Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

No Offal.

Okay, so I'm gonna be all 'Hey dude, look at me!' for a moment here. The marvellous Signalstation has conducted a Q & A with me via email (and to be honest, I took an embarrassingly long time to A the Qs, so I'm chuffed to see they still wanted to use 'em). Hurrah! Click here to find out what kind of robot I'd like to have and under what circumstances I may be coerced into eating offal.


In one dream, it was handkerchiefs, the coloured silk ones that magicians use. He felt his lips itch, and putting his fingers to his mouth, found a corner of fabric poking out. He pulled and out popped a string of scarves, one after another, tied at the corners. At first it seemed wondrous: like kissing, like finding money. Imagine the looks on their faces! he thought. At last, a real talent! He liked the handkerchiefs, and some had tiny, silver, hand-painted stars that made him feel lucky. Also, there were economic benefits: no longer would he be forced to purchase handkerchiefs like ordinary men. He couldn't wait for the weekend. He couldn't wait to show his ex-girlfriend.

But after the eighteenth handkerchief—a blue one with white dolphins swimming along the edge—he started to get frightened. Each handkerchief ended with another knot, another handkerchief. On it went. It began to hurt his oesophagus. They were scratching him. His gag reflex made a comeback. His eyes watered. It seemed as though it would never, ever end. And it didn't.

Another time it was tongues. His tongue came out and then he grew another and that came out too. He grew another but the third tongue was deformed. A broad, triangular stump of flesh: a cane toad's tongue. He didn't know how to speak with it. He knew that even if he managed to learn how, his voice would be different than before and this made him unhappy. He looked in the mirror and manipulated the strange, vestigial amphibian tongue with his fingers, tried to stretch it. It struck him that he was now ugly. No one will ever be able to love me with this tongue, he thought. I will be alone forever. And he was right.

For a week, he awoke with a lump in his throat and foam on the pillow. He dreamt that cocktail umbrellas pierced the hollow of his cheek. He dreamt of spitting tennis rackets and mice; a surge of blue electricity like vomit. He dreamt that bullets poured from his mouth into a glass slipper. In the mornings he would drive to work, thinking: This means something. Perhaps I should go to the dentist; maybe I should stop telling lies. This is a sign of some kind. This is a sign, a sign. But it wasn't.

[This story appears on the Visible Ink 'Soundtrack' CD.]

Wednesday, September 03, 2003

Zombie Poems.

Now, I ain't gonna get all sombre and apologetic. And I ain't gonna throw my arms around you and start blubbering about how sorry I am not to have spoken to you for weeks and weeks and how I've been carrying a photo of you around in my wallet (the one where you look like crazy old Boris Yeltsin even more than usual) and how I take it out and look at it when I'm sitting in the toilet cubicle at work. Okay? I just ain't. Picture me slapping you on the back, that'll do, and handing you a twenty so you can go get us both a beer or something. I've missed you. What? No, I didn't say anything, it must have been that guy. That guy over there. That's the guy.

Anyway. There's a whole buncha things I've neglected to tell you about, as you can imagine. I don't have time to spill them all now but one thing you have to do is go visit Cordite. I know, I know, you don't usually read online poetry magazines because they're jam packed with rhyming couplets about endangered marsupials. Understood. But this issue is all about - get this - zombies.

Yes, zombies.

Also, Buffy the vampire slayer and Sarah Connor, and the removal of Phar Lap's heart.

There's a review of Undead (the new Australian zombie extravaganza) written by my esteemed housemate Dr Mangan, as well as an interview with the film's directors, conducted by my friend, international pop superstar Davey Dreamnation.

And while you're there, check out the blog: I've made an urgent plea for zombie equality, and need a few more signatures on the petition.