My Treasure Untouched
Happiness, they say, is a bone. And a howl at the gold of the moon. But what would they know?
I was, to all purposes and common practice, a little dog-ish. That is, where an occasion called for dining at the table, I would eat from the floor. Where I should have been making love in the soft of a bed, I would be fucking in public: on park benches, in bushes, round the back of the supermarket. And where I should have been spending solitary quality time with my girl – my girl! – I would hang with the pack.
But mostly I wasn’t at all dog-ish. I was just a bust in the dust. Because most of the time I simply stood around, pale and interesting, stooped with a carrier bag full of gin, smoking cigarettes in exactly the same way that Anthony Burgess used to smoke cigarettes.
As for Anthony Burgess. The gang – or the pack, if you will – that I hung with were extremely big on the Clockwork Orange homage thing that was once the thing for violent, nihilistic young men. We never went so far as the baseball get up, or the make up. But we did like the violence. And the book. Full of the yarbles, as we used to say.
But in time, my juvenile barbarism became a thing of the past. I became, as everyone now knows, a man of peace. A man of peace with a certain kind of bite.
Take, for instance, the time I was sniffing round that Kofi Annan. The blood from his hands dripping the floor, a trail of failure from his Park Avenue apartment to his office at the Plaza. It was all I could do not to lick him clean. So I bit him instead. And his crook of a son.
From there it was but a short retreat to my kennel. Where, on those not so moist days, I would lie on the roof, gazing at the sky, contemplating those navel-shaped clouds and thinking about how, through my adoption of peace and my rejection of the material world (and the company of others), I had somehow become transcendent through the surety of my superiority. Oh, the benevolences and blessings that were mine to award.
Yet, as many had predicted, my man of peace guise soon crumbled to the dust of artifice it had been made from. So back to the violence. Or, rather, back to the inclinations to violence, tempered by the previously mentioned man of peace stuff. The tricks and lies I’d picked up along the way.
I was, to all purposes and common practice, a little dog-ish. That is, where an occasion called for dining at the table, I would eat from the floor. Where I should have been making love in the soft of a bed, I would be fucking in public: on park benches, in bushes, round the back of the supermarket. And where I should have been spending solitary quality time with my girl – my girl! – I would hang with the pack.
But mostly I wasn’t at all dog-ish. I was just a bust in the dust. Because most of the time I simply stood around, pale and interesting, stooped with a carrier bag full of gin, smoking cigarettes in exactly the same way that Anthony Burgess used to smoke cigarettes.
As for Anthony Burgess. The gang – or the pack, if you will – that I hung with were extremely big on the Clockwork Orange homage thing that was once the thing for violent, nihilistic young men. We never went so far as the baseball get up, or the make up. But we did like the violence. And the book. Full of the yarbles, as we used to say.
But in time, my juvenile barbarism became a thing of the past. I became, as everyone now knows, a man of peace. A man of peace with a certain kind of bite.
Take, for instance, the time I was sniffing round that Kofi Annan. The blood from his hands dripping the floor, a trail of failure from his Park Avenue apartment to his office at the Plaza. It was all I could do not to lick him clean. So I bit him instead. And his crook of a son.
From there it was but a short retreat to my kennel. Where, on those not so moist days, I would lie on the roof, gazing at the sky, contemplating those navel-shaped clouds and thinking about how, through my adoption of peace and my rejection of the material world (and the company of others), I had somehow become transcendent through the surety of my superiority. Oh, the benevolences and blessings that were mine to award.
Yet, as many had predicted, my man of peace guise soon crumbled to the dust of artifice it had been made from. So back to the violence. Or, rather, back to the inclinations to violence, tempered by the previously mentioned man of peace stuff. The tricks and lies I’d picked up along the way.
posted by Paul Saxton at 12:13 PM
2 Comments:
I think your other blog has crept into here!! But I like the image of a bloody Kofi nonetheless, and his 'trail of failure'. And the idea of men being dog-ish, of course.
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