Check out this latest piece from Isaac Castella McDonald in the Creative Writing section…
'Friend! Jesus Christ have I got something to remember with you! Now look, Would you like a drink? I must calm down. You're sure? Radical.
Right well, this is very nice. But, what was it? oh, yes, what I came to say is that I simply have to print on you the truth about the ending of the world.
I know it’s deafening in here: look at those well-dressed people shout in spaces above their head, see those edging couples showing their happiness by dancing with a smile! Unlistful Blissfulness but that is blister bluster
I’m telling you it’s going to pop!
I’m afraid, I’m afraid this base bass base bliss is a painted toenail,
A toenail on one foot of THE rough beast
whose gaseous footsteps you can sometimes hear on the news- I promise you.
You know this morning through my sleep-clot eyes I witnessed the
apocalypse in the bin?
On the bus in Botley I could see the ransacked supermarkets.
Just how many tiny storms deserted me just now I’ll never know.
as I walked here, but then
the smouldering sky deepened
the contour of her cheek and
those beauty spots scattered the lunatic gradients.
Those storms… they fumed behind the driver’s head and took him down the Botley road.
There’s no other way into the club these days, he can’t be blamed.
It’s a perfect prank really. Surprise! you cannot live the lives recorded. You cannot live the life you thought.
It is a hilarious line in the sand
Dashed in Sharpie on our brains
ready for the epiphanic scalpel.
Either side of the line there are two smiling men.
A fat one and a skinny one, both sphinxes of course.
One’s richly dressed but barely covered
And the other thinly cheaply
One sweats oil, he’s largely materialistic, he’ll probably die of heart disease but that doesn’t bother him much.
Sir Skinny carries his unwritten obituary everywhere with him, and uses the recycling bin.
Don’t you see
We have to choose,
We have to choose.
We have two shoes we have to lose.
Because we ARE at the crossroads now…’
We ARE at the END of the END of the beginning of the TURN
and the futures dim their lights as the possibilities wane but
(the moon will keep on waxing long)
after we’re gone it’s just noone will see.
That DJ is watching me, grinning into me from that oily podium.
What’s he called? P.Piper? Ah.
The floor is sticky here but let me tell you my friend,
This is Hardy’s clacking snare: Mendelsohn’s newfangled cyborg jaw.
Watch these amicable dancers March coy towards the bar to
buy oblivion and kick the bouquet down the aisle laughing:
‘this is mad!’ ‘this is mad!’, hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
‘How was it?’ ‘it was mad!’
IT. WAS. MAD.
We have to be careful though,
Discreet with this Secretion – Secretive with this Discretion.
This is nuts, we should be doing this in the toilet…
I had a dream last night mon cher!
I don’t remember it completely but I’ll fill in some gaps:
We were lying in bed together watching something nice on my phone.
We were lying there for 200 years and the duck feather duvet (that I know you love)
Was just piling up and piling up until there wasn’t covering anymore, just dead ducks flung on top!’ Ha!
They rose and rose and roses on our cheeks they rose and rose
Thicker and thicker as the flickering screen got quicker and quicker
with our unheeded heartbeat.
(mmm, unheeded heartbeat)
Until we, Overswaddled, died.
We liked to sleep in in those days, eyes-closed in those interlocking, interlocuting limbs.
Our alarm went off but we didn’t hear. So our alarm went off for years afterwards in that room, muffled by the corpses.
I promise you that what I’m saying is true:
this stable has only infants.
Swaddled infants choking in their carbon myrrh,
Giggling under gold as an air raid siren complains to them.
My friend, my friend, my friend talk to me! What is it you have to say to this? What is it you have to say? What is it you have to do? Why is it you cannot see for long?
WE ARE ALL GIGGLING UNDER GOLD as this siren COMPLAINS to us. It is not a COMPLINE it is DEATH.
and the footsteps beat beneath the snare
and the floor is so sticky none of us can leave
The man on the podium gives out dog collars to the laughing crowd
The inns are full but we should be in the stable
We should be in the stable but we are in the inns
The star is shining the time is come but the kings are having lunch
and the stable has only uncooked steaks and bacon and unweaved unbought jumpers as we just swaddle swaddle swaddle swaddle swaddle swaddle swaddle !!!OURSELVES!!! FUCK OUR CHILDREN covering our eyes as we show our happiness by dancing with a smile and
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