What’s that puddle?

Which one?

Near the couch.

Closest to the door?

No, other end.

Nothing of note.

...

Hey?

...

It’s on my mind

What?

The puddle.

What about it?

I want to know what it is?

Why?

Because you didn't tell me.

I also didn't tell you what I had for breakfast either.

It’s different.

How?

Look, what does it look like?

It's too dark in here to see...

It’s barely lunchtime, maybe you need glasses?

...

It's not what I think it is?

WH-

Last time, I swear.

What?

That. It’s not what think it is, is it?

I don’t know what you’re thinking it is.

How could you not know?

I’m not you.

...

Is it semen?

That's what you thought it was? Man! How big do you think my testicles are?

What do you mean?

No man could produce enough semen to achieve a puddle of that diameter.

I reckon I could.

Glad you’ve got a sense of humour, considering.

So then what is it?

Jesus!

What’s the big deal?

If I tell you, will you go to bed after?

I’ll go to bed if you tell me.

That’s what I said.

That’s what you said.

...

So?

Okay, it’s blood.

It is not.

Okay, it’s not.

Thank god.

...

You’re just fucking with me right?

I thought we had an agreement.

I’m going, I’m going.. But you are messing around right?

No, It is blood.

What type of blood?

I didn’t happen to get a chance to check.

I mean which animals’ blood?

A human animal.

Okay this is getting stale, I’m over it. Night.

...

Thought you were going to bed

I am. I just need you to tell me you were kidding, I know it’s stupid, but I just need to hear it so I can stop thinking…

I’m not kidding man, I don’t know what to tell you.

Whose?

Sorry?

Whose blood?

Why?

Can you stop this please?

Well, I don’t see how telling you is going to help you.

Telling me? You’re adamant that that huge territory there, that’s all blood?

Yes.

Did the person die?

No.

After losing all that blood?

No, they’re still alive.

Are they in hospital?

Nope.

Where are they?

.....

Did I just drift off?

A little bit.

I still want to know whose blood it is.

Yeah, I imagine you would.

Oh you do, do you?

Well, I guess I would too, if I was in your position.

Why the change of tune?

Because it’s around that time?

Time to tell me?

I forgot, what was the question again?

I’m at the end of my tether, seriously.

That you are, that you are.

Okay, that’s it, I’m going to sleep.

No no, I’m kidding, I can tell you now.

You’re annoying.

I know I am.

Even more annoying cause you’ve got the upper hand in this situation.

I know I do.

If our roles were reversed, I would... would have ...

You’re falling asleep.

no I...

Yes you are. But, just to put your mind at ease

hmmpphhh…..ye…

That puddle...

uhuhm...

It’s yours.

terra incognita sui generis (an unknown land of on one's own kind)

That's not your real laugh...

'Oh, shit.'
'What?'
'Damn. I forgot about tomorrow...'
'As far as I know it comes after today'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup.

'I cheated on you.'
'What? I don't believe this!'
'Are you calling me a liar?'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup.

'So, you guys are still as in love as you were all those years ago?'
'Well, we still sleep in the same bed.'
'Yes, but never at the same time.'

Wup wup wup wup wup, wup. (Get off the stage!)

I suggest we have a Fake- Laugh Free Day. Once a year.

AAAAAAAA-FIB! (bless you)

After visiting my blog on a computer other than my own, it was disconcerting that an exact months worth of posts were missing. I returned to my computer, visited again, and wouldn't you know it - an exact months worth of posts were missing. Everything between 27th of March and 27 of April dissapeared. I remembered that 40 members of an American cult killed themselves on this day in 1997, apparently in the belief that they were going to link up with a UFO near the comet Hale-Bopp. The two are most likely unrelated.

I briefly considered it to be a sign, probably from M. Night Shyamalan (born John Smith)...

It's a darn shame. Losing all those posts. And - SwedaGawd! - they were brilliant posts. Better than anything on the blog now. I showed four separate publishing bodies who happened to be walking down my street, and they were ready to sign me up - purely based on these missing posts. I should have used Marcrohard Word first. Why didn't I write them in Macrohard word, first?

Sigh. I'm boring myself.

