mattlord13
12-17-2008, 01:41 PM
VIOLET
Under the Mecca lights is the great opportunity of possibility, everyone thinks that this is their time and in any direction it is madness. Everyone wants a ride on the high wave of success and if you look up on the wall, you can see the water stain where the wave once broke. It is a complex membrane of salt and tissue. Here is the permanent crisis; everything is to effect and for aiding the machine.
A torn tannoy kicks up and announces that the bidding is about to begin and this makes immediate withdrawal from the pavement. In they shuffle, in a natural line formed by height, age and hair colour, happily hypnotised by the tannoys decay. The dumb angels walk in, and at their peak are the plastic chairs, nailed down and waiting, hungry for *** in rows of 5 and 6. All the seats are facing God, who tonight is wearing the usual mismatched suit straight from the rail. His top lip is concealed beneath a lacquered moustache that has been appropriately reshaped during the interval. Now the whiskers begin to twitch, announcing for the ladies to take their seats. Bodies’ slump and slip down onto the plastic in perfect obedience. God’s lips take a step closer to the microphone and sucking in droll begins to speak.
“Pens at the ready ladies and here we go “
A synchronised pop of pen-lids bounce off the walls and all eyes are on him. With the power bestowed upon him by the national bingo association, Gods finger presses the thick red button and the balls begin to spin.
Perfect circles jump involuntarily around the cage. Their screams are audible, for the balls are tonight’s gladiators, fighting in the cage for everyone’s entertainment. Armed without spear but branded with a number, they collide to gasps of anticipation from the crowd, who will it be? What noble fighter will end up in Gods ringed hand? God reaches in and in a show of his power, pauses for an instance then goes in a little deeper. Pens around the room are waiting to tick off the chosen one, Gods hand rummages around the cage and yes! Pulls out a champion, snared between his thumb and index finger.
“ Scratchings from the swine; number 9 ”
The ladies don’t even need to hear the end of the rhyme; their minds are razor sharp, flicking through the possibilities of that couplet in a nano-second. The number nine rests on the pedestal, sweat all over his face, lungs fire red and in need of stitching, he has been saved, for tonight at least. In goes God for another one, setting the pace, tonight is going to be unstoppable.
“ You and me; 23”
23 was lucky, he has been around a lot longer than nine and a few more minutes in that cage and he was done for, easy meat for the teens. 23 had fought so long and hard that his branding is starting to peel and God notices this, this could be 23s last fight, plenty of fresh fighters are out there waiting to take his place, fighters who are vibrant and eager and make out of 21st century materials. 23 sighs at this as he is placed next to number 9, resting embarrassed, trying not to catch 9s eye.
All the ladies blush at Gods rhyme for 23, dreaming in secret of spending a night with God. A night in his powerful arms, how they wish they could be plucked out of the room like 23.
Onto the next;
“Your lips taste like heaven; number 11”
Legs cross, making skirts hitch up a little higher. Gods lips part showing that smile, a smile that fills this room, bouncing off the chandelier, catching the light just right. The ladies cardio vascular activity increases and the room shakes. God’s lips must taste rich and feel firm kissing yours. Imagine His lacquered moustache tickling your thighs. No time for this now, the next number is being called.
“Let me take you on a date; number 38”
Oh God would be such a generous and caring lover, not like the stubborn, bored husbands who wait for the ladies return. They are sunk in the armchair, bored and flicking THAT remote, hoping from celebrity jungles to documentaries about the triumph of the human spirit. The whole time trying to resist the urge to phone that sex chat line that was just advertised. Young flesh danced on the screen waving a phone at them, the sirens sung, “Call me and I’ll be here to listen, I wont judge, I want to love you” At a premium rate of course, that will show up on the phone bill. But the husbands have already conceived a watertight excuse for that, as long as she doesn’t ring the damn number.
God wouldn’t play the game like that. HE would have interests and care about your own. Have flair in the kitchen AND the bedroom. Looking younger than his years. When you come back home, HE would open the door with flawless posture and a kitchen towel over one shoulder and the scent of his labour would be filling the hall. HE would take your coat and enquire attentively about your day. You would reply about the marvellous display HE gave at the bingo hall and how impressed you were how HE managed to arrive home before you and prepare this marvellous feast. God would laugh, a good clean laugh, and remind you that HE is after all, God and omnipresent. You giggle like a schoolgirl as HE hands you a glass of the best wine you have ever drunk.
“Two fat ladies; 88”
With those words the fantasy bubble pops. Now every woman in the bingo hall is aware. Aware of mortality and their losing battle against gravity, Hips are not where they used to be, forcing the curtain down on their sex. Even if God wanted an encore, the stage was empty and the lights were off. There would be petition, petition stating that God wanted to enter their theatre. He missed the first performance so the theatre must be re-opened! But the public would agree that seeing the play now would be disappointment and the petition will be left blank.
So the ladies eyes mist over and they dutifully tick off that awful number. 88. In the distance somewhere is the victorious “Bingo”.
SO it is over, God sits and they stand like the herd of sacred cows. At home God secretly weeps, at night, to their cries of “bingo”. Most nights when he does he feels his tent start to rise up, rallied on by the twisted sense of power he starts to beat, all the while crying, until he cries one final white tear, then sleep. Bingo.
