A
woman on a bench. Something wrapped in newspaper. The Giselle gimmick. A man
sits on the other end, eating sunflower seeds. Distributing the husks with
casual abandon. Pigeons in attendance. A squirrel wishing to get in on the act.
Passers by.
Man.
What is it…
He peers.
A fish?
Woman.
It’s a flower. Can’t you see?
Man.
I can see but I can’t distinguish.
Woman.
Between a flower and a fish?
Man.
It’s the newspaper.
He looks.
‘The Diss Express...’ There’s an incontrovertible association between newspapers and fish ‘n’ chips where I come from. Beg your pardon...
Pause.
...for my obscurity.
Woman.
A fish by any other name...
Man.
Would smell just as,
He smells the flower fish – slight retch.
Sweet;
Woman.
...As Bridlington, though ‘twere paradise lost.
Man.
Or as hair... said Baudelaire (correcting himself) Or any other coastal town formerly dependent on the sea for its survival. Now more likely to hope to be included on a gig list for Elton John impersonators, so that the good burghers can make a few bob. “How wonderful life is – with you in the world… I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind...”
He-he.
Man.
What is it…
He peers.
A fish?
Woman.
It’s a flower. Can’t you see?
Man.
I can see but I can’t distinguish.
Woman.
Between a flower and a fish?
Man.
It’s the newspaper.
He looks.
‘The Diss Express...’ There’s an incontrovertible association between newspapers and fish ‘n’ chips where I come from. Beg your pardon...
Pause.
...for my obscurity.
Woman.
A fish by any other name...
Would smell just as,
He smells the flower fish – slight retch.
Sweet;
Woman.
...As Bridlington, though ‘twere paradise lost.
Or as hair... said Baudelaire (correcting himself) Or any other coastal town formerly dependent on the sea for its survival. Now more likely to hope to be included on a gig list for Elton John impersonators, so that the good burghers can make a few bob. “How wonderful life is – with you in the world… I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind...”
He-he.
They Charlie about for
a bit. He spits a seed husk.
Woman. Abruptly.
Can you catch me, wash me in your languid gaze? Will you watch me ‘til the cows come home to graze?
Man.
Like a panopticist.
Woman.
Like a toolkit?
Man.
Like a eunuch.
Woman.
Like an ant?
Man.
Like an extruder.
Woman. Flinching.
Good. Look after my fish please. He likes to listen to Mahler and he reads stained glass windows. He’s vulnerable.
Man.
Without water he’d be in a bit of a pickle. He’d have no semi-viscous means of support. He’d choke and blather. His lungs would be on fire and his lustre would diminish. Also he’d smell fetid and dolorous.
Thinks... (d.o.l.o.r.o.u.s...?)
Woman.
You can’t smell dolorous. Excuse me.
Man.
Jasmine on the metro. In winter. You can smell Jasmine and Blueberry’s in a railway tunnel. The insipid dead constellate aromatically in Pluto’s gloom, the halls of Diss, those underground palaces where youth buries her ambition and shmasticated persons dive and mine for Italian underwear with their virulent eyes.
Woman.
Not every man has genitals at this time of year.
Man.
Thank you Lady Chatterly. You’ll be grateful for my careful surveillance. I’ll admit to a fit of narcolepsy. You’ll be infused non-the-less with assurance and gratitude. Never mind “I felt watched, as if by a sleeping pill. Insensible of its permeation, I embrace her kiss of restortation and unlightenment almost comatically. Like imbibing Tarkovsky in blackout.” Never mind that. That won’t tell the tale.
Woman.
It’s true. But I refute you by convention. Although it sickens me to the vestiges to admit it.
The man supplicates himself before her and takes the flower fish ceremonially before putting it in a long thin vase.
Man.
I hate red flowers.
Woman. Examining his knuckles.
Roses.
Man.
Tulips.
Woman.
Carnations.
Man.
I like daisies. Bluebells...
Woman.
Because you’re English?
Man.
Because I can’t pronounce ‘Begonia’.
He looks away.
Orchids fill me with shame and disgust. Wild one’s especially.
