What Do You Mean, Where Have I Been?

Strap in, you bum puppets

Did that bastard Wordsworth have to tell his poetry meetup group where he had been when he had been off masturbating to the sound of bees in the local town of Chifford in the Kale District?

I don’t think so.

N yeah. I’ve been out touching up the trees and fingering the flowers down the local park. Cos my car battery is dead so I can’t drive out of the city. And yeah I could buy a new battery and put it in. And I have the money. Have you seen my paid subscriber count? But trust me when I say, I just can’t be fucked.

So, instead, I walked to the park and followed this line of palm trees around. And on the twenty-third tree, A man appeared out of the clear sky.

Listen, Frank, he said. Stop being a pathetic cunt, and remember the first noble truth.

N I spontaneously recalled something about hot dogs being made from the swollen anuses of the oldest and most injured animals, and something about the parasites in beef jerky.

Suck my purple cock, the man commanded. I looked around and there were families playing and dogs running around. But I couldn’t help but obey his command. So I was sucking this purple man’s cock and I couldn’t get away because I was melting into supreme non-dualistic bliss.

And I was filled with this immense tarty grape smell like the freshest plump cold celestial grapes. And the vast purple cock ejaculated pure slick, wet Ribeniem down my throat, filling my entire being with luminous neverending utterly perfect grape euphoria.

And just like that, I was walking along the palm trees as if it had never happened.

The sun was out but there was this fucking cold wind ruining everything.

That’s the first noble truth, the purple man whispered. It’s an entire teaching, Frank. Know the truth and act accordingly.

I broke into a jog, sweat pouring off my junk and I began to feel like my ass cheeks were my feet, like I was running on round, soft shoes and they were bouncing along the ground.

I ran past an ice cream van and I realised how the wind affected the profits that this ice cream van fuck would take.

Get yer fuckin’ ice cream, said this douchebag with a giant fucking beard and a long shirt made from lemons.

Fuck that, I thought. That wind’s a bit cool for ice cream.

So I kept jogging instead.

The truth is, I’ve been down at Footscray Park, walking around on the green syringe-adorned grass, wondering why fucking literary agents are just too fucking lost in their pretentious worlds to send a single email:

Dear Mr Bird.

We don’t want your novel that you sweated homoglobin over, you fucking loser.

It’s not like I’m asking for detailed feedback or anything, although I’m sure it would go something like,

To give you an example of what I’m looking for Frank, check out my latest client, Fanny Baldwig and the project we’re currently working on:

Chimerika: A cumming of age tale about a trans-werewolf who falls in love with a bisexual goblin with hepatitis while working at Walmart in the metaverse. 

Also, your story neither fits into any particular genre nor can it be considered literary fiction. I just don’t think you understand your identity as a writer yet.

Sincerely,

Twenty-Five year old Pretentious cunt with a degree in literature

I wandered past the tramp with the three tits, like the hooker in Total Recall, always drunk on bootleg mead, that honey-loving fucker.

I wandered past the greasy junkie on his stolen bike riding around looking for Amazon packages on doorsteps. 

It’s just life sprouting in all its beautiful and hideous forms, right?

I waved to them all with a smile cos I was still high on Ribineum.

I was Ebenézer fucking Scroogé.

N there was this young lad drinkin’ one of those massive cans of Mother.

You there.

Yes, you boy.

What day is it boy?

Fuck off you cunt, he said. 

That’s right! I said. It’s Christmas Day.

I considered asking him to buy a big turkey for me but I was skint and he looked like he might have a knife. N besides, I was distracted by this construction site where everyone was fucking vaping.

N the vape smells were terrific.

Passion fruit.

Strawberry

Vanilla

Bubble gum

Gwyneth Paltrow’s cunt.

N sure I could talk about the Guru Shanshek appearing and the neon deities and all that ayahuasca talk. But there was no need.

The river is the guru.

The trees are the deities.

The sky is a bodhisattva. 

You see that old greasy KFC bucket over there with its slick grey bones?

It’s the great HERUKA.

It’s time to write again, William.

That’s what all those flower Buddhas were singing to Wandsworth in that piss-cold Windermere weather. 

Truth is, I’ve been here in the same room, glaring out at the same sky which is a chalky grey, the same colour as the fuckin’ bitumen just before ya fuckin hit it after flyin’ through ya cousin Manny’s windscreen cos he hit the brakes too damn hard after too many watermelon Bacardi Breezers n half an ironic white Mitsubishi.

N the same fuckin planes rumble past breathin’ out their post-kerosene fog breath which will slowly descend over my house like an allied pilot descending over nazi Germany after gettin’ fuckin shot down by the Red Barramundi, mixin with the black smog of the trucks bringin’ yer fuckin yellow dildo that yer ordered from love honey or that 3D printed yeeha device that ya sold yer information to Temu in exchange for. Ya know the one that lets ya slice avocados without using ya teeth?

N once again the fuckin potent mix hits these damn nostrils and I breathe it again and again from the numb comfort of this life box.

N it’s Monday n I thought I might be feelin’ alright by now but I’m not alright, so I go for another fucking walk.

N Dactor Blueberry, the tramp who slipped on a blueberry and ended up in a rusty wheelchair yells at me as I go past without slippin’ my usual dollar bill into the front of his underwear.

We need to talk about the first noble truth, Frank.

Not fucking this again. I’m always fucking talking and writing about the first noble truth. Why do we have to go through this again?

Cos ya still don’t fucking get it, Bird.

N he’s right about that. I still don’t get that first truth. I mean, I feel the sting. Yet I still keep sticking my dick into the toaster. Why?

No one said it would be easy, Bird, says Doctor Blueberry, that fuck.

I want to say, what would you know?

But when it comes to suffering, that fuck knows. Even before the blueberry incident, he came back from the war during which he had his dong and gonads blown off and surgically replaced with those of a nazi horse called Heimlich. And he got into porn for a while as an actor called Horsecock Dave (Google him). That’s when he fell in love with one of his fellow pornstars, a teacher called Leila. But we won’t fucking go there right now, will we?

N if ya made it this far, and ya still readin’, I love ya. Cos I needed to say some shit. N I needed someone to listen.

I’m not a smart man. But I know what love is. The truth is, I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been wanking in my office every day for a month.

I do it everyday cos I’m a lonely fuck.

But I’m not lonely like you fucks.

Cos I set my loneliness free.

I don’t catch it and trap it in a fucking Gucci Zebra scrotum handbag and carry it around with me everywhere.

And I know it might seem like a small distinction but it isn’t.

A hair’s breadth between an eternity of sorrow and an eternity of bliss

The man who stopped time.

N sure, there are different kinds of hair. I mean, horse hair is so fucking thick that they use it in those brushes that they use to brush horses. 

I guess the point is:

Do you want to know how to meditate?

Listen.

Imagine you’re hanging from a rope, and you let go of it.

That’s all, ass monkeys.

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