Under the Mecca lights is the great opportunity of possibility, everyone thinks that this is their time and in any direction it is madness. Everyone wants a ride on the high wave of success and if you look up on the wall, you can see the water stain where the wave once broke. It is a complex membrane of salt and tissue. Here is the permanent crisis; everything is to effect and for aiding the machine.
A torn tannoy kicks up and announces that the bidding is about to begin and this makes immediate withdrawal from the pavement. In they shuffle, in a natural line formed by height, age and hair colour, happily hypnotised by the tannoys decay. The dumb angels walk in, and at their peak are the plastic chairs, nailed down and waiting, hungry for *** in rows of 5 and 6. All the seats are facing God, who tonight is wearing the usual mismatched suit straight from the rail. His top lip is concealed beneath a lacquered moustache that has been appropriately reshaped during the interval. Now the whiskers begin to twitch, announcing for the ladies to take their seats. Bodies’ slump and slip down onto the plastic in perfect obedience. God’s lips take a step closer to the microphone and sucking in droll begins to speak.
“Pens at the ready ladies and here we go “
A synchronised pop of pen-lids bounce off the walls and all eyes are on him. With the power bestowed upon him by the national bingo association, Gods finger presses the thick red button and the balls begin to spin.
Perfect circles jump involuntarily around the cage. Their screams are audible, for the balls are tonight’s gladiators, fighting in the cage for everyone’s entertainment. Armed without spear but branded with a number, they collide to gasps of anticipation from the crowd, who will it be? What noble fighter will end up in Gods ringed hand? God reaches in and in a show of his power, pauses for an instance then goes in a little deeper. Pens around the room are waiting to tick off the chosen one, Gods hand rummages around the cage and yes! Pulls out a champion, snared between his thumb and index finger.
“ Scratchings from the swine; number 9 ”
The ladies don’t even need to hear the end of the rhyme; their minds are razor sharp, flicking through the possibilities of that couplet in a nano-second. The number nine rests on the pedestal, sweat all over his face, lungs fire red and in need of stitching, he has been saved, for tonight at least. In goes God for another one, setting the pace, tonight is going to be unstoppable.
“ You and me; 23”
23 was lucky, he has been around a lot longer than nine and a few more minutes in that cage and he was done for, easy meat for the teens. 23 had fought so long and hard that his branding is starting to peel and God notices this, this could be 23s last fight, plenty of fresh fighters are out there waiting to take his place, fighters who are vibrant and eager and make out of 21st century materials. 23 sighs at this as he is placed next to number 9, resting embarrassed, trying not to catch 9s eye.
All the ladies blush at Gods rhyme for 23, dreaming in secret of spending a night with God. A night in his powerful arms, how they wish they could be plucked out of the room like 23.
Onto the next;
“Your lips taste like heaven; number 11”
Legs cross, making skirts hitch up a little higher. Gods lips part showing that smile, a smile that fills this room, bouncing off the chandelier, catching the light just right. The ladies cardio vascular activity increases and the room shakes. God’s lips must taste rich and feel firm kissing yours. Imagine His lacquered moustache tickling your thighs. No time for this now, the next number is being called.
“Let me take you on a date; number 38”
Oh God would be such a generous and caring lover, not like the stubborn, bored husbands who wait for the ladies return. They are sunk in the armchair, bored and flicking THAT remote, hoping from celebrity jungles to documentaries about the triumph of the human spirit. The whole time trying to resist the urge to phone that sex chat line that was just advertised. Young flesh danced on the screen waving a phone at them, the sirens sung, “Call me and I’ll be here to listen, I wont judge, I want to love you” At a premium rate of course, that will show up on the phone bill. But the husbands have already conceived a watertight excuse for that, as long as she doesn’t ring the damn number.
God wouldn’t play the game like that. HE would have interests and care about your own. Have flair in the kitchen AND the bedroom. Looking younger than his years. When you come back home, HE would open the door with flawless posture and a kitchen towel over one shoulder and the scent of his labour would be filling the hall. HE would take your coat and enquire attentively about your day. You would reply about the marvellous display HE gave at the bingo hall and how impressed you were how HE managed to arrive home before you and prepare this marvellous feast. God would laugh, a good clean laugh, and remind you that HE is after all, God and omnipresent. You giggle like a schoolgirl as HE hands you a glass of the best wine you have ever drunk.
“Two fat ladies; 88”
With those words the fantasy bubble pops. Now every woman in the bingo hall is aware. Aware of mortality and their losing battle against gravity, Hips are not where they used to be, forcing the curtain down on their sex. Even if God wanted an encore, the stage was empty and the lights were off. There would be petition, petition stating that God wanted to enter their theatre. He missed the first performance so the theatre must be re-opened! But the public would agree that seeing the play now would be disappointment and the petition will be left blank.
So the ladies eyes mist over and they dutifully tick off that awful number. 88. In the distance somewhere is the victorious “Bingo”.
SO it is over, God sits and they stand like the herd of sacred cows. At home God secretly weeps, at night, to their cries of “bingo”. Most nights when he does he feels his tent start to rise up, rallied on by the twisted sense of power he starts to beat, all the while crying, until he cries one final white tear, then sleep. Bingo.