The Chortling Roll Down the Glassy Knoll; or The Evening Redness Under My Nails

The Irish are said never to forgive and never to forget. I forgive no one. May the road roll up to crush you, may the wind blow your coffins downhill, may the sun set your excrement aflame, the rains flood your bleeding eyes, and until we meet again, may God hold you down with the palm of his hand against the burning ice and infinite fire of Hell.

Exterminate all rational thought. This is the conclusion I have come to. If a method presents itself, I’ll be sure to adopt it.

There was a boy who toyed with knives, who learned his lessons well. He shuffled people from their lives and sent their souls to hell. One day, one day, his daddy thought to ask him what he’d do. ‘I’ll play all day and not get caught by the likes of cunts like you.’

If what they say is true my words will be wrong. This is extremely unlikely as I doubt their soulless tongues can form honest sounds; also I’d be the first to know if I’d let out false words when I’d intended truths. Any skilled exegete can see these on even the most cursory examinations, and I’d expect that even these fools will eventually tumble to it as they perform their nauseating dance. Every breath is charged with the bile of the world they’ve made, and I don’t expect to draw a breath that doesn’t gag on their puke.

A story I know goes as follows: a man told his family to stick together, using the following metaphor: he grabbed a bunch of sticks together, and told his family to try to break any stick individually. Each member did. Then he bunched them together, and asked his family to try and break the bundle. They could not. The man claimed that this was a proof that sticking together made one unbreakable by giving up the one-ness for a stronger unity. His son grabbed an axe and cut the sticks in half. Like Diogenes, he didn’t say anything but got his point across. I’m fairly certain that none of this ever happened

The other day, to pass the time, I began to tell myself the story of some chickens. They form, of course, the traditional nuclear family of father (rooster), mother (hen), and son (chick). Chickens, you will recall, do not eat their young, and the story quickly became mundane. The rooster crowed three times and Peter recognized Jesus. The rooster jumped around with its head cut off. The hen laid eggs that were turned into a Denver omelet. The chick grew up and followed one of those paths. There are limited options when dealing with chickens, and very little time was passed.

I am fairly sure that my words (not these) are true. They do not strike me as untrue. Oblique. The pigfuckers of taste haven’t learned yet to read truth’s slant rhyme, and by the time they can it will have become a lie by their having gained access to it. ‘Fuck shit cunt ass’ is the refrain of the day: Fuck shit cunt ass fuck shit cunt ass fuckshit cuntass fuck shitcunt ass fuckshitcunt ass fuck shit cuntass fuckshit cuntass fuckshitcunt ass fuck shitcuntass fuckshitcuntass fuckshitcuntass fuckshitcuntass fuckshitcuntass fuck shit cunt ass.

There is some concern that I have chosen the wrong color, but I informed them that red is traditionally the ink used for corrections.

Liars form their own reality, of course, but it usually falls apart when confronted by the bigger one if they’re not capable of making others believe it. The same happens to those who speak the truth, if they are no more convincing. Storytelling is a means of survival for those who want to shape reality. This is a shame, as oftentimes the best storytellers bleach out everything worthwhile, and our world is shaped into something less in the minds of millions. Fortunately for the poor storyteller, there are many ways to skin this world without having to convince anyone of anything. The force of words can change its shape, but so can other forces.

Bang bang, Maxwell’s silver came down upon her head. Bang bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer made sure that she was dead. I must not be so-o-o-o

A man once resolved to walk over every inch of his room, without walking over any inch twice. This first required removal of all furniture, an easy enough task with others, but somewhat difficult to be managed on one’s own. Having completed this task, the man then sat on the floor to determine his strategy. The first idea to strike him was of walking in concentric circles around the room, starting from the perimeter and working his way in until he’d reached the center. The other obvious option was to walk along one wall, turn sharply, and walk back slightly out from the wall, on and on, up and down, until the room had been covered. In either case he was troubled by the thought of somehow miscalculating and missing an inch at some important juncture (and all were important). This man is still deciding which method to adopt today, assuming he exists. Meanwhile the floor rots.

Trailing centipede stalks down kaleidoscope back alleys, their hateful lie-brands searing my reeling brain whenever it slips past the guard of my skull-plate, those scuttling nabobs ejaculating a mire of slime that floods the labyrinthine, wool-clogged sewers, seeding nightmare flowers with pulled back petals that sprout glass hand grenades at two meters above the ground, I jump the swaying fence and roll down the glassy knoll. They make their moves, slow as turtle sex, and blink from being non-alley to being alley, gone as last year’s cigs, this sea change leaving me in the rainbow of shadows cast by the umber-marsh canopy to make my way alone in this world. The red sun in my hand explodes in reverse and the yellow sun on my head rushes to catch up. Life is not a dream and neither is any of this; your thinking must be in your shoes or underwear to go in that direction.

The bombing of Dresden occurred primarily because there was a surplus of bombs in the US Army. Sometimes material demands our actions.

Argument makes me tired, especially as I seem to be losing. My story is being falsified before I can spread it, by that insipid scoundrel and his flying monkeys and back-flipping dogs. I suck the blood scraped under my fingertips and fling my chortle to the fleeing moon.