Monthly Archives: January 2014

Pass me the Fork N Spoons


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Language we were repeatedly tolf was a beautiful  and wonderful thing it was not to be abused.there should be healthy respect until one had a full command of its opportunities …sounds could bring a tear to the most stern face …It is language that reduces a group of strangers to jelly moments of intimate lawless laughter and guffaws. ..Despite these pearls of wisdom  it was mainly visual. physical puns  that glued our familial situation .So it  was with great surprise that I found my self repeating this demand in a variety of timbre and tonality ..pass me the Fork N spoon please?…Excuse would you mind awfully passing the forkin spoons….all my life it was what words described that conjured up smiles…and now standing in Little Chef in a long cutler queue. .approaching my late mid 40s  it was the play of sounds and words that brought a broad grin if delight to by juvenile progeny and mild discomfort to the general public at large…..


Lord Byran attends a creative writing course


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We were all in various states of dishevelled disrepair….seated the class began ..I would like to welcome byran. ..I corrected her Lord Byran…so byran can you tell us a bit about yourself  and perhaps you might like to share a reading …..I stood up in my full corduroy glory ..decanted my  my rakish hat ….Hello all I am Lord Byran I travel mainly in the jet streams of hyper borean gales …and if I could be so bold I will share with you my Catastrophic Hymn ……


Now I have got you I going to eat you !


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We were caught in an endless gaze …at the time I had not learned a voluntary blink it was not in my toolbox of motor skills…I balanced on my father’s lap …. I had little concept of time or of anything other than the continuous now and dominant “here” as the only place you could be …I tested my father’s grip on me arching my back and in a remarkable feat which I have lost in adulthood to shift my entire weight into my feet or head ..i was going nowhere. ..Under the watchful gaze of this pristine woman …breathing grew from wheezing to snorkeling. ..twice I managed to create bubbles from the ooze in my nose … her face was like stone …..shortly I felt tickling in that trough below my nose …the filtrim. ..although my external attention was focused on her ..internal other plans were afoot .. as the green mucous made good progress towards my mouth …her face began to twitch…my gaze unbroken ..While a slug like appendage reached out from my recently toothed oral cavity ..like a stubby tentacle on a macro nature program it searched for this approaching ooze ….all this time father oblivious of the unravelling gastronomy. …This beautiful unspoken dance burst when my tongue founds it’s prey and she screeched, hands to her face , the pomade on that face raised in clouds as she contorted.an expression of disgust.as with all such habits we were all guilty at some point .I unblinking drew my navy blue wool jumper sleeve and smeared the silky green mucous across my left cheek …twisted my head and tucked myself into the corner of fathers tweed sports coat …..


A SERIES OF ALLEGATIONS


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Remorse,Shame,Guilt,Fear,Regret… you have left all the boxes empty…The Allegations had come hard and fast ..Smug ,Arrogant,Patronising,Deluded,Monomania,Self inflated. …Aloof…..I rubbed the crisp sheets with their accusatory lists..calmly I scanned the various adjectives with my recently scarred fore finger ..I had been sharpening my scythe  and in an instance my hand smarted …warm crimson blood drifted across my palm and plipped onto my corduroy …I dropped the scythe to the cool wet grass .. place my hand in my mouth ..I strode across the field ..salty blood trickled from my mouth …arriving at the van instinct opened the door with my bloodied hand ..from the tool box ..electric tape ..binding it tightly ..The pain remained sharp …hoping over the fence the scythe was returned to the shed and I put the kettle on …..my finger had completed its journey through the pages of observations ..raising my head .. smiling I asked in my well practiced rhetoric “Yes. .but does that make me a bad person?..do you think I might meet  these  faceless  parents of these childish ill thought observations ..my dear!


There is a bit of something on your face


 

 

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Bound by the understanding of basic rules of social engagement. . Well versed in some advanced conversational techniques. .. I began with …
Excuse me you have a big bit of something on your face ! 
The woman lifted the cigarette to her mouth drew in and exhaled ..lowered her hand to the ashtray..looked at a me and replied in a calm fashion “Oh really where ?”…”more or less most of it ” gosh how embarassing ..has it gone ?….”….”not really it’s still there ” I gestured with my hand on my face as one does…. There was a mirror but I thought given the circumstances I best just intervene…” oh how bothersome..is it gone now ” she brushed her chin in effectually. ..I had never been in a situation like this before …how did an encephalpod get there without her noticing …I decided to lie …”That’s it ,its gone now !”…She reached over brushed my arm and thanked me ..I stood up wished her well … and ran fast as my legs could carry me … how can you sit there smoking a cigarette with an octopus stuck to your face …and what’s the story with the no clothes its January I ask you ….Some people

 


The Interview


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  The afternoon had gone well and we were coming to the end of  our wild card candidate…we were not disappointed as with all wild card  he came with a a caveate …I was asked to summarize  by my rather reluctant collegues “We need somebody who smiles” I explained to a particularly skitish looking applicant …”You just don’t strike me as an enthusiastic team player a born communicator someone who naturally makes people feel at ease … I am slightly sorry but in this instance we will not be furthering this application.” He looked genuinely disappointed. . ” Is there any constructive suggestions I can take on board to improve my chances in the future Mr Mauricio OConnell.?” My colleagues lowered their heads and began fiddled with their pens.. I paused reached across the table and gestured with my hand…” Well you can get rid of the beak for a start ..good day! ” and shewed him to the door


The lost treasure of youthful exuberance


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To never know what it is like to scribe a  chalk circle on warm tarmacadam on a blistering hot summers day during a bank strike ..with uncollected rubbish strewn across the road. To never get the opportunity to hide underneath a car ..to miss out on the opportunity to climb into a parked car …let the hand brake off …to never feel that gush of terror when your shoe gets caught under the accelerator pedal as you despair ..in the realisation that an nine year old foot is not ready to avert collision… to never feel the sense of relief when the car eventually crumples a neighbours hedge …to never feel the rush of  summerair across your ruddy cheeks as you and your friends race to the walshes garden and plead to be allowed sit anywhere but on the road …. to never enjoy the beauty of returning to that collision and watching adults come to the wrong conclusion as to the events that befell that car….what a great loss indeed it is to deny all of this and so much more from the youth of suburban today’s and tomorrow’s. …a mighty fall from the rapture of youth fully deviancy. ..I ask you what have we lost in this sacrifice ?