Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Dr Filth reappeared that evening. It was impossible for him not to do so. And as he lay on the wooden floor, he made a perfect smoke ring from his dark and unbearable lips while concentrating on the array of cobwebs. To his fancy, the windows were open as it used to be when she was there. He had been so miserable, he almost felt it was a lonely spirit that had spoken to him. There was nothing he could do but murmur 'macabre', when he remembered her eyeliner, and her beautiful eyes glancing at him. He quibbled about feeling love, as though he had found a coin in his always-empty pocket. He could do nothing, it was all the same thoughts even after reading a few thousand books from a thousand centuries.
Dr Filth had no idea that it was him who had coined the famous phrase, 'I hate Mondays', before it caught the fascination of the society. He would have been surprised to know this, he felt that pain was a fatherless child only he had parented in his one room of orphanage.
For, of course, he would drink his whiskey and nail polish every evening, but he was only a 100 years old or so he felt. He had distanced him so further from the company he used to keep, it didn't matter to him anymore to wonder whether it was still impolite to roll his tongue on women's cleavage in that quaint fashion to wish them a wonderful, promising evening.
He had been a famous, only his names weren't in the books. Cornelius Agrippa to Alister Crowley would crawl through his window at nights and give him mescaline for a few of his words, but he believed in working for a stranger truth that was still unprepared for the world.
His little room inside his little room, he scribbled every night and tore into tiny shreds as the first morning light touched his windowsill. It really never meant anything to him, as it never really did. He hadn't slept for a thousand nights, he cried with the violins, tasted the mud of her grave and wrote childish letters to the Pope. He felt weary, and he closed his eyes again, now for a bit longer period.

6 Comments:

Blogger Sassy Satan said...

This prose performs poetry..and it is cutting through beautifully

10:21 PM, May 15, 2007  
Blogger err said...

I understand
images of depression - you should calculate it!
summarize, analise, estimate, corugate, populate, indicate -
- late, late, late - the outsider s gate
Statistics escapes for the "ss"
Cups,bricks, chiks, greeks, freaks, drinks -
I don t like children. Nor the mature ones - nor Mr. "Fifth"
you are great in vain
shine a light -

1:44 PM, May 16, 2007  
Blogger priya said...

Lost in earth??

7:05 PM, May 16, 2007  
Blogger The Dude said...

Is it just me or are you getting better?
maybe all this frustration and all these days is doing you some good...
they always said that artists must suffer for their art, who'd a thunk it was true?

5:55 PM, May 17, 2007  
Blogger InExile said...

its funny i read this right after i was at a ssession where a rock band was discussing crowley... now a rock band discussing crowley is never good ... look wat happenned to the beatles.... but he was quite a guy !! i think i am gonna go read his autofuckyouhagiography again ~

3:59 PM, May 19, 2007  
Blogger Snake Anthony said...

I like.

10:30 PM, May 23, 2007  

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