WHAT BECOMES…
By D. Jonas Laurence
Drunk, alone and lost
I stumbled upon a small geometric
clearing.
The erosion of countless years had
made a natural bench – not unlike
the size of your average park bench.
The ones found in any decaying
metropolis.
Dead creatures lay rotting around
the small plateau.
I needed rest more than fresh air,
so I sought the comfort of
the natural seating.
Were my eyes confused?
These decomposing animals seem
strange – almost humanoid –
but no, not in any way human.
Fuck, too much sweet wine…
My thoughts grew wings and flew
to a time back into eternity.
I had been happy – both with
intoxication and sex,
the pretty girl with no name
had been willing to engage, willing
to experiment.
If only I had taken the pillow
from her ecstatic mouth
one moment, one nanosecond
earlier…
I had fled the scene of my crimes, but not before,
a horrific thought had consumed
my unaware mind like cancer
and I had carried on my acts long
after the corpse had grown cold.
Then guilt.
I had thrashed through the surrounding
shrubbery
completely
disorientated
until somehow I had found
this ideal setting,
a place to wait for my mind
to catch up completely,
a place to gather thoughts like
fruit from the numerous
laden trees that made up
the prison like border of the clearing.
I put my hands to my face
and found to my surprise
I no longer had hands – now
I owned two large paws.
Greyish brown fur
grew like tussock
choking any uncovered skin
suffocating any ounce
of hand I once had…
My tall boots, which I had
not laced when I had made
haste from the cottage,
slipped slowly and achingly
from my feet.
Oh horrors!!
My once upon a time feet were
now raven’s claws,
large and obese
and glistening in the starlight.
I could feel scales
growing one by one
on my flabby stomach,
taking over the ample belly
that too much beer
had created.
Madness gripped my soul.
I tried to scream
but a snarl erupted from
my wolf mouth.
My hawk eyes now scanned
the piles of rotting
carcasses.
With my new powerful sight
I could make out
very, very, clearly the
bodies of the sunken, shrunken,
animals.
They resembled me…
Revelation dawned
like a clash of one thousand
cymbals.
I was cursed to die.
You see, everyone must pay
for their crimes, and
this place was where
my sentence was to be
served, as others before me.
Soon I too would be a dead creature
slowly rotting around a natural bench
in a small geometric clearing.
THE END.
Written sometime in January, 1996, while travelling through Turkey and Syria. Why? Who knows.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Saturday, 25 October 2008
all shit.
By D. Jonas Laurence
It’s all shit. What I write. It’s all shit. This computer is shit. Made from shit. The sky outside is shit. My tea is shit. My fingers are shit. My balls are shit. My eyes are shit my shit is shit. It’s all shit. This shit computer makes all the letters big in all the right places, which is shit. I wanted to write all in small letters but it won’t let me. Which is shit. I wanted it to look like charles bukowski writing on a typewriter drinking a beer or a cheap wine but it won’t let me. And besides I have to go to work. He didn’t. he would quit. Cos he had balls.
My balls are shit. I already told you. My job is shit. It is like I am swimming in a sea of shit and I am breathing in great big gulps of shit and it tastes terrible. Like shit. And what can I write that is not all shit. Bullshit. Horseshit. Flyshit. Birdshit. Dogshit. What can I write? That is real? Not stories about huge tits. Or murdering kebab shop owners. Or giving birth to miniature calves from your ass. That is all shit.
Stories of secret societies controlled by the devil? Shit.
A guy getting his arm cut off and then a leg of lamb gets reattached there by a drunk surgeon? Shit.
Monkeys eating rotten mangoes and getting drunk before being shot into space? Shit.
Men that smoke a special plant and turn into potatoes? What the fuck is that? Shit.
A pizza shop that sells pizzas with human toppings? Shit.
Meeting Kurt Cobain in a pub in Doncaster after he is dead. Being served beer by Janis Joplin? Shit.
A band of vampires who are looking for a drummer? What? Shit.
