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A Rose Is Born page 2 Ernest Samuel Llime
hey, take a good look at this old man, look but don't touch. Most of them are sporting metal accessories in a variety of body parts. There are pierced noses, eyebrows, tongues, navels and for all I know, nipples, labia and clitori. Everybody is sporting a dozen or so rings in each ear and some ears are transversed by little metal rods. I have stumbled upon a nightmare manifested through the collaborative efforts of Dante, Steinbeck and DeSade. If I had my way, I would show these punks some creative piercing; For the girls, needles and thread to stitch their vaginal lips together, so that I will not be the only one deprived and for the boys, a big spike up each ass to wipe that smug look off their collective face.

The Concert.

Some kind of gook is torturing an electric fiddle to death. On further inquiry, I am informed that Bloo, is the band that won the talent search; Talent, what a joke, this music sounds like a collection of trash cans falling over again and again. A lot of idiots in the audience are waving little pieces of blue cloth in support of the idiots on stage. The rest of the day winds down from there. A long string of forgettable Irish faces matched with equally forgettable Irish tunes. A guy whose claim to fame is the fact that Tracy Chapman sang one of his tunes and a Texan who cannot decide whether he is Johnny Cash, or a reincarnation of Hank Williams. Christy Moore, the Grand Old Man of Irish folk, sounds like a Vladimir Vissotsky wanna-be, and Van the Man sounds like what he is: A tired old man who has crossed all the seas a thousand times, fronting a bunch of hired hands. Tomorrow, twelve more hours of torture.

We Meet.

John Prine is no gold mine. An inferior kind of Dylan, that your sister later informs me is said to be hot; Hot? Another joke! Doesn't anybody know the meaning of the word? This is the same sister who lured you to the concert with promises of men.

 
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