The Doggerel of June 29th
Posted: Wed Aug 31, 2005 1:06 pm
Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.
Henry VIII is sitting on the glass coffee table under a can of tuna.
His motto was “Coure Loyall”. True heart.
Sipping Jack Daniels. Sitting in a big red chair. Shitting in a white bathroom.
The dead growl shivers beneath toes, dip hands into the final waters.
The blue waters precede contagion and ennui.
There is too much red outside.
The clouds are bleeding. People are bleeding.
Stopped taking prescribed vitamins. Blood distributes precious nutrients.
Laughing when thinking about twenty-one years of futility.
The normal that had nothing exceptional to boast of.
Recently boarded up windows, was proud, but stole the wood from dead neighbour.
Henry was excommunicated. Wanted a boy.
Sitting here – incommunicado. Want anyone.
“Tis ten to one this play can never please / All that are here.”
Am starting to believe will realise dreams when it happens.
Am starting to believe was destined for this.
…
Am starting to believe anything.
There is only bleak detriment outside.
The heaviness. The noxious.
The sick air.
Looking out the split in the door and there is a man with a gun.
He’s shooting people from his lawn. The bullets are ripping into everything.
Nathanial. Once played poker with him. Want that shiny gun.
Conjecture on when and how it happens. Maybe already has.
Forks are now redundant.
Why eat? Fuck it.
Woke up and threw up. Remembered a holiday to Kefalonia.
Never been more blissful. Ever. Penitence and reparation.
Dust roads zig-zagged and slashed up the mountains like Samoan tattoos.
Picking teeth. Realised this morning am the only person around.
Realised this as running fingers through glazed green yearbooks.
Realise there is no-one else. Wherever. Took that shiny gun.
Listening to a song called “Zion Youth”. A line is repeating.
“Never reach the land that you’re dreaming of”. OK. Accept that.
Just get it over with. Ennui is a fantastic word. Ennui. Ennui.
June 29th. The end of this. Reaching for Nathanial’s shiny gun. Fuck it.
There’s something through the split. Canine omnivorous mammal. Don’t know animals anymore. Sniffle. Emoting for the first time in three years, two months, twenty-four days and six minutes.
King Henry VIII had his arms and badge placed on the collars of his hunting dogs.
Maybe the end isn’t as close at all. Fuck it.
Put Nathanial’s shiny gun down and open the door. Call it doggedness.
Henry VIII was performed on June 29, 1613, the day the Globe burned to the ground.
Henry VIII is sitting on the glass coffee table under a can of tuna.
His motto was “Coure Loyall”. True heart.
Sipping Jack Daniels. Sitting in a big red chair. Shitting in a white bathroom.
The dead growl shivers beneath toes, dip hands into the final waters.
The blue waters precede contagion and ennui.
There is too much red outside.
The clouds are bleeding. People are bleeding.
Stopped taking prescribed vitamins. Blood distributes precious nutrients.
Laughing when thinking about twenty-one years of futility.
The normal that had nothing exceptional to boast of.
Recently boarded up windows, was proud, but stole the wood from dead neighbour.
Henry was excommunicated. Wanted a boy.
Sitting here – incommunicado. Want anyone.
“Tis ten to one this play can never please / All that are here.”
Am starting to believe will realise dreams when it happens.
Am starting to believe was destined for this.
…
Am starting to believe anything.
There is only bleak detriment outside.
The heaviness. The noxious.
The sick air.
Looking out the split in the door and there is a man with a gun.
He’s shooting people from his lawn. The bullets are ripping into everything.
Nathanial. Once played poker with him. Want that shiny gun.
Conjecture on when and how it happens. Maybe already has.
Forks are now redundant.
Why eat? Fuck it.
Woke up and threw up. Remembered a holiday to Kefalonia.
Never been more blissful. Ever. Penitence and reparation.
Dust roads zig-zagged and slashed up the mountains like Samoan tattoos.
Picking teeth. Realised this morning am the only person around.
Realised this as running fingers through glazed green yearbooks.
Realise there is no-one else. Wherever. Took that shiny gun.
Listening to a song called “Zion Youth”. A line is repeating.
“Never reach the land that you’re dreaming of”. OK. Accept that.
Just get it over with. Ennui is a fantastic word. Ennui. Ennui.
June 29th. The end of this. Reaching for Nathanial’s shiny gun. Fuck it.
There’s something through the split. Canine omnivorous mammal. Don’t know animals anymore. Sniffle. Emoting for the first time in three years, two months, twenty-four days and six minutes.
King Henry VIII had his arms and badge placed on the collars of his hunting dogs.
Maybe the end isn’t as close at all. Fuck it.
Put Nathanial’s shiny gun down and open the door. Call it doggedness.
Henry VIII was performed on June 29, 1613, the day the Globe burned to the ground.