was laid out, the pieces in disarray. An effervescent instance of something or other what, eh? His thoughts were becoming muddled again. He hoped the slow motion whispers wouldn´t return. They irked him. They disrupted his goddamn sleep! Certain consolations existed, these were to be sought out perpetually.
He had best hasten to the boudouir; his wife had summoned him with a complaint of feeling cold. But first he would consume his night cap with the intention of achieving some restful slumber. He was not given to rising early though. This feat held no... no... something or other, I mean it did not strike him as something admirable to do.
The gruesome perplexities of existence. Compared to what exactly? His face strained into a compulsive grin.

Reception

He had resolved not to do some certain thing anymore and then he had thought Heh, wait a minute, it doesn't really matter one way or another whether I do X, Y or fucking Z. And then he walloped himself on the side of the head with an open palm, something he was wont to do in those days when he became so completely disgusted by his own inconsistency and navel-gazing tendencies. Some pain, something, nothing much. A moment of vague excitement quickly replaced by the usual deflated laziness, a complete laziness regarding existence. Not even anything as violent or passionate as despair.

The Existence of 4pm

It was not 4pm; it was later than 4pm, this was apparent. The evidence was varied - the hue of the sky, the chill in the air. The grass was cold, becoming damp.
(you are served food at the juncture whereby your hunger is no longer existent, the nights are drawing in, wind and whisky, other observable phenomenon)
We had to hurry up and play some more before the driver came to collect the apparatus. We sensed his arrival to be imminent.
Enjoyment of the apparatus within the preallocated time-frame was of paramount importance. It could not be underplayed or understated.
(his most inspired thoughts arrived on the verge of slumber)
Autumn occurred. Quite suddenly. He began striving to achieve an economy with regard to speech and actions.

The Configuration of the Hiccup

A malicious jest is
the inevitability of autumn
like she is following
advanced protocols
the rest of us
are not privy to.

Leith

She asked me if I wanted another beer and I indicated that I didn't, but without much enthusiasm. The tremor of hysteria in her voice was impossible to ignore. And yet we would both ignore it; we were actors playing out the roles of two people who were fond of one another.

She Hated the Tentative, Boyish Way he would Vie for her Affections

We were sitting on the North pier. Men were sanding the deck of a boat. I was watching the shimmering patterns of the water. A woman was walking her dog on the beach. Middle aged and elderly people were sitting around us, also waiting for the boat. A couple walked by. We had spoken to them last night in the bar. I waved and called out to them. I think they didn't notice us. Or possibly they just ignored us but that seemed out of character.
"Most people don't appreciate what they've got. They don't appreciate what's at hand," a woman on the bench beside us was saying. It was warm and sunny with a light breeze. Liebe yawned. I liked this sound. The breeze rippled the patterns of the water. I asked Liebe if her head still hurt. She didn't understand. Then she understood and said that her head was better now. Then she made some nonsensical sounds as she was wont to do in those days. She put her sunglasses on and began singing. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. And then the breeze. Sometimes I felt as if I hated everyone. Then, other times, a more amiable disposition would come over me.

An Alien Heat

Yesterday's heat
was absolutely
fucking stifling.
A sick
jungle heat.
An alien heat.
Birds
screeching in pain. Skies
all swollen
grey.

I had to go out
to buy cold beer
from the store. I
had to look people
in the eye and
they knew
I was sick and lonely and confused.

Scaffolding Dismantled

An undeniable implosion
A cherished odour stolen
by immature whims
and a drastic ennui

# 4

I liked to admire her arm. Her arm was slender towards the wrist yet nicely full towards the forearm. Little blue veins were visible at the inner wrist, a royal blue to contrast the delicate whitness of her skin. She held up her arm for me time and time again and then hid it when she became tired or self-conscious.

Further and Further Away II

He loved the way each moment gave way to the next one. There, that was a lie, it was fucking shite most of the time, he hated it. It was awkward and he fucking hated it. I'm talking about life. His experience of existing, anyway. At times it was just too awful it was fucking unreal man. Just everyday things, banal things, the weight of it fucking all.
He felt as if he was getting good results but he was working blind. Which sometimes felt counter-intuitive. But sometimes he felt that there must be a a reason for his instinctive adoption of this approach.
He was walking through a field with his dog. The dog was running on ahead, inquisitive as always. It was a foggy afternoon, I remember that.