Random Boo

The 40-Watt bulb swings his way but in shadows he remains, the darkness envelopes him, protects him, from the demons of the light. He counts his matches, each strike of a match a new day is born, and each extinguished match a night. People are like open books with pages torn out, he ponders. He is a man of many forgotten dreams, and many dreams yet to be dreamt. Violently he hates you, for violently he is pure. He is a man without a face yet he a man of many. Like an oil painting that never dries, he is ever changing, each tear an alteration in his disposition. His name, if you believe in labelling a life with but a few words, is Vincent J Foster. After leaving the army, Vincent made a successful career out of designing children’s toys. He enjoyed his job, for he enjoyed bringing happiness to children’s lives all across the globe. Sadly, Vincent was unable, through circumstance, to have a child of his own. It was this they say, that triggered the madness, and sparked the proceedings of the famous Foster Murders that were to shortly follow. It all starts with a milk bottle, them annoying plastic milk bottles, with the impenetrable seal positioned in-between the plastic bottle and plastic cap, the ones that come with a little tag that teases you as it tears off, thus destroying any hope once held of you obtaining the milk you foolishly just paid for.

Up until now this man didn’t exist, he does now, because you make him exist, in your memories. Does that not then make him just as real, as anybody else.  All God’s breathtaking work in creating life, matched with nothing short of a bit of imagination, and a few words.

We are all nothing but the memories of others. Collectively, we are what is remembered, whether favourably or not, what we are or was, is what people perceive us to be. Sure you have your story, but if the story dies with you, then the story never was. Once you’ve ‘popped it’ so to speak, the only part of you that is in existence, is in the memory of others. Existence is a difficult word to define philosophically. But the funny thing about existence I find, is existence might as well not exist at all.

This conscience is going to be the death of me, I hate being soft, I want to be evil, with the evil laugh and big red button. Not some pansy herb growing, reindeer patterned jumper-wearing ponce, drinking organic milk and eating Kiwi Fruit! I want to victimise some random ill one-legged orphan child with a cricket bat and shout, “Ha, I’m bigger than you, and I have a big stick to further minimise the effort required to beat you!”

My existence appears to be nothing but a red wine stain on the fabric of this misfit society, to which my attentiveness is bordered.  Are not we all but travellers of space and time. Yesterdays dream, now today’s concept of time’s hangover. Tomorrow you’re being fed to the worms. Scientifically you are nothing but bacteria with a consciousness.

Love is a burden. Love is possession, love is a private social network of oneness divided and solitarily confined. Love owns you. Your freedom compromised, are you even you anymore? This silence, it deafens you. As the mistress of your undisclosed desire surges, you lose all grasp of reality, the drums beat in a heartbeat rhythm; the sails drift you to a cesspit of sexual orgy, follows then the decline in your ecstasy. The spider web of a make-believe family conceives a BBQ smoke screen of denial. You love to be loved, but somewhere a consciousness breathes life into an existence that categorises you, and fences you in like cattle.

Men in long dark coats, eyes obscured by their beaver hat’s shadows, clanging empty bottles in creates in the dark alleys of the night, as the cigarette butts in ashtrays invade the pub’s atmosphere with its stench. You try to gasp for air but you can’t. Has it hit you yet? Life is not beautiful, it’s an endless disappointment, persistently hit with poverty, famine, sickness, unfulfilled desires, loneliness, and a perpetually wretched cold dead feeling. Oh, and tiredness, you are always tired, it’s not lack of sleep, its loss of hope. Ignorance is bliss, for only the naive can survive. Love only looks good in the shop window, truth is it’s a Trojan horse to an endless flood of despair, it will drown you until you’re nothing but a husk, a number, a single note in an orchestra, a single and instantly forgotten tick from a clock.

Love doesn’t free you, it traps you, your biggest possession possesses you.

Two point twenty-five litres of plonk, twenty-three fags, and seventeen Hobnobs past midnight, I am painting the Cheese Strings black. A silhouette of a swinging dud 40-watt bulb taunts the rubber glove that is my mind. Mocks me, plays me, and dances on the very reflection it scorned. Well it was half the truth, in the sense that it’s the good bit with the fat cut off, enjoy the fat! Are you happy? Who is? I do not know, I guess no one is really. Nothing is perfect; it would contradict with the said concept if it ever were. I love the sea, I miss the sea. It’s something about the waves crashing against the shore that sounds like a symphony of poetically captive sovereignty. The sea comforts me, like a feeling of home, in a loners devilishly self-gratification. I am the floating egg in the boiling pan of the conformists despair! Look her in the eye, turn away and sigh, every chance a last, every look a first. She stands there, slumped to the right, a burdening requirement of illogical light. She of such profound beauty, one man’s neglect of duty, another man’s treasure, a second hand pleasure. A stolen kiss, a stolen time, but she never was, neither is, nor ever will be mine. Maybe I was born too late, maybe she was born too early. Maybe instead of wine, I’ll have a Curly Wurly. Who knows? But you’re not carving my grave, smile and wave boys, smile and wave…

I have of late, become somewhat a misfit, in this world of treacherous thespians. I wonder on without direction, or a fixed point of view, judge little not without caution, no place to label home, a pitiful reluctant contender, in this world to which I have little relation.

You spend your life trying irrationally to fill a gap, only to choose to die to close it. It is ones conviction of solitude, that curious phenomenon, that peculiar paramount necessity that drives you mad for emotional stability. Alas, it is, and always will be, the inevitable reoccurring hammering fact of one’s existence. You are alone, as lonely as Morgan Freeman’s toothbrush.  Ha! You think it’s ‘love’ you’re experiencing, you just love the idea of being loved.  Welcome to the happy house of wax, now be a good Push Pop, and buy the book, then close your eyes, there there now, it will all be over soon. Life is just a phase you’re going through…you’ll get over it.

“Thing A cannot be discussed rationally,” she said.

“Wrong,” he said. “If Thing A can be discussed, it can be discussed rationally. For if you ever argued that it could not be, then you have just discussed it rationally, disputing your claim.”

“Thing A, Thing A, Thing A!” she said. “YAAAAAAAARRRR!”

“It can also be discussed irrationally,” he said.

The TV eye brought the true naked horror of our lives into the public eye for all to see, then the silhouette of delusion rides into the setting sun, and down pours the names of the Gods that collectively constructed the mapping of your perception. Your life but a stone throw to a lake, tap, tap, tap, tap, splash, as you sink into the murky depths of no return.

“You’re not very tall are you?” she said.

“Well, I, er, I try to be” he said…

And then like the yank of a flush chain, funny how quickly them that love you can forget you. Whilst you’re spinning around the toilet, they’re shopping for new fish in the pet store.