A man who is afraid to shit when his girlfriend is around? And she won’t leave and he goes mad and shits on her chest? Obviously shit. The story is even called Shit Happens. Cos it is shit.
What else?
A Scottish father trying to impress their son’s friend by catching fish, catches the Loch Ness Monster? What the fuck? Shit.
A talking pimple?
Boils that start to cover a man’s body?
Two demon dogs that can only be seen when you drink a certain patch of home-made whiskey?
A creature made from all the waste that goes down the shower plughole?
A man who goes to Burger King only to be turned into a burger himself?
A man who spits so much that he disappears?
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
What is the point? What are all these stupid things that I write? They are shit. They are imaginary shit, which is even worse. They are not even real shit. They are worthless pieces of fake shit floating around making my eyes water with the stench.
They are nothing.
They are a vacuum.
They are a vacuum cleaner filled with diarrhoea.
They are pieces of a puzzle and the answer is simply shit.
They are all shit.
Like me.
Like you.
Like going to work on an afternoon when you could be sitting at home writing on your shit computer trying to write like bukowski but instead writing stupid stories that are shit like the one about the guy who discovers a website about himself and doesn’t know who is writing it and it starts to tell him the future and then it all goes wrong, of course, and it all turns out shit…
But it is still fun somehow.
It is still okay.
To write shit.
Cos probably no one will read it anyway…
THE SHIT END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
It’s all shit. What I write. It’s all shit. This computer is shit. Made from shit. The sky outside is shit. My tea is shit. My fingers are shit. My balls are shit. My eyes are shit my shit is shit. It’s all shit. This shit computer makes all the letters big in all the right places, which is shit. I wanted to write all in small letters but it won’t let me. Which is shit. I wanted it to look like charles bukowski writing on a typewriter drinking a beer or a cheap wine but it won’t let me. And besides I have to go to work. He didn’t. he would quit. Cos he had balls.
My balls are shit. I already told you. My job is shit. It is like I am swimming in a sea of shit and I am breathing in great big gulps of shit and it tastes terrible. Like shit. And what can I write that is not all shit. Bullshit. Horseshit. Flyshit. Birdshit. Dogshit. What can I write? That is real? Not stories about huge tits. Or murdering kebab shop owners. Or giving birth to miniature calves from your ass. That is all shit.
Stories of secret societies controlled by the devil? Shit.
A guy getting his arm cut off and then a leg of lamb gets reattached there by a drunk surgeon? Shit.
Monkeys eating rotten mangoes and getting drunk before being shot into space? Shit.
Men that smoke a special plant and turn into potatoes? What the fuck is that? Shit.
A pizza shop that sells pizzas with human toppings? Shit.
Meeting Kurt Cobain in a pub in Doncaster after he is dead. Being served beer by Janis Joplin? Shit.
A band of vampires who are looking for a drummer? What? Shit.
A man who is afraid to shit when his girlfriend is around? And she won’t leave and he goes mad and shits on her chest? Obviously shit. The story is even called Shit Happens. Cos it is shit.
What else?
A Scottish father trying to impress their son’s friend by catching fish, catches the Loch Ness Monster? What the fuck? Shit.
A talking pimple?
Boils that start to cover a man’s body?
Two demon dogs that can only be seen when you drink a certain patch of home-made whiskey?
A creature made from all the waste that goes down the shower plughole?
A man who goes to Burger King only to be turned into a burger himself?
A man who spits so much that he disappears?
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
What is the point? What are all these stupid things that I write? They are shit. They are imaginary shit, which is even worse. They are not even real shit. They are worthless pieces of fake shit floating around making my eyes water with the stench.
They are nothing.
They are a vacuum.
They are a vacuum cleaner filled with diarrhoea.
They are pieces of a puzzle and the answer is simply shit.
They are all shit.
Like me.
Like you.
