NormBeggar's Belief (2005)
So Pablo said to Leo, in the guise of Richard 111, “Wifey, wifey” to which Leo said, “I’m not on your team” knowing full well where they were in the race. It was a race of laps, around the block I’d say, and the finish line was not known. The rules were simple and god only knew. “Why did he put me here?” I was heard to say in cholic tones. I can’t race with any legs a functioning and god knows I’ve tried to but I can’t find a partner. “Maybe I’m deaf and Blind and cant see my other,” I shouted. What must my very real partner think of me?
The Old Dutch chair would sneer at me with that all knowing furniture look that was born of the endless suffering that accompanies being sat on. Beneath the appearance of the act lies the truth that all acts are essentially similar. That’s one good thing about having withered branches for legs: wash or change my trousers – I think not! My legs can’t send the filthy messages of dirt and such up the spine to the centralised government of the brain. ”Impeach!” my lower extremities might say if they could. While I’m on the subject I must remember to make it a rule and programme my brain to tell my hands to keep out of the underwear drawers before noon. My scabby legs, thou festering wound of scabs and flea bitten bipedal defining objects like so much refuse.
Crotchety old crutches they have become my crutch. Brain activity of lesser mortals like me. Needing some fresh air the window I opened and caught a glimpse of someone who I thought looked like me. I thought this could be me I may have found a fellow traveller. Naturally enough this individual was rather fetching and talented and hard working. All these qualities I had in abundance and looking at my trading card, and my attributes the memory of this fleeting image of this individual corresponded. I studied that memory again and again. If I did wish to pursue this I’d have to leave the place where I am housed.
The Old Dutch chair would sneer at me with that all knowing furniture look that was born of the endless suffering that accompanies being sat on. Beneath the appearance of the act lies the truth that all acts are essentially similar. That’s one good thing about having withered branches for legs: wash or change my trousers – I think not! My legs can’t send the filthy messages of dirt and such up the spine to the centralised government of the brain. ”Impeach!” my lower extremities might say if they could. While I’m on the subject I must remember to make it a rule and programme my brain to tell my hands to keep out of the underwear drawers before noon. My scabby legs, thou festering wound of scabs and flea bitten bipedal defining objects like so much refuse.
Crotchety old crutches they have become my crutch. Brain activity of lesser mortals like me. Needing some fresh air the window I opened and caught a glimpse of someone who I thought looked like me. I thought this could be me I may have found a fellow traveller. Naturally enough this individual was rather fetching and talented and hard working. All these qualities I had in abundance and looking at my trading card, and my attributes the memory of this fleeting image of this individual corresponded. I studied that memory again and again. If I did wish to pursue this I’d have to leave the place where I am housed.
