calling the ghosts up

I remember her as pot-pourri. She is one of those dolls with the knitted dresses they sit atop the toilet rolls. She is apple-scented shampoo. He is mintoes – those mint sweets with chocolate centres, and the smell of garlic tablet farts. I have to catalogue them somehow, and sometimes doing it by name or by crimes committed against me or favours done for me seems unfair.

Conjuring up ghosts is like blowing smoke rings held inside from the moment they disappeared behind the curtain at the crematorium. Yeah, and sometimes she is a heart-attack; he’s an embolism; she’s bowel cancer; and he is brain tumour.

Depending on whether the memory resurrects itself through the sense of smell or some morbid hospital shadow of memory, they come to me as the figures they were before the illness, or the decimated remainders they became. One I like – the other is less pleasant.

I like photographs. I like kid’s drawings – presents for grown-ups that represent both a child’s state of mind at the time and an insight into what he perceived as necessary to communicate something to an adult. Innocence can peel away the latterly achieved carapace forged from layer of disappointment which dull the patina you should have.

i dream of a perfume that captures a life; a taste that lingers on the tongue and plays a symphony upon the palate. to imagine that i am crafting something for a deafblind person with whom there is no other form of communication than the olifactory sense. i wish to craft a joycean engine from which my own dublin can be reconstructed. each poem, each story, each book is a bottle of perfume.

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eight legged infinity

anthony pierson hacked off his legs last week as part of a botched attempt to graft on the lower half an octopus which he had been feeding up and nurturing until it was an adequate size. he had been in love with midori 8 ever since she had undergone the brain transplant two years previous and her cthulu inspired porn flicks had become instantly hot amongst those plugged into the small elder gods niche market.

he had been into the arcane science of flesh-shaping for a long time now and had been using stuff from different planes of reality whose frequency he had managed to tune into and had a pretty good business going selling sex toys made from the distilled essence of nub shiggurath and other lesser known gods from the abyssal realms of nightmare. that was how he had got into octopus porn and discovered midori 8.

he wheeled his chair over to the switchboard and connected himself up to several people he wanted to get together in a room for a new experiment he had devised. he promised the crack whores the purest drugs he had been able to secure – drugs he had obtained on a promise of providing the murder spree fuckbuddy cult Meathaus with fresh bodies. he had talked a coterie of beautiful failed suicides into showing up as well, so this was quite an exciting occasion.

as they gathered in what he had euphemistically dubbed the waiting room he flipped a switch and pumped a fine mist of LSD laced aphrodisiac into the air. octopi were allowed out of their tanks into the room and they too were coupled with in perhaps the strangest breeding program devised.

channelling the orgone energy through a quantum state, which he believed to be a replicated moment from one of his successful interactions with one of the eldritch ancient powers, he succeeded in opening a gateway and allowing Nyarlathotep to manifest. his god was pleased and gifted him with his desired number of tentacles and the woman he had fantasised about for so long. anthony was a happy hybrid.

being deep

do you remember starting out with some illness that you apparently had? they gave it to you and you took it as a defining feature of your life because it added depth to what you thought, at the time, was a facile personality.

you’re coughing up your profundity and spitting it in the sink while i am sat there in the background wondering why you can’t just set the germs free from the cage of your excuse? i don’t like to build my palace out of half-glimpsed shadows and undelivered promises, but you tell me that all we have is scrapbooks.

when we moved into this place there were ants carrying the sweetness of the previous occupants away. the fingerprints were still fresh on the formica; an old unemptied kettle and a novelty message on a mug that was not part of our conversation. we called it cleaning up and moving in – unpacking our reality and history from the boxes we had managed to sort it into. the post-it notes looked like diagnoses; fridge magnet haikus barely noticed. if we were to sit there and pick significance out of the alphabet soup how long would it take before we found something we could believe in or argue about?

i don’t like to see you unwell because it is all so unnecessary – an affectation you pick up as a useful prop to stir up the air when you think it has staled from inactivity. the way you come out of all these illnesses is you forget that you need to perform certain actions to make them real; like those guys who forget which leg they chose to be hurt. you’ll maybe stumble a little bit as you realise you’ve been caught out – that everyone, even you, knows there is nothing really wrong with you. but when you are feeling good and there is nothing holding the performance in place it is kind of hard not to smile at how daft you’re being.

you never needed illness to make you profound – like a lot of people when you start treading that invalid path you are scuffing your shoes on dropped cliches and tying your tongue in knots to explain away the flaws in your facade. when you are happy and you are really looking at the things which are before you, it’s easy for you to say something and watch as resonates with those who are listening to you. they don’t have to excuse away the passive agressive way you are communicating with them – they can just accept what was uttered for what it is: truth.