Jan Miklaszewicz's Blog, page 14
January 30, 2022
PRIDE
At the bottom of Lake I Don’t Care lies a hessian bag of hopes and dreams weighed down with the rusty flywheel of your pride.
Without it some might have reached the shore or at least made a damn good go of it but you wanted every one of them to die.
Without it some might have reached the shore or at least made a damn good go of it but you wanted every one of them to die.
January 29, 2022
SATURDAY BLUES
aggregate fag lung tarpit slag lung mouth like a gin still fat lip parch tongue
yellow tooth itinerant smash dash cashflow aubergine nosebox cold eye doldrum
despicably depressed by the pain in my chest by the stains on my vest by the bathtub gin
skinny leg chump chap chop chop head slap crooked old chaise longue horse hair king kong
gosh i hate the mirror never makes me slimmer makes me look a gargoyle fills me with a shiver
got a dicky liver my bum don't fill my pants my bits are like a train wreck my belly full of insects
someone stole my shoes saturday blues parch lips fat tongue slaggregate lag fung
yellow tooth itinerant smash dash cashflow aubergine nosebox cold eye doldrum
despicably depressed by the pain in my chest by the stains on my vest by the bathtub gin
skinny leg chump chap chop chop head slap crooked old chaise longue horse hair king kong
gosh i hate the mirror never makes me slimmer makes me look a gargoyle fills me with a shiver
got a dicky liver my bum don't fill my pants my bits are like a train wreck my belly full of insects
someone stole my shoes saturday blues parch lips fat tongue slaggregate lag fung
January 27, 2022
PANNING
Creek's full o' shit these days: slanting rains, character stains, a promise here, a redaction there, such perfidy. And this wee glimmer? Maybe nothing more than fool’s gold. Back to the cabin, pile the fire up high, let’s take a closer look.
January 26, 2022
IBU RUJAK
Rough black volcanic rock, scratch, scrape, grind, knock, peanut, palm sugar, tamarind, splash of water, toothless grin, shrimp paste, chilli, and a pinch of salt, just for a moment grind to a halt, stretch of the back, wipe of the gob, nod to the customer, back to the job, toss in the vegetables, twist of the wrist, and all day long she goes like this.
January 25, 2022
LAMBKIN
Poor old Lambkin built a ship with timbers from his mother’s lip and tar squeezed out of fairy tales and TV shows and such. The sails were woven out of guff from magazines and horoscopes, the ropes spun out of grandma’s hopes, the mast a looking glass.
Out to the Sea of Love he sailed, and as at last he sank the land behind that slender, frail stern, the plan he’d planned got out of hand: not another sail to see, but creatures risen from the deep, deformed, lopsided, overbearing, scaly buggers, monstrous beaks.
Some enraged at lovers past spat caustic bile upon the mast; others cowed by vicious exes screamed down from their crucifixes. Frigid monsters (icy breath) did huff and puff to speed his death, and horny ones with virus loins rained warts the size of cannon balls.
Lambkin bravely fought the fight, the sea got savage, day got night; a crimson crash of menstrual blood had caused the hold to fill and flood, and when a blast of steroid cream did rent his vessel down the beam, he plunged into the murky still, already thirty and quite ill.
Out to the Sea of Love he sailed, and as at last he sank the land behind that slender, frail stern, the plan he’d planned got out of hand: not another sail to see, but creatures risen from the deep, deformed, lopsided, overbearing, scaly buggers, monstrous beaks.
Some enraged at lovers past spat caustic bile upon the mast; others cowed by vicious exes screamed down from their crucifixes. Frigid monsters (icy breath) did huff and puff to speed his death, and horny ones with virus loins rained warts the size of cannon balls.
Lambkin bravely fought the fight, the sea got savage, day got night; a crimson crash of menstrual blood had caused the hold to fill and flood, and when a blast of steroid cream did rent his vessel down the beam, he plunged into the murky still, already thirty and quite ill.
BOOK REVIEW - REVELATIONS PART I
Revelations by Zachary ValtschanoffMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Having read snippets of Zachary’s work elsewhere, I was pleased to find his trilogy of books. There is a certain wisdom and sincerity to his writing that I really enjoy.
This book reads like a series of diary entries, though not always in chronological order, and the content is deeply poetic and introspective. I won’t pretend to have grasped everything on first read, but that isn’t unusual with this type of philosophical writing. Thankfully the layout aids understanding, with short sentences and paragraphs, and plenty of white space on the page.
