He was insensible.
In fact, he was dead.
Where Sleeping Pigs lie
Carefully, deliberately, I leaned forward and stubbed my cigarette out on the back of the neck of the fat man. The skin sizzled as though melting and opened around and closed around the butt so that when I pulled my fingers away, it stayed there as if in a plate of food. I stepped back and waited for the onslaught thinking: “I’ll get one good hard kick in his bollocks and then make a run for it”. But the fat man didn’t turn. He didn’t even flinch. Terrifyingly, the burn seemed to have had no effect on him whatsoever. Carefully, cautiously, I edged around him until I came into an exact line with the piggy profile resting heavily on the pork-sausage fingered hands. His eyelids were slack and there was a dribble of gob hanging from his lower lip.
He was insensible.
He was insensible.
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3 comments:
Very cool to see you blogging.
I first came across your stuff in Wired Magazine - such a unique sound!
I'm glad it's gotten attention from my fellow mp3 blogs.
~ Paul @ Aurgasm
On your playlist - The Band's Bessie Smith. Bessie was one of the biggest blues singers in the South in the 1920s. She fell out of favour and was dropped from her label in... erm... early 1930s, but she still drew huge crowds for live performances across the Southland. She was on the brink of a comeback as a Swing singer when she died after an auto accident in the late 30s. There's a famous story (and an Edward Albee play) about her dying because she was taken to a White hospital, which refused her entry. So now you know what the song is about: the glory and the tragedy of the American South, which is pretty much what The Band always sing about.
I like being lost in someone else's dream every now and then. Looks like I'm not the only one.
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