The Whole Hole
The whole hole, a doom laden pit; the weight of which bent our backs until we crawled about following blindly the buttocks in front. In saving ourselves we carved and sliced and chopped; doling the whole in wholly unique holes. Holes forming groves and dents and hidden dips. Containers for puddles and ponds and murky pools. Some yet carried the weight and bent double, toppled; threw themselves in. Only you can’t become the inside only the out. And you just cannot will yourself around a hole you’re in. My whole is tied in string, meshed in wire and pearled in knitted wool; carved into shutters, nailed under floors and bound in the words of my holy book. In the beginning I religiously cupped my hands to my face and drank it in. On dark nights, as the outside of a quart of shine, naked in my old boots, with the wind in my toes and the dirt firmly under my right heal, those little holes inside, together, grow whole old memories and push out joyous tears of our past hollow.
Filed under Prose | Comment (0)Dog Soup
Today I’m eating my dog. His bones give a literal feeling to the credit crunch as I crack them in my month for marrow. The old man dispatched him quickly; all over the country. His soft white fur lines the slippers of several lawyers wife’s, his meat is resting in the window of a well known middle class butcher and his skull will soon be high London art. I’m left with a bag of bones and bits for soup. I threaded a dewclaw onto a tendon and fastened it around my neck and boiled the rest in tined peach juice. He’ll warm cleaner feet tonight, but I won’t have to share my breakfast cabbage. When the world turns my way again, I’ll use the DNA from the claw to clone him anew and after church we’ll once more dance in the local park before a heaped Sunday lunch. A Candle Maker is never out of work for long, so I’ll sleep deep for the morrow.
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