I
love those breaky noises. I spin round and round, deeply etched
in green, drinking water at every occurrence of the letter h.
People stare as they are supposed to; they follow their rules, I
follow mine. I spin round and round, deeply etched in green,
drinking water at every occurrence of the letter h, and they
stare. Isn't it ironic? It was time for the spiders' webs to go:
they were dusty, the spiders were dead. Flies were no longer
being caught. If I prune away the glorious maze of anaerobic
webs, new young spiders can fly in from sunnier climes and
colonise the ceiling. It's imperialism in action. It's oppression
of thought and belief. I love those breaky noises. The spiders
place their flags all over. They own it. But I have pissed in the
corner: it's mine, and there's not a goddamn thing they can do
about it. I must go refill my bittle of wuter. The brown lines I
left all over the lawn in memory of dear, departed worms no
longer look so beautiful in the light of day. The light of day is
just plain plain wrong. If I had enough money (feel free to send
me some; many thanks to those who already have or plan to do so)
I'd have two homes at either end of the world, and live in each
depending on the dark season. There may be a problem with postmen
delivering to me if I am so isolated, but there's bound to be a
phone line, so I get my much needed information from the goddamn
interfuckinnet. Postmen no longer deliver to me anyway. I can
smell fear. Zen Cyber Sex: The Sound Of One Hand Typing. (My
one-legged wife, Eileen, told me to put a joke in; she said you
wanted those and not the other stuff. I can kill again if it'll
make you laugh, all you have to do is ask, and pay my mufukkin
plane fare). It's the luck of the Irish, only I'm not Irish, and
still I love those breaky noises. Funny names for ice cream is a
clever idea, isn't it? It's this kind of avant-garde adventuring
that truly makes Puerto Rico great, and the rest of the world
strive to achieve the kind of repetitive greatness that makes
Puerto Rico great and the rest of the world (which is less great
than Puerto Rico) sink deep into obscurity, only to be saved at
the last minute by Puerto Rico's greatness. Do you know what I
would do if I had a bike pump lying across the room from me? Can
you only imagine what giddy heights I could run from if only I
had a bike pump in the room with me. Apparently in some Asian
country (they're probably all the same, just like Africa and
anywhere else that isn't Puerto Rico, or to a lesser extent, the
Good Ol' USA of America) the latest teen fad is to inflate your
rectum with a bike pump until you fart thunderously. Now can you
imagine the giddy heights? And Finnish girls soak tampons in
spirits before insertion so that they can get drunk quickly and
easily without their parents smelling it on their breath. [Insert
Kentucky joke here]. Kentucky IS Puerto Rico, and everyone loves
those deeply etched breaky noises that come charging out of the
jungle big-upping everyone, and stabbing anyone not included in
everyone. My ceilings may be laying down its arms and opening
them wide for the spiders, my floor may be mine, all mine, but my
walls have markings that no-one has claimed. Why is there a piece
of orange peel on the bathroom floor? I can understand the
ketchup bottle because of the mirrors (I don't understand the two
mirrors though), but a piece of orange peel makes no sense. Ants
and anteaters are probably one and the same, like Superman and
Lois Lane: you never see them together in the same place at the
same time. Or if you do see them together in the same place at
the same time, it's only momentarily, and that could be explained
away by the desire, nay the need, to see ants and anteaters, or
Superman and Lois Lane together.
Must
go: they are waiting for me,
Godot