Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll

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Matty,

It is with deepest regret that I must inform you of my passing in 2018. This in large measure explains my conspicuous absence. Rest assured, I am accustomed to the experience, having died once before in 1991 as a result of abusing powerful intoxicants, a wily mélange of alcohol and over-the-counter cough drops. Nonetheless, as I am wont to say nowadays, when the grim reaper calls, it won’t be on your galaxy S9. Death is ultimately sudden, even when you have been expecting it all your life. By-and-by, I propose to revisit the subject on the occasion of my third death, which is foretold to end under the crushing weight of a tractor in some mud-laden field.

My recovery has been swift but I am still frail. Presently I fear my huge investment in copper will be my undoing. A savvy investor yourself, you can well understand how I blame the Chinese for most of my malinvestments. If not for crippling debt they might actually have an economy in need of base materials. But other than not being able to make a quick, obscene profit from commodities, what is it people don’t like about copper right now? It has a nice sheen. Why the hate? Personally I find the sight of coppery locks curled upon the temples of a grammar student almost too dizzying to bear. Nevertheless I believe copper will be the next big thing since gadolinium. Of course certain divestitures were necessary; for example, I no longer own my huge collection of Victorian pornography and had to auction off some of my cars. Parting with the Lambo was difficult, as the searing image of its sad eyes and dinted forehead filled me with mean-spirited melancholy. That’s when I attacked the tow truck driver, a toothless automotive “professional” wearing a ruddy baseball cap. “Careful with that chain,” I said to him with the same amount of goodwill on offer by madman wielding a paring knife. As though dropped from a steep cliff or nudged from the cozy comfort of a C-47 and facing an uncertain future over barren land, an idea lodged itself within the hazy periphery of my fanatically morbid mind. Was the altercation truly about dentistry? Was having a perfect set of creamy canines and of masticating molars–stroked daily with the vellicative touch of silky strands of dental floss, oh! those easily titillated incisors–correlated with a penchant for fast cars? Let’s face it, the poor sod would never own a Lamborghini and that was as certain as snowfall in Sweden. And verily, his fetid odor was not a reprisal for his conspicuous lack of the trappings of wealth, but rather a natural statement about inevitability. Oddly and fittingly, there’s nothing natural about a Lamborghini, and out of the two I’d cast my lot with the downtrodden over the hydraulic on most days.

He had the eyes of a weasel yet the bonhomie of a seasoned swine. I also got the feeling he was just putting in his time, and that at 5 o’clock he’d abandon everything mid-doing and leave for another planet. Then suddenly, as though out of character, he took me back millions of years and spoke heatedly about lobsters and serotonin. I humored him with an attentive ear. Was he making a cogent point about hierarchies? Had he recently done a repo on the SUV of an evolutionary biologist?

Still, he must have been a Marxist. But from my vantage the stench of Mao Zedung’s [sic] delusions ( it’s unmistakably the stench of death) seems to cast a pall over the revival of that brand of governance. In contrast and in stating the obvious, any meritocracy will have excesses, but such unevenness is the spark of life, its guiding principle. If I’m at sea and Poseidon decides to throw a shindig, I’d rather have a qualified captain at the helm than the cook or a chamber maid with unappreciable navigation experience, save for her ability to circumnavigate the captain’s escritoire with long goose feathers (the video, available in certain sectors of the internet, is quite exquisite). I don’t have anything against cooks, toothlessness, or ornithology when it comes to it, but the thought of my cabin filling up with water without a genius seaman at the helm does not give me succor. There is a time and place for everything (suddenly this missive takes a pithy turn, co-opting the worse instincts of the greeting card industry) and this is the time for a decorated naval officer.

Mat, as impending death hangs around me like gaminesque groupies ensconced in the backstages of unwholesome rock concerts, I rediscover your writing. And as the likelihood of my slipping into a coma increases with each passing day, with each marauding cloud, I beseech you to inform me of your forthcoming literary awards from institutions which still dole out as a token of esteem statuettes of naked gods and goddesses, carved with anatomical precision. Porcine literature, your unapologetic niche, is bound to palpably surface as tales of pig farmers migrating to the bustling city are just beginning to capture the public imagination. It is my fervent hope that serious critics start to honor the very best in what has been termed Pig Lit by fans of the genre. As such, I may enjoy, vicariously through your good self, the pleasure of being feted as a literary maven, thus, delicately and seemingly, vindicating my years of despoiling perfectly salvageable paper with Byzantine sentences and intransigent vocabulary. You are my only hope now, Mat. Don’t be an ass.

As an additament, the Finns have sadly banned the use of dental amalgams, some malarkey about toxicity, which coincidentally use copper; nevertheless, I continue to blame the Chinese for my misfortunes.

Sincerely,

P.

Mat’s writing can be found anywhere condoms are sold or alternatively by scouring his pockets if you happen to spot him pacing the length and breadth of Brighton Beach.

