1:4

I dream of little baseball bats, like maybe ¼ scale, wooden ones, marching like those hammers on the pink floyd’s the wall. Except they are sort of cutesy, like they can bend and stuff and have big eye-lashes. Walt Disney invented that. And they march all over the countryside humming a little tune which never gets repetitive and when they meet someone, maybe a woodcutter or a maiden or a golf pro, then they say “Howdy-do!” all at once and fly up and beat the living shit out of them.

Somehow it’s ironic.

Especially if they wink afterwards. The wink says you can be in this too, bat brother. You follow the way of the quarter scale wooden bat, our battle is your battle. And it’s pretty good because you can get the thrill of batting people without the risk.

But then one day the feds come knocking, flashing their badges and asking if they can have a look around as they look around and they’re looking for quarter scale bat sympathisers who are also borderline personality and comb their hair front to back. The Profiler told them to check for that, front to back hair. And you no longer feel akin to the bats at all. Sullen, nasty little creatures really. Their eye-lashes make them look trampy. You say nope, don’t know nuthin bout no quarter scale bats. No sir.

It’s too late to comb your hair some other way but they haven’t noticed, so you get bold and you say, even, that quarter scale wooden bats are what’s ruining the economy and raping the white women all the time. And then you feel smug and forget about the bat wink. And the feds pat you on the behind and say go on get outta here, you big mug and you do and they stay behind and eat all the gin.

But now you lied to the feds and you betrayed the bats so you can’t be on either side. And you can’t hardly sleep anymore but when you do you dream of quarter scale wooden bats with cutesy eyelashes and long memories marching across the countryside, humming a tune that never gets repetitive.

cccp it said on the helmet

What do you expect, for a gram?
In this case an apology.
Illidge knows what I mean.
Dry times. Dry times.
Long days of sun and still
my phone is silent. No SMS of hope,
no should be Friday, no by the weekend, no next week.

Can’t say, is all they say.

But I got high hopes. High hopes
Can’t smoke a rubber tree plant
Won’t, that is. Will not.
It is all that separates
from the animals, us.

and thumbs except monkeys

always except the monkeys
accept the monkeys
intercept the monkeys
fucking monkeys
always moving the mirror
when they borrow the car.

Dolphins aren’t much better
Breathing out the top
of their heads
hiding their thumbs inside
fleshy flippers
like hydrodynamic mittens

The History of Eye Stabbing

Don’t run with those scissors. You’ll stab me in the eye, see me kneeling here. Hold them over your head if you’re stabbing too. And don’t tell me being eye-stabbed is cool now, cooler than wheel-chair stuff. Stabbing the eye, well you take your chances, your brain is just back there. Wheel chairs have accessories. Horns and saddle-bags and red/orange safety flags on fibreglass whip sticks like you used to see on 1972 Ford pick-up trucks for no particular reason. Well I did.

Or fake robotic hands that work on muscle control. Wait that’s real hands. I don’t know the workings but you can get pretty good fake hands these days. Some have built in MP3 players, laser pointers. Me, I’d have a fake hand that you could slip off and underneath was another tiny, transparent, fake hand and then you could see how they work.

Eye-stabbetry has none of that zing. It’s old, man. Been around since the sharp stick. It died off a bit after the invention of the blunt stick but returned again after scissors were discovered. Doctors recommended NOT running with them in the late eighteen-hundreds and cases of eye-stabbing dropped remarkably. During WWI troops were given guns and told not to run with those which turned out to have a converse effect, but with scissors not running is the way to go.