Scorched earth policy

Can you? Can you hear? Is this working? Thing on? Is this on? Is this thing on? Tap tap tap. No sound, nothing. Good. Click track and rewind. Press button and rewind. Start again. Start over. Start start start and startle me. Start again. Start over. Over already, before we begin. Start. Shall we start? Microphone on. Hush. Silence. And. Press record.

Speak forth or forever. Forever hold your peace. In pieces. Anything and everything. You useful find. Might. Taken. Roots. Ripped. Ripped up at the. Graves, mass graves. Everywhere, mass graves. No survivors. None. Love a good victim, me. Love a good. Victim. Victims of. Someone or other or something and other. Hammered at shins, broken neck. Tipped in. Buried. Tipped in legs after arms after break in two. Your scrawny chicken liver neck. Don’t call me chicken. Chicken liver, fearsome. Not yours. Nor yours. Nor yours either. Neither. You’ll never find me now. Never find me. Kicked over traces. Kicked over statues. Kicked over status. Down and down. The well is dry. You sucked up. Sucked up water. Sucked up water ‘til you burst. Spewed forth. Splattered innards. Greedy. Fucking greedy. Die for that, die. Ignorant little fucker. Another one gone. Buried. Buried alive but dead. In soul. In soul, dead. Insolent and sold and snapped. Sold and sold and soldered again. Tipped in. Cover with earth now. Covered. Gravel and earth. A dearth under. Spade slapped. Slapped down. Earthen wear and worn. Good as new. Remnant. Remembrance. Not a remnant. Grave and gravel and gravity gone. Can you breathe? Thought not. Thought not. No think. Don’t think. Best not. Existence is useless. Repeat after me. Existence is useless. No one comes after me. No one after. Nothing after. Not. No more.

Tell you what. What? Tell me what? Nothing. I tell you nothing. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I scratch. Claws and spores. Claws and pores. Claws and effect. Cause. Scratch. Scratch your eyes out. Scratch out with bloody nails so. So? So you not see. Not see again. No, you not see. I not show. You well? I well. I well up. Often well up. I well and truly. Well and truly buried. I thought so. I was taught so. Taught to do so. Thought so. Think so. You think? Not much. No more. Longer. Not any longer. No longer than a piece of infinite string. However long. Today, tomorrow, next week, next year, next decade. Will have forgotten by. Then, will have forgotten. Burn the crops. Burn every last sign. Burn for ever and every last burning cross, desecrated altar, violated tomb. Wipe out every last clue. Ransack the houses, no torture. Hose them down, sniff out sinners. Be kind. Be gentle. Be considerate. Really? No. Rape and pillage the burning natives and shoot. Shoot in head. Like in picture. Black and white. Photo snap. Shutter release, snap snap snap whirr and click and freeze and action. Action, inaction, reaction. Every last second. Frozen. Frozen in time and place and consequence. Freeze over. Just freeze. Frozen.

Thaw out later? Soon? No. Never. Permafrost here. Mammoth for eternity, face fixed in final feeble moments. Wide-eyed, loose-limbed, broken-backed, helpless. Roaring to moon. Howling to empty. Evacuate system, intestines on smooth white ice. Pathetic creature. Hateful of nature, so we kill it. Trample it, once and for all and for ever and ever. Amen. Amen. Our bleeding men. Our men are all gone, women and children first. First into the briny. And drown. And drown and swirl round and down and down again. We fill your mouths with dust so you never. Never speak. Again, never speak. Never whisper. Never whisper words or pictures or scenes or memories or even glimpses. You saw nothing, right? I saw nothing. Deaf, dumb and blind monkey, me.

You still hear? Here? No, no hearing. No seeing. No believing. There and everywhere. Have gone now. Kicked over traces, remember? Destroy as invade as ruinous as retreat. And laugh. And relieve. Have lost the button. The key. There is. There ‘tis. Isn’t it? Is that it? That it? That’s it. I know now. I know. So click. Click. Shut down. Shut down mic. Finish. Finish me off. Race to finish. Arriving first, arriving last, this time next week, if you’re lucky. This service has been delayed. This service has been suspended until further notice. Breathe. And in. Red light off now. Red light off. Done? Done. Done? Sure? Done. Sure. Certain. Off.

Begin again? Restart? Reboot? Abort, retry, fail? Y/N.

Comments: 21

  1. y please.

    …and repeat. you have made punctuation as poetry once more.

    Miles Away | 11.24.07, 14:07

  2. Modern life is rubbish. Right?

    Gordon | 11.24.07, 14:20

  3. Bleh. This seemed clumsy somehow. There were snips of interesting imagery and wordage. Despite the unique use of punctuation (as noted above) it seemed a little too fabricated and not quite a tight enough fit. I can’t better define what I mean, I’m afraid. It was interesting, but without the usual impact here.

