The creative writing tutor berates his wayward student
(Warning – contains
strong language)
-
You want to communicate, don’t you? You need
short, clear, concise sentences, straightforward language, a good story. Keep
it simple.
-
And I’m thinking instant porridge, three-minute
culture and I’m thinking fuck off. But I’m saying, yeah, that’s all right if I
want to speak to people, but I want to sing.
-
It’s all the same as long as you get your point
across.
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But I’m not hearing a backing track, no lush
string arrangements, no bass to ground it, just a drum-machine ticking
metronomically and me, miming at the mike through a mouthful of teeth,
grinning. Synching my lips to the words you think you want to hear, and all the
while silently incanting the same repetitive phrase – fuck off, fuck off, FUCK
OFF…
-
Neo-baroque, that’s you. So far in the past the
future can’t catch up with you. Nobody’s listening.
-
You’re right. Why aren’t you listening? Fuck
off.
Wrapped up tight and snug in my filigree shackles made of
spider-silks, arms clamped tight to my sides, I type this with the one finger I
can still move. I’ve never fathomed out the question, but of one thing I am
certain, and have been from the very start. I know the answer, and I’ve been
giving it all my life to anyone who will listen, and they are precious few, it
must be owned. But here, and now, I give it once more for posterity,
communicated unequivocally with my single movable finger, by raising it
carefully and jabbing it at the world. Do I have to repeat myself?
-
Yes you do, if you want to keep up the rhythm,
son.
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Fuck off.