Like going to work on an afternoon when you could be sitting at home writing on your shit computer trying to write like bukowski but instead writing stupid stories that are shit like the one about the guy who discovers a website about himself and doesn’t know who is writing it and it starts to tell him the future and then it all goes wrong, of course, and it all turns out shit…
But it is still fun somehow.
It is still okay.
To write shit.
Cos probably no one will read it anyway…
THE SHIT END.
Monday, 30 June 2008
A CONVERSATION WITH KURT COBAIN.
A CONVERSATION WITH KURT COBAIN.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My conversation with Kurt Cobain was very interesting for numerous reasons.
One, he was very eloquent.
Two, he spoke about things that interest me greatly.
Three, he had been dead for at least nine or ten years.
I was in Doncaster (of all places) for work. I sold piping for bathroom hand-basins. It was supposed to be rewarding work. That’s what I read on the prospectus. That’s what I signed up for. That is what I needed, but that was not what I got.
Although I am not saying that the job came without a sense of accomplishment.
A sense of fulfilment. Because it did. Sometimes.
I especially felt a sense of well being when I sold a length of piping to some old dear who desperately needed new pipes. It made my day a little lighter. A little breezier. A little sweeter. A little less hard to deal with.
This is what went down.
I happened upon a little pub. The White Elephant. I did not know which part of Doncaster I was in; only that it was an extremely run-down area – spotty youths milling around kicking broken bottles like the footballs that they could never afford, vans and cars propped up on logs and crates waiting for new tyres that would never come, old people smelling like shit wearing old raincoats and worn shoes even though it was summertime and the heat during the day was scalding (pavement marbling and warping in the harshness).
Anyway, I was finished for the day. Slammed doors echoing in my recent memory like reoccurring nightmares. The word “No.” caught in my head like a crappy pop song.
I was beat. Tired. Rundown. Ground under the foot of society like a piece of dog-turd. The collar of my shirt wet with sweat. I needed a pint. Desperately.
So I found The White Elephant. I had parked my van a couple of blocks away. Near the decrepit hotel in which I was booked for the night. I had stumbled down the baking tarmac, not knowing whether it was food or beverage I was seeking, until I had seen the sign:
The White Elephant.
And I took it as a sign. For I love elephants. They are so gray. And big. And strong. And never forget. And find their way to elephant graveyards to die…even though they have never been there before. They also have massive penises. And love but one partner in a lifetime. They are also the only other animal, other than humans of course, that cries actual tears. If a member of an elephant family dies then the other surviving members mourn and grieve…and cry. Unreal. Amazing. I love elephants.
So when I saw the sign I decided that it was beverage that I sought. Food could wait. A place like this was sure to have a fried chicken place, or a kebab shop, or a petrol station with microwaveable pasties.
So I went into The White Elephant.
I sat at the bar. I ordered a pint of lager. I was served the pint by a woman who had crazy red-brown hair and wore blue hippy glasses. She looked somehow familiar.
“Thanks.” I said.
I was glad to be in the cool interior of the pub.
The last rays of sun steamed through the dirty windows and illuminated the dust particles like diamonds floating on a magic breeze.
I took out a smoke (this was in the times when you were still allowed to smoke in pubs and bars). I searched in my pockets for a lighter. I couldn’t find my lighter! Agitation crept into my mind like a ghost into a locked room.
Damn! I had left my lighter in old Mrs. Winthrop’s’ living room. When we had smoked and drank tea and ate biscuits earlier…and she had not wanted new pipes.
The memory rankled me.
“Do you want a light?” A voice beside me asked.
“Here.” A small, skinny, pale, anaemic, hand popped into my periphery, holding a lighter.
Click. A small flame shot from it.
I put my cigarette in my mouth and lowered my head to the flame. I inhaled.
“Thanks.” I said as I exhaled a cloud of smoke that looked like a Hiroshima cloud in the sunrays. I turned to nod my thanks again.
And Kurt Cobain was sitting beside me.
