Disjointed Heady Bullshit #1
This isn’t your standard neon pink box wrapped present tight whipping boy shitface heady writing screaming wanting horse’s ass we’re talking about here. You can’t begin to understand what goes on in the lonely dark mother’s kiss in the back of a black VW convertible at 6 a.m. with all the lights turned low in the holes on her face. Who knows why you continue to read to breathe to think to act with such feverish fervor and intent on drowning and sickly throwing the dime across the dimly-lit hall and the unoriginal stinking aching two-toned unthinking witting writing prose. Who knows how a mother with a sick child in the emergency ward of some shitfaced stoned two-headed suburban alien across the street from the car park with one eye open and two focused intently on her does it. She’s losing losing losing it all across the wall in the twisted light of the ocean of her dreams and her chin in the dark against the dark and the night and the sun and the smell the stench of the femme where she lost it all over. This isn’t your standard well of depth and dank and stark and good stuffing cock full of creamy dreamy steamy fripperies and knickknacks and shitsacks and trifling trifles and truffles you’re used to. This is nothing like what you think they said she saw or what you know she said you saw her say deliberately in an attempt to fuck you both in the face of the fact. This is nothing like that or the other or the one in which you act where you feel so intently that you know who you know what you are who you are where you are how you are with who you are. Because you know that time when they said you were? That was total utter bastard bullshit.
14 August 2007 at 11:51 am
I’m afraid I didn’t like this one quite so much.
14 August 2007 at 12:58 pm
This reads like a car journey with my mother driving.
A lot. Particularly the venom, the swearing, the sense of speeding, and the dizzying certainty that I’m going to be sick.
14 August 2007 at 10:08 pm
My writing inspires feelings of dislike and nausea? I am not being the slightest bit sarcastic when I tell you I am ecstatically happy to hear that. :)
Drodbar, I’m afraid this is part one of a series.
And Ben, your mother is sounding better and better all the time. Wanna trade?
14 August 2007 at 10:32 pm
As a one-time decidedly amateur music critic, I just want to say that there are the names of many not so infamous thrash metal bands secretly hidden in this post. For instance:
Whipping Boy Shitface
Shitfaced Stoned
Two-Headed Suburban Alient
Stench of the Femme
Good Stuffing Cock
Bastard Bullshit.
It’s like revisiting fond memories of John Peel’s Festive Fifty. I’m off to play all this records at the wrong speed.
14 August 2007 at 10:34 pm
P.S. I cannot type.
14 August 2007 at 10:36 pm
AUW: I really wish you wouldn’t give away my early influences.
P.S. I had noticed that, yes.
14 August 2007 at 10:43 pm
Ben? Is that you? Criticising your mother in public? Ben? BEN? Come here when I’m talking to you!
15 August 2007 at 9:57 am
Cup of tea, Mrs. Leto?
15 August 2007 at 7:40 pm
Oops, that evidently didn’t come out right. I’m so emotionally crippled that it’s rare I feel anything these days in response to something I’ve read. I meant I felt nausea in response to the speed in how it read, like a rising temper - it wasn’t meant negatively at all my dear.
And my mother is not the most computer savvy person in this solar system, though she does drink tea by the gallon.
15 August 2007 at 7:54 pm
No worries, Ben. I did get exactly what you meant. And my first comment still stands. I heartily appreciate that you felt nauseated because it means that you went along for the ride. What more could a writer ask for?
15 August 2007 at 8:18 pm
A £1,000,000 advance and a nice new pen?
15 August 2007 at 8:27 pm
Heh. I try not to think about nice new pens. It makes me spiral into a hideously dark depression.
15 August 2007 at 8:32 pm
Stop showing off about your pens, you lot. I just have a Bic with a chewed end.