Saturday, April 01, 2006

Interpretive Dance

I once knew a man who was less a man and more a soggy fish-stick, thawed out on a plate and lying in a pool of its own hormones, chemicals, and tears. This man met a fresh young girl and tried to steal her youth and beauty by injecting his own chemical junk into her body on a regular basis. The young girl eventualy tired of this treatment, but used to it as she was, she found an equally chemicaly piece of rotten steak to spend her time with and be contaminated by.
This was a mortal blow to the fish stick.
He began to write TERRIBLE poetry. This would have been okay with me, had he not latched on to the staff in my hotel. He would come to visit us there, unexpectedly oozing from the refrigerator when no-one was looking. He then would commence to bewail his wretched existence, his small eyes filling with pools of soggy tears. We all gave him as much sympathy as possible without turning into puddles ourselves.
This was a mistake.
Taking the sympathy as encouragement, in the midst of other people's conversations when he thought he wasn't being paid enough attention anymore, he would begin to spout forth his horrible poetry.

"My legs stand like flowers by a pool
at sunset
Oh, where is the pollen?
The bees have been eaten
and I stand alone
bee-less
and alone
by the pool
at sunset.
I cry tears of joy
at the sun
and the pool
and my legs
all alone."

As I always tried to pay as little attention to his rants as possible, I don't know if this poem is historicaly correct, but the general feel is there I feel.
It was most embarassing for my staff at the hotel to have a soggy worn-out fish stick reciting poetry in the corner over the top of other people's conversations. Generaly when it happened everyone would just try to look the other way and pretend nothing untoward was going on.
But eventualy my friend the poisonous bird woman and I devised a plan to foil the fish stick.
It was something along the lines of "If you want to break up with someone, pretend you are obsessed with them and want to have 15 of their snivelling brat babies."
What we did was this:
The soggy stick materialised one evening and perched himself on a stool in the corner. He had the woes of the world etched into the breadcrumbs all over his face, and we knew that some particularly sentimental spoken verse was not far away.
He began to spout forth a vile vomit of words:

"The horizon is bare in the sunset." He proclaimed,
"But I am not bare,
although I should be
considering how beautious my flesh
and my fine legs
they are covered in wounds
like bee-stings
on beautiful flowers
my soul is hurt
oh why does the sky
look so beautious-ful?
It is a trick." He spat

The bird woman and I began to moan and sway in sorrowful ecstacy. "So true! So sad!" I cried.
The fish stick smiled smugly and continued with his utterances.
"I can'y contain myself any longer" sighed the birdwoman. "To the interpretive dance-floor!" she proclaimed.
We both arose accordingly and began to interpret, dance-ly. I was the ill-wind, bird-woman was the muddy shit. I was the stunted tree, BW was the spotted fungus. I was the vomitous soul of the soggy fish stick, BW was the dead bees in his trousers.
It was the most magnificent interpretive dance I have ever been priviledged to witness or indeed, be a part of.
The soggy fish stick however, did not see the genius in our bodily effusions. His damp eyes widened as his speach trailed off.
"Why must you mock me?" He cried, "While I am baring my soul?"
"Bog off you stinking soggy mess!" cried the birdwoman.
I was inclined to agree.
"While interpretive dance is of course a form of expression of the lowest and most puke-inducing sort," I intoned, "It is nothing compared to the enormous earwax-eating peaks of terrible boredom that your 'poetry' produces."
"Hear, hear!" cried the staff
"Now, if you can't be a little more congealed," I said, "I suggest you get out of here before you absorb more chemicals through your naked feet than you ever had the pleasure of thrusting into an un-witting young girl in the bloom of her life." (For indeed, our floor at the hotel was caked in noxious junky skin particles which the various over-stayers at the hotel had dropped over the millenia.)
Obviously, the soggy fish-stick knew that rather than becoming more firm and quiet, he would only continue to get soggier and more moany as time passed. For he took to his heels and was never seen again.
And that, my friends, is the power of a little interpretive dance, on even the greasiest surfaces.
La.

3 Comments:

Blogger surly fag said...

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4:52 AM  

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