He said:
“No problem. I hate it when you lose your lighter. It’s like losing a part of your soul.”
I nodded agreement. Dumbstruck.
Kurt was wearing jeans, Chuck Taylor’s (both fashionably worn), an op-shop shirt and a ragged gray cardigan. I couldn’t help but think that the cardigan was elephant gray.
I was sure that Kurt had not been sitting there when I had sat down.
He said:
“You okay buddy?” lighting a smoke himself, “you look like you seen a ghost.”
He said:
“Sometimes the mind is a battlefield. We fight fear and sadness daily.”
I took a big drink from my lager. I felt confused. It all seemed surreal and yet too real at the same time. I felt like the ping of a crystal glass. A strange cutting note in a surrounding noise of dogs barking and horns blasting. I felt like a lighthouse in a storm, light cutting through the darkness and danger. I thought maybe I was delirious. Or dreaming. I looked at Kurt Cobain. He was drinking a pint of bitter while smoking his cigarette.
He said:
“What exactly is reality?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, still reeling, “I mean does anyone know what reality is?”
He said:
“Someone dying of cancer probably knows reality better than you or me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
The bar formed three sides of a square with the back wall, loaded with shelves of liquor bottles, forming the fourth side. We sat on the right side of the bar.
Across, opposite from where we sat, a skinny man with lanky hair and round spectacles sat drinking and staring into space. The pub continued further back behind him and I could see a small stage near the rear. Tables were scattered around the stage. The skinny man also looked somehow familiar.
I ordered another pint of lager from the barwoman in the blue hippy glasses. I tried to think from where I knew her.
Kurt Cobain had finished his bitter and I asked if he wanted another.
He said:
“Sometimes buying someone a beer is like giving them a well-needed hug.”
I took this as affirmative. I bought him a pint of bitter.
He said:
“Thanks man.”
“Cheers.” I said and we tapped glasses. We drank in silence for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head. I couldn’t.
At one of the tables near the stage two men were drinking beer and shots of vodka. One man was small with floppy hair, the other was larger with a black hair and beard. They were being quite loud but no one seemed to notice. Or care.
Kurt noticed me watching them.
He said:
“Some people are destined to make the same mistakes for eternity.”
I didn’t have a clue what he meant. So I nodded. And took a gulp of lager.
He said:
“Life is like a box of chocolates…no I think someone already said that,”
He paused and took another sip of bitter before looking at me with his crystal blue eyes; eyes that contained so much hurt and sadness that I felt that I would break down and start weeping.
He said:
“No, life is like a scab that you keep on picking. And you never know what is going to come out. Blood. Pus. Fluid. Nothing. You never know.”
And he nodded to himself as if he were happy with his observation and took another drink.
I took another drink as well.
And we sat there and drank together and I talked to Kurt Cobain. We drank more beer. We drank a shot of whiskey each, Glenmorangie, and we talked some more. About everything and anything. About life. About death. About the meaning of it all. And finally it all became clear to me.
And I looked around the pub and knew the wisdom of the stars that burn out in the sky.
And Janis Joplin continued to serve us beer forever. And John Lennon sat across from us staring at something forever. And Keith Moon and John Bonham drank more vodka and got louder and louder and crazier and crazier forever.
And finally Jimi Hendrix stepped onto the small stage at the back of the pub. And Jim Morrison came out of the toilet and joined him. And then they started playing.
And they played for what seemed like an eternity.
THE END.
Author’s Note: Certain ideas in this terribly pointless story are stolen from ideas created by my mate Gaz and his mate Johnny for their play titled “Jim And Jimi Are Alive And Well And Living In A Rundown Flat in Doncaster”. I am sure that their play is going to be a thousand times better than this is.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My conversation with Kurt Cobain was very interesting for numerous reasons.
One, he was very eloquent.
Two, he spoke about things that interest me greatly.
Three, he had been dead for at least nine or ten years.
