The Game.

THE GAME.

I watch her.
I watch her through the holes in the fence. It's a wire mesh fence so there are lots of them.
Holes I mean.
The holes need the wire mesh to keep them in, or they would escape.
I suppose there are lots of fences but that must mean that there are a great many more holes than fences, so I'll be alright. I can look through them, but only the ones with holes in. Solid fences prove more of a problem.
God she's beautiful.
You see with a solid fence, I'd have to clamber up and peep over and then they'd see me, defeats the object really. And if it was a high fence I'd have to get a ladder, I'd look a bit silly walking down the road with ladders under my arms. People might think I'm a window cleaner and ask me to clean their windows for them but I don't know how. And then they might get a bit suspicious, think I'm a weirdo or up to no good and call the police and then I'd have to explain myself which would be very difficult.
You see what sort of trouble you can get into just carrying some ladders through the
street ?
She moves like a cat, claws retracted as she pads around for this game. I try to act abnormally and ignore her like the other men here but I'm normal so I want to kill myself.
I must look at beautiful things. But sometimes they look back at me and I become a weakly puling mass of child.

I must not startle this one. I could not bear for her to turn on me and be held victim to a baleful stare. The thought of those sylphine lips forming words of loathing and distemper, would steep me to the quick in misery. If only she knew how much I want to kiss her with my own cracked and threadbare, blistered acres of tenderness.
I shift my gait and nonchalantly look around - isn't this what you're supposed to do. You must not stare my mother always told me, so I've devised a method to look at other things while my sole concern is with what I am now not looking at.
That's clever.
It fools a lot of people. Even I get confused sometimes - and disorientated. I forget what I'm supposed to be looking at and when I look back at what it was not - I don't know if it still is.
Here comes a man in a uniform, I wonder if he will tell me to move on. He looks a bumptious little prat. I hate men in uniforms they remind me of my father, he was a bus conductor. "Come on tickets please! - all fares now. All's bloody not fair now!.
He used to make me polish his shoes and his ticket machine. I once opened the ticket machine up and poured a tiny bit of rubber glue on to its workings just enough to cause it to seize up after a little usage, God was he furious! He couldn't prove it was me but I got a jolly good kicking anyway.
Oh but she holds me in nymphic trance. To watch her stalking her prey with muscles, tendons and every fibre of her being, poised to strike. Yet in sinuous repose she goads me to thoughts not worthy of such perfection. That an ache should sully those bones, that a cry of weariness should ever lay its wrinkled hand on those shoulders, would be for reality to impose its dull and cumbersome weight upon my spirit.
No, I won't move on! I have every right to be here, my friends the holes in the fence will lay testimony to that, why without me they'd become redundant and there is nothing so mournful as a redundant hole. Some of them might find other employment, I hear that in waste drainage there are lots of openings for holes to fill but oh the social iniquity.
It's rather an unwholesome job.
A dog runs by limping slightly carrying a ball between its teeth saliva dripping from its lips. A man whom I presumed was its master followed a short way behind. He was balding with long straggly hair that was brushed from the left side of his head over his bald spot to try to hide the fact that he was in fact becoming alopecian, thereby drawing everyone's attention to this very fact. He looked middle aged, was vastly corpulent and wore a pinkish brown shirt over a plainly visible string vest. His trousers were of the shiny brown kind made of an indeterminate man-made fibre and blue track shoes. He was swinging a dog chain and sweating profusely. He looked to neither left nor right his little piggy eyes blinking nervously. Tiny little droplets of sweat hung in the balance from his miserly eyelashes then dropped onto his porcine cheeks to be wiped away with the back of a pudgy disgusting hand.
How dare he invade my vision - to interrupt my sight with his disgusting animal and his disgusting blubber - filled carcass!.
But the limbs go on.
They can take her from me and I would cease to exist, but worse, too near would be unthinkable.
You must not let your fate escape you.
The shards of dreams lay crushed and broken on an impromptu ill-considered whiff of ignorance.
A flash of teeth on sunlight reflects my mood, they might bite the hand that does not feed me and the rats feed from my brain. They take the palsied cerebral nuts and store them in their hideaways for those long winter months in hibernation, when we escape the gnarled bone-frosted branches and shivering gusts that core the very marrow.
We feed from our summers.
I am hungry.
The hunger rages like a starved wolf at a land locked lamb.
The way across the burning seas means certain death yet across those shimmering spires of flame, runs sustenance. She sustains me. Yet I am scarred as the waters cross me, and soon the particles fade of celestial beings.
Then there were some who carried on the flight to freedom and gave themselves to the carnage of democracy. They lay by their thousands and mourned into the wind, their carcasses unfolding into graves of eternity. When Gorgons shake their mane of Hydra and Chimera leap into the tale of beyond will we reconcile the forces that sleep on the hill? Or turn our backs on the unfortunate gluttons who greed on their inconsequence and stupidity and feed off inanities.
The apostates of morality will lean into that mire and choose a course to calamity and demagogues will cast an eye over the ruins and send in their mountebanks. The tumescent pride of the carpetbaggers must be lanced like a suppurating pustule and the puss collected and spread for the ignorant to witness.
Deformed tyranny will lay waste to the duped patriots intensity of fertile ignorance and confusion will reign. By my side lies a courtesan bedecked in a finery that belongs to a world she will never know.
How the mighty have risen!.
A state called euphoria in a far off land of ecstasy and pleasure is a whim of the ruled, and they ply their destitution to all that will listen. We must all of us take heed and strike out against their follies.
The breeding grounds of antipathy are the doors of reason and logic that are opened and shut at their calling. We hold the key.
She shrieks delight at the pleasure of another win. Vanity does not play a part. I salute her victory. But now they come for me and I must go.