Passel o' Moo
posted by Duck @ 8:10 AM
9 Comments
Pilgrim Grey
Arse Poetica!
Saturday, February 18, 2012
About Me
- Name: Duck
- Location: Pakistan
Several years ago -three to be exact- I volunteered to participate in a psychological experiment. I was to undergo various tests that would assess my cognitive functions. Before the actual tests, however, they had to examine my blood to see that I fit the bill, in terms of a normal and healthy person. It was then that they found that my blood's blood, or Spea, was dying. The well groomed, suit clad, business minded individuals dwelling inside my circulatory vessels were unaware of their being part of a complex, multi-cellular organism. Their universe was a human and their human was irresponsible. The case was brought in front of the Supreme Court. The doctor's daughter, who had fallen in love with me, had no choice but to banish any thoughts of us and move on. She still loves me but has a practical side that I cannot bring myself to resent. I was told that the French/German poet, Croixan Sawnt was my only hope if i were to escape but i have been unable to contact him. I have found out only recently that ever since he lost his leg in the famed 'War of the Arachnids', Sawnt has gone into hiding. Neither of his daughters has heard from him in five years.
Previous Posts
- To Animals
- Join Now!
- Translating Manto
- Nocturne
- eclipse last night
- Gratitude
- Taking Stock
- Nasri Nazm
- Chaperone to Risalpur
- Floccinaucinihilipilification*
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9 Comments:
:-[
Increase the font size, please?
i'll try. blogger doesn't always do as i say.
‘Respected T-
O- has developed a contraption to boil bull testicles while the bull is alive. It’s not a great idea. Might be tasty though. Damage to property so far calculated at sixty thousand. It was fine when he was trying it on our dogs but this is bullshit. Come save the cows or we will beat him to death for his own good. Heard about your wife's accident.
Regards,
S-‘
It was traditional to mention the wife's accident. It was a superstitious way of preventing an accident or referring to an accident that might have happened. Wives were considered replaceable and so. Well, it makes sense in that culture.
Of course my father took no notice of the letter or give any thought to the matter, but a week past he received a visitation in his sleep. His father, my grandfather, appeared to him in the shape of an old man and asked him to get the hell down to the village and 'stop that pissy bastard from destroying what respect the family has earned there over the last century'. And that any tardiness in the matter would be considered an offence unforgivable. He would be 'damned to an eternity of getting tea-bagged by camels'.
Naturally, he leapt out of his bed sweaty and scared, reached for his gun over his sleeping wife, stuffed it in his pants, woke me up and, wild eyed and jabbering, said something about roots and my grandfather. In an hour we were off in the red van. In this life, he said, there are those who drive and those who are taken for a ride. I yawned in agreement. He looked at me from the corner of his eye and frowned. He could sense weakness within me I suppose. Or maybe I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Some people like to eat garlic. Some people like to make love to it. I don’t know these things. I am born, I live, I die. I eat garlic at night under cover of my bed sheets. I don’t know. Maybe these things are connected, or maybe the sun wasn’t even up yet and I couldn’t think straight. Be that as it may, I tried to memorize the way to the village in case the madman behind the wheel got us all killed.
We found the ‘contraption’ in the shed next to the workshop/study the doorway to which was decorated with the eighth hanging cat, still wearing a party hat that had Poncy written on it in bright red letters. The contraption resembled a sort of large pan, shaped like a small cupboard that could be closed around a large pair of bovine balls. The manual conveniently placed next to the machine read:
‘MicroBook 2.0: cook a meal in three months or more!’
Are you worried about animal rights? Are you worried about getting gored to death before you can get those big juicy balls in your mouth? Well stop, drop and roll onto this here easy to use MicroBook 2.0! Just slap on a MicroBook 2.0 onto the nearest bull and turn the switch on. Within two to three months the bull’s balls will be cooked by the miraculous process of micro cooking. The bull won’t find out till the balls actually drop off like fruit from a tree right into your plate. The process is simple. That cat is in the bag and the club is in your hands. So join the club with the cat’s head and the balls are yours. Have fun!