I was in Doncaster (of all places) for work. I sold piping for bathroom hand-basins. It was supposed to be rewarding work. That’s what I read on the prospectus. That’s what I signed up for. That is what I needed, but that was not what I got.
Although I am not saying that the job came without a sense of accomplishment.
A sense of fulfilment. Because it did. Sometimes.
I especially felt a sense of well being when I sold a length of piping to some old dear who desperately needed new pipes. It made my day a little lighter. A little breezier. A little sweeter. A little less hard to deal with.
This is what went down.
I happened upon a little pub. The White Elephant. I did not know which part of Doncaster I was in; only that it was an extremely run-down area – spotty youths milling around kicking broken bottles like the footballs that they could never afford, vans and cars propped up on logs and crates waiting for new tyres that would never come, old people smelling like shit wearing old raincoats and worn shoes even though it was summertime and the heat during the day was scalding (pavement marbling and warping in the harshness).
Anyway, I was finished for the day. Slammed doors echoing in my recent memory like reoccurring nightmares. The word “No.” caught in my head like a crappy pop song.
I was beat. Tired. Rundown. Ground under the foot of society like a piece of dog-turd. The collar of my shirt wet with sweat. I needed a pint. Desperately.
So I found The White Elephant. I had parked my van a couple of blocks away. Near the decrepit hotel in which I was booked for the night. I had stumbled down the baking tarmac, not knowing whether it was food or beverage I was seeking, until I had seen the sign:
The White Elephant.
And I took it as a sign. For I love elephants. They are so gray. And big. And strong. And never forget. And find their way to elephant graveyards to die…even though they have never been there before. They also have massive penises. And love but one partner in a lifetime. They are also the only other animal, other than humans of course, that cries actual tears. If a member of an elephant family dies then the other surviving members mourn and grieve…and cry. Unreal. Amazing. I love elephants.
So when I saw the sign I decided that it was beverage that I sought. Food could wait. A place like this was sure to have a fried chicken place, or a kebab shop, or a petrol station with microwaveable pasties.
So I went into The White Elephant.
I sat at the bar. I ordered a pint of lager. I was served the pint by a woman who had crazy red-brown hair and wore blue hippy glasses. She looked somehow familiar.
“Thanks.” I said.
I was glad to be in the cool interior of the pub.
The last rays of sun steamed through the dirty windows and illuminated the dust particles like diamonds floating on a magic breeze.
I took out a smoke (this was in the times when you were still allowed to smoke in pubs and bars). I searched in my pockets for a lighter. I couldn’t find my lighter! Agitation crept into my mind like a ghost into a locked room.
Damn! I had left my lighter in old Mrs. Winthrop’s’ living room. When we had smoked and drank tea and ate biscuits earlier…and she had not wanted new pipes.
The memory rankled me.
“Do you want a light?” A voice beside me asked.
“Here.” A small, skinny, pale, anaemic, hand popped into my periphery, holding a lighter.
Click. A small flame shot from it.
I put my cigarette in my mouth and lowered my head to the flame. I inhaled.
“Thanks.” I said as I exhaled a cloud of smoke that looked like a Hiroshima cloud in the sunrays. I turned to nod my thanks again.
And Kurt Cobain was sitting beside me.
He said:
“No problem. I hate it when you lose your lighter. It’s like losing a part of your soul.”
I nodded agreement. Dumbstruck.
Kurt was wearing jeans, Chuck Taylor’s (both fashionably worn), an op-shop shirt and a ragged gray cardigan. I couldn’t help but think that the cardigan was elephant gray.
I was sure that Kurt had not been sitting there when I had sat down.
He said:
“You okay buddy?” lighting a smoke himself, “you look like you seen a ghost.”
He said:
“Sometimes the mind is a battlefield. We fight fear and sadness daily.”
I took a big drink from my lager. I felt confused. It all seemed surreal and yet too real at the same time. I felt like the ping of a crystal glass. A strange cutting note in a surrounding noise of dogs barking and horns blasting. I felt like a lighthouse in a storm, light cutting through the darkness and danger. I thought maybe I was delirious. Or dreaming. I looked at Kurt Cobain. He was drinking a pint of bitter while smoking his cigarette.
