[Ragged in parts]
Over on the writer forum I was challenged to a ‘Limerick Off’ by a senior member. Other pro pens gathered around, posted offensive taunts:
‘Come on @MatWolfy, let’s see your hand,’ said one fellow.
‘He is frightened,’ typed this other warrior gent of the YA fiction.
I did not type one thing. I sat here, a fearful face illuminated by the quill logo of the website, probably the quill shone upon my face, like a fern, and me, like the heroic Maori pencil.
Although, I am not a Maori. Once when I was rich, I wore an All Blacks rugby top under my suit jacket in the workplace – and regularly. Very cool I was in Victoria at the time, and meant I did not have to iron a shirt, you know – back then I spearheaded Westminster tieless office systems – back in 99/2000, until one evening a horrible, swarthy man grabbed me in an embrace – in that smoky bar.[EDIT confusion]
‘Kiwi!’ he cried into my mouth, in his delight.
‘Sorry, but no..’ I said. Of course – wearing that All Black monster, that mister moonlight looking outfit of mine.
Never again, top has gone to the charity shop. As I type, a destitute, homeless man in black is forced, wheeled
upon into an aeroplane – to Auckland, to Wellington, or to the Chatham Islands – which are very frightening on the Wikipedia. Generally though – Antarctic islands are a major interest of mine, in a Bouvet sense. Love Bouvet, here we have only Rockall, Lundy, the Isle of Wight.
These days in my clothing, these days my son says he shall purchase me a Rangers football shirt as a gift – on our payday, what with my taste and interest for the Ulster folk music. I cannot carry that look off, I say to him, will perhaps wear Rangers as pyjama shirt, shall not offend people, save [for] my wife
who . She writhes here now on our bed in her green, white hoops and the long green, white hoop socks of hers. I shall buy sectarian underpants from the bucket bin, I promised her, and take our curiosity to the fetish zone.
‘You fucking Catholic,’ I’ll cry upon our sex cushion, ‘call me, call me Paisley, bitch.’
‘Paisley bitch!’ she moans.
‘No, you are the Pope bitch. I am…bulldog bully and my pizzle. Check my pizzle flings.’
‘Not like that.’ I say, ‘look what you’ve done, confidence withers considerably,’ I show her my evidence. [what tense am I in?]
‘Let’s have a fag break,’ she says.
A third fag in ten minutes, and she hugs the ashtray, I climb into stirrups.
So, back on the website, I still had not arrived with an entertaining poem for the boys.
‘There was an old man called Mat…’ I tapped, scratched my head, surely discoverment of rhyme from such inauspicious openings was a monumental struggle, I thought.
Finally I wrote or squeezed a scabby apology on to the website. I let all the boy/friends down. My poem was pathetic, I won’t show anybody, or you. Truth is I despair of the writer artist in me.
Two, three weeks in my drought condition? No more rockets, no more rabid donkeys on the plain from me. What’s the point? I say to myself. But surely manic Mat might return soon, or do I draft on some of this back catalogue milch, mulch of the munch[?] That was the plan, find a photographer, a publisher, somebody who likes me on Linkdin, post them the individual stories.[Introspection fluff filth]