Enter a strange tramp. Most probably the ghost of George Orwell. He sprinkles orange blossom petals in the hair of the pair. Then he scents their palms and bows down at their feet. Remaining...
Man.
They say that every snowflake is unique. And yet they are such vile and pernicious and bitter little artifacts. They eat your toes. And your toes are attached to your soul...
Woman. In accord.
...and every human fingerprint, being as unique as a snowflake, is acrid and greasy, capable of burning their venomous impression on a leaf. Emily Bronte was ejected from heaven by an angel. It was her wish.
Man.
She had a brazen envy of the dead.
Woman.
And linnets.
They stare at the flower fish. Reach out but do not touch. The ghost of George Orwell rises like steam. Darkness prevails – a match is struck. They remain still until the light is extinguished.
Woman.
“That light we see is burning in my hall: how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world."
Man.
Woman. Abruptly.
Can you catch me, wash me in your languid gaze? Will you watch me ‘til the cows come home to graze?
Like a panopticist.
Woman.
Like a toolkit?
Like a eunuch.
Woman.
Like an ant?
Man.
Like an extruder.
Woman. Flinching.
Good. Look after my fish please. He likes to listen to Mahler and he reads stained glass windows. He’s vulnerable.
Man.
Without water he’d be in a bit of a pickle. He’d have no semi-viscous means of support. He’d choke and blather. His lungs would be on fire and his lustre would diminish. Also he’d smell fetid and dolorous.
Thinks... (d.o.l.o.r.o.u.s...?)
Woman.
You can’t smell dolorous. Excuse me.
Jasmine on the metro. In winter. You can smell Jasmine and Blueberry’s in a railway tunnel. The insipid dead constellate aromatically in Pluto’s gloom, the halls of Diss, those underground palaces where youth buries her ambition and shmasticated persons dive and mine for Italian underwear with their virulent eyes.
Woman.
Not every man has genitals at this time of year.
Man.
Thank you Lady Chatterly. You’ll be grateful for my careful surveillance. I’ll admit to a fit of narcolepsy. You’ll be infused non-the-less with assurance and gratitude. Never mind “I felt watched, as if by a sleeping pill. Insensible of its permeation, I embrace her kiss of restortation and unlightenment almost comatically. Like imbibing Tarkovsky in blackout.” Never mind that. That won’t tell the tale.
Woman.
It’s true. But I refute you by convention. Although it sickens me to the vestiges to admit it.
The man supplicates himself before her and takes the flower fish ceremonially before putting it in a long thin vase.
Man.
I hate red flowers.
Woman. Examining his knuckles.
Roses.
Tulips.
Woman.
Carnations.
Man.
I like daisies. Bluebells...
Woman.
Because you’re English?
Man.
Because I can’t pronounce ‘Begonia’.
He looks away.
Orchids fill me with shame and disgust. Wild one’s especially.
Enter a strange tramp. Most probably the ghost of George Orwell. He sprinkles orange blossom petals in the hair of the pair. Then he scents their palms and bows down at their feet. Remaining...
Man.
They say that every snowflake is unique. And yet they are such vile and pernicious and bitter little artifacts. They eat your toes. And your toes are attached to your soul...
Woman. In accord.
...and every human fingerprint, being as unique as a snowflake, is acrid and greasy, capable of burning their venomous impression on a leaf. Emily Bronte was ejected from heaven by an angel. It was her wish.
Man.
She had a brazen envy of the dead.
Woman.
And linnets.
They stare at the flower fish. Reach out but do not touch. The ghost of George Orwell rises like steam. Darkness prevails – a match is struck. They remain still until the light is extinguished.
Woman.
“That light we see is burning in my hall: how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world."
Man.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy
speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy
locks.
Woman.
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
Man.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Woman.
I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.
Man.
We must learn to be alone.
Woman.
He loves me.
Man.
She loves me not.
Pause.
She loves me.
Woman.
He loves me not.
Pause.
Someone somewhere sings a sunny song.
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
Woman.
I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.
Man.
We must learn to be alone.
Woman.
He loves me.
Man.
She loves me not.
Pause.
She loves me.
Woman.
He loves me not.
Pause.
Someone somewhere sings a sunny song.
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