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Mar 22 2014

A Gratuitously Extended Fecal Metaphor

Some point at the tender age of twenty one, he realised the only way to stay sane was to write. Gush his anger in ink, drown his fury in words. Shit got on his nerves then, as shit gets on his nerves now.

Some point at the tender age of twenty two, he met his childhood sweetheart’s husband. He clenched his fists, gritted his teeth and sucked it up, as the man talked about the bloody chinks and the fucking fags. He held back not from a fear of confrontation, not because of some misguided belief in diplomacy. But because his indignation would be interpreted as jealousy. Shit rubbed him the wrong way then, as shit rubs him the wrong way now.

Some point at the tender age of twenty three his father gave him a lecture about ‘being a man’. He sat through the sprays of saliva as he was told about a woman’s place, about the sanctity of the family and about respect. Shit pissed him off then, as shit pisses him off now.

Some point at the tender age of twenty four, he was ordered to pick up a gun and salute the flag. He dreamed of wiping his ass with the piece of rag and throwing it in their faces. He cleaned up his own shit then, as he cleans up his own shit now.


Mar 13 2014

The Official Countdown for the Collapse of Western Civilisation

I’m at the bar. There’s a man at bar. I look at the man at the bar. The man at the bar is having a smoke. I look at the man at the bar. The man at the bar looks at me.

I’m at the toilet at the bar. There is a queue for the toilet at the bar. The man from the bar is in the queue for the toilet at the bar.

I get talking to the man at the bar. The man at the bar is talking to me. The man at the bar is angry. The man at the bar is angry, with the state of the country. I ask the man at the bar, why he is angry. I ask the man at the bar, why he is angry with the state of the country.

He does not reply.


Mar 6 2014

One Fine Sunday Afternoon

We strolled past the ice cream vendors, the selfie takers, the shit cake bakers, the lobster enthusiasts. You tugged my sleeve and pointed at some kind of art. I did not understand the work, much less enjoyed it.

A man on a tricycle called us out by shouting: “Can analysis be worthwhile?” We responded “Is the theatre really dead?” He was a classmate of yours from school. Adamantly, he revealed to us his new political treatise. As he hit the pedals of his trusty steed – “I call it ‘Triceratops’ coz it’s a horny vegan like me, dig it?”- he turned to me and said:

“Your English is really good!”

You and I… well you and I, we exchanged mischievous glances, buttoning our lips too keep the laughter in. I looked for authorisation, you blinked approvingly as if to say: “do your worst.” Feigning pampered embarrassment wasn’t difficult, since my eyes were already on my shoes.

“Thanks” I said, “So is yours.”

He paddled off, confused, out-weirded.