Saturday, 4 January 2014


Now the aureate dawn breaks
The golden dawn breaks
As the malingerer nests
As the woman who pulled a sickie curls up on the sofa
Macerating alone
wasting away alone
Upon every surface a plant etiolates
Gasping for light
There are plants on the shelves going yellow because they haven't got access to light
in the carceral environment
In the prison-like room

The tightly drawn curtains
seal out the air
but photons nudge their way through the weave
particles of light filter through the fabric
exhausted by their journey through the ecotone
the transition between the environments uses up all their energy
they briefly enjoy a terpsichorean freedom before falling
they dance briefly before falling
to the floor

Beyond its frame the incohate conurbation
Beyond the window frame the city that has been a slumbering shell
of ten days lies sequacious
for 10 days now succumbs
to the demands of commuters, the clerisy and canaille
to the demands of commuters, the intelligensia and the commoners

The longueur of her holiday was
Her holiday had been long enough to get boring
behind her
But her effrontery had wangled this extra
But her cheek (in pulling a sickie) had bought her an extra day
longing for an opportunity to suffer again
Because she'd rather be bored than at work
before returning to the banausic state of being
before going back to working for a living
to playing deuteragonist in her own life
where she feels she plays a minor role in her own life story

Her extemporaneously delivered excuses had been thin
Her off the cuff excuses were rubbish
as paper
but were accepted by her venal manager
but her manager is easily bribed
who took mythomania alongside regular cake supplies
and allows the exaggerated claims of illness on the understanding she'll get cake
now the vorago between her and the return to her factotum role
Now the chasm between her and her dull general office busybody role
seemed harder to cross than ever
this time she had snaffled must be worth it
this stolen time must be spent well

Reluctantly active, she takes up the masscult billet-doux
Lazily, she picks up the newspaper (literally mass-media loveletter)
from Rupert Murdoch
dismissing the retrodiction and fanfaronade
She doesn't bother reading the news or opinion pieces
turns to the crossword
for her regular cathexis to cryptic chaos
for her regular commitment to figuring out the cryptic crossword
Within moments her MacGuffin
This is a pun: the cat is called MacGuffin, but a MacGuffin is also a secondary character that makes things happen
recognising the signs
takes advantage of the ailurophile's stillness
The cat notices she's settled
to advert his own presence
and jumps on her to get attention

Startled by the arriviste
startled by his sudden arrival
into an alterity
she changes from relaxed and bored to startled and sweary
her Billingsgate mutterings
her foul language
inform the beast, sub rosa,
tells the cat confidentially
that there are no styptic qualities
among the paper's many others
that she can't actually use the newspaper as a plaster

He flees to display
a temporary interest in philately
tearing through her mail
as she reapplies herself
The cat runs away and plays with her mail while she returns to the crossword

Finally dissuaded from the chthonic ratiocination
She gives up on the hellish logic of the puzzle
by a fey understanding of her inevitable failure
she knows she won't get it anyway
with no oriflamme to uphold her
with no moral support
she flips instead through the briefer articles:
the corrigendum for the previous day
instead she reads short pieces in the paper including the corrections
various ekphrasis
and a few short pieces on art
amused by a malapropism
amused by a badly phrased sentence in a piece
committed by an Apparatchik of the cubist movement
that a devotee of the cubist movement has written
missed by the editorial camarilla
missed by the editor (camarilla is secret and powerful team, not strictly true, but it's a poem ;) )

The cat has tired of the nudnik woolgathering
the cat thinks the woman is being boring
disregarding the veridical hypocorism it generates
ignoring the names she calls it
he attacks the pen she clings to
as a colporteur would his bible and
he jumps for the pen she's still hanging onto in the hopes that the crossword answers will magically appear
when it lands beneath her
attempts to dig it out
with vermicular burrowing beneath her forcing her to stand
When the pen rolls under her, the cat wriggles like a worm to get at it, forcing her to stand upright and cease being apathetic
"Tu quoque?"

“You're a cat. How can you possibly think I'm being too lazy?”

It is January 2nd

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