David Strugnell
06-10-2011, 08:45 AM
Simon Best was not enjoying April. Kittens in summer better. He had not long left to lifve. Diabetes 2. Heh heh. Yes. He was almost laughing. Perhaps three years at best. He was really a Reynolds. Karen Reynolds. No. He was bored. How to know anything? Reality. Christ.
"Are you behaving yourself, Michael?"
Michael was his best new boyfriend. Michael was an analyst. Michael gobbled down the pink un's information greedily.
"Behaviour therapy," said Michael. "It's all the rage."
Karen was a girl back at the school. She wore no makeup. She wore suspenders and stockings. He touched himself there where the fading light and the distance Springsteen flicked within and around his little faith. He was there then.
"Simon, are you looking ahead? I think I have to get my mind sorted. I'm dreaming flies. Flies, my man. Isn't the fly the devil's symbol? The lord Christ has his fish. Also the tiger. Witness Tom."
Simon- quite a man apart- visualised T.S.Eliot.
"I think I saw a tiger in a zoo, Michael. I had to have a rest. Anthropomorphism is all too much. Then we have the insects. Isn't a fly the god's creation?"
"You're getting philosophical, Simon. I thought you represented English literature ordinarily."
He was bored. Boredom was tasting his veins, his imagined infection, his darkest memories.
"Flies are everything, Simon. Are you off to Craven Cottage on Saturday? Home to West Ham."
"West Ham United?"
"Yes."
They were not lovers. Phyiscal tensions could not find easy solution. He needed two new mannerisms, a fresher's phrasebook.
"They have this strange football hooliganism phenonemon."
"It's nothing new," said Simon. "Chelsea fans doing wild things back in the nineteen-twenties, in fact."
"I'll research," said Michael.
"Perhaps a fly influenced the fans. The devil. Are you spotting the connection? Trouble. They really are spoliing for it. The internecine?"
"The internecine?"
So Simon saw the battle. Fists and bottles congratulated their own weight, their own magical new physics. He was almost laughing. Sad gag. Michael was too 'Errington Street.' He thought the battlers insulting- was it football? Yeah. Yep. Uh-huh. How 'new' and IT age.
"Just visualising here, Michael. Do you know I have a dishy photograph? Portsmouth fans up in Coventry. It's daylight period. The fans are somewhere like the goddam shopping centre. And they're marching perhaps as hooligans side by side. Or the West Ham mighties. Ever heard of 'em? The Inter City Firm."
"Are you behaving yourself, Michael?"
Michael was his best new boyfriend. Michael was an analyst. Michael gobbled down the pink un's information greedily.
"Behaviour therapy," said Michael. "It's all the rage."
Karen was a girl back at the school. She wore no makeup. She wore suspenders and stockings. He touched himself there where the fading light and the distance Springsteen flicked within and around his little faith. He was there then.
"Simon, are you looking ahead? I think I have to get my mind sorted. I'm dreaming flies. Flies, my man. Isn't the fly the devil's symbol? The lord Christ has his fish. Also the tiger. Witness Tom."
Simon- quite a man apart- visualised T.S.Eliot.
"I think I saw a tiger in a zoo, Michael. I had to have a rest. Anthropomorphism is all too much. Then we have the insects. Isn't a fly the god's creation?"
"You're getting philosophical, Simon. I thought you represented English literature ordinarily."
He was bored. Boredom was tasting his veins, his imagined infection, his darkest memories.
"Flies are everything, Simon. Are you off to Craven Cottage on Saturday? Home to West Ham."
"West Ham United?"
"Yes."
They were not lovers. Phyiscal tensions could not find easy solution. He needed two new mannerisms, a fresher's phrasebook.
"They have this strange football hooliganism phenonemon."
"It's nothing new," said Simon. "Chelsea fans doing wild things back in the nineteen-twenties, in fact."
"I'll research," said Michael.
"Perhaps a fly influenced the fans. The devil. Are you spotting the connection? Trouble. They really are spoliing for it. The internecine?"
"The internecine?"
So Simon saw the battle. Fists and bottles congratulated their own weight, their own magical new physics. He was almost laughing. Sad gag. Michael was too 'Errington Street.' He thought the battlers insulting- was it football? Yeah. Yep. Uh-huh. How 'new' and IT age.
"Just visualising here, Michael. Do you know I have a dishy photograph? Portsmouth fans up in Coventry. It's daylight period. The fans are somewhere like the goddam shopping centre. And they're marching perhaps as hooligans side by side. Or the West Ham mighties. Ever heard of 'em? The Inter City Firm."