Month: June 2015

Don’t trouble yourself with truth

What follows is some material from a work-in-progress. You can find more here.


 

You can’t remember much about Eve, but you’re pretty sure you love her. Her skin smells of cinnamon and tastes of bacon. Her eyes are anemones. Her hair is the wicker basket Little Red Riding Hood carried through the woods. Her neck is napalm. Her breasts are vampire bats. Her etcetera is something else. 

Last time you saw her, she was a vision in a dream in a stone cell. The Mirrors were nearby. You’d pissed yourself. Silly boy.  

Next time somebody asks you a question, just make up the answer. Don’t trouble yourself with truth. It’s not worth it. 

 

 

Trees are horrifying. They look like intestines. 

When you were nine years old you got lost in the woods. No one ever found you, so you died there. 

The trees assimilated you. 

Your roots go deep, drinking dark water from the earth.  When there’s a full moon you sing. Death isn’t so bad.

 

 

Looking in the mirror, you see Eve. No, not quite Eve. An ape with Eve’s smile. 

Smiling is Mother Nature’s way of showing her teeth. 

When was the last time you had an orgasm? When was the last time you had an erection? When was the last time you pictured yourself fucking Eve?

If you tell us everything we want to know, everything will be ok. 

 

 
You’d like to keep the Pickled Punks in the basement, but you don’t have a basement, so they’re stacked in your bedroom, from floor to ceiling. It’s not a very practical arrangement. There’s a narrow pathway from the door to your bed, but otherwise there’s no space. Your clothes are in the lounge, organised in piles: underwear, trousers, shirts, jumpers, outdoor wear. 
 
The Pickled Punks bring you good luck and bad dreams. They grin at you blindly from their jars. Sometimes they look as if they’re moving. They’re probably not. 
 

 

You went out of the house and then a car screeched round the corner and doors opened and black shapes spilled out and you were being pulled into the car by the black shapes and the doors closed and the car screeched away. 

The room was like a gigantic glass jar. Lights went on and off and on again. 

The Mirrors looked like Eve. They called you a maggot and stuck needles in your eyes. 

 

 

In last night’s dream a vampire bit your ankle and sucked you dry. You saw your shrunken corpse on a CCTV monitor. Dr Mort tapped you on the shoulder and tried to kiss you. A car pulled up and Eve jumped out, laughing. 

If you close your eyes for too long all you can see is maggots. 

Killing a man is as easy as drinking a cold beer, explained Serge. All you have to do is relax. 

 

When you were nine

When you were nine your head fell off in the playground. Dr Mort was called. He pasted it back on with PVA glue. You’d never know now.

—–

When you were nine your arms turned into trees. Dr Mort worked his magic with the chainsaw. You still need light pruning once a week.

—–

When you were nine you broke space-time. Dr Mort patched it back together with a bandage made of your memories, printed in 3D.

——

When you were nine your pet rabbit turned against you, playing dead whenever you went near it. Dr Mort chuckled from his observation post.

—–

When you were nine you brought all the extinct animals back to life. Your mother patted you on the head. Dr Mort frowned.

—–

When you were nine you pretended to be Dr Mort. Dr Mort, meanwhile, pretended to be you. Your mother was nonplussed.

—–

When you were nine Dr Mort replaced your eyes with marbles while you slept. You still haven’t noticed.

—–

When you were nine your head started shrinking. You look ridiculous. By the time you’re 44, it will be the size of a pea.

—–

When you were nine you tried to become a cyborg. Your shopping trolley attachment was risible.

—–

When you were nine Dr Mort rewired your brain. Even to this day, the only word in your vocabulary is “blood.”

—–

When you were nine you bullied your imaginary friend. He hasn’t forgotten. He’s biding his time.

—–

When you were nine you learned that the German word for poison is “gift.” Christmas has had a special meaning for you ever since.