He said:
“What exactly is reality?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, still reeling, “I mean does anyone know what reality is?”
He said:
“Someone dying of cancer probably knows reality better than you or me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
The bar formed three sides of a square with the back wall, loaded with shelves of liquor bottles, forming the fourth side. We sat on the right side of the bar.
Across, opposite from where we sat, a skinny man with lanky hair and round spectacles sat drinking and staring into space. The pub continued further back behind him and I could see a small stage near the rear. Tables were scattered around the stage. The skinny man also looked somehow familiar.
I ordered another pint of lager from the barwoman in the blue hippy glasses. I tried to think from where I knew her.
Kurt Cobain had finished his bitter and I asked if he wanted another.
He said:
“Sometimes buying someone a beer is like giving them a well-needed hug.”
I took this as affirmative. I bought him a pint of bitter.
He said:
“Thanks man.”
“Cheers.” I said and we tapped glasses. We drank in silence for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head. I couldn’t.
At one of the tables near the stage two men were drinking beer and shots of vodka. One man was small with floppy hair, the other was larger with a black hair and beard. They were being quite loud but no one seemed to notice. Or care.
Kurt noticed me watching them.
He said:
“Some people are destined to make the same mistakes for eternity.”
I didn’t have a clue what he meant. So I nodded. And took a gulp of lager.
He said:
“Life is like a box of chocolates…no I think someone already said that,”
He paused and took another sip of bitter before looking at me with his crystal blue eyes; eyes that contained so much hurt and sadness that I felt that I would break down and start weeping.
He said:
“No, life is like a scab that you keep on picking. And you never know what is going to come out. Blood. Pus. Fluid. Nothing. You never know.”
And he nodded to himself as if he were happy with his observation and took another drink.
I took another drink as well.
And we sat there and drank together and I talked to Kurt Cobain. We drank more beer. We drank a shot of whiskey each, Glenmorangie, and we talked some more. About everything and anything. About life. About death. About the meaning of it all. And finally it all became clear to me.
And I looked around the pub and knew the wisdom of the stars that burn out in the sky.
And Janis Joplin continued to serve us beer forever. And John Lennon sat across from us staring at something forever. And Keith Moon and John Bonham drank more vodka and got louder and louder and crazier and crazier forever.
And finally Jimi Hendrix stepped onto the small stage at the back of the pub. And Jim Morrison came out of the toilet and joined him. And then they started playing.
And they played for what seemed like an eternity.
THE END.
Author’s Note: Certain ideas in this terribly pointless story are stolen from ideas created by my mate Gaz and his mate Johnny for their play titled “Jim And Jimi Are Alive And Well And Living In A Rundown Flat in Doncaster”. I am sure that their play is going to be a thousand times better than this is.
Thursday, 11 October 2007
PISSING IN MONTPELLIER
I was recently in the south of France watching Fiji narrowly miss defeating Australia in the pool stages of the rugby world cup. I went swimming in a freezing cold lake in the countryside and ended up getting a chill in my organs that are related to the act of peeing. It was a nightmare, needing to go for a pee every five minutes, sometimes less...this is my true account of the horror, the horror...
Pissing in Montpellier.
Pissing in alleyways like a feral cat.
Pissing on tree trunks like a mangy mutt.
Pissing on churches like a Satanist.
Pissing in hospital carparks like a junkie escaped from rehab.
Pissing my life, my soul, my energy, through the thin tube of my prick.
Crying and howling to God for a moment's respite, a moment's peace, from the endless flood of piss squirting out of me.
I walk - the tram is a nightmare where I must tie my cock in two by placing my hands in my pockets like some sort of pervert - I walk and piss and moan to the heavens. I walk and piss on punks who ask me for cigarettes.