    2ndhandsoul | 11.24.07, 15:45

  4. Are you sure you’re alright??
    Sounds a bit, well, manic, to me.
    Best take a pill, wipe the slate clean and start again Y.

    bipolarworks | 11.24.07, 16:09

  5. ‘Begin again? Restart? Reboot? Abort, retry, fail? Y/N.’

    The key thing here for me is, to recognise the small successes. Never question whether to reboot.

    A Cloudy Sky, brings needed refreshment. A Forest Fire, clears the land ready for regrowth. And within any Loss, there is always something to be gained.

    The Seasons may might be less well defined, but they exist, right up to the time, they do not.

    NAGA | 11.24.07, 18:03

  6. Whoops. Where did ‘May’ come from?

    NAGA | 11.24.07, 18:17

  7. i can´t listen through this lesson today there master i´m just off out to the jacks for a smoke, no, no bother, i´ll see myself out.

    biddy | 11.24.07, 21:55

  8. I really like the rhythm and the way the piece seems to develop through word association. It also makes me think of Bosnia and genocides and wanting it to stop. I wonder what the author intended - and whether that even matters…

    Stephanie Boon | 11.24.07, 23:12

  9. This was hard to read, which I think was an intended effect (I hope). You are a master of word play.

    bohémienne | 11.25.07, 01:16

  10. lillipilli | 11.25.07, 10:01

  11. Wait he was saying something interesting.
    We don’t have time, fast foward to at least 20.
    He’s still goingon about that, lets go to 30.
    huh? I don’t understand that at all.
    Fine then lets go back to the beginning.
    Theres no time, we have to come to a decision in 15.
    He says he’s innocent.
    as do they all, fastforward, will you
    ok we’ve seen enough I still have to fill forms.
    But we haven’t seen anything.
    they both turn to face me, don’t lag behind.

    Blueseaurchin | 11.25.07, 16:47

  12. As illustrated by previous comments, whether you love it or can barely stand reading it this piece makes you think, question, examine.

    It is evocative, imaginative, passionate, playful, experimental, intuitive, and beautifully-rewardingly difficult; it is open to interpretation and imbued with meaning. It’s got a singular voice and, most of all, it’s what every writer aspires to be: absolutely fearless.

    Ani | 11.25.07, 17:58

  13. Applause for Ani’s comment!

    Clarissa | 11.25.07, 18:06

  14. I do not want to know what this current post is about. One should never ask an artist what his painting is about.

    What I do want to know is whatever happened to that moth you once wrote about?

    Do you remember, little moth, banging his head against the window.

    I often think of him.

    andre | 11.26.07, 22:30

  15. Asking an artist what her painting is about is merely an aside that might throw some interesting light. The artist will always be more interested to know what you think it’s about anyway - and will smile wanly when you tell her, all the while thinking about what’s for dinner, or how soon she can go to bed.

    Stephanie Boon | 11.27.07, 00:48

  16. Perfect imperfection?

    2ndhandsoul | 11.27.07, 01:59

  17. I still hear. Here. Yes, yes hearing. Yes seeing. Not believing.

    As I read your words I often try to think myself into your mind. Not so much to think what you think, but to know what thoughts go through your head after you have written something like this. Something so shockingly beautiful. Shocking and beautiful.

    This piece in particular is like all thoughts to all people.

    Ciaran | 11.27.07, 19:33

  18. Thanks, everyone, for such thoughtful responses, whether you liked it, hated it, or didn’t have the slightest idea on earth what this utter claptrap was about. Rightly or wrongly, for me part of the - enjoyment isn’t the right word - adventure of writing something like this is reading the ideas and interpretations you bring to the party.

    P.S. For moth fans, the moth is dead. That’s how it ended. Long live the moth. May it flutter in peace, somewhere in eternity.

    An Unreliable Witness | 11.27.07, 21:59

  19. Concerning your “leave a Comment” description, I regret everything in the morning anyway.

    blueseaurchin | 11.27.07, 22:02

  20. And if you are so concerned, might it not be more courteous for you to make available the trash-can option in which we your loyal fans might wake up at 3:00 a.m. when we decide, that we can’t bare to be associated with the notes we have left you and must at once rectify the situation by a flick of the mouse.

    blueseaurchin | 11.27.07, 22:02

  21. And do you even wonder about the poor commitment phobes endlessly hovering over the “post” button without the courage to stab it because it leaves us, um them, with no recourse once posted?

    blueseaurchin | 11.27.07, 22:04

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