Chairman of the Bored

“It was a slice of burning olive, not you, that scorched my tongue.” He said.

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The white tree of flaming red leaves and spiral fruit stood in front of him like the goddess of sunsets in marble carved for all with sight to appreciate. Each leaf a life of sorts and each vein crisscrossed and wounded but each eye centred, unfocused but clearly seeing everything with inhuman precision.

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The power, the uncontrollable force of nature, the beauty that could not be denied, the stupendous might of an awe-inspiring miracle, the forks of lightening as they rip the sky asunder and the wilting palace of her king and lover, seared through her mind as she pictured before her untold numbers of weighted knees and burdened shoulders and crowned heads; an entire race gathered in submission; a once proud caste of once honoured emperors now at the mercy of the sea god.

Weakness spread from one torn and humbled part of her; within moments all was dark. His touch was fatal and wanting in subtlety; his music was ignorant, barbaric, laughable, almost, but too proud.

Too proud was born this son of man. This poet's war was far from over.

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The tea was getting cold. I put my hand on hers. There were spirals of smoke. The softest hands I’d ever felt.

I asked her if she’d like to. She didn’t answer but with a stare vacant and an almost imperceptible nod or a shaking of the head, confused the bloody shits out of me. That’s when I thought I really ought to eat something. Keep up my strength for the future. She had said her man was God of the Sea and smiled serenely at me. I thought she must be joking but you know how it is...

He could be in the navy.

The tea was getting cold. I put my hand on hers. She was eating plum jam on toast at the time and tasted of it. There was something overwhelmingly wholesome about her, especially the way crumbs fell from a bite she took, hit the plate and resounded in my mind. Her fingers drummed the coffee table and I thought her hand looked like a white tree with flaming leaves. I hated her red nail polish. Her nails were like crazy eyes that stared at me while she looked elsewhere. I could smell her perfume and it was maddening. I hated that perfume but it was quite her so I liked it. Some things occurred to me. I picked up the butter knife. Tiny ghosts tried to steal my thoughts but then I buttered my toast. It was therapeutic. Warm toast with butter, I think, I thought, was a good breakfast. I’d never tried it before then. The door opened and with a gust of wind a man entered the shop. His eyes were weary. His posture betrayed his need for sleep. He ordered a coffee.

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He rolled up his sleeves and decided the time was ripe for him to act, to come clean, to stand up and be accounted for, to be recorded forever in the annals of stupidity as a clichéd romantic with little control over his emotions.

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Beneath the forgotten deeps of the sea, Saturn sat upon his throne and waited for his queen. What clear white opals dripped when she spoke of life she’d lived with him!

“There are no fruits around here to be sure,” said Homunculus “but precious stones...alot. The pits of the earth are these; no oranges could ever compare, we have mirrors fashioned by the Light. This queen of yours, she loves you not. Though for a thousand million years you’ve wrought pleasure upon pleasure and luxury upon luxury. Why do you waste your time, with such a problematic child of dust?”

"Why don't you just mind your own bloody damn business you ass f---?!" snapped Saturn as he glanced back at the hourglass for the umpteenth time. "Next time I myself will go and see where she goes for this bloody damn tea that she must drink...!"