If that wasn’t enough, his work can be found on his blog or on the floors of local animal shelters.

https://drysailorboy.wordpress.com/

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20 Comments

  1. BY ALL THE GODS AND MEDIUM SIZED DOGS! *esme gives Prospero the kiss of life regardless of his thrashing, howling and general annoyance at such disregard for his trying to die*

    More! *shakes a fit in a demanding fashion*

    – Esme nodding about the Matty part, waving her crutches generally in happiness and copying and pasting the whole above jobby to read again several times at her leisure upon the Cloud

    Liked by 3 people

    • Dear Esme,

      What’s the skinny on the crutches or is it some sort of metaphor? I’m getting to the point where I interpret even the most trivial banality (not all banalities are trivial–I’m thinking of evil) as having a secret meaning–as though those in charge are trying to tell me something. Naturally I speak of the staff at the sanatorium. They’re a lively bunch but know precious little about alchemy. At a gut level I blame the system, but on further consideration blame the Chinese.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Hahahahaha. That’s interesting as I have heard that the Chinese also blame you. No code, (nor euphemism for that matter (the mind boggles!)) Esme broke her foot on the first of this very year of Our Cloud 2019. Said poor item is now encased in a boot provided by the horse-piddle, but I still need crutches as I am but a weak Empress at present and need the support *hoists up her tights*.

        – Esme Cloud making the most of her best Wiz

        Liked by 1 person

      • Esme, while reaching for the last of the eggnog, fell off her cloud and landed in a haystack somewhere near the Chilterns, much to the dismay of Huang Fu, a sun-drenched bay colt, whose time at the Abacus stud farm had been interspersed with several instances of foreign objects raining down on the premises (mostly pamphlets of a political nature).

        Huang Fu and I wish you a speedy recovery.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I love you P…internet love, [cam me soon again]

    Liked by 2 people

    • Will you soon be intervening in the Brexit debacle?

      Liked by 1 person

      • Certainly a pillow talk theme. Normally my wife takes the lead:

        ‘I could do it, I could do it, you know…’

        ‘You’re so right baby [hic].’

        ‘Raise my banner in the square!’

        ‘Yes, yes, I’ll bring donkeys on behind, marching to London my Boooodica..’

        ‘Play some music…’

        ‘Erika, Lille Marlene, favourites on the youtube.’

        ‘DON’t CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA!!!’

        Liked by 2 people

      • Knowing that you and the missus have things under control puts my itinerant mind at ease, though, just in case, I have a bottle of overproof rum at the ready. Can it really be as bad as the Suez Canal miscue. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen to the pound?

        Liked by 1 person

      • I’m not talking Brexit on the web! Although worse than Suez they say…

        Liked by 2 people

      • Worse than polka dots at a haberdashery, they say.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Ah, the man of the Byzantine sentences and intransigent vocab is back from the dead, or newly dying or decomposing. Whatevs. You’re a treat as always. Matty is a lucky man to be so feted. I wonder, does he write in Pig Latin?

    Liked by 3 people

    • Susanne,

      I once visited Canada and before being deported I was able to secrete on my person a set of moose skin coasters, perfect for serving those Jamaican rum drinks I top off with a diminutive pink umbrella and a dash of powdered iridium.

      Hope you are still writing. Will visit your corner of the internet when the throbbing pain in my head subsides (could be days or months).

      Liked by 1 person

  4. You are so well read. I feel like Caliban, or more like Trinculo who fell into the puddle of horse piss somewhere around Act 4. And, coincidentally, I’m kind of glad that you recovered from your second death. It saves me from having to read other blogs.

    Liked by 3 people

    • Captain Bruce,

      I don’t recommend multiple deaths to anyone, but it’s always worked for me ( a Hunter Thompson paraphrase).

      How have you been? What new in New Z? Hope you are stocking up on canned goods and staying away from the cryptocurrencies.

      Liked by 2 people

      • I have a can of spam, which in the rather likely event of a volcanic eruption by the proximate mountain, I will be able to sit in my driveway among family corpses and open the tin with a rock, thus extending my existence for several days. We’ve been meaning to get emergency supplies but inasmuch as a novel is based on real experience what the heck is the use of an erupting volcano to novel-writing if survival is assured? Thank you for asking. Apart from that, I seem to be ok.

        Liked by 1 person

      • We demand that people of all walks of life carry a passport. I think it’s time we demand the same of natural disasters. Volcanoes, for instance, should have to state their intentions and get stamped by a border agent. Same with tsunamis and earthquakes. This is common sense. This way you would be free to waste your time on a novel. It’s what I do.

        Liked by 1 person

  5. […] Prospero Dae […]

    Like

  6. Hello Prospero! Thoroughly enthralled by this marvelous pièce de résistance. and look eagerly forward to more resistance pieces — past, future…of all tenses, actually. Vivid, wry stuff with sensational scope, that’s what it is. You suspended my disbelief by the second sentence and secured its mettle by “despoiling perfectly salvageable paper with Byzantine sentences and intransigent vocabulary.”
    Kindest thanks 🙂

    Like

    • Whereas rock ‘n’ roll has the electric guitar, this writer has magical realism as his principal instrument of seduction, either that or the writer of these fine pages has been spending too much time on a island waiting, no doubt, for the vagaries of communism–those loopy 300 year economic plans– to coalesce firmly in the mind before rejecting them body and soul.

      Bill, happy to have you on loan, fully and transparently, from the cloud empress.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Magical realism qualified as degenerate art (entartete Kunst) in Germany from 1933 to 1945, the arts were exiled. Some amazing experimental stuff flourished in full flower during the Weimar days. I found a literary journal from 1942 at a library discard sale, ideologically safe stuff containing no literary value (the kind that is Nazi-friendly) from cover to cover. Here’s a link to a few Goebbel guidelines for jazz performers:
        https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/01/josef-skvorecky-nazis-jazz/250837/
        Pleased to be on internet-library loan here. And with fully-disclosured transparency 🙂

        Liked by 1 person


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