Wild at Heart
by Kaleem Raja
Cavil. Sybil, do be civil to the
Nazis. Ghastly, this weather we’re having. Mad dogs and Arab men. What exciting
lives we lead...Nine lives to do itself. But you’ve only got the one... to
expunge the flecks of vermillion. Your borrowed robes are in the wash. Limpid
dream and in that execrable land an ebony snake under the chaparral. Stony eyes
strained. Elderitch skin. The flurry of movement to avoid the strike. The
ladders have sprouted scales. There's that hissssss again... The rogues dart about in the shadows silently
and furtively raiding the temple as the trusting sleep on sheepishly. Doleful
fate for the libertine. Time, gentlemen! And in his deadness, he offers everything.
A butterfly emblazened with i love you's, which were really i-love-you-nots.
Meanwhile he sits in Scandinavia, doing what? Nix the irrelevant. Cane was not
his brother's keeper after all. After the fall, belligerent bilious Buddhist,
we do of you make horns and hooves. Bahrain cumeth. Other treacheries in
breeches and powdered wigs afoot. A killing. A fine day for it indeed. Alarm.
Azzan. Azam where the hell are you? Another quisling to contend with.
Contentment, your revenge was most condign. Lady of lightness has been put out.
My darts of poisoned cynicism and cyanide are unswervingly accurate. Thunder
storm swirling, Frankenstein was born a man, died a monster. I recant nothing;
would it help if i did? My weekly sabbatical. Naked and away from the madding
crowd. The watchers are never watched and so behave with impunity. Driven to
distraction and riven by impropriety though that i am. Only pigs wrestle.
Mother laughed. Old hat and bee, your work is never done. Smile. A cloud of
vapour plumes as a head shakes with smudged blur. A cry and then a scream. The
elephant in the room. My memory serves me only too well. I listened without
prejudice. Loyalty never wasted. And you sit upon laurels and groggy on the fat
of this land, preaching about propriety. Temerity. Dear Kettle, you're terribly
black - yours sincerely, Pot. And back again to the coil. And embroiled in the
pettifogging treacheries of baser folk, a tramp shuffles through the snow.
Then, put out the lights and then put out the lights. Black ram you have tupped
your last. No more the catamite. The king in beggar’s rags abdicated his throne
long before you came along.
