It’s like a sound you hear. Like being Max Cohen, a point of view staring at a mirror. Feedback knifing through that space between your ears: white noise, white noise and pi. On the brink of a discovery, but the answers are elusive. It’s not a trick of sound. It’s a trick of your blood vessels dilating under pressure.
Obsession’s like a nick on the roof of your mouth; you busy it with the balm of your spit and it stings. I could imagine a Harold laughing with his little-boy voice. He told me about his arrow in the eye, but he was having the last laugh. The bastard had gotten himself a new moniker and it was grand. Conquerer, dies fat, wheezing and drunk. He couldn’t even fit his own coffin. What was he thinking?
It’s the final humiliation. It’s worse than being on display for the pleasure of people you hardly knew. It’s like using the wrong adjective. Like “bludgeon”, for chrissakes. “Bludgeon”, such a meaty word; thick like a piece of meat with the fat untrimmed, like too much of a good thing. Like, “he bludgeoned his words with a feather”, though, if you’d think about it, it might make sense.
“But only in context,” she said.
“Like an ill-fitting coffin,” I said.
“So bloody morbid,” she said. My silence is covered over in a slew of filler material tossed off the top of my head. So much filler material, I wondered if she didn’t know: she hates idle talk.
“It’s not morbid, it’s funny. Ok, morbid,” I said.
“Imagine trying to close the lid with his fat paunch sticking out like a fat balloon,” she said, giggling. Another random adjective, but fitting: she could sound that way when she wanted to. She also had a sense of humour.
“I imagine him dying while watching heaving breasts bouncing top and bottom on his limpid dick,” I said. Much good that did: she laughed some more.
“Another obstruction,” she said. She wanted to stick a fork in my obstruction to see if I bled.
“Big bratwurst?” I said.
“Not with beer,” she giggled again.
“Did they have beer? They had pot, didn’t they?” I said.
“Rastafarian Normans,” she said, “you pretentious bastard”. Where did she get that from? I knew where she got that from.
I could imagine the whole conversation with electro-orchestra pop hymn, anything that passes for elitist consumption these days. It’s so bourgeois to be jaded, isn’t it? Pick a hymn, pick a number, pick a soundtrack. Don’t you love movies with no soundtrack?