I walk and piss on young Arabs playing football on the street; kicking their ball into my piss-dribbling man-hood.
I piss in bakeries.
On the croissants.
On the pain au chocolat.
On the quiches.
I piss on the rugby fans all wearing gold jerseys. I piss in the face of the moon.
Going crazy am I.
Unable to stop pissing.
I get closer to the main square - thousands of people milling about, drinking - I pull out my pecker (it is blistered from too much use) and unleash a torrent, a biblical flood, of infected piss.
I scream, I curse, and I piss everyone away.
I piss the kebab shops and cafes away.
I piss the supermarche away.
I piss the piss-poor French beer away.
I piss the useless French railway system and lazy workers away.
I piss everything away.
I piss the main square of Montpellier away.
I piss the ghettoes out near the stadium away.
I piss the churches and the parks and the punks and the quiches away.
I piss footballs and rugby balls away.
I piss Montpellier away.
Drowned in a sea of yellow.
Washed away in a wave of urine.
I piss it all away.
And then I stop. I shake myself and put myself away. I zip myself up.
I smile to myself.
And then my smile turns on itself like a rabid animal.
For I have just realised...
Already...
I need another piss.
THE END.
Pissing in Montpellier.
Pissing in alleyways like a feral cat.
Pissing on tree trunks like a mangy mutt.
Pissing on churches like a Satanist.
Pissing in hospital carparks like a junkie escaped from rehab.
Pissing my life, my soul, my energy, through the thin tube of my prick.
Crying and howling to God for a moment's respite, a moment's peace, from the endless flood of piss squirting out of me.
I walk - the tram is a nightmare where I must tie my cock in two by placing my hands in my pockets like some sort of pervert - I walk and piss and moan to the heavens. I walk and piss on punks who ask me for cigarettes.
I walk and piss on young Arabs playing football on the street; kicking their ball into my piss-dribbling man-hood.
I piss in bakeries.
On the croissants.
On the pain au chocolat.
On the quiches.
I piss on the rugby fans all wearing gold jerseys. I piss in the face of the moon.
Going crazy am I.
Unable to stop pissing.
I get closer to the main square - thousands of people milling about, drinking - I pull out my pecker (it is blistered from too much use) and unleash a torrent, a biblical flood, of infected piss.
I scream, I curse, and I piss everyone away.
I piss the kebab shops and cafes away.
I piss the supermarche away.
I piss the piss-poor French beer away.
I piss the useless French railway system and lazy workers away.
I piss everything away.
I piss the main square of Montpellier away.
I piss the ghettoes out near the stadium away.
I piss the churches and the parks and the punks and the quiches away.
I piss footballs and rugby balls away.
I piss Montpellier away.
Drowned in a sea of yellow.
Washed away in a wave of urine.
I piss it all away.
And then I stop. I shake myself and put myself away. I zip myself up.
I smile to myself.
And then my smile turns on itself like a rabid animal.
For I have just realised...
Already...
I need another piss.
THE END.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
My New Website...
Yo - check out my new website, it's pretty crappy at the moment (maybe should be web-shite?) but anyway there are somethings if you are bored working real jobs...unlike me who is just selling his soul (and his health) just for money...don't know where that bit of anger come from...but anyway here is the webshite address:
djlaurence.net
djlaurence.net
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Brain Cells.
BRAIN CELLS.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My brain cells are gone
along with the dodo and the sabre-toothed tiger,
the moa and the mammoth
gone to ends of the universe to be bounced off the
nothingness
passing by comets and star clusters
and black holes and planets
witnesses to amazing beauty
witnesses to amazing secrets
witnesses to vast stores of knowledge
holders of all the answers
to all the questions
that we have ever asked
when we have been drunk beneath the heavens
looking to the sky
while drinking yet another beer
and paradoxically killing more brain cells
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
My brain cells are gone
along with the dodo and the sabre-toothed tiger,
the moa and the mammoth
gone to ends of the universe to be bounced off the
nothingness
passing by comets and star clusters
and black holes and planets
witnesses to amazing beauty
witnesses to amazing secrets
witnesses to vast stores of knowledge
holders of all the answers
to all the questions
that we have ever asked
when we have been drunk beneath the heavens
looking to the sky
while drinking yet another beer
and paradoxically killing more brain cells
THE END.
