SEASCAPE WITH ERRORS
SEASCAPE WITH ERRORS
SUNGLASSES WITH RADICAL IDEOLOGY
Two symbols, x and y,are located at a drivable distance of 301 miles. Neither x nor y has access to a car. Assuming that both x and y are equally attracted to each other by a factor which has diminished by n then how sad will I be once I realise I have used my brain’s potent mathematical ability at a wholly inopportune moment in time?
SEASCAPE WITH UNPLEASANT EMOTIONS
SELF PORTRAIT AS AN INFINITE AND IMPOSSIBLE TURD
within the ambient splashproof flecking
of my parents’ bathroom wall
I clearly envisage
a forked tongue hotty
hissing at me
a narrow belt
cinching in her waist.
Descending back into the water
a robed man appears
my severed toe.
If I wasn’t too cute for Freudianism
I wouldn’t be alone in bed,
the great ocean of my intellect
Coming across an injured kestrel in the road I find it hard not to immediately analyse to what degree the bird in it’s current state (a clearly injured wing, calmly depositing irregular patches of bright red blood, periodically screaming) acts as a metaphor for my own emotional state. I am reminded also of the story of the Dalai Lama who, whilst driving to his holiday cottage in Exmoor, came across a small wild horse. The pony was lying injured in the road. The monk got out of his Honda Jazz and with no further ceremony proceeded to calmly stamp upon the animal’s head.
'Anything that reduces suffering is good'
I do not feel able to treat the kestrel in the same way, mainly because the bird still possesses enough mobility to outmanoeuvre me. I am also concerned that dressed as I am in running shorts my luminously pale legs will appear to the kestrel as nothing more than a great godly gift, a final delicious meal for this brave predatory bird. As I resume my nominal jog (an attempt at exorcising the faint sense of apathy instilled within me through too many days of doing very little) I see the local postman approaching. I feel briefly overwhelmed with jealously at the thought of local newspaper headlines announcing “Local Postie Finds Feathered Friend”.
When I return home I call the RSPCA and am informed that unless I can currently see the animal they will not be able to help. I feel a great deal more satisfied with this as a metaphor for my current emotional state and hang up, sated.
The general sensation I have been experiencing for the past few weeks has been one of acting within a film. I am fairly sure that the film, which marks a departure from the emotionally intense norm for me, will flop. I am desperately eager for the denouement. I find myself increasingly questioning which exact emotional register the day should hold. I’ve begun listening to radio 3 so as to have some external force cue exactly what facial expression I should hold whilst conducting a variety of intricate and futile tasks.
I’m wandering around the back streets of Castello, having heard a rumour that Tino Seghal is premiering his new performance piece somewhere round here. I see a group of 3 hipsters and begin following them, their leader’s oversized hand-painted jumper suggesting they know were they’re going -…
SELF PORTRAIT AS ROADKILL