internal monologue, cockroaches, a poo.

I am too lazy to write a real post. Instead, I leave you with this offering. If you ever wondered what my inner life is like, here it is. This started off as a Line message and got rapidly out of hand as I amused myself with melodrama and cliche in increasing terribleness.

When I’m not being anxious about things, or eating, or other things of that nature, this is basically what the landscape of my mind looks like.

Sorry to disappoint.

“What a morning it’s been. I told you about the epic Alan battle (it’s very difficult to convey the toil and terror of battle in the space of a Line message. How can I describe it? That first sight of the enemy; the revulsion; the slow-rising mists of hate; and then the battle cries! “FUCK YOU ALAN, YOU BASTARD!”; the adrenaline shooting arrowlike through the body; molten blood charging the veins; the misting, insensible; the bloodlust!; and then, YES!, the final thrill!; – the kill! – the glorific flush of victory…

…and then the slowing of things. Of the beats and the breaths. Sated. Spent.

But…
But…
The dawning. The terrific realisation. The sharp guilt egdeways on the heart. ALAN! Murmured disgust, “MURDERER!”. To have exulted in death, in the taking of life! And, worse!, from Alan! An innocent! Defenseless! No enemy of mine, not really; no deception, no fell intent! My hands! My good, strong hands now sullied with the mulch of my murdered foe.

Far away, the Counting Alan, the Alan connected to all other Alans, adding another line to the wall in a cavernous grotto: “Rest in Peace Beloved Alan (12.05.14 – 18.06.14) Stolen From Us Too Soon”, and above the litany of Alans, the tirade, the endless repetition etched out on walls that wind worlds, the words ingrained on every Alan’s soul: NEVER FORGET. NEVER SURRENDER. And somewhere a grieving Alan, alone, lowing loss into the night. And I, alone, a murderer, return it’s woeful cry), didn’t I?

Thought so. I told you about the battle and I told you about my adorable little frankfurter. So unassuming. But what happened next? What followed that innocent hotdog sausage?

Well… I felt the call, that war horn of the bowls as if from a great distance. An ancient knowledge sparks, flares, throwing shadows on the wall of an old and dormant corner of the mind. Lower the drawbridge! The monster must be loosed!

I did not walk but was driven, treading the footsteps of my forepoos. Entranced, I stepped into the shining hall of the gods, gleaming white and mirrorlike, feet bathed in its waters like flowers in morning dew. And there, like Thor’s mighty Mjolnir, like Odin’s single eye, stood my throne, my seat of power, redemption! I drew near and readied my stance, a mountain bowed, gazed unsheathed upon the placid pool below. A tremor, and it began.

Afterwards, empty, sunken, I look back at the great wreck left behind, the monster’s muddy carcass in the depths. The waters begin to boil, swirl. A dervish dances, animates the great weight, which lurches then twirls whirling round and around and finally, slowly, sinking down.

Incantations offered up like a prayer, and I myself and all my gods witness the passing of the beast.”

cockroach on toilet roll

 

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4 thoughts on “internal monologue, cockroaches, a poo.

  1. jpettingale says:

    I am glad you did not give us a photograph of the frankfurter’s demise……. the mental one was …. well…… interesting……. 😉

  2. Nick Jones says:

    That’s the single best literary description of doing a poo that I’ve ever read, and I’ve read Shaun Hutson.

  3. nic says:

    ‘treading the footsteps of my forepoos’ is the best thing I’ve read all week, and I’ve been marking year 10 narratives. Brought tears to my eyes xxx

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