I have created things, wonderful things. So pick one. Would you like to read poetry (kind of angsty) or prose (kind of surreal)?
In other news: I read Grant Morrison’s Doom Patrol today and it fucked my head wide open. It’s like… it’s like he finished writing The Filth and The Invisibles and was all “You know what? I should crank this shit up to 11!”
One story in book three concerns a street. It is a sentient, living street that moves freely from city to city. The street is called Danny. The street is a transvestite. Also: a painting that ate Paris. Yes, ate it.
See what I mean?
You chose angsty poetry, ooooh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If love is wanting,
whenever together,
to reach out and touch fingers to cheek,
then I love her.
If love is craving,
during time spent apart,
that incandescent company once more,
then I love her.
If love is waking
with a name on your lips,
which lingers all through the day,
then I love her.
If love is knowing
that each of these notions
is held in kind behind those smiling eyes,
this is not love.
You chose to read the surreal prose, way to go!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, I was just walking along one day when I suddenly find myself thinking, “well shit, bees, that’s where the good times are.” I spent the afternoon in serious consideration with my attorney and a bottle of cheap cider, because such things are not to be entered into lightly. This was to be a singularity: a point after which things would be so radically different that nothing could be predicted. The next morning I downed two alka-seltzer and a quart of bacon grease and went to get myself some bees.
I combed the city for days with no fruits to show for my labours. The Chinese market, countless tobacconists, three alternative medicine wholesalers and even the gymnasium were visit to my interminable search. I was down to my last chocolate biscuit and getting pretty desperate, I can tell you. I was about ready to sink wholly into my despair with a sack of mewling kittens when a black, formless mass approached me from the shadows.
“Psst, wanna score some bees?”
The italics in his voice slithered up my shaking spine and gently kissed the base of my addled brain. Yes! Yes I would like to score some bees. Right now nothing would more fill my leathery face with childish glee.
It was five months later by the time I’d negotiated a price and got my new cachet of bees back to my places. Five long months of animal crackers and drinking my own urine, but now the bees were mine and I was free to pursue my ambition, unfettered by the claustrophobic constraints of an unfeeling patriarchal society. At least, that was how I felt at the time. The reality was that I had swapped the cruel mistress or chaotic urban living for another: the hive. They owned me now, bought and paid for. Every day I lived it was only to server their unbending ferrite will. At first I loved it; I belonged wholly to the colony and they to me. It was a beautiful symbiosis and I revelled in it daily as I performed my apiaristic duties.
The bees hated me. Secretly at first, because my relative size was of great use to them, but I soon became aware of their ridicule. The mocking glances, the hushed jokes and greedy laughter, the sense of threat in the air as I toiled beside them. They hated me because I was different; scorned my mere four limbs and unwieldy dimensions; looked down on my simple eyes and rudimentary olfactory organ. At first it simply made work more tense, the environment more restrictive, but gradually I became more and more disenfranchised with my work. Some days I just stayed indoors, trying to wash the fetid smell of propolis and honey from my quaking body with rubbing alcohol. At the height of my depression I found myself unable to eat duck or say any word of English in a falsetto, which hampered my daily life considerably.
It was at this point that I took the final decision to burn them all to death as they slept. As the Immigrant Song played softly and the flames softened the golden wax I shed a tear for the good times we had shared, diluted to mediocrity through the communal perception of thousands. I wished those bees that escaped their sticky incandescent prison good luck in their search for a new home
