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BURIAL AT SEA
Isn’t He Wonderful A man of the world, you can claim the accolades. Cultured, humane, outstanding in your field, handsome in your way, earning a tidy sum and giving nothing away. Your age is not against you. What health! Sage presence. Perfect in a crisis. A past master of the hand kiss when pleasing the ladies. All that, and yet you have the soul of a rat. You inside trade on your good name - God’s gift to mankind - without shame serve your own interests. Exemplar of the bite back at who would bar your way. Sharpest teeth in the sewers, you tear off, grind down, with a ‘yours is mine’, the hindrance to eat him live. A perfect crime. Discreet in execution. Not a trace left behind in your smiling face. Stanis Kills Tatty with Two Head Blows Stanis kills Tatty with two head blows, and injects her with formaldehyde. Then buries the hammer under the fig tree. And continues gardening as though nothing has happened. He sits in the basement patio smoking his pipe and reading Spengler, and when a nosey neighbour, to annoy him, asks how is Tatty is, he says, ‘She’s taken to her bed’. Which is true. He has propped her up surrounded by family mementos. Her daughter’s ashes, some kidney stones and a bone from her father. She looks in good condition. Her skullcap covers where the brain was bashed in. Sometimes he puts a cigarette in her mouth and barks a marching song from Hitler youth days. When the gendarmes come he shows them the body and promises to go quietly if they kneel down and say a prayer at the bedside. Being Catholics, they cannot very well refuse. He lights a candle, and while Delphine Joyeux leads with a quick Hail Mary, Stanis slips out and comes back with an automatic and shoots the lot of them. Only Tatty is left untouched. Then he turns the gun on himself, and the blood sprays all over Tatty. He dies in her arms. The Male Sitter’s Complaint Russell’s women, former and present, like to paint him into a corner. He poses as a saint. Let this be a warner. Don’t be an artist’s mate. As little Jack Horner they’ll hang you in the Tate. On Being Your Own Ghost The terror of travel is in the mirrors. Hotel rooms, where you cannot chose the light and backdrop, show you as a sight for sore eyes. The cracks come in slivers. You live with the fright. My recourse is to wear reflector glasses, and make my facial toilet by memory. And trust the staff not to wince at what passes for being human. Other guests, like you and me, live in a hall of horrors. Let them advance along the corridor, blinkered but unbowed. We see what we want to, and without a glance, shuffle past. To be your own ghost is allowed. Irish Manners Where I come from, people who don’t respond to a friendly greeting, and vanish over the hill, are sure to find a pond to fall into where, eaten by a fish, they languish in the bulrushes until an indolent boy hooks them, and end up in the unacknowledged person’s stomach, to be digested at leisure with a cup of spring water, and then they’re allowed back on the road and given a second chance. Few ever fail to learn their lesson for the next time it will be in boglands and ten thousand years will pass before they are found again, perfectly preserved, but in dead shock. They have got what they deserved. The Archeology of Extinction Dr Bley says my teeth will outlive me. I don’t know if this is cause for ennui or a bonus. He might want to continue with checkups, and maintenance care, after I’m dead. Although it is doubtful if he will see them out. There’s much yellow laughter between us on this point. But it is true our hard tissues will outlast our history, doubtless radioactive, dangerous to know. The way of the flesh is more a mystery. We share a meal at his favourite bistrot where the new wine is old, and the old new. And the dorade should have died hereafter. But the crème brulée never fails to go down like the sun behind Canigou. Coffee in our veins and with a cigar to chew, we fall out into a night where stars are so numerous the ocean is a Christmas tree. The good dentist inclines to the long view. Tooth and bones dissolve if you’re buried at sea. A Whiteman’s Blues I didn’t wake up this morning. I think I must be dead. I didn’t wake up this morning. I’m in heaven instead. A pretty good place this heaven. You get to sleep in your own bed. Here nobody does a done gone. And you don’t have to move. Someone else shifts the cowdung. I don’t think my life could improve. |