1. |
In The Fifth Year part 1
04:15
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In the early autumn of the fifth year of the war on everything - the party had never taken place. The costumes were purchased long ago, bunting had been hung in some parts; the food laid out - and steadily rotting.
The party had occurred, was already occurring in numerous imaginations and had been, since the intention to hold it had first been announced. Or, more accurately, since the vague aspiration to have something of the sort "when things were straight and clear" was expressed. This was seized on eagerly by minds starved of event.
Thus the party, replete with hopes, casual and planned encounters, glimpsed flesh, laughter and dancing had been happening ever since; isolated and perfect within each hospitable cranium.
It was, of course, understood that whatever the promise of these individual dream parties, however perfect in every detail and achingly fulfilled hope, none would compare to the real thing that would be experienced by all "when things were straight and clear". On that day all would come together and experience as one that epiphanic event.
However, things never quite reached that blessed state, that pitch of fulfillment. Corners were turned, to be sure; light was glimpsed every now and then, beckoning at the end of the tunnel; the margins of the woods were even discerned, but never cleared.
The party went on, in disparate minds. Detail was added to detail. Conversation built to a roar; isolated phrases replayed and polished as each actor rehearsed and perfected their desired role, achieved privately and silently. The smile, compliment, laugh or embrace that each desired from the great, deferred, event.
The banquet continued to decay. The costumes hung empty, waiting to be filled with laboured hopes.
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2. |
History Will Be My Judge
03:26
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It was a tough decision, but it was the right decision.
The cannibal, having finished his meal, sits picking his teeth
With the small bone from someone's inner ear.
Feeling pleased with himself, he addresses his remarks to the gnawed remains
Around him and permits himself the luxury of
A sentimental tear:
He addresses the bones thus:
"It's hard for me too, you know
My trouble is I'm too empathic-
I'm just too sensitive.
People think that I'm…I don't feel it
But I do.
If they just took the trouble to get to know the real me-
What I'm like deep down inside -
Then they'd see…then they'd see…"
I have the best
I have the best
The best in-
I have
The best in-
T…T…T…T
Tentions.
I have the best intentions but I'm misunderstood
. . . . .
I have the best intentions but I'm misunderstood
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3. |
In The Fifth Year part 2
05:22
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In the fifth year of the war against everything, in a darkened room, I press my lips to the weeping sores of a naked and emaciated man.
Golden pus rolls from these openings in his grey, papery skin, glowing like a second sun. Drips of it slowly slide down his flanks, his legs, catching in the hairs and clotting them with precious droplets, lustrous smears. Gold runs down his arms from the scarlet craters, and drips from his fingers. With a sound like rain, pools form on the patterned rug, and the stray ashes and crumbs scattered there become jewel-like in the reflected glow.
It is as if there is a fire in the room, or the sun, as seen through summer smog. Red shadows flicker across the walls, as he turns on the spot. The light plays across spilled ashtrays and empty beer cans. I sip at the wounds that perforate him. Gorging on what feels like warm honey that illuminates the dark caves and labyrinths within me. I will glow, too; but then there may be nothing left of him. He is melting like wax and raining onto the carpet, smiling beatifically.
I will glow- I will go outside into the grey dawn, the silence after the car alarms and sirens, before the bin lorries and post. Blood and myrrh will drip from my fingers to roll into the cracks of the pavement and scent the garbage and tiny life there. The crossing beacon that still blinks pale in the dawn will grow paler next to my corrosive radiance. A song will perch on my tongue, lately gilded by that martyr.
I shall walk to the cemetary, my skin opening at the seams like an old suit and spilling brightness. There I shall caress skulls and sing, leaving their sockets jewelled and a golden halo hanging in the air from the corruption of my breath.
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4. |
The Chariot
09:37
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One day, a young man decided to go to the city.
He prepared his chariot.
It was a beautiful chariot; it had a scarlet canopy
To protect him from the sun.
The spokes of the wheels were jewelled.
The draw-bar was gold.
And the yokes were upholstered and embroidered
With a pattern of spring flowers.
He took his horses -
And they were beautiful horses, four of them;
Strong animals - they would take him to the city
By day's end - powerful. But he was master
Of the reins and could channel their energy
Towards the horizon.
He sets out -
All is well…He sets out along the marble road
The straight marble road to the city.
All goes well…until
He stops.
Just a second's pause
A moment's hesitation - and the beautiful,
Powerful horses lie down
And putrefy under the sun.
They don't move anymore.
A second's hesitation is enough.
The horses lay down:
Hooves, manes, bridles…their strong
Purposeful bodies
Rot.
They turn to shit.
Under the hot sun
They turn to shit.
Angry, he takes his sword from its jewelled scabbard
And stabs at one -
The sword turns to shit.
The decay spreads, and then the flies come;
Buzzing like a swarm of mobile phones.
[Phone rings]
Who's that? Number withheld.
[Flies buzzing]
Ah! It's you, Sir Fly! And what news of the parish?
There's an unburied corpse by the bypass
He tastes like bacon.
They haven't emptied the bins again
By the takeaways.
In the shopping precinct
There's the vomit of a drunk.
Yummy!
Thank you for the news, Sir Fly.
The flies come and they cover the horses,
The shit horses,
In a black, buzzing shroud; iridescent
With metallic blues and bottle greens
And the blur of tiny wings.
The shroud sings
And moves.
And he stands there, with his shit sword
And looks back at his beautiful chariot:
It's been static for no time at all
But it looks like a thousand years has passed.
The axle has rotted and collapsed.
The wheels lean at drunken angles
Against the lacquered carapace,
Which is faded and blistered.
The yoke is broken.
And he sees, in the distance, the towers of the city
And knows he'll never make it there.
He feels heavy, too sluggish to move
And there's nothing to do now but lie next
To the horses.
The shit horses, in their singing shroud of flies.
He lies down, and feels his eyes
Turn to shit. His tongue and teeth,
His guts and heart.
And the flies cover him: millions of tiny mouths,
Each take away a tiny portion of what's left.
And soon there's nothing left of him and the horses
Except a smear on the marble paving.
And the chariot crumbles entirely.
Centuries pass, then. Or, perhaps, just a night.
The road is forgotten and lost under mud
And moss. There are other ways into the city now.
And from that smear of shit that was left
A forest has grown up. The city has forgotten it,
Grown outwards around it.
Busses don't stop there
And taxis avoid it
People somehow avert their gaze, without knowing,
When they pass.
The forest is full of strange birds with eyes
Like dark jewels and feathers that shine like enamel.
The trees are full of their voices. No one listens.
And the forest reeks of shit.
No one knows why - and they don't know
That they wonder why.
The smell leaks out into the streets, the factories
And supermarkets, retail parks and car parks,
Flats and houses.
It's a neighbourhood that has as its unseen centre
An unknown forest;
A locus of stench.
Occasional supplicants come, somnambulistic
With their offerings - and leave them there,
Stumbling away without a backwards glance.
Things they want to lose and not know they've lost;
Very soon forgetting that it's gone.
But the song of the strange birds
Enters their dreams at night. Their jewelled eyes
Their voices - almost articulate -
Murmuring like a storm of flies.
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5. |
July 2015
07:30
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