-Hi, New North Rd?
-Yes, ok.
-How’s your night been?
-Not bad, not bad.
-Any good fares?
-Some, yes. Some ok. Some, ah, you know the prank call?
-Yeah. No good.
-Yes, no good. Man, I tell you bro, in India, these ones, we prank call them back.
-Oh yeah?
-Yeah bro, call other taxi company to their house…
-or call pizza to the house
-yeah bro! All of this bro.
-Fuck yeah.
-Yeah, fuck man, sometime, you ‘cause in India like, it is very easy to know someone that knows the person, you know. The one that has prank call you.
-Yeah?
-So you know, sometime man, we know who this person is, and we call their relatives or whatever, their friend. And we say to them this person is dead, man.
-Ha ha! Wow…
-Yeah, wow man, so you know, their parents get a phone call - ‘oh I hear your son is dead, I am so sorry’ and they are crying you know? So the parents – ‘What! My son is not dead!’ and then some relatives or whoever come to the house.
-Ah, haha!
-And all night you know bro, people are calling the parents, crying on the phone. Sending them flowers, all of this bro.
-haha, that’s sweet as
-Yeah, used to be a bad-boy man, get in lots of trouble you know. I joined the army and it all stopped.
-You were in the army?
-Yeah bro, Indian Army for 7 years.
-Rad.
-Indian Army is hardcore man. Hardcore. I got shot 14 times.
-You got shot 14 times?
-14 times bro. Indian Army is hardcore. Lots of enemies, you know. Terrorist…
-Pakistan?
-Pakistan, yes. So you know, lots of fighting, fighting. Shot 14 times in 7 years bro.
-That’s insane!
-I know bro, so after my dad found out, I have been shot like 14 times, he say ‘enough’ you know. So I leave the army.
-You come here.
-I come here bro.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Noise.
I
I could stab you I love you so much. I read that on the bus. I could’ve written it; but for the handwriting. I can’t remember. I remember only this: houses and cars and skirts. I look at skirts, they swish past me; patterned, high-waisted, pleated, tutu, the legs moving inside them independently. Some skirts are on mannequins. Some mannequins walk. I know what’s inside them – I know your secrets. I like polyester floral skirts, I thumb the fabric feeling millions of small holes and I think about the atoms squeezing in and out of the holes. It’s all transfer, thousands of transactions happening at a million times a second, it’s just a bank. You see - your skirt isn’t as solid as you think. It’s an illusion. I think it looks solid, but I know it isn’t. That’s how it works. That’s how everything works. The world is polyester fabric, mountains and mountains of stacked holes; they only exist from a distance. It’s safe to walk on, but don’t pick a hole in it. I wonder if God would wear a skirt? I know he isn’t there. I know nothing’s answered. I scream at him though, I still scream. Silently, inside my head. When I’m in the back of the movies, in an allocated seat, inside my head I’m screaming. I’m breathless with rage, begging for a reprieve. You’d never know; I’m as quiet as He is. I always sit at the back, because I like to see. I always look normal too. I tell myself, “Look normal”. So I’ll be there completely normal and ordinary, even whilst my insides are tortured by snakes. I can shut them up. Did you think I could do that? They shut up when I talk, but I had to promise someone I’d be quiet. They don’t like it when I talk. So I don’t talk anymore, I’m quiet and normal. I’m just like you are, I’m old and I hate myself. We grew old young. Now we listen all the time. We listen. I try and listen to people; I lean forward and keep my face open and calm. I listen even though I know you’re lying. And that I’m lying too; inside I don’t care what they say, I’m always screaming. But we remain calm. The turmoil would make a lesser man cry, it’s too hard. Is that what music is? We don’t cry, because we’re old. I nod and smile, they appreciate that. Sometimes I feel sorry for them. I love them so much I want to hold them all inside me and tell them everything’s ok, we can all scream together, there’ll be nothing but us and the noise. Sometimes I want to drown them in saltpeter, and I’ll scream at them till the whole world burns. But I won’t. I shan’t play that role, nor any role. That’s something they can’t have, I won’t give it to them. I could stab you so much I love you. I could love you so much I stab you. I love you, I love you, I hate you, I love you.
II
She was a model. Maybe an actress. I don’t know; she talked too loud and it was unattractive. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to be the sad end-point of a night of drunken mischief, a cum-stain on her mattress or a trip to the doctor. She was surrounded by boys. They sipped alcohol from green-bottles. Their testosterone made me feel like a fag and their private-school educations made me feel stupid. I hated them, I hated her, I didn’t have enough left for myself. I watched them pass a pitiful joint around their circle. It was badly rolled; it was soggy and had the shape of a vampiric finger. What the fuck was I doing here? My friend had told me to come along. He’d gone to the bathroom to snort lines of MDMA with a graffiti-artist he knew. Our relationship was fickle anyway; I didn’t blame him for running away. His invite to this fashionista/socialista party was probably a formality. Fuck him. I walked away from the foul scene in front of me, considering the possibilities of finding a good Christian girl amongst this filth. I wanted to exact some excitement from one of God’s children – over-the-panty fingering and a listless handjob. I hate sex. I invariably end up hating the girls I’ve fucked. It’s far simpler to hate them first and forget the orgasm.
