I now move to calibrating, ah, er, celebrating my 45th. That is my destination point. It’s hard to bring oneself up, to tug oneself in upwardly direction by the strings of one’s own hair. It may be harder, once one’s reached one’s peak to descend from it. Let’s face it anything in life is hard. I tried descent by the sloping rock, but it veered at a dangerous angle toward the edge, beneath which was a three thousand feet drop. My speed in descent did not suffice to weld me to the mountain side. I would try it again with ropes, although others seemed to be descending in their little vehicles without hardship. I was new to the Turkish army. Ropes would be my chosen method, for then one has the security in knowing one will not slip off into space. I’m at the top. At middle age. Now downward is my only path. But let us make sure the scenic route is planned and plotted. Ropes and more ropes. I need to direct my path. There should be ropes that don’t extend too far from basic sold surfaces that taper leading to slip, loss of connection with the curvature and falling suddenly to death and nothing. The air is sifting, light and startling, the morning sky is a light drop of mist. I have no basic knowledge of the ropes. I’m new but I’m good at climbing. Sturdy as an ox. A mountain lion. I don’t wizz and poot. I do take my decline seriously. It’s a job and a job is an adventure. It involved analyzing angles and formulating my existing knowledge to extend in three dimensions. I care not for those things that wrapped my mind before. I am absorbed mind, body and stink (instinct) in the new adventure. I don’t really care for anything, since apes continue to conjecture about biology. They are their biological natures. There’s much inward stinking. I have a pretty face like an elf or a giant and I smell like a baboon. Please give me some of you in-stinct! I stink inwardly too — like you. I stink, you stink, we all stink, for instinct! Had I discovered instinct I would not be the man I am today. I have a pretty face. It is neoteny and quite regressive. I could be a child and you’d never know it. Wouldn’t make much difference either way. See that pretty ape in that window there! I feel frowning, O so scrounging, It’s amazing how scrounging I feel! Such a pretty in-stinked! If I should die, think only this of me That there’s a pretty piece of in-stinct That will forever STINK INWARDLY! (I subtly retreat from gender wars.) How about reproductive organs, then? How ABOUT them? We can’t help it. We just have to throw sandwiches at our leaders, whether male or female doesn’t matter. It’s all in our Jeans. Levis. So I am glad to turn 45. The older I turn, the better. The more I’m myself. I wasn’t really much myself during my twenties. My thirties showed improvement but were hardly better. Now I realize the limit was the radius of the sulfuric message. Time alone will tell how easily I make my final descent. Eating sadza along the way. Eating it and throwing it ruthlessly. At passers-by and all who gaze at me with an uncertain gaze. They call me EVE — and I bestow Eve’s-droppings. Listen in! A dog in the hand can be detrimental. I listen and I listen and I sometimes eavesdrop. I know Father Abraham had many sons, but to be accepted I must keep on studying the Koran. (A stink EMERGES and I do not think it’s me.) But there you go and there you have it. Something in the Jeans. It makes us throw forth what is in our lunchboxes before we know it. Nothing can or ought to be contained. Let’s talk about our vaginas then. I’ve had enough of them. An ape, in the mind, can be detrimental. Diamonds are my best friends. Chiadzwa is my best friend. Give me diamonds or give me death! O, just give me death. Heads will roll, you know. I’ve had enough! Down the mountain top, I go. Penises. I think “Western civilization” should go far very far from me. Knock, knock, knocking at my bedroom door is an ape: He says, “I stinked!” “Your English grandma isn’t very good,” I stated, and sent him away — sulking, sullenly. It’s all in my genetics. I cry so suddenly and too precipitously. From my tear ducts, a flood will fall. A sympathetic nest of wasps will suddenly descend on it. I promise not to cry some more. It’s caused by anuses, really. That’s why Adam was stillborn. He shifted and He shuddered but his son would not emerge. Chiadzwa is my best friend. Please give me diamonds. At least on my death. On my demise. Or something hard. Another ape appears at my other door. Another Adam is waiting. To be born again. It’s in his genetic code. Man just has to be born of man. There’s no other way about it. “Would you like something to eat? You look hungry!” exudes a small child whilst flinging a sandwich in my direction I thank the child — who knows no better. He too is Adam groin of my groin, flesh of my flesh: His shit smells like.FAIRY BLOSSOMS.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Jul 2013 04:43:24 +0000
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