Nelson Mandela was the sort of human being the world sees only rarely. He rose out of segregation and imprisonment to lead a nation, to symbolise the rebirth of a nation. Not since Ghandi died has the world lost so important and influential a man. RIP Mandela.
Sunshine and sycophancy dancing,
Light a cigar,
Light up the room.
If the man in the slipstream moonbeam
Smiles at you
His thousand yard a second stare
Might burn the jungle down.
The gooks ain’t spooked by the Duke of Puke,
All suckling pork and feather belly,
Ice cream dreams
And wobble jelly.
His lunatic goons sing, sway and swoon
To the sound of a silver spoon.
And left, right, left:
Whichever side appeals the best
To our invested interests
And allows for time to rest.
Turn up the sandstorm jukebox,
Tap your feet and inch yourself a little more this way.
We play a numbers parlour game,
We play bunfight sonatas,
We play a trick called Normalise,
Catch summer fruit flies,
Come back as cats.
And that’s about that.
The sycophants fall flat iron on their faces,
The rest of us have grace enough
To hardly laugh at all.
Tags: writing, America, Editor, Film, Novel, Editing, Allen Ginsberg, brain, novel-writing, reader, fun, Sense, skull, flux, sit, Sub clause, rewrite, kill your darlings, phrase, Edith, Surprise, title, Daniel Radcliffe
Editing. I am editing. I edit, therefore I am. Not that word, this one. Remove this sentence. Add this subclause. Rewrite this paragraph entirely.
Surprisingly I currently call this fun. Currently. All things are in flux.
Kill your darlings, they say. They say it so much there is a film with that title now. About Ginsberg. Didn’t think he’d coined the phrase. He might have done, while he was simultaneously scolding America. Anyway. Some of my darlings die. Some of them remain. Kill the ones that are too darling for their own good, perhaps?
This may make no sense. You, reader, are probably not editing your novel. If you are then this may make perfect sense. But for those of you who are not, sorry, I am editing. Did I mention that bit? Am editing and my brain parts have gone all…Edity.
Spell check wanted that to read ‘my brain parts have gone all…Edith’. Now that would be a surprise. Hello, I’m Edith’s brain in Steve’s skull. I don’t even know anyone called Edith.
I am Edithing.
This is the way. The passing over of coins and cover notes. Package yourself up and pass it on. Devoted to base ten and to dichotomy, all errors must be evil, all happenstance divine. You may find the grump and bind a warm intoxicant; collapsing veins, period pains, a hoop, a stick to beat yourself to death.
A fast-expanding city folds itself around the fields. Garden flowers tell the time, never tell how lost or lonely city lawn strip cages feel. This is the way. Build them cheap. Stack them high. Their seeds wither and die so that envy grows much greener. Envy grows.
Collide. Never apologise. Collude but don’t connect. Insect wings beat fast enough to drown out minor sins. The streets too hot to tread by day, unsafe and cold by night. This is the way. The hidden charge every unwitting customer must pay to keep their place in the parade.
The iron taste of blood upon the tongue. Patiently keeping coppers in a jar. Steel yourself for all this plastic authenticity. Proud of a petrochemical metropolis, the houses of the dead in snow-blind rows. All id and all identical. No value, just exchange. This is the way.