Punches

Strange things struck Sean with punches from unknown corners when his mind was numbed and at the same time excited through sleep deprivation and intoxication. It swallowed, spit and shit out  primitive insecurities strung on a wire, left to dry, and then forgotten. Now dry, hard and black hanging from rusty wires, they looked like chunks of hardened pitch scraped off from the roads and put up for exhibition under the sun. The colors of the plastic clips holding the clothes, have faded. Springs have emerged from the sides, distorting the plastic. The sun has not only stolen the clothes' water and then life but also turned them into something different. Alchemy it seems. When base metals turn into gold they discard their own peasant selves to become the best version of them they could be, something warm. But you see shiny metal, now you can be worn as ornaments, used as decoration or exchanged for money, you will never be useful again. But you can smell the perfumed sweat now instead of sweaty palms awkwardly moving along your spine and swinging you into a tree bark to come to a stop in its insides and jam the upward flow of earthly juices. You can glide over the moles of the neck now and not worry about the flakes of skin that come off of the corners of the fingers and the heart of the thighs when scratched vigorously, because of mosquitoes that got inside the pants through the space between the flesh and the fabric to leave bumps. Sean's left knee touched the cold floor left after the mattress claimed its space. Punches are made of fists, not knees, no cheating!

Pebbles

A sequel to Acid, Bases & Salts 

The pigeon is thirsty.

The pigeon drops a pebble into the beaker.

The sun is sliced up in an unfathomable frenzy of an unfriendly kind. The kind is devoid of any semblance of difference, which in turn have kept them in a state of indifferent harmony. Kindness is godliness, godliness is necessary to form a rhythm of fake hysteria that is bestowed upon the general public who fail to possess the faculties that pebbles are proud of. They mellow down to a molten mass of obscenity served on cones and called ice-creams.

The pigeon drops another pebble into the beaker.

“It is your will”, they shout. He has no will. What will are they talking of? Oh, that sallow skin of the green serpent who slithered in to find an egg, into the pig pen, but pigs do not lay eggs. The serpent's tongue was pulled off and well, red and green. “Will you have the red or the green, Will? Well, it is your will.”

The pigeon drops some more pebbles into the beaker.

The old man cannot keep up with the mice, the mice are faster. The hamster-wheels make music, different kinds. As the old man slows down, he drops rapidly to the floor of the steel-sieve hamster-wheel. He is Sean, the sun of this world. The sun slices through the steel sieve.

The pigeon drops a lot of pebbles into the beaker.

The pigeon drinks the water.

In the beaker.

Acids, Bases & Salts

 A sequel to Cards

“Today we will read the mysterious case of Dr. Acid and Mr. Base. As so and so newspapers and critics have termed it to be ‘The heartbroken kid’s guide to acids, bases and salts’, here it is for you to find out in a sickening and severely engrossing tale of again adjective bullshit-fancy-noun, adjective bullshit-fancy-noun, adjective bullshit-fancy-noun; oh fuck you!”

Cut.

You’re supposed to be polite.

Prepare for take 10.

Sean, you’re burning me out.

Make it quick, please.

Quick reminder – you are a teacher of chemistry.

Camera.

Cosmetic cream commercial – take 10.

Action.

“HERE YOU GO?”

Cut.

Who turned the caps lock on?

We are supposed to take this in the lower case.

Camera.

Voyeur – take 10.

Action.

“This is how you do it? You like that?

Yes. Sit. Stand. Pee. Sit. Fuck. Shit. Eat. Roll. Low. High. Fight. Sleep. Dope. Heal. Feel. Love. Do it. Not now. Now. Stay. Okay.”

Cut.

Not good.

Again.

Camera.

Cosmetic cream commercial – take 10.

Yes, take 10 again.

I had the last one deleted.

And you have one minute.

Go.

Sorry.

Action.

“So, the story of acids bases and salts in the language of litmus in a brief way. The previous sentence could have been briefer but who the fuck cares?

Acids

Litmus turns red.

Bases.

Litmus turns blue.

Salts.

Fuck you.”

Cut.

How long?

You have five seconds.

Camera.

Voyeur – take 10, again.

Action.

“No time for commas or hyphens or semicolons but time for full stops, grammar is a shite. Ph acid 0 7 base 7 14 salt love you.”

Cumming. Came. Cum.

That’d be 25 bucks for an hour.

‘The ride was good. When’s the carnival over?’

Never, Sir.

Our roller-coaster’s here to stay.

‘Okay! I am Sean. I’d like to have the job and the pleasure of riding it.”

Cards

 A sequel to Temples.

“A joint during the night,

Slaps the Devil, tight.

A joint during the day,

I make the cards you play.”

‘Dad, dad’, panted the little fisher-boy with an eye full of conundrums which were vexed into a distorted queue so that chipping their heads off could be sequential. The other eye was eaten by some fish when he was younger. ‘What?’, asked the dad with little amusement. ‘Have you heard of the lamb who rode the bicycle?, the boy slipped in quickly. ‘No, but I have heard of the cow who ate grass and the cat who ate fish’, the dad burst off like a chocolate bomb. ‘Really? Did the cow fly, was the cat high?’, sprinted the boy. ‘I am going to the joint,’ to eat cherry flavoured vices on double chocolate sins’, the dad took cover. ‘No Dad, you shan’t trade your soul, you mustn’t’, bloomed the boy like a speck of sunshine on a sunflower. ‘They are soles, not soles, my son. Off you go, to the Devil’shell’, the dad rode off on his bicycle. ‘The lamb who rode the bicycle’, the boy winked with his only eye. Only he knew the difference between ‘winked’ and ‘blinked’.

‘Why do they call you the Devil?’, the boy looked at the empty, mobile stand of snacks. The stand was mysterious – sky blue body with gray wheels and glassy eyes. Eyes that shone in the order of bright red and conveyed very bad grammar. ‘Because, you ate the egg?’, breathed the boy on the snail he had picked up from the open dry drain on his way. The red bodied snail flared his horns with diabolical pride.

The day is a bad bad time. ‘Dad, dad, is that you?’ the boy saw the joint walking into his dad through the rusty rib cage that served as a wicket. Wickets are better, they are less private than the doors. The doors only open to the bosses. The doors are big. The day never goes away; the day is like a disease the night has caught. It never goes away. It never does.

Cards. The fisher-boy was a fisher-boy by choice – his dad was an astronaut who sold bird-catchers to birds. The cards were laid on the roof of the monolith. The joint occupied a small place on the roof at the edge. They knew, the world was flat. ‘Do you dream, boy?’, hailed the stranger with a missing tooth, whom the boy talked to everyday. ‘No, sir, I fail the tests’, pissed the boy. ‘There isn’t any test’, burped the stranger. Play your card, birdie – the crocodile charmer nudged. Throwing the card in the air the father of the fisher boy shot at it and yelled ‘It’s birdie, motherfucker.’ ‘I have the pen where they held me till I could walk’, raced the boy, ‘I keep the fishes there’, he finished - he came first.’ ‘The fishes are beautiful – they have fins; but we humans, we are better, we have bins. Lots and lots of them; yet they don’t suffice’, the nose of the stranger dropped as if derelict of bones as the boy left with a rather fishy mien.

‘Is this your idea of a card game? - back home we had a board game, we had monopoly’, puked Sean. ‘What a waste of time. What did the yak say, again?’, cleaned up Sean.

“A joint during the night,

Slaps the Devil, tight.

A joint during the day,

I make the cards you play.”