Who said that you can’t dumbell curl and swill whiskey to silent walls and wait for the next chime of the bells. The next phantom punch from the munch bunch. Of a Hells Angel selling cheap kitchen cleaning goods. The houses are packed together and so are the brains and hearts and muffs and dongs and ping pongs and old war songs. They never die. The slow fuck. The death rattle. The peach melba yoghurt. The nanosecond. The film on the telly. The Forsythe. The Severed. The bevvied. More or less dress for Dad’s to mentally molest and wriggle in C&A and think about AA and never puss-ay. No more take away. Bring back the hey day.
You trollop. You little trollop.
‘The antique gun is just an antique. You couldn’t fire it. You wouldn’t want to. What would you shoot? I mean, round here…’ And the beard stroke; all a-ponder; mugshots, like a flickbook through this psychopaths head; him = yep = bang = dead, him = yep = bang = dead, her = never-did-bring-back-the-wood-polish; never-brought-wine-to-a-dinner = bang = dead.
‘Almost a car and almost a cat; I love the shape, like – Pantha. Yeah. The lights are like cat’s eyes. I really love that’, as he buried his claws into his crotch and farted on his finger. She didn’t notice.
You dropped your book, she said. It’s not my book, he said. I found it, he said. Any good, she asked. It’s not my book, he said. Then it began to spit, before raining quite heavily.
Everybody’s doing the Cha-cha-cha.