Old Man.
OLD MAN.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
There’s an old guy who walks up and down the beach selling grapes and slices of juicy honeydew melon. Up and down he goes in the shimmering heat – the sand is too hot to walk on, for me, yet he wears no shoes at all. The pads of his feet are hard like leather.
He has a large scar that runs from his thigh down across the knee and onto the top of his shin. I wonder how he got that scar.
Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I saw him leaving the beach with two other Greek men….in a boat. He was rowing.
Here on the beach he works from a cave that is cut into the side of the volcanic cliff that rises behind the sand of the beach. The cliff is terracotta red.
Today the old man saw us drinking a bottle of wine and when the bottle was empty and lying in the sand, he came over to us and asked if we would like some more wine. He said that what we had just drunk had “too many shemicals” – that was how he said chemicals, shemicals. His wine did not have any shemicals; he squeezed the grapes himself with those leather feet of his. He stamped the sand to demonstrate.
He left his two baskets of fruit lying in front of us and ambled back to his cave with our empty bottle. He returned some moments later with the bottle full of homemade resina – very strong he explained.
As I write this, listening to the constant crash of the surf upon the beach, he has just approached us again and given us a free shot of his resina – and tried to sell us some grapes as well, of course.
After we drink his wine we will have “many, many sex, ha ha”
But then off he goes, back up the beach with his voice echoing in the cove, selling his melons and grapes the same as he has always does for how long I can only guess.
It’s time to go now, and get some late lunch from somewhere, ride our slow little motor scooter in the breeze. But still I wonder, as we pack up our books and towels and tramp away from the cave cut in the cliff, away from the pounding waves, along the hot sand in our expensive sandals, still I wonder... just how did he get that scar on his knee?
I bet that that is an interesting story.
THE END.
Santorini, October, 2000
By D. Jonas Laurence.
There’s an old guy who walks up and down the beach selling grapes and slices of juicy honeydew melon. Up and down he goes in the shimmering heat – the sand is too hot to walk on, for me, yet he wears no shoes at all. The pads of his feet are hard like leather.
He has a large scar that runs from his thigh down across the knee and onto the top of his shin. I wonder how he got that scar.
Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I saw him leaving the beach with two other Greek men….in a boat. He was rowing.
Here on the beach he works from a cave that is cut into the side of the volcanic cliff that rises behind the sand of the beach. The cliff is terracotta red.
Today the old man saw us drinking a bottle of wine and when the bottle was empty and lying in the sand, he came over to us and asked if we would like some more wine. He said that what we had just drunk had “too many shemicals” – that was how he said chemicals, shemicals. His wine did not have any shemicals; he squeezed the grapes himself with those leather feet of his. He stamped the sand to demonstrate.
He left his two baskets of fruit lying in front of us and ambled back to his cave with our empty bottle. He returned some moments later with the bottle full of homemade resina – very strong he explained.
As I write this, listening to the constant crash of the surf upon the beach, he has just approached us again and given us a free shot of his resina – and tried to sell us some grapes as well, of course.
After we drink his wine we will have “many, many sex, ha ha”
But then off he goes, back up the beach with his voice echoing in the cove, selling his melons and grapes the same as he has always does for how long I can only guess.
It’s time to go now, and get some late lunch from somewhere, ride our slow little motor scooter in the breeze. But still I wonder, as we pack up our books and towels and tramp away from the cave cut in the cliff, away from the pounding waves, along the hot sand in our expensive sandals, still I wonder... just how did he get that scar on his knee?
I bet that that is an interesting story.
THE END.
Santorini, October, 2000
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