FOOTNOTE - farewell from discharge 4

The mice ran in circles around the feet of old man Discharge who carried a tallow wick candle that guttered and snickered like the cough of sick children in the ailing light. He pushed his wrinkles into the semblance of a smile and cracked his teeth together. His laughter ran like pneumonic plague; a contagious rumble that flew with the bats to the eaves of the tall, dusty, tumbledown building. He scratched his undercarriage and belched; a hollow sound that ricocheted from cross beam to rafter.

“I remember the first outbreak of influenza,” he thought and then corrected himself, “might not have been the first outbreak but it killed maybe fifty million people. A bit like my last wife – lethal.” He laughed again, a dry rattle that made him cough.

He took a swig of his dandelion tea, farted and skittered across the room.

Madam Discharge gathered the cobwebs that hung from the ceiling and placed them on her materials table. Her frock coat spun legions of spiders that ran willy nilly at her feet. She slipped her hand beneath her skirts and removed her vicious shears. A sharp pair of scissors that cut like time. She glimmered into a section of the house furnished with brass fittings and a long table shaped like a Viking long boat. She whistled a low note and a host of crows flew about her shoulders freeing her tar black hair that flowed like the Thames behind her.

As with conversations, life goes in circles and the Mother and Father of Discharge knew this all too well. Madam Discharge dispensed a fruit lozenge into the corner of her mouth and smiled a wicked smile.

“History repeats,” she thought, “But not the children of Discharge. They run riot with the fictions of creation.”

"Outside in the cold distance a wild cat did sit and growl, a ‘bunch of people’ were approaching and the wind began to howl."

Here is the final post for this 'volume' of The discharge series. You will now find us here: discharge 5 - Saint Peter's Working Institute

May whatever god's there are grant us a creative future and if they won't god help them all.

words by cocaine jesus/C.J.Duffy - photo courtesy of Doriandra Smith

For Dark Angels

Let me be your partner through the winter of your life...

slop slop bucket and trill

the more you cough

the more you spill

climb up walls

.

#small and portable, the eye^oftime is a travelling clock#

.

item #7897

Sunday, December 21, 2008

item #7897

Martin,

It's time to tell you that I have recorded every single one of your petty professional violations, secretly and in exacting detail. I readily drip with anticipation at the thought of our next meeting where we will discuss them. You should not be shocked. I made it clear from the start that I will do anything to service my pleasure. I am not praising your type any longer. That was just a pragmatic ruse. I barely hide my contempt; so it's hilarious to think you were taken in. I am going to be extreme and arbitrary in my treatment of your case. Despite what I said, you simply haven’t fulfilled your part of the bargain. I, in contrast, have shown you the gains to be made from perfecting injustice as a way to normalise the necessary lack of suffrage. Your failure makes me feel really very good.

Oh, and one last thing ... I'm no Communist, you tosser, I openly value all my property.

Janine

Mainly think I made the mistake of asking Claire outright, questioning her altogether, as she was really just thrown into more curiosity which wasn't then satisfied. That ended badly. I thought it tremendously silly of me, shortsighted. So, Claire, if you're reading this - really sorry. Anyway, this is just the way I sometimes am. It was better with Margaret. And she's usually treacherous. Just to say, M, your essay on St. Augustine has associations I don't recognise. That's a real worry. I wish I had time to stress this better, but I'm between the devil and the deep blue sea here, and my recent encounter with, let's call it, the British Empire, has knocked me for six. The dispute wasn't really between certain familial factors as you were probably led to believe. No, I was on the side of something altogether more vivid. Your work avoids all this. That guy threw me only with his hatred, or at least key aspects and key persons of that ilk. I was unconcerned with the depth and sway of his supposed temporal power - he was, of course, absolutely on time; in fact, I recognised his assertions where necessary. Does that help? Can you let me know? Tomorrow will be too late.

Arnold

"You talkin' to me? Then who the h*ll else are you talkin' to?"..."Go ahead, make my day!"... “You won first prize? Now that really makes my day!”

Plummeting

the brain in the suitcase swivels on it's chair, looks at the corpse in the reflection and goes...
the room bursts into laughter, floating , high pitched helium voices begin to suffocate in the increasing altitude
the air hasn't eaten for days. I told them not to put the text behind the door, it opens outwards.
I want to enlighten you - yet I find myself trying too hard to cheer up disc vomit. Jaie says, honestly, I read for days
then sticking 'fingers' in my mouth, throw up texts. Symbols burn themselves onto the mind, which has no lips, none
to pronounce the B's and P's. A sort of tyranny/ WORDS HIT YOU HARD.


A voice is something different he spoke--

to birds with ones tone~

The ego is a rule, but not a law. i suck dichotomy--

What I mean is, writing is an act of Bulimia for me, he said--with a shotgun aimed at the milkman--a little to the left motherfucker!!
The brain is still in the suitcase staring at breasts, reminding him of his cowardice. So he punched her, and it turns out....
the audience leaves, silently, putting their chairs on the tables, polite as British people..they're all like after you and shit.
Jaie just goes on throwing up on stage--in front of a mirror, not even gang signs!!! and when he goes home that night he's snug--coz if he has to
he'll curse anyone who he suspects might be doing the same--or worse.

In the bank he had two pounds change and an outer body experience, but it wasn't as exciting as being in the bank counting stars-starts doing all this stuff he's too scared to do
and figured a way out of despair--yeah right!!
and the room just breaks into tears--a sickening orgy of compliments--because nothing is duller than being in the moment. the corpse neologized, accidentally, as if there were crips in the room
and Jaie just goes on plummeting--quantum crytogrphizing--spontaneously--

ARE THOSE YOUR PEOPLE? interrupting before the reply—pre mature emasculate—it happens sideways—the corpse is just nodding it's head to the beat like, yeah this is nice—and in your dreams you are a tyrant, I'm trying to sit down. The page is cunning.