It's puuuuurdy

Something a tad strange - Autobiographical

Once upon a time there was a six year-old boy painting a picture in a violent assortment of primary blue and nasty orange, much like his overall. The overall was of the sort that always stank of cleaning fluid and organic, sticky paint (god, he hated sticky paint). At some point in the past someone had thought “Hey, you know what? Kids are exciting and active, why not make an apron to reflect that?” and then immediately went and destroyed a coast guard’s lifeboat. It’s exciting, active AND tastefully coloured. Or so the logic goes. Anyway, this kid, henceforth referred to as “child”, was/is me, seventeen years ago. Welcome to the introduction, now wipe your feet and get out.

That was my first memory. At least I think it was. It may not have been. The chronology is all muddled. Maybe that child gained self-awareness right there in front of that board, staring at the layers of navy blue on vomitising orange (“it’s exciting!”) shooting out in all directions. Possibly the particular geometric arrangement of stripes triggered an aesthetic pleasure never before experienced and the child’s mind thought to itself “Aha, the fractal ripples of my brush strokes are a joy to behold, quite aptly matching the lurid nature of my pallet”, and then immediately shared it with the rest of his dormant mind. This, for better or for worse, has lead to this moment of reflection, of autobiographical, self-effacing, masturbatory wankery.

But I digress. What happened to this painting, this wonder of consciousness-granting magic, is a mystery. Maybe it was whisked away by powers unknown to the like of myself to be used upon small babies to grant them premature self-knowledge and thus ushering in a new age of enlightenment, us not aware of this because these vast intellects are only now maturing to the point of adulthood, ready to shake the world to its dark roots whether we are prepared for the Ragnarok-and-roll or not! Or possibly it is still in my loft; after all I haven’t been up there in some time. Who knows? Not I.

An attempt at something new

Fitting

The man mountain

Tomorrow you will pretend you are dead
and all your skin is gone
it has left
you

all
you have
now is the flesh underneath and
it hurts
so much
that you cry
but you
can’t
cry

your eyes are full of sand and
it pours out around your head in sharp dunes
and they wash over your face as
you cry and cry these empty deserts
until you can’t cry any more but it is too late
and you are trapped under the sand (there is sunshine
outside, there is sunshine) and it bakes you
bakes you into a chrysalistic mountain range





the sand is a perfect fit
it slides into the grooves of your
muscles and your
ears and your
tongue

and you
rise

from your mountain
of dry tears

and you are more rock
than man

as you emerge from the
falling foothills

hardened against the wind
forever and solid
man

It's been too long