It feels like there is a lot to learn from the personal journey this book represents, and I will be returning to it once I have read the remaining two parts.
View all my reviews
January 23, 2022
GIMP MY RIDE
gimp my ride you can try
cover her in leather put a zip down the side
dildoed dashboard latex seats
seat belt chains and satin sheets
gimp my ride you can do it
forget gasoline pump ky through it
studded steering wheel concealing
airbag made from blow up doll
gimp my ride dumbfound me
fill the radiator up with pee
we can cruise around the town
and see what's up before going down
cover her in leather put a zip down the side
dildoed dashboard latex seats
seat belt chains and satin sheets
gimp my ride you can do it
forget gasoline pump ky through it
studded steering wheel concealing
airbag made from blow up doll
gimp my ride dumbfound me
fill the radiator up with pee
we can cruise around the town
and see what's up before going down
January 19, 2022
GOOD INTENTIONS
It was like a trial placement, she the employer, he the prospective employee. She sensed some real promise in his CV. And his personal statement was wonderful, but careful now, for words alone are not to be believed.
Throughout the trial, she made his good intentions walk the line. On the forms he wasn't a smoker, yet he smelled of breath mints all the time. And those other qualities, the wit and patience he’d hinted at, were nowhere to be found.
And as for him, the post had looked good on paper, but already the pension scheme looked iffy and the office hours never seemed to end. She’d claimed so many things that were blatant falsehoods, but he couldn’t run away, having cut off all his toes to fit her shoes.
Each night she’d go through his file with a set of coloured pens: blue for true and red for false and green for annotations in the margins. Within a few months, the thing looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Each night he’d lie awake with thoughts of resignation, long-term sickness, gross misconduct. But every morning would stay his hand: he’d seen the cracks, he’d seen the accounts, it wasn’t the decent thing to do.
She took him on after the trial period, and they settled into their roles like patients settling into anaesthesia. And once in a while, one or the other would briefly come awake, straining against the gurney straps in a frenzied bid to escape.
I hear she managed it in the end; gave him his marching orders, started hiring again. He had to take the train with all the trappings from his desk. Half way home they rolled off the mainline, the driver forced to take a rest.
That evening she took the 6:05 and watched as the city slipped by. A hopeful light shone down from the orange mackerel sky. She was free from him, and next time she’d take better care. For a moment, as she was drifting off, she could have sworn she saw him brooding in that siding there.
Throughout the trial, she made his good intentions walk the line. On the forms he wasn't a smoker, yet he smelled of breath mints all the time. And those other qualities, the wit and patience he’d hinted at, were nowhere to be found.
And as for him, the post had looked good on paper, but already the pension scheme looked iffy and the office hours never seemed to end. She’d claimed so many things that were blatant falsehoods, but he couldn’t run away, having cut off all his toes to fit her shoes.
Each night she’d go through his file with a set of coloured pens: blue for true and red for false and green for annotations in the margins. Within a few months, the thing looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Each night he’d lie awake with thoughts of resignation, long-term sickness, gross misconduct. But every morning would stay his hand: he’d seen the cracks, he’d seen the accounts, it wasn’t the decent thing to do.
She took him on after the trial period, and they settled into their roles like patients settling into anaesthesia. And once in a while, one or the other would briefly come awake, straining against the gurney straps in a frenzied bid to escape.
I hear she managed it in the end; gave him his marching orders, started hiring again. He had to take the train with all the trappings from his desk. Half way home they rolled off the mainline, the driver forced to take a rest.
That evening she took the 6:05 and watched as the city slipped by. A hopeful light shone down from the orange mackerel sky. She was free from him, and next time she’d take better care. For a moment, as she was drifting off, she could have sworn she saw him brooding in that siding there.
January 17, 2022
MEAN MORNING
Mean morning, tongue a sump plug. What did I do last night? Carpet hallway salad trail. Kebab or Chinese? Thai? What did I do last night? Got me the ol' Saint Vitus dance. Kebab or Chinese? Thai? Oh where did I discard my pants? Got me the ol' Saint Vitus dance. Carpet hallway salad trail. Coffee fags fags coffee fags. Mean morning, tongue a sump plug.
January 15, 2022
PROFILES
Why on earth they matter is beyond me, save for honouring convention, I suppose: doctored photographs that reek of narcissism; lists of accolades that sound like trumpet blows.
