""Shoot," I said." - ib
I was waiting for one or other's finger to drop on the letters "h-e-a-v-E", but even those few I still held out for were visibly asleep on the mouse. On the run from the burden of correspondence.
Heavy, heavy manners.
One bone after another. Jawbones. Trombones. Hambones. Eventually connecting with the bird-cage nesting cerebellum.
Left and right hemisphere, hindbrain.
That lowest part of the brainstem responsible for the art of breathing; the ebb and flow of digestive juices.
Heavy manners.
Hangovers. Alcohol. Narcotics. The humming bewilderment of sinsemilla, without seed.
The entire world seeming for one second to inhale and sit on it, the news not even wholly bad, it is as if our collective bent is on convalescence between one foul atrocity and the next.
There is a war going on, it is not the war we were taught we were waging, we are out of cigarettes but not yet out of skins.
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Joe drags out his Professionals & Prince Far I rips on the state of opperssion. Lee & the Upsetters haunt the darkened hallways as the cloak & dagger skulks some more. By the time it washes ashore on the British Isles, Milk Snatcher has usurped the opperssion as all her own. We were always threatened with the fact they were bringing the war back home. We were just all to naive to believe they meant to bring it into our lowly domiciles.
It is the mad dog of a war all the young dudes thought they would be thrown into like petrol on bonfire four decades ago: in the East, in the West, in the parlours and down in the streets.
To quote Mr. Cohen, from memory at least, "I don't know what side we fought for, or even what for.".
It is, I think, the war to end all wars. The cinemas are unprepared. The commentaries are all in subtitles.
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