Where the fries are left all alone, realising what loneliness feels like for the first time

Rarely happens does it. When the fries are left all alone. Means not even one of them is touched. And I think they know this fact. The way they sit still, all sizzling and gleaming with oil, all “we know you gonna bite us mofo” smug and all.

And then, one day, they are just ignored. And this ain’t at no vegan, ghass phoos place either. But full on junk food heaven. Like proper deep fried chicken with sausages covered in bacon type place. A place where the ketchup is unlimited. And probably the healthiest thing in the entire joint.

Can totally imagine their shock at first. The disbelief. As the hands move all over the plate, grabbing the deep fried cheese. Picking up the salted shrimp. Tossing the peri peri sausages right into the mouth. But just avoiding the fries. Completely avoiding the fries. Even that seductive little fucker who has rolled off the plate and is now right in the line of sight. Yup, even that little fucker. So brown, so crispy.

And then the panic setting in. The slow, crippling panic mixed with self-doubt. “Were we not good enough?”. “What did we do wrong?” “Are we paying for our sins?”

“Oh god will we end up like…like…like SALAD??????”

.

I don’t know if foods have gods. Maybe they do. May be their gods have as intricate and complex a story as ours. Perhaps.

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I was reading something about Ethopia and how old civilisation is and how pretty the country is. And I decided that I would go there some day.  Not very soon perhaps but definitely some day.

I like those kinds of plans. The ones which are like clouds in the sky. You can see them, and they don’t seem too distant. And they look so beautiful. And, on good days, you know that you will meet them in the near future. You just know.

Inside.

.

 

 

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Where the ends remain, staring hopelessly at each other and wondering where the middle disappeared

Probably be my final thoughts before I die. So I remembering being born, and then I know that I am going to die. But what happened in between? Does anyone remember? Do you? Do you?

Walking around, as best I can so close to death, asking people where the middle had disappeared. Or perhaps I would be too sick to move, so I would just be lying on my back. Trying, desperately trying, to remember the memories of the middle. Trying and trying but unable to do so no matter how hard I tried. Only coming up with blankness. With unknowing.

Why so depressing kro? Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it? Do you want an ice cream?

Yes, please. To the last one.

What are you, ten years old.

Possibly.

Oh fuck that would just make it even more depressing. Dying before you have even had the chance to make memories. Even though you may end up forgetting them all, at least you know (or think you know) that you had some memories in the first place.

Are you saying that ten year olds don’t have memories?

No, I am saying that till the age of twenty-five you have more or less wandered around like an over enthusiastic monkey with little or no understanding of life. So, the memories you think you have are like the air in that packet of Uncle Chips. Fucking annoying, and fucking pointless.

Jesus kro. Are you sure you are alright?

Yes. Now give me that ice cream. Double scoop. In a cone.

No napkins. Yeah, you heard that right. Tonight, we live like animals.

 

 

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Where the titles fall, hard and brittle cause thats just the way they are

Crashing into the ground.

Breaking into many, many pieces. Not even close to a million by the way. You know, just to make sure people don’t go around jumping to conclusions.

Million pieces it seems.

Seen your face?

.

 

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Where we resume the conversation, hoping against hope that this time the questions would be answered

I think you could have a conversation of layered questions. Just questions over questions. Questions below questions. This jumbled up, mumbled up pile of unanswered questions. Squirming uncomfortably, and just waiting to be answered. Kneeling on the edge of hope. Waiting and watching. This quivering pile of questions, growing taller and taller. More unstable. Blocking the view, covering the eyes, growing the way weeds do. Uncontrollably. Unwanted.

Yeah, I think you could have conversations like that.

All the time.

.

I think it would make some sense to have shuttable eyes. Like proper shut, the kind which would go “click” when you pull your eyelid over the eye. Or maybe two eyelids, one above the eye, and one below. So when you blinked, the top half and the bottom half would meet in the middle.

That would be fucking creepy initially I think.

And would make winking a little more difficult. Because you would have to use that muscle below your eye also. And then what if the top half is far more powerful than the one at the bottom? You would have a crash of eyelids.

Where the fuck are you going with this kro?

I don’t know, why do you keep asking me the same stupid questions?

Well, what the fuck am I supposed to ask you otherwise?

If I knew, you think I wouldn’t tell you?

How the fuck would I know what you know and what you don’t know?

Why you being such a prick?

You really don’t understand me at all do you?

Oh my god, do you think you are a fucking transparent book?

Aren’t I?

(This is like that game on whose line is it anyway)

(Is it?)

