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.