To be continued -
Seven black and white cats wearing fancy silk bowties hung from their necks by tiny little nooses attached to the porch awning. Their knotted ropes creaked as the wind played across their stiff bodies. Heads bowed and eyes downcast, somnambulistic felines with their arms by their sides, they looked like a submissive host of floating butlers who had learned to lower their gaze and guard their modesty exceptionally well.
The first time I’d come here the cats had all been alive. There were eight of them then. All had these same bowties and ropes, but the ropes were longer, about seven feet I’d say, and all connected to tight leather collars on the one end, and tied to a fat, wooden stake in the garden on the other. The cats were mostly miserable being tied up like that. But my uncle said they were in training and couldn’t be trusted.
He rarely fed them anything; except sometimes he’d throw out a piece of meat somewhere they could all throw a big fight over it. He believed a great deal in culture and had placed a television set out in the garden so that the cats could watch National Geographic all day and mew at each other in confusion.
The eighth cat, which was missing now from the seven hanging butlers, had always been his favourite. He used to make it wear a party hat. To make it seem more dignified. I am confident it had been glued on. My uncle installed a chicken coop just out of reach of the famished cats as well. He believed a great deal in ‘discipline through self-denial’. There’s no such thing as a gift chicken, he would say, and these ratty old lions need to learn a thing or two about the modern world before they can be deemed fit for a place in any respectable university. My uncle believed a great deal in education and spent hours in his workshop/study improving his mind.
My father and I didn’t see eye to eye on many issues but we agreed uncle was a mad bastard and ought to have been put away. However, my father would always say ‘let sleeping dogs lie’ and touch his nose and give me a look which I think was a significant one. His side of the family all spoke in riddles thusly. My mother said she was an artist. She said things that didn’t matter at all for the most part. She spoke fondly of a man or a thing called Diderot.
My father came to my room at about midnight and said he hadn’t told me the real purpose behind our visit because he hadn’t wanted the mission jeopardized. 'We’re here to save the cows, son. We’re here to rescue them for the sake of our forefathers and your grandchildren.'
About three months ago my father had received a letter from one of the mud-people. These people are mostly illiterate and so the fellow who had sent it probably dictated the letter to somebody at the post office. I would describe the letter as a to-the-point and effective piece.
God seems to relish the flickery ones. Because they dance around and take His name and vanish before they even know it. There’s something endearing about them. I wouldn’t say I understand everything. In fact I don’t even know why I said that. But I remember some things and others I forget. Our heavenly father, I remember, used to sit me down and tell me about the basic badness of all men. Steel yourself for it, boy; steel yourself or they’ll steal your soul from right under your nose!
I never said anything. Maybe I stayed quiet because silence was tantamount to compliance in our family. In any case, I believe, in his mind he was trying to prepare me for a hard life. He didn’t want for me to be surprised into paralysis by it, but to be ready for its myriad injustices and so forth. He figured I would steel myself if he warned me enough about the ways of the world. But all that really happened was I realized I didn’t have a chance; if I had to choose between toughening up as opposed to being kicked in the face, I would have to risk a kick in the face because I just didn’t have the constitution, the wherewithal, for toughening up. I knew it in my heart that if the world really was composed of the strong and the weak then I was surely of the weak, and so I prepared myself from a young age to live accordingly. I decided to do it by choice under my father’s roof. I decided to do it by choice so that once that roof blew away I’d have the practice to put up with not having a choice. Later I realized it’s stupid to not enjoy a good thing in fear of not being able to do without it when it’s gone. But learning comes slow and in some ways, I suppose, mankind reinvents the wheel in every individual. The system, such as it is, is a wasteful and demoralizing farce. That’s how I explain nihilism and other such things.
At the age of ten I was taken to the village for the second time. My grandfather, who was a tree I believe, had his roots there. At least that’s what I understood from ‘we have to go back to the source, boy; to the roots of our forefathers so that we can understand where we come from and where we’re headed.’ The drive was long and I tried hard to memorize the way so that once the car crashed and everybody died I could go back home and tell somebody. The road in the village, the one my grandfather built, meandered like a snake and at the end of a narrow stretch that weaved through piles of refuse from the mud-people’s houses, was the big old house where our uncle lived. He was my uncle as well as my father’s. He believed in science but I don’t think he knew what it was.
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