.

Ta da!

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Where we try to keep her in your pocket, but fail miserably because that is not what pockets are for

Have you heard that song?

It is one of my favourite ones by ’em Stripe fellows. Such a simple, relaxing melody on the guitar, and such fear and pain in the voice. Most deadly combination. Full deadly I say.

Like pineapples and kimchi.

That shit will kill you.

Death by kimchi.

Not a bad way to pop it I think. Imagine that crime scene. Bloated body in the centre of the kitchen, slumped over the table. Air filled with the smell of fermentation. Forgotten farts and belches that are still roaming around the stomach, waiting to come out. Detectives walking slowly around the body. Each waiting for the other to touch the body. Each thinking that it would be hilarious if they poked the stomach, and let the suppressed belches out. Perhaps one of them would be thinking about his family, his son. A twelve year old with way too much seriousness than is good for him. Sulking at times. Never caught him looking at a girl. Or even a boy for that reason. No porn nothing.

Something wrong with the kid.

And then the other detective can’t hold back and pokes the stomach and it all comes roaring out. Seemingly without an end. Just out and out. Smelly and loud, and filling every single corner of that kitchen. The dogs in the street outside going silent cause they have never heard this kind of shit (literally) before.

“You just couldn’t wait could you”, asks the father detective to his partner.

Fucking asshole.

Hope he gets a son like me.

THE END.

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I have often thought about writing stories for kids. I think I would be good at it. Very, bloody good. Probably slip in some subliminal shit in here and there. “Stab yourself with scissors” and that is how Donny Rabbit found his mother at the end of the day.

THE REAL END.

 

 

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Where we sleep with the sparrows, slightly cramped cause this nest wasnt made for humans

It wasn’t.

I suppose in all the places I would feel like an unwanted guest, a sparrow’s nest would be pretty much up there in the list. Like close to the top of that list. I think the hardest part would be actually reaching the nest, cause those fuckers apparently prefer going slightly high up to build their homes. And then, or so I have been told, they are not particularly good at it, so it may be just a couple of straws hanging here and there.

Sounds vaguely familiar no?

Im sure the sparrows would not be too welcoming. Exchanging looks when they think I can’t see them. Silently mouthing, “when the fuck is this fatso going to leave?”. The resentment building, bit by bit. Slowly.

And me just sitting there, hunched over. Looking at the branches. Wondering when they will be serving dinner.

True story bro.

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If you could take anything at all, what would you take to the moon? Anything at all? That is tough. I would probably take a couple of balloons. No, that makes no sense. I would take a Tantra t-shirt. With some retarded saying on the front. And the back. And  would build a snowman with moon dust and make him wear the t-shirt.

So destructive. And pointless.

Like missiles.

Or maybe I would take this really shitty drawing, and gibberish written on it. Bury it somewhere not too deep. Something that would give the impression that it was the work of a past race.

How difficult would that be? Well, I would have to reach the moon first. And have a shovel. Yeah, so not too difficult.

.

I don’t like the fact that the world is made up of so many moving, changing components. So much interconnectedness. So many threads tied up with each other, linking things that you would not think have any relevance to each other. Always moving, always creating and destroying, and changing in ways that we have not even started to perceive. This poetry of motion, of change, of not staying still. Of being unable to stay still. As if the entire world is the creation of an unstable, unstoppable mind.

Well, you know.

Okay, I am bored with this.

Toodles.

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Where inspiration tries to land, an overweight and scruffy owl with a squint

I think about owls some times. Usually during the day because in the night they become slightly creepy. But in the day, they seem to enjoy not taking themselves too seriously. Like a bunch of old friends who are used to cursing and spitting on each other. Frivolous? Is that the correct word? Not sure.

Anyway, yeah owls. Good old owls.

I think they would make some fantastic stand up comedians. If they can just keep that same expression on their face. Through the entire set. Just looking, big eyed, staring. Perhaps a really long wink now and then. And then boom again with the big eyes. Just staring ahead. Joke after joke. With that same goddam expression.

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I don’t like decreasing attention spans for both, consuming and creating. There is a very silent joy about savouring an idea, building it bit by bit. Letting the flavours slowly make their way in, slowly because that is the only way to make them stay. Not really knowing what it is eventually going to taste like. But still savouring it.

It is like that tea you make with hot water poured over the leaves. The kind you have to just let it rest for some time.

I dont know where this is going. But instead of tearing this sheet down and chucking it somewhere, I am going to just leave it here.

For you to stare at.

Like….you know.

Owls.

 

 

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