The trials and tribulations of a pretentious, self-obsessed, lust-stricken twentysomething, as glimpsed through the throb of pop culture.
Fate has a way of biting a fella in the ballbag, kinda bite has a fella bent double o'er the bog all screeching red-eyed at the piss-hued reflection screeching back. What the fella spits is "Damn it, hear me now, look at these knackers all chomped asunder, sayin, with the teeth-marks humming neon out the flesh, and yet fuck my eyes wi' solder if'n yonder endorphins aren't smacking my brain-wax delirious!"
What a fella finds is he meets Fate in alley-ways all broken glass flags a-flutterin' and lamp-posts bent with the heat, meets Fate and says aye, with the tweeds at the knees he says "Bite."
What he maybe says is how he's been staring at the screen for nigh on forever and nary a syllable done danced 'cross the white. What he says is he's been lost in a mind-funk, waking up at five, treading the carpet black till he feels fit for a knuckle-fuck and a couple spins of Post. He's been sleepin' two hours a night, and the dreams, oh the dreams all tartan, the dreams all ethereal collages o' photographs and postcards, stitched round faces and names and voices and eyebrows, the dreams all pleading for to be snared within paragraphs six-foot long and humming with sordid adventure and melancholy flute. What he says is "I tried, and yet no."
So bite, Fate, sharpen yonder gum-pegs on the granite thighs o' Zeus and sink those razors good and proper. For the love a God, sayin, for the sake o' the song.
And lo, words form. I woke up this evening with a paragraph lodged in the gunk between my liver and my kidneys. For the first time in six weeks, y'unnerstann, I could feel words an' apostrophes an fuck-flecked retort sloshin' along the sides o' the guts, rumblin' long the tummy-mess, bladder feeling the holes in the A's and P's and R's like plasticine fingers on brail.
What they spoke of, those words, were fluorescent searchlights dancing round a church-tower, aye, moonlight carving a glistening trench from the lights all scarrin' the horizon to the rocks all scarrin' the beach. A set of stone steps lead from the rain-lashed promenade to the blackness huggin the apartment blocks above. A headfulla Bjork; those crystalline melodies easin the itching twixt the ear-holes with a burning back o' the brains tastes for all the world like a cooing refrain coiled round a beat the color o' frost on a gypsy's tongue.
"Fuck Bjork", Maja's sayin, and a fella all felled around the What The Fuck's.
"People think we're all like that. Dippy pixie bastards. We're so not."
Maja, she's also Icelandic, y'unnerstann, came to Northern Ireland for reasons of the study, and sat here now with myself and Sir Fleming in a terribly chic drink-hole by the sea. "Fuck Bjork" she says again, notebook on the seat beside her all throbbin' with kaleidoscopic verse an' opium prose.
Maja, she gets off with that kinda banter on account of she's amazing and swears better than anyone I know, but still, I can stand not one more word against mine love, mine dearest Bjork, for whom God spat fire into mountains just so as she could sample the bubbling and hissing and spitting. Not a syllable more can I tolerate, and so conversation tossed in the direction o' a lass set to arrive in the shortly-times, lass I ended up gettin' hella very fond of in the course o' the last few days.
Article comments
1 - Mat Brewster
Welcome back, Duke.
2 - Mark Saleski
i just KNEW there was a good reason ta get out of bed this morning!
3 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
good to be back, fellas. thank you. my, this is hella much longer than it looked in microsoft word...
4 - Aaron Fleming
Hurrah! What a tale!
And I must recount that simultaneously to the Duke's magical moment I was standing in a chinese take-out with an Icelandic gentleman placed in front of me at an extremely close proximity. "Fucking move!" I yelled in my head, but it was futile. Alas...
5 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
hah, sir fleming, thank you, and i see potential for a Rashomon style version. "what happened was this..." "no, what happened was THIS!"
what was that telly show with Donnie Whalberg that did that, also? the cop number?
6 - Eric Berlin
Anthony Burgess meets James Joyce meets some other literary figure I know not of fuck flung and mind scrambled to 2006 like warped tounge bizarro-genius made real.
Or: I approve !
7 - DJRadiohead
Duke, you are the straw that stirs this place. In other words, we've missed having you around.
Great stuff, as always.
8 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
Sirs Berlin and Dj, thank you. it feels hella good to have the scribblin goin on again, i was worried for a week or two, no doubt about that. now i got all sortsa crap fallin out the fingers. funny how these things work out.
9 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
and also, i must thank whoever spotlighted this wee tale. that was highly lovely and all sortsa gorgeous to wake up to.
10 - DJRadiohead
Fits and starts- I have the same thing. Weeks go by and I can't write shite and then I'll pen 4 things and do a podcast in the span of two days.
11 - steven
enjoyed the read. a way of words you have sir, What happens next? will enjoy hearin further mind waxes from you xxooxx
12 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
thank you, Steven. this particular tale ends here. a lovely friendship blossoms. our friends wander off t'wards ever more extravagant colours and shapes. and foo fighters records.
a new mind wax is in the writing, and should surface in the shortly-times, i would hope.
thanks again.
13 - Carole
this Carole chick sounds amazing with the purple whispers and all. What a lovely mind wax dear duke!