The night dragged on. Some people got louder, some quieter. I got drunker off someone else’s booze – alco-pops I’d found in the fridge that made my teeth hurt and my stomach ache. A few party members had taken taxis into town so that they could be photographed and spend more money. I was broke, and couldn’t be bothered making that pointless pilgrimage. In my malaise and asexual frustration I had found myself perusing the parental boudoir of this Freeman’s Bay home. I emptied my disgusting drink out of their window and filled it with the father’s top-shelf whiskey, feeling rather pleased with myself. I looked through the mother’s underwear drawer, trying to determine whether she was a fuckable wench or not. She wasn’t – her underwear was of an incredible size. I’d found this brief excursion to be rather funny, so I capped it by taking a Romeo-y-Julieta from the father’s cigar selection and rubbing my testicles with his deodorant. I made my way back out to the main party, stumbling slightly and spinning my new found cigar. I began to feel good about myself again; I was walking on pillows and could barely see. I spotted model/actress again, still surrounded by the fuckheads. With my deodorized balls and gigantic, incognito whiskey I felt prepared to talk to her.
Do you have a match? I slurred, motioning my cigar.
No, she replied, rather curtly.
I lit it with a lighter instead.
What do you do? I asked.
She gave me a Look. I’m an actress, actually.
Oh? I said, swaying slightly. I could feel the testosterone-boys eyeing me up, puffing out their chests and re-arranging their clothes. I turned to the nearest, be-hatted fuckwit and blew him a kiss. The cigar had already begun to disintegrate in my mouth, and I probably had flecks of tobacco in my teeth.
Would you like some whiskey? I asked her.
No.
It’s in this can. I can get you some more.
No, I’m fine.
Do you read poetry? You’re beautiful.
She laughed.
I think you should fuck off, mate, one of the multitude said to me.
I laughed. Suck my dick, I whispered.
What, cunt?
Oh, nothing, nothing. I laughed, or perhaps giggled. I looked at the actress, her flowing dress invited me to rip it off her and tongue every inch of her scrawny body, my nails like claws across her back and our bodies snakes of passion. I kissed her, gloriously on the mouth. She didn’t kiss back. I kissed harder, pushing myself into her and forcing my tongue against her clenched teeth. I kissed her lip, I kissed her nose, I kissed her cheeks, I breathed lurid alcohol into her lifeless body and grabbed her tiny waist.
Someone punched me.
III
He walks slowly; he’s tired, always tired. Someone told him he’d die today. He doesn’t believe them – they tell him everyday. But he’s dressed for his death. Everyday he dresses for his last. Yet nothing about him is perceivable. Where he walks to is unknown, only that he walks and his hands shake – he saw truth, now he degenerates, now he crumbles. An observer could be forgiven for thinking he is mad, but there is no one there to observe. Judgement is moot. The man is alone, sun strikes his face and wind ruffles his hair. That he exists, he acknowledges. You are forgiven too for thinking he exists, and he is forgiven for existing. You exist by proxy, he by force. You ask: is that all? He smiles: the man is past judgement, the man is alone. That man will die, you know. That man will deny, you know as well. Would you hear him if he cried out to you? Would you cry back? You don’t know the answer, yet you whisper the question. The man chose the way he’d look when he dies. This is all he has. He can’t choose his point of departure as he never chose his point of entry. Have you ever seen a man on the last day of his life? You see him everyday.
I could stab you I love you so much. I read that on the bus. I could’ve written it; but for the handwriting. I can’t remember. I remember only this: houses and cars and skirts. I look at skirts, they swish past me; patterned, high-waisted, pleated, tutu, the legs moving inside them independently. Some skirts are on mannequins. Some mannequins walk. I know what’s inside them – I know your secrets. I like polyester floral skirts, I thumb the fabric feeling millions of small holes and I think about the atoms squeezing in and out of the holes. It’s all transfer, thousands of transactions happening at a million times a second, it’s just a bank. You see - your skirt isn’t as solid as you think. It’s an illusion. I think it looks solid, but I know it isn’t. That’s how it works. That’s how everything works. The world is polyester fabric, mountains and mountains of stacked holes; they only exist from a distance. It’s safe to walk on, but don’t pick a hole in it. I wonder if God would wear a skirt? I know he isn’t there. I know nothing’s answered. I scream at him though, I still scream. Silently, inside my head. When I’m in the back of the movies, in an allocated seat, inside my head I’m screaming. I’m breathless with rage, begging for a reprieve. You’d never know; I’m as quiet as He is. I always sit at the back, because I like to see. I always look normal too. I tell myself, “Look normal”. So I’ll be there completely normal and ordinary, even whilst my insides are tortured by snakes. I can shut them up. Did you think I could do that? They shut up when I talk, but I had to promise someone I’d be quiet. They don’t like it when I talk. So I don’t talk anymore, I’m quiet and normal. I’m just like you are, I’m old and I hate myself. We grew old young. Now we listen all the time. We listen. I try and listen to people; I lean forward and keep my face open and calm. I listen even though I know you’re lying. And that I’m lying too; inside I don’t care what they say, I’m always screaming. But we remain calm. The turmoil would make a lesser man cry, it’s too hard. Is that what music is? We don’t cry, because we’re old. I nod and smile, they appreciate that. Sometimes I feel sorry for them. I love them so much I want to hold them all inside me and tell them everything’s ok, we can all scream together, there’ll be nothing but us and the noise. Sometimes I want to drown them in saltpeter, and I’ll scream at them till the whole world burns. But I won’t. I shan’t play that role, nor any role. That’s something they can’t have, I won’t give it to them. I could stab you so much I love you. I could love you so much I stab you. I love you, I love you, I hate you, I love you.
