The belly of this whale is peculiarly
intimate. Gaudily assembled in the architectural/Sephardic sense and surprisingly
cozy. There's even a phosphorescent glow which you could read the small print
by. Negative aspects? Reeks of shrimp kak. Propitiatory softenings of the
behemoths enmity are required at regular intervals, which is less than
convenient. The shag pile carpet is made of blubber and the air conditioning
sucks; and blows; and leaks! The worst you can really say is that there's the
most terrible case of rising damp imaginable, unto which you have to regularly
disburse yourself face downwards and soothe the belly of the beast with placid
mantras so as not to provoke its ire and irk its consternation, other than
that, it's not so bad as you might think. When whales do sing those jostik
songs you're all so fond of it's more than likely 'cos there's someone like me
in his belly wombling away the heartache of existential endangerment by
tidying up some crisp packets and beer crates and four hundred million micro
plastic particles masquerading as krill which found their way into
Jonah's den amongst the usual flotsam which I'm destined to decongest her of
whilst merrily chanting a convivial mantra into the basement floor of the
hideous sea monster's fishy maw. In the mind's eye of the whale this tidying up
of the tummy stuff translates directly into a feeling of contentment and
well-being generally associated with not having to digest superfluous human
detritus. From my point of view, it's worth it not to have him start on trying
to digest me! What am I doing here I often ask myself. There's no easy answer,
maybe I fell from a ship at night. Last thing I remember was floating in a sea
of blackness and the feeling of never ending expansion into the fattest reaches
of inner space. I seemed to sense the fact that I was receding all the way back
to the point of miscarriage and when I woke up I was here, nestled up in
Nessie. I don't know where I came from; I don't know who I am. It's a mess.
It's stinky as heck. Something is rotten in the state of this stomach part.
More than likely I'm in a coma. Coulda crashed my chariot of fire or fell out
of a tree after a night of vodka jellies or was coshed from behind by a jealous
ex. On the banal side I might be having my wisdom tooth out and this grisly
hallucination is caused by a gas and novocaine dance party. Even more banal, a
mushroom and poppers cocktail. I dunno, seems real enough; but I would have
sworn my mate's head transmogrified into a duck after an otherwise
disappointing phencodyl binge. I don't like to think about it. Prefer the
mythical explanation to the pharmaceutical. Tell you what though, don't do
engine starter kids; or liniment. Or television. The Two Ronnies is a worse
drug than liniment, let's face it. It's a blackout, a hallucination, a
flashback, a dream, a mugging, an operation, an OD, a toxic recoil, a mighty
fall. Or none of the above. I'm a metaphor get me out of here. I'm a slimy
image, gonna shoot out the blowhole of love. Whoooopppsss!!!! (Did I neglect to mention it was a sperm whale?)
17/02/18
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