Lives & Cheese

by brightonsauce

[First paragraph’s too dense, loses touch with sense, nice, no it’s not bad]

[All excited after my war incident, must write more soldiers, line them around the bedroom, airfix or matchbox I don’t care, sniff.]


If the sun ever returned to England he would buy a bicycle, surely would pedal back down the shore.  Man misses bike rides.  But does not miss life of an unemployed person in the bubble [of gloom]: cheeks strain hard indulgence,  eyes turn rheumy in the wind, and knuckles are  gripped over a balustrade.  There, he looked far away to sea, and all those poems he wrote about looking far away to sea, where are they now? [TENSE STEW]

{So} He goes home to his hole in the wall, looking for poems, whilst in distraction watches that film instead, about the people hurling themselves bodily off  bridges of San Francisco, a great film comparable to any other bridge film you mention.  The man, he likes the Bridge Too Far, that was another film.

‘Rat a tat, rat a tat tat,’ goes the paratrooper, and he strides over the bridge, past the metallic lattice  bridgework, and is mobbed past burning fires, mobbed by Dutch ladies as the saviour – at the village hall, at the reception.

But our soldier is a brutal soldier,

‘Give me only your cheese,’ he says in English to the lady mayor.

There is no cheese in Holland say all the ladies surrounding the soldier, if only he would rip their clothes clean away, but no, cheese is better than skin.  He turns, now crouches low through undergrowth, and spies a group of German soldiers, their bicycles laid on the skating field, their helmets joined,  a cluster on the grass, and there in the middle of those swine lies a wheel of cheese.

‘Bosche cheese,’ he mutters over his chin strap. Click goes the safety catch behind his twig disguising, but no no, no bullets are left in the breech, sugar, sugar shit, he’ll charge he says to nobody.  He affixes bayonet against the sten, rushes an enemy at picnic.

‘Hari Krishna’ he cries, because he read some book.

The Germans scatter, and the soldier staggers with the cheese grasped under his pit towards ladies of the village, because cheese is not better than ladies’ skin, he has changed his mind.  He runs and he runs, and the German sniper puts his helmet back on his head, sniffs, he loves cheese totally, and fires his camouflaged rifle one hundred yards.  The bullet pops through the Englishman’s skull, he thumps facially to soils.  Oh my goodness me, the wheel of cheese runs on and on, tumbles into the canal, it is a tragedy for everybody.

Suddenly a large Dutch woman tugs her blouse over her head and dives into the canal.  She is a lovely lady, a missionary once, and arises, weed draped across her [brown] locks and chews cheese already, she knows appetites of the other girls are monumental…