21 December 2011




It’s no use carrying an umbrella if your shoes are leaking. I’m sick of the sight of umbrellas, they are unlucky and they look like bat wings, they are creepy. If I ever see another umbrella…

Someone must’ve spiked me with methedrine – the black stuff; I’m way too high, or is that low? I can never tell. That shit gives me crank bugs and the heebies. Another nightshift scheduled – my body aches and my mouth is dry.

I saw him, we danced real close, he has black eyes and the blackest smile. The drinks were on him – black wine from Corsica, he said. I’m halfway to Ash Wednesday – to my penultimate oblivion. The Black Forest was terrible – and no cake. I hooked an angel with my kite and cut him loose with the Devil’s scissors. I wrapped him up in a parcel and mailed him to the Church – they said it was a miracle he ever arrived considering the state of the Italian postal system.

You must send the boy away. If he goes to his father the old man will think him evil and wild, like his mother. His father has religion now and has become a terrible bore. He sits all day issuing sober soul orders; “Repent! Everyone is responsible for everything they do. The Lord God demands his supper!” His inquisition isn’t welcome around here; we’ll have to stone him one day. We’ll paste him into Rodney a la king. We’ll mail him to Church as pate for the Holy Father. All organisations are built on lies, but he has all the best ones.

Exile the boy and nurture the man - with regular beatings. Spare the rod and spoil the child, or spoil the rod and spare the child? It’s in our nature to nurture, so beat him relentlessly. Cut him with the devil’s scissors, make an end to his childish ways. Take him to Church and bury him - every church is a tombstone for the spirit of man.

My mind is my church; no altar, no preacher, no ceremony – just thought. The Church is theatre and religion is politics. The God venerated in church is completely at odds with the natural universe. Iconoclast is the answer; smash the idols, burn the churches, free the mind.

You don’t need an umbrella if you walk in eternal sunshine – right? Umbrellas are unlucky; a tall man in a sea of umbrellas could lose an eye or two. Flapping bat wing mushrooms. Tear them – shred them – why fear the rain? Next time I see an umbrella…



  1. Exquisite poetic flow of enthusiastic angry writing, the way i love it, when the passion and the symbols merge fantastically. To bring with such skill the heavy darkness of the grotesque into such satirical connotation must be a work of genius. I love what you did with the umbrella, so cool

  2. My umbrellas always end up inside out - I loathe the bat winged monsters and all they stand for...