by brightonsauce


I had offended great men in my lifetime, and broken many, many beautiful women’s hearts, most definitely.  Yes, but now I was dead.  Thankfully mother was still about the place to ensure I was not cremated.  Instead I was buried, as instructed during early childhood, with a breathing straw and spade attachment, and a jcb on speed dial actually,  for a pre-planned rush down the high street, the motorway, and subsequent discreet side road to the Community Internment Valley where I lay, or writhed probably.  A  JCB rescues me, you see, and, gathered in the arms of a man in hard hat, I am hurled back into the loving embrace of my darling wife.

‘There you are, love, no charge…’ he’d certainly say.

‘Thank you,’ she replies.

We make love grave-side.  I am wonderful, growling,  and I fling sods of soil away from her pretty face, and in rain, under rain drops we are musical –  sexually.    My thrusts are at forty beats per minute, optimal to achieve the female climax, from my research at the wrist, on-line, and me, dressed in my best suit.  She, she can wear what she likes.  Here we pledge something, she says:

‘Don’t do that again, you rotter.’

I say, and my shirt is all torn from her false fingernails, ‘hoh, hoh hoh hoh honey, I frightened you, hoh whoah hoh, how remarkable,’ kind of thing.

Yet I dunno, yet and just to say I am dying, possibly.  This pain in my balls is an interminable distraction from my prose.  I am, as you may realise, not dead yet.  Simply, for a month now I have suffered the ailment of swollen balls, or rather the sensation that I, in fact, possess balls, testes, testicles on google.

So far I am either a brave, new cancer adventurer or a man with a kidney stone.

How vile, for goodness sake, a kidney stone at forty-five years old?  I can imagine the doctor, some slim prick with his curls at the throat:

‘And when did you last run the New York marathon?  Uhuh…okay, how often do you touch your balls?’ he says.

‘Twenty-seven hundred times a day,’ I say.

Honesty is key in this situation.  Okay, I am probably not dying quite yet.  First, if I can see through the pain, just rest these on the footstool,  FETCH THE CLEAVER, sorry, if I can drag myself through the next couple of days, I might return with some prose or poetry after the doctor..  Otherwise, this, my brothers, or sisters, is the final curtain, oh my god.