II
She was a model. Maybe an actress. I don’t know; she talked too loud and it was unattractive. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to be the sad end-point of a night of drunken mischief, a cum-stain on her mattress or a trip to the doctor. She was surrounded by boys. They sipped alcohol from green-bottles. Their testosterone made me feel like a fag and their private-school educations made me feel stupid. I hated them, I hated her, I didn’t have enough left for myself. I watched them pass a pitiful joint around their circle. It was badly rolled; it was soggy and had the shape of a vampiric finger. What the fuck was I doing here? My friend had told me to come along. He’d gone to the bathroom to snort lines of MDMA with a graffiti-artist he knew. Our relationship was fickle anyway; I didn’t blame him for running away. His invite to this fashionista/socialista party was probably a formality. Fuck him. I walked away from the foul scene in front of me, considering the possibilities of finding a good Christian girl amongst this filth. I wanted to exact some excitement from one of God’s children – over-the-panty fingering and a listless handjob. I hate sex. I invariably end up hating the girls I’ve fucked. It’s far simpler to hate them first and forget the orgasm.
The night dragged on. Some people got louder, some quieter. I got drunker off someone else’s booze – alco-pops I’d found in the fridge that made my teeth hurt and my stomach ache. A few party members had taken taxis into town so that they could be photographed and spend more money. I was broke, and couldn’t be bothered making that pointless pilgrimage. In my malaise and asexual frustration I had found myself perusing the parental boudoir of this Freeman’s Bay home. I emptied my disgusting drink out of their window and filled it with the father’s top-shelf whiskey, feeling rather pleased with myself. I looked through the mother’s underwear drawer, trying to determine whether she was a fuckable wench or not. She wasn’t – her underwear was of an incredible size. I’d found this brief excursion to be rather funny, so I capped it by taking a Romeo-y-Julieta from the father’s cigar selection and rubbing my testicles with his deodorant. I made my way back out to the main party, stumbling slightly and spinning my new found cigar. I began to feel good about myself again; I was walking on pillows and could barely see. I spotted model/actress again, still surrounded by the fuckheads. With my deodorized balls and gigantic, incognito whiskey I felt prepared to talk to her.
Do you have a match? I slurred, motioning my cigar.
No, she replied, rather curtly.
I lit it with a lighter instead.
What do you do? I asked.
She gave me a Look. I’m an actress, actually.
Oh? I said, swaying slightly. I could feel the testosterone-boys eyeing me up, puffing out their chests and re-arranging their clothes. I turned to the nearest, be-hatted fuckwit and blew him a kiss. The cigar had already begun to disintegrate in my mouth, and I probably had flecks of tobacco in my teeth.
Would you like some whiskey? I asked her.
No.
It’s in this can. I can get you some more.
No, I’m fine.
Do you read poetry? You’re beautiful.
She laughed.
I think you should fuck off, mate, one of the multitude said to me.
I laughed. Suck my dick, I whispered.
What, cunt?
Oh, nothing, nothing. I laughed, or perhaps giggled. I looked at the actress, her flowing dress invited me to rip it off her and tongue every inch of her scrawny body, my nails like claws across her back and our bodies snakes of passion. I kissed her, gloriously on the mouth. She didn’t kiss back. I kissed harder, pushing myself into her and forcing my tongue against her clenched teeth. I kissed her lip, I kissed her nose, I kissed her cheeks, I breathed lurid alcohol into her lifeless body and grabbed her tiny waist.
Someone punched me.
III
He walks slowly; he’s tired, always tired. Someone told him he’d die today. He doesn’t believe them – they tell him everyday. But he’s dressed for his death. Everyday he dresses for his last. Yet nothing about him is perceivable. Where he walks to is unknown, only that he walks and his hands shake – he saw truth, now he degenerates, now he crumbles. An observer could be forgiven for thinking he is mad, but there is no one there to observe. Judgement is moot. The man is alone, sun strikes his face and wind ruffles his hair. That he exists, he acknowledges. You are forgiven too for thinking he exists, and he is forgiven for existing. You exist by proxy, he by force. You ask: is that all? He smiles: the man is past judgement, the man is alone. That man will die, you know. That man will deny, you know as well. Would you hear him if he cried out to you? Would you cry back? You don’t know the answer, yet you whisper the question. The man chose the way he’d look when he dies. This is all he has. He can’t choose his point of departure as he never chose his point of entry. Have you ever seen a man on the last day of his life? You see him everyday.
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