Oh Jesus, that's awful. Near chokes me.
Choking also in her bedroom after it all. Twin Peaks paused on the laptop screen afore us. Cigarette trembling atween my fingers, and now and then from the room next door, yelps and whoops from the Spanish fella wreaking the savage havoc 'tween the thighs of the wee French lass he was courting.
"I'm sorry…" saying, and was, and am.
Dale Cooper frozen and eyeing me with the sore disgust. "Jais' but you're the right bastard."
"I couldn't do anything else, dammit."
Red room and a man stood in the middle singing "I Drove All Night" two beats out of time. 'Pon an analyst's couch a blonde-haired woman whispers "Sselb, reh sevol eh llits tub, wa."
"Course he does" spits the vagrant 'hind the drapes. "Obvious, that."
Passing the woman from the chip-shop sold me a fish supper one night I was drunk for the price of a half-dozen fireworks I had in my coat pocket, muting Cohen a moment to hear the busker on the street next the office supply shop.
Nicotine-yellowed fingers skite back and forth 'long slightly-bowed guitar neck, chasing out the frets an aching lament. Foot tapping arhythmically on the stones, he turns and gazes doe-eyed to the heavens, mouthing with gin-wizened intonation;
"Oh Kitty, my darling, remember
That the doom will be mine if I stay
T'is far better to part though it's hard to
Than to rot in their prison away…"
Parked off the motorway with hazard-lights on and radio off and windscreen wipers swishing lazily every half-dozen seconds, he turns to her and says "Aw, Kitty. So it will, but. The doom… All mine, it'll be…"
"Poor you" says she, turned away.
"You understand, though?" Tapping ash off the cigarette out the passenger window, shaking his head solemnly, words clinging to the coat-tails of the blue/grey fag-reek plume. "Mean, t'is far better to…"
"Better for who?"
"For... Mean, Mother Mercy, Kitty, to rot? To rot in their prison? Rot clean away?"
"Oh for Christ's sakes" says she, tutting. "Just get out."
Calling after her as she drives off, waving his arms frantic in the rain - "It's not you, Kitty! It's me!"
Song's end, busker looks up at me, sapphire eyes searing incandescent. "Request?" he asks.
Article comments
1 - Mat Brewster
Geezum duke, whenever I've had the break up all I do is sit in the dark room and mope with the sad songs. Here you go and write a marvelous, beautiful thing.
When you going to London?
2 - DukeDeMondo
thank you very much Sir Brewster. i was consciously avoidin sayin too much about certain things for the effect readin said things might have on certain readers (certain reads who saw this before it was published and who could have told me not to let anyone see and didn't and thank you to them also) so there was a border i couldn't cross, meanin it couldn't get excessively bogged down in self obsession to the point of removin all else. still managed to get pretty far up my arse, mind you, which is fair goin.
as to London - september. this time last year i was sayin the same thing, and part of why i didn't go then was to do with stuff to which THIS all relates. sometimes a fella might think "would it've been better to skiddadle then and save all involved this carry-on?" But no. as beautiful a year as e'er a man has spent in the company of a lass, i'd dare say.
god almighty, Sir Brewster, apologies for that excessive reply to a quite simple question...
3 - Aaron Fleming
A beautiful, poetic lament to those dark moments, those horrid instance that forever lurk in the shadows, ready to spring outward just when the joyous and wonderous state of bouyancy has been settled into, then suddenly it's ripped away with cruel lack of emotion...a kick to the gut is as inadequate an analogy as almost any articulation, but you've captured it with the most sublime eloquence. Perfect.
And commiserations with the whole horror, a terrible event it all is, for everyone involved.
4 - DukeDeMondo
sir fleming, thank you no end. bloody hell, that was altogether a beautiful thing for to think and to write and to read.
5 - Mat Brewster
Ah, but think of the glorious reunion between your fine self and Sir Fleming! The two of you in the same city again will surely unfold the mysteries of life, or at least my pernicious pancreas.
6 - Greg Smyth
Ach, how I've missed your bittersweet ramblings Sir Duke. It's only a pity what personal hell you've got to go through to churn out such sparkling prose.
7 - "Blind Dog" Fearon
Ah sir, what a piece o' literature never afore has been seen by the likes o' men. Your writing be a match for the likes o' the big men, the kerouacs, ferlinghettis, ginsbergs, hemmingways, whitmans...etc etc. you'll go far my lad, that you will...you will go far.
8 - DukeDeMondo
Sir Brewster - Myself and Sir Fleming are to be sharing a set of walls and roof, as it happens. the festivals of depravity and wonder and sittin about that will ensue... they will surely drive both of us to dementia afore year's out, God willing.
Sir Smyth - thank you very much. i think it totally accurate to prepose that, in so far as i can tell judging on what i've done during times of great distress and what i've done during times of grandest cheer - cliched as it may be - i think i need to be as miserable as is humanly possible not only to do anythin that i might consider halfways decent (not neccesarily talkin about this here, either) - but to do anythin at all. i mentioned this to you of a time and you, quite rightly, told me i was talkin nonsense. at the time i was, for i had nothin really to back up such claims. judgin on the ammount of stuff i've done the past two weeks in terms of the workrate regardin various ongoing enterprises, it's all to clear to me that the more insufferable i am to be around, the more stuff i get done that's worth the time it took to do. again, not neccesarily talkin about this particular screed, just a general observation that seems relevant given your words what you put on the screen there.
"Blind Dog" - i dunno what to say to that, sir, other than thank you. jesus oh. thank you.
9 - Jon Sobel
Oy vey, that's a mighty fine piece of prose you got there. Ach. Oy. It hurts. I need a bicarb, it's so bitter. A bicarb, I say. Ach. Oy.