'Ridin' Under the Night 'OR 'Exercises in Bullshit'[verse one]

O!
Today - leagues after bronzewheat and bucknalls,
sackwranglers and edgeropers knock clogs,
afoul o' the law; hitched on either crease at the molten mouth
of that bulging [mammary] gland of a rockcone
which shifts like a merchant turtle on that there horizon -
finestretched behind them
at the northernmost side of their pointy mash of shadows.
One spritely hairchest
with his gunstick sheathed in yellowscratch cowhide,
took a broadstroke at the quo in an attempt at multidirection
by both edgeroping and sackwrangling for the moment,
without either side knowing -
It is my duty to send word to all who'll listen,
To any man, come rusty spoils or weights of time,
keenest of bicep or seed of chivalry - make haste!
Run the course of all means to this rockcone,
and put this feud to bed.

sometimes you've gotta think about those things

come lay down to
detailed ceilings / lest we untangle our mainframes / warm blankets wrapped ‘round empires / calm bedtime story

cut up the flanks / stick them to one another / child-like assemblage

hangover head compartments /a steward with a headspin /
buttons and lights in now defunct skies

fluff in your ears / wind pull back / don’t finish sentence, finish prayer / I haven’t the stomach for it

The Amazing Adventures of W.R.Greg

Weirdly Raised Greg enters Salad-To-The-Future, a shiny new one-off on the fast food strip. He stands before a 24 panel menu full of salad (and salad related) innovation. One salad contains braised beef and white chocolate. From the connoisseur to the casual, Salad-To-The-Future promises to mesmerise everyone with it’s abundance of choice. Well, not everyone. They can’t make that promise to Weirdly Raised Greg, but then again, I guess, what can we expect, he is -Weirdly Raised Greg.

“I’d like a medium Green Salad without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t mind trying any of our subatomic salads? You get unlimited free soft drink if you buy the Large size.’
‘No please and thankyou’s. I’d like the medium Green Salad without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.
‘Okay.’
‘Please and thankyou’s’
‘I gotta say. There’s really not much to a Green Salad without lettuce.’
‘It’s just the way I like it.’
‘Ok. So that’ll be $6.50, anything else’
‘Hang on, where’s the beetroot?’
‘You want beetroot? You didn’t say anything about beetroot?’
‘Yes, Please and Thankyou’s. Beetroot.’
‘Okay.’
‘Hang on, that’s not Beetroot.’
‘What’s not beetroot, Sir?’
‘What you’re about to add to my salad. It’s not beetroot.’
‘Well, what is it then?’
‘It’s a carrot.’
‘Sir, I have to tell you. This is not a carrot - this is a carrot.’
‘That’s not a carrot, that’s a tomato.’
‘So what are these red things already in the salad salad?’
‘They’re angel hearts.’
‘Angel hearts. And this one?’
‘That’s a foetus.’
‘Sir, that's a pineapple, and I’m sorry, but that’s all kinds of messed up.’
‘I’ll just take my Green Salad, without lettuce, please and thankyou’s.’
‘But, with beetroot?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Okay. Can you please point to the beetroot for me?’
‘Sure. That one’
‘This one, second from the bottom?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘The crispy, leafy, green stuff?’
‘Yes, please and thankyou’s.’
‘Yeah please and fuckyou. That’s LETTUCE. That’s FUCKING LETTUCE. Steve, I’m sorry I can’t take another one of these fucking customers. It’s digging right through my ears and into my brain. You hear that you please and thankyou motherfucker? RIGHT through my ears, and INTO my BRAIN. I’m sorry Steve, I don’t mean to swear in your store. I just can’t do this anymore.’
(She cries all the way to the cupboard, grabs her bag, then cries all the way out the door).

With the over abundance of technology, it’s easy for us to close off and avoid confrontation. We can avoid confronting issues of poverty, intolerance, starvation. We can avoid the proximity of the spruiker or beggar. We can avoid our family and our friends, even avoid our own selves. But no matter where we are or what we do, no matter how much we try, no matter how much it breaks us down, there is nothing on God/Allah/Yahweh/Vishnu/Bruce Springsteen’s green earth that we can do to avoid a confrontation with Weirdly Raised Greg. And if he knew I was saying that he’d probably moisturise the sandpaper*. But then again, I guess, what can we expect, he is Weirdly Raised Greg.

“To moisturise the sandpaper = to feel validated.’

(‘The Weirdly Raised Greg dictionary’ was not released in early March and is not available at all leading bookshops. It has not been compiled by the renowned academic (and Professor of linguistics at La Strobe University) F.David.Monahan, and doesn’t contain a foreword by both Matt Groening and his Holiness the Dalai Lama. It is not selling for $28.95.)

Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

'It's been a while.'
'Yes. That is definitely what it's been.'
'Coming to my birthday party tomorrow night?'
'No I'm not coming to your "birthday party"', I'm having my own party."
'On the same night? Isn't your birthday in June?'
'It's not a "birthday party".'
'When did you decide to do that?'
'Ages ago."
'And will you be celebrating anything at this party?'
'Yes. As if I wouldn't.'
'Well? Go on then?'
'It's World Bird Day tomorrow.'
'World what day? I've never heard of it.'
'Yeah. I wouldn't imagine someone like you would have.'
'Very funny. What exactly does it entail?'
'Jeez (sigh), okay. It's run by the World Bird Association. They strive to protect birds from bone weakening chemicals that are sprayed on crops.'
'Bone weakening chemicals?'
'Yes. They weaken the bones'
'And the birds spend a lot of time hanging out in crops do they?'
'They're attracted to the chemicals. They find them sweet.'
'Do you know which chemicals?'
'Ah. I wanna say something that ends with -opan. Tamoxopan, Mepescopan, Diprosopan? definitely an -apan'
'Interesting. They sound more like anti-depressants. So, this party, this would be your World Bird Day party?'
'Yes. Everyone is going to be there.'
'Well, I think most people we know are coming to mine. I sent the invites out two months ago, and most have RSVP'd.'
'No, I mean like, other, people, people that you don't know.'
'Okay. I'll take your word for it. Can I ask. You were the only one who didn't RSVP....'
'You have to receive an invite in order to RSVP.'
'I sent you an invite.'
'What? I didn't get it.'
'Well I sent it.'
'Well i didn't get it.'
'Well, I sent it.'
'Well I didn't get it.'
'Well, are you going to stop being a dickhead and just come to my fucking party?'
'I can't. I'm already having a party?'
'Yes. A Bird Day party. It was the first thing that came into your head - and the only reason it came into your head because it sounded like Birthday Party!'
'The people at the World Bird Association would turn over in their graves.'
'They're dead?'
'Oh, no no. Is that what that expression means? I just meant they'd be really pissed off.'
'Fuck you man. Why don't you want to come to my fucking party? Some friend.'
'Now, I am friend to the bird. And only to the bird.'
'Are you high?'
'Yes.'
'So you made that whole thing up?'
'Yes.'
'And you're pissed off at me because you think I didn't invite you and due to being high and irrational you've taken to a weird way of venting that anger?'
'Yes.'
'And you're coming to my party.'
'Yes.'
'Fuck. It's good to see you, man.'
'Happy Bird Day.'

part 2

I’d extended my visit past the initial month, now six months since I came to Conclusion, living in the north, in a considerably wealthy area called The Close (developed on an almost circle of land that protrudes from the northern coast of Conclusion). It was the home to Ulysses.B.Frank (and to his 40ft statue, both world renowned - the latter arguably more so), the father of Conclusion, who formed the Order of The Final Arrangements; twelve of the most conclusive men from all known nations, and sent each of them to an equidistant point on the Conclusion coast where they were left to build, and found, a town. The Close, was founded by Frank. His statue is visible from up here, in this attic apartment, where I write this, if I stand on my toes I can see its bottom half. Allegedly, Uly.B.Frank met his end at the end of his couch, watching the denouement of The Last Emperor with the volume turned down so he was able to listen to the outro of The Final Countdown; his wife entered the room with a basket of washing just as he happened to roll his head to the side and utter his last words: This is me in the end.

Those words have stuck with me, This is me in the end; A phrase that epitomises the essence of a local Conclusion and strengthens my love this great nation. It motivates me to be more decisive, more productive, and to work my way towards consideration for residency.

I consider myself a foregone Conclusion.

(To be concluded.)

[Also to come: ‘When I arrived at The Assumption Islands: An Unqualified Nation”]