fracture mechanics

scene 1. cows in a field (music: [to be decided post production]) two cows close to each other grazing in a field. (music fades out) DAVE (subtitled) ‘ere, I was talking to Simon the other day and he only reckons that our reality is part of some elaborate computer generated matrix which was created for [...]

Me motions go all wrong in me knee, after daybreak the cold gets through – bends me all up, you see. I can’t grow a beard anyway. Not for want of whiskers but for want of will. This doesn’t mean I’m scared of dying… I am though. In the dark night when me head can’t [...]

The entire strange beast lurched through the hole in my… in my sink, the hole that let the water out. The entire strange beast managed to collect my bones… all! but one by one. Can you hear him rattling all them’s that rattle? who… who never swell, get fat, n’vr! Collapse, oh how I ruined. [...]

-There’s a ladybird in my soup!
Jean crunches an ant under his thumb and screws its little corps into the table, cursing it in whispers of violence with each twist of his opposable terminal projection. The waiter scuttles from his hole in the wall, begging forgiveness.
-A new one! A new one for Mister Fontaine! Clapping his hands together, playing the waiter. Sorry. Sorry, Monsieur! He takes the bowl back to his hole in the wall.
-I don’t know why we come here, Jean says flicking ant limbs, blood and guts off his thumb. This is a bloody awful place.
Marcel brushes his finger around the top of his glass and sighs.
-You do realize you would have been better off with the ladybird.
-What do you mean! I’m not eating ladybird soup!
-We come here every day, more or less, and every day you abuse the waiter. Don’t be surprised if little aliens are found invading your fucking soup is all.
-Ridiculous! this place is infested!
Jean crashes his fist on the head of another ant just before it can crawl to the underside of the table. Marcel jumps and fumbles with his glass of wine… eventually it drops.
-Shit.
Marcel fishes between his legs and manages to retrieve the glass and put it back on the table. Jean rolls his eyes and swings around on his chair and stares out of the window: the air is sweet and tangible. Outside spills through the sash-window, lighting up the restaurant’s organs, sweeping all the broken little shadows away under their feet. A crooked tree dies on the side of the road where passers by are dying likewise. Salmon blossoms cough on coho clumps of crumbling pebble dash. The afternoon paints the white walls melancholy. Jean snorts, slyly snakes his eyes over the room like a blanket of contempt and gobs on the floor.
-No, no, Monsieur Fontaine, please not on the carpet. The waiter crawls on his hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet with his cuff. Please, out of the window, Monsieur, the waiter says twisting his head upwards like some demonic ghoulish hell-thing.
-That’s enough, Jean flaps his hands over the waiter and shoos him back to his hole. He wants me to flob out the window. Did you hear that, Prousty boy, out the window of all places.
Marcel raises an eyebrow at Jean’s reincarnated soup. “Better out the window,” he thinks.
Jean slumps off his chair and slinks over to the source of his ponderings, opens the window, coughs and spits onto the street. He leans his elbows on the sill, dangling his hands through the fresh air.
-Why do we come here Marcel? What happened? When did we become so… miserable?

Musca Domestica – revolting, waiting to suck on my mortal remains. From maggot to fly, from fly to maggot. Nothing more alien than the fly and no fly more alien than Calliphora dormitories: the very symbol of insanity. Rattling its broken back against the glass, manically chasing about the place aimless and violent like the unpredictable loonies in the asylum. Of course, the fear the bluebottle is the fear of being overcome or drowned in the world. The chaos of the blowfly exposes our impotent grip on reality; or, more accurately, its chaos expose reality’s impotent grip on us.

Jean violently claps his hands together in front of his face: “missed!”
-Where’s Pierre? Marcel asks. I haven’t seen him for days.
-Check the gutters; usually drunk there, Jean answers, strolling back to his chair and deflating all over it.
Marcel rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows revealing small indecipherable patterns framed by tiny rectangles expanding and contracting as he fidgets to get comfortable: “he bears all his grudges with a thousand tiny stabs of black smudges.” He methodically, mathematically, gradually, eventually, takes the straw hat from his head and places it on the table.
-He musta kept that hat on for days; slept in it if I’m not mistaken, Queen Jane says in her black and white cinema tone of looking as she sticks the bar with her pointy elbows. That fella sure makes good poems with his hair, she stretches a shattered, crenulated, smile from ear to ear.
-Ignore her. You look… BUGGER! Jean leaps up. We must leave right away.
Marcel flashes a distasteful glance at his empty glass and groans in the back of his throat. Needing no further reason or explanation he shoves his head back into his hat, his chair making Morse code as he stands and follows Jean out of the stain glassed exit: the entrance to the world.
-Your wine monsieur! The waiter runs to the door. Your wine!
-Offer it up to the gods! Jean sings back.

We held hands and she laid her head on my shoulder. I kissed her mouth and scribbled some sad word onto her face with my finger which she mistakenly took as a compliment.

There, outside of her outside of “o me o my,” I took a knife to the cartesian circle.

-Help me cut through this thing… this simple little thing.

She couldn’t do it, but my, she sure is pretty.

Katherine sat fat goat-heeled with incredible legs stretched out on the floor. The things she reflected were dead things, dead things from small panoptic eye. She looked through lank strings of dark wet hair… looked through blood flesh and bone… through being and nothingness.

Gargled and punched out she hung ideas on the periphery of normality, picked out all the heroic bits from the Iliad and gathered the strength to get up. She tip toed across the blade, red, mirrored and overcautious, with cat limbs; she slunk water and bloody reservoir down into a soft fleshy chair.

Beyond conceptions and out of the window she wrapped up the green sky with nostalgic and formless orgasm.

-am i as i factorial… am i!

I get inside her mouth with rats and worms… rot her from the inside out and the outside in… we decide to piss on each other… ah, isn’t love a beautiful thing…

A thousand tiny communists pour out of the maternal hole; but one, one single enterprising capitalist, drunk and doped on self-satisfaction, has found gallons and gallons of ‘me-time’ in the tiny ecstatic moments of consumer oblivion. I should like to get that one, that little yum-yummer stuck still atop the sugar cube, open him up and take a look at his workings, find the broken wheel or cog and set him right.

Flames are licking the green aefnung licking at the screams and the yells and the mournful cries to God to Lucifer to mOthers and fathers to children to Jesus to tables and chairs; to brothers to sisters to monsters to angels to fate and to freedom to paths and to pathos to light to darkness to life and to death. All of us strangers on the outside; all of us stranger still on the in.

Poor ol’ Jan. Ol’ Janny-jan. Ol’ Ylang-ylang. A touch uppish, in his youth, so I’m told; a touch nose in the airish, cock of the walkish, until one day, suddenly all of a sudden, he went barking, stark-staring mad. O poor ol’ Ylang-ylang, he was locked up a trillion trillion miles from here in a madhouse on the surface of the sun; he would cry and howl at the moon for years and years and years, until, one fine pinpoint razor-sharp day, amidst the floo and the flutter of loony tunies sing singing for their supper, he had it away on his toes. A virtual shipwreck when I found him; a virtual roman ruin.

We must leave soon – immediately! There will only be more of them outside later on, and if Janny-boy is scared now he for sure will be terrified later. Where is that tin hat? Where o where is that tinny tin hat, protector of the thought organ?

Eyes, unwilling to look-for – eyes, falling back lazily to the army of reds waving along the skirting board. Poor lytel capitalist. No more drone droning for that one. Misplaced lytel libertine, feasting on his own freedom, will stew and be boiled in his own self-satisfaction; will rot away, rot, rot, rot, away!

-Where is that damn hat?