The local in the universal. That ineffable lingering sadness, on the verge of streaming tears, just in between that point, that defiant smile while tears stream down my face, a kind of stoic euphoria. I shall go now and recede into a wintry hinterland, away from the smeared mirror of online socializing. I have nothing to offer your limp and flaccid device – very little to contribute to this damp, squalid mecca of travel photographs, cats sneezing and other such trifling irrelevancies. My soul writhed with every red blink. My cock twitched at every latest sexy photograph that she had publicized, gawping at the glistening beauty of her thighs, and her inner thighs, and her feet and her cleavage – peering into this morbid art gallery, click after click, arousing myself, touching myself in her gallery. Galleria that other men have penetrated with their wanton and desperate glares.
How can I compete with your latest puy lentil recipe? I can barely chop garlic. Am I expected to also participate in the “mirror selfie” a frightening neologism where my chiseled physique splinters glass, consciousness and egos, causing the weak to feel weaker and the bodily conscious psychotic. I have a pudgy, corpulent mass of flab from my pectoral muscles to my gut – where in lies a heady stew of carbohydrates, alcohol, coffee and fear. Would you like to see a photograph of it? Because that’s ‘on trend’ is it? Hashtag yogi, hashtag fitspiration, hashtag plungeyourfistthroughmythoraxandwrenchoutmysmallintenstineswhydon’tyou?
And I imagine peacocks, bright and iridescent feathers shimmering in my mind’s eye, coruscating in deep blue and pearl green – could this furtive vision be projected into the social media void? I doubt. Unless you paint it there. With oculus rifts and google lenses, what for it? What of all of it? A million imperceptible possible continuous outcomes all simultaneously mingling in the hearth of Paradise Garden.
This is my dating app profile:
In all seriousness?
Indeed, looky here:
As a violently passionate examiner and alumni in and of and about the arts, you can mainly observe me sitting cross legged and saturnine,intensely perusing, or drawing, or glaring at the fabric of some such poem or some such paragraph or some such modulation in my headphones, but, don’t be alarmed! I am tremendously full of elan and levity and the scented breeze of hawthorn and juniper once you penetrate the opaque mists that silhouette me, glowering in a corner, waiting for the latest hangover which renders me spellbound and diseased, patiently waiting for yet another crude spume of lugubrious anxiety to dissipate into the silent earth.
At the moment I mainly live the life of the peripatetic flaneur, combing the banks of rivers, wistfully communing with nature, gently forming verse in my mind to be inked later over tea with Beryl, my pet lynx.
I am an imperious tennis, rugby, soccer and leather tanner, which I learned during my extensive peregrinations throughout Italy, which was absolutely fabulous thank you for asking. I stitched a rather frightening leather hat which I wore throughout my sojourn despite the intense heat, and despite medical advice to the contrary. I fainted a number of times and my local tour guide, the diminutive farm-boy Alessandro used to wake me by squeezing fresh mango juice down my agape throat. I used to pretend to be asleep just so he’d continue. I was once found out and flogged.
It was not long after my period as a leather tanner in Rimini that I moved to Genoa where I met Fabrizio, an alarmingly gifted and handsome Genovese luthier, who proceeded to build me a guitar that played so sweetly and so mellifluously that I feel into a deep, crystal slumber, awakening in Leitrim of all places, face down in a bog with the word “Pig Fucker” written on my back in excrement. I subsequently learned that Fabrizio had taken his own life following the onset of gangrene in his knee.
Let me tell you Cupid, I am also an excellent self-taught musician, something I am probably most appreciated for. That and my beautiful arse. I may do a posh M.A in music or writing or something of that nature in due course but I’m content enough absorbing the aromas of Dublin en ce moment, thank you very much, Oxford.
Rimbaud, Gide, Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Coleridge, Byron, Eliot, Woolf, Sartre, Beckett, Fitzgerald, Camus, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Mallarme, Lovelace, Shakespeare, Flann, Wodehouse, Dickinson, Chandler, Carver, Ginsberg, Orwell, Nin, Zola, Proust, Wilde, Danny Dyer’s autobiography … would actually love somebody to update my dusty old collection.
Films – sucker for a romantic comedy with an inoffensive upper-middle class white demographic, a lovable family ambience, perhaps subconsciously inveigling me into that saccharine illusion due to my own family’s chequered dynamics (lol)
Music – Don’t know where to start or finish. From Abba to Zappa.
Food – Avocado rules. Siam Thai in Ranelagh. Thai,Indian,Japanese. Yeah boi. Fruit is key. I snack at night though, which is very Nigella of me.
Shows – A Touch of Cloth was absolutely fantastic. Peep Show I adore and miss terribly. Shane Meadows needs to get more prolific, I loved the stuff he did with Channel 4. Nathan Barley? Prescient stuff. Anything Chris Morris turns to acerbic and beautifully uncompromising gold.