"you cannot shake hands with a clenched fist." - Indira Ghandi
I say this, in part, to rattle an acquaintance so anal grammatical treatises are practically dropping out of her arse.
In the main, I mention it as a nod to fumbled moments better spent.
That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, some say. That which doesn't quite snuff out the candle has a propensity to simply maim instead. My pissy old dick is not so much a monument as an embarrassment: wrung out; battered; a stub of rubber cod after years of legally prescribed chemical abuse. The head all scarred and listing like a middle-aged spastic trailing a shopping cart full of kelp home after dark.
A target for sticks of two by four. Crumbling bricks.
Well. I refuse to tie it up in latex as a gift. Leaking pearls before swine.
It limps on as we all do. Tiny wind-up soldiers marching in circles. Straight off the kitchen table and onto the linoleum.
A runaway jihadi hoodwinked into modelling a suicide vest.
We are all of us, at the end of the day, survivors of sorts.
Rewind the tape. Spit it out. The morning anti-psychotic. The gastro-resistant gelatin capsules.
Doctor Feelgood is in rehab and unable to answer the phone.
My tumescent appetite trembles on the wire.
2 comments:
Agreed, we are rarely made stronger by things that are brutal enough to nearly put us under. A common sentiment that doesn't really hold up under scrutiny.
There is too much macho posturing when it comes to pain threshold. Losing a limb or one's senses. In the day to day business of natural selection, the visibly wounded and incapacitated are either shunned or gather unsolicited attention.
Dionysus is so much cold sculpture. My cigarette steeps at the bottom of a half emptied glass of claret.
Thanks for the comment, brother jonder.
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