A misanthropic rant
and potent exposure of dole, dull England enveloped in a salty wind
By Oliver Snodgrass (FN)
Living in the
monotony of ol’ Blighty with the mundane, drab wake of the way Kerouac’s
unabating stench of alcoholism dried up the pages of the perpetual script he
sermonised his words on. Dried up and shrivelled like a drunkard pip of an
olive as I traverse the streets of upper lewes road brooding over possibilities
of a precarious future for a precarious boy. How could anyone study alone, live
alone and abscond from the mind of something that keeps roaming?
Even after I converse
with those birth righteous friends, they inquisitively intonate, “did you fuck
her?” with a fleeting potency of promiscuous defilement and the once sacred act
of ‘making love’ eluding the middle class. But that was the weekend and now I
lay in my wake amongst the studious endeavours as I enter the austere
floodgates of upper education. As I enter the open planned, vacuous building
consumed with immigration –indecipherable click and clatter of clamour, I
cannot escape the carousing nights impending as the 2-4-1 shot posters adorn
the bland, draconian walls. I am disgusted and “oh, how terribly distasteful.”
Every oestrogen and testosterone band that ties these visceral thinking minds
together bounds me in a downward spiral toward insanity. So, I acquiesce and
pine for counselling. I visit the counsellor and she, sitting there, with her
oil slick hair and imperious wave of the hand emphatically asserts, “You can’t
be happy in a place if you continue to allude toward somewhere else”-how
poignant. So, with this I leave and retrieve the erudite stance I formerly
adopted as I observe a contemporary blighty (is that a paradox?). I read
endless paper rags with emblazoned print, which hitherto, hadn’t realised held
out a bias hand on the floor of politics and only a few details protrude from
the headlines...I harbour invidious
thoughts toward the bastard factories that run this country and golden
stockings I bought for these solitary matriarch figures. God damn scum with
your sordid ways as you carry out the banal lives through your carnal knowledge
during the weekdays and on the weekends you waver maturity with remnants of last
night’s co-op curry as you procure an insipid meal and spills of concentrated
alcohol toward a high-street merchandiser with unbridled frivolousness. Then
you’ll retreat back to your shit shack in a broken fashion whilst your
unadulterated offspring lay awake in a wake of inauspicious beginnings. How could anyone not
feel aloof? This is a poor excuse for a society, or civilisation only fit for
people who have the aptitude for belly aching and stomach twitching. The people
here in the west, you see, are devoid of pensive thought with their secular
necklaces, shackled bracelets, pierced orifices and forefinger tattooed to
their mouths. All of these furnishings on their body take their toll, but their
hands are so consumed with stress sticks that I think they forgot their rings
or was that contrived?
Where on earth did I
come from? What womb granted this brooding brain? When did malevolence and
benevolence meet and what did they talk about? Who so pertinently
resigned with “from the ice age to the dole age?”? I think I may traverse the
streets some more and seek out contrition from those who exude no trepidation
in thrusting back and forth and landing on a penis. Then I’ll go and read the
pondering works of a cynical, feeble old beatnik – Bukowski because I saw his
prolific “Post office” work in a bric a brac shop for a few pounds but couldn’t
proceed to affirm that degree of cynicism. I then wandered the lanes a while
longer as I witnessed a jovial puppy attempting with futility to ride a
skateboard which was as amusing as it were melancholic. After this I will
retreat to my room in a black corner and shout at the cotton ball walls that
lactate milk as my window breaths tentative winds (I left it ajar). I may
proceed to concoct some opulent dish of gripping spices and coughing peppers,
but I forgot to buy salt! Now all I can hear are the winds blowing valiantly
through the idle streets, pervading the homes of the home wreckers, home bound
and home renters. That forlorn wind blows and cries. I tried to go for what
would ostensibly be a walk of solace, but ultimately be a walk to 360 degrees.
As I left the tempestuous house of argumentative silence, the wind grew in
great multitudes and the sibilance was shouting in my ears and salty breeze was
bringing me to tears. God damn you indigenous people of England, stop
procreating! Stop